Katharine went straight to her room and threw herself on her bed. All
her thoughts were of Clifford. Her heart was flooded with love and pity
for him, a hundredfold intensified now that she knew his secret history.
The manner of Marianne's death and the long-continued silent suffering
of the man appalled her. She had known from the beginning that he had
suffered acutely; but when she had called him the man with the broken
spirit, she had little realised the torture which his gentle and
chivalrous spirit was undergoing day by day, hour by hour. He had fought
and conquered. She knew that. She knew that she, coming into his
wilderness, had helped him to do that; even as he, coming into her
wilderness of loneliness, had brought her a new life and a new outlook.
Judge him--judge him! The words rang in the air and echoed back to her.
"My belovèd!" she cried, "I shall yet be able to tell you all that is in
my heart. You suffered--and she suffered too--that poor Marianne--and I
saw her face before me when I turned to you--and, oh, my belovèd, we
could only go home in silence."
Her genius of sympathy did not leave that poor Marianne out in the cold.
Marianne's turbulent temperament, Marianne's jealous rages, all the
impossibilities resulting from a wrong aura, were reverently garnered
into Katharine's tender understanding. For she knew Marianne had
suffered too; and that in that strange dream, that heart-breaking final
communication between husband and wife, Marianne had learnt the truth,
and the truth had killed her. She had gone to her death with a knowledge
which was too much for her life. The truth and not Clifford had killed
her: the truth, spoken in a defenceless moment.
In the midst of her serious musings there came a knock at the door.
Katharine answered, "Come in," and Alan appeared. His manner was, as
usual, shy, and he blushed a little. He was always greatly pleased to
see Katharine. He brought two English letters for her. His young face
and young presence broke in upon her as a song of spring.
"Don't go," she said, holding out her hand to him. "What have you got
there?"
"Oh, it's only a drawing I've been doing of the cowhouse," he said in
his shy way. "Knutty wanted it. She says it isn't bad."
"It is very good, I think," Katharine said. "I wish it were for me."
"Oh, I am going to do something ripping good for you before I go back to
school," he said. "I've begun it."
She smiled her thanks to him.
"Shall you be glad to go back to school?" she asked, as she broke open
her letters.
"I shall not like to leave father," he said, without looking up. "But he
has promised to come and see me."
"Ah, that's right," Katharine said, and she glanced at one of the
letters.
"Will you come and see me?" Alan said with a jerk.
"Of course I will," she said.
Then she turned to her letters. Alan did not go away. He sat in the
window recess cutting at a model of a Laplander's pulk (sledge) which
the Sorenskriver had given him. Katharine forgot about him, forgot for
the moment about everything, except the contents of her letters.
Ronald wrote in great trouble begging for her return. As she had
guessed, money matters had been going wrong with him; he had been
gambling on the Stock Exchange, had lost heavily, had taken money from
the business, crippled it, compromised it, compromised himself,
compromised her, but he could and would retrieve everything if she
would stand by him.
"Stand by you; of course I'll stand by you," she said staunchly.
In his hour of happiness he had shut her out; and now in his hour of
need he opened the door to her, and she went in gladly, without a
thought of bitterness in her heart.
"Stand by you; of course I'll stand by you," she repeated. "Poor old
fellow! In trouble, and through your own fault entirely--the worst kind
of trouble to bear, too, because there is no one to blame except your
own self."
The other letter was from Margaret Tonedale, Willy's sister. She wrote
that Willy had been very ill from pneumonia, and they had nearly lost
him. He was still ill and dreadfully low, and asked repeatedly for
Katharine. His intense and unsatisfied yearning to see her was retarding
his recovery, and Margaret felt that she must let Katharine know, so
that if she were thinking of returning soon, she might perhaps be
inclined to hasten her steps homewards.
And the letter ended with these words:
"Although you do not want to marry him, Kath, you love and prize him, as
we all do, and I know you would wish to help him and us."
"Dear old Willy," she said. "Faithful old fellow. Of course, I must go
and see after you."
She had been living her own personal life, focusing on the present and
the sad and sweet circumstances of the present, slipping away for the
time from home affairs, home ties, deliberately pushing aside any
passing uneasy thoughts about Ronald's extravagant mode of life, letting
herself go forward untrammelled into a new world of hopes and fears.
But now voices from the old world of a few short weeks ago, the old
world grown strangely older in a few swift days, loved voices, with all
the irresistible, exacting persuasion of the past, called to her.
She rose, determined to go home at once, and then she saw Alan.
"Alan," she said, "I must go and find out about the trains and the boat.
I must return at once."
"Go away from us?" the boy asked. And he looked as though he heard of
some great calamity.
It was he who broke the news to his father.
"Father," he said, "she is going away. Can't we go too?"
Clifford made no answer. He seemed stunned. His face was ashen when he
sought Katharine out, and said in a voice that trembled:
"Is it I who am driving you away?"
"No, no," she answered. "I shall write to you. I shall write to you. I
cannot trust myself to speak. If I began, I----"
It was she who broke off this time.
"I have so much I want to say to you," she went on. "Up at Peer Gynt's
stue, when I turned towards you, I----"
She broke off again.
* * * * *
The news spread about that the Englishwoman was returning to England the
very next morning. It caused general dissatisfaction.
"Going away!" said Bedstemor. "Why doesn't she stay in Norway? That is
the only place to live in."
"Going to leave the Gaard!" said Solli reproachfully; "before the
harvest is gathered in too."
"Going to England!" said the Sorenskriver sulkily; "to that barbarous
country, which scarcely exists on the map."
"Going away!" exclaimed old Kari, "and before the cows come down from
the mountains."
"Going away!" said Gerda, "before my Ejnar brings us 'the Ranunculus
glacialis.'"
"Going to England!" said Knutty, "leaving us all in the lurch here,
alone, without you. Leaving me, my icebergs, and my botanists--and for
the sake of a brother and a sick friend: people whom you've known all
your life! I never heard of anything so inhuman. Brothers indeed; sick
friends indeed! Let them take care of themselves. Bah, these relations!
They always choose the wrong time for crises; and as for friends, they
are always sick when you want them to be well, and well when you want
them to be sick. Ignore them all, kjaere, and stay with us."
But in spite of their loving protests, Katharine tore herself away:
from the beautiful Gudbrandsdal, from the quaint and simple peasant
life, from the surroundings which were hallowed for ever in her memory.
* * * * *
Her departure took place so quietly that no one realised that she had
gone. Knutty sat on the verandah trying to work at the Danish
translation; but, discovering that her nerves were out of order, she
found it a relief to pick a quarrel with the Sorenskriver, who had
sulkily refused to go to the station, and then was angry with himself
and consequently with the whole world.
At last Clifford came back from the station. He sat down by Knutty's
side.
"Knutty, she has gone," he said forlornly.
"Kjaere," she said, comforting him as she put her hand on his head. "My
poor iceberg."
Alan came. He, too, sat down by Knutty's side.
"Knutty, she has gone," the boy said sadly.
"Kjaere," Knutty said, and she put her hand on his head too. "My poor
other iceberg."
Then she turned to them with a smile on her face.
"I see daylight!" she cried. "Go after her!"
PART III.
IN ENGLAND.
CHAPTER I.
"Maccaroni of my native land!" said Signor Luigi one day whilst sitting
in Katharine's private room at the organ-factory--"Maccaroni of my
native land! And so the Signorina have become a real business-personage,
helping 'brother' to build the best organs in the world. But the
Signorina must not work too hard. She must not depart the roses from her
cheeks. And she must eat her lunch lentissimo largissimo, as now. Ha,
this coffee is very good. And the rolls and butter is adorable."
Katharine laughed, and poured out another cup of coffee for the merry
little Italian.
"No," he repeated, "she must not depart the adorable roses from her
cheeks."
"Oh, I am not too tired," Katharine said. "Of course it was a little
trying at first to get accustomed to routine work. But after a time it
goes swimmingly, Signor Luigi; and I assure you I should be quite lost
now if I did not come down to the factory every day. Let me see. I have
been at it three months. You all said I should give it up after three
days."
"We all thought the Signorina were made to have all the time to herself
and to command her faithful servants," the little violoncellist answered
gallantly.
"But I can still command my faithful servants, I suppose?" Katharine
asked with a smile.
"Always, always!" he replied, waving his spoon in the air.
"You see," Katharine continued, nodding at him approvingly, "I was bent
on filling up my life with something which was worth doing. Even before
I left England, I had got tired of the ordinary leisured woman's life.
And when I came home again and went amongst my friends and
acquaintances, I saw it was going to be impossible to me to take such a
life up once more and even pretend to myself that I was enjoying it.
The whole thing bored me, wearied me. But here I am not bored. Moreover,
I am delighted with myself, and proud to find myself developing all
sorts of unexpected abilities!"
"I have always said that the Signorina have the abilities of all the
cleverest and beautifullest personages in all the centuries and all the
countries," said Signor Luigi. "Light of mine eyeballs, light of mine
eyeballs! I have always said she could build organs for 'brother,' play
on the trombone, on the adorable drums, do anything and
everything--except one thing."
"And what is that?" Katharine said.
"The Signorina could not leave off being her adorable self although she
have become the busy, busy business-personage," he answered, with a
nourish of the coffee-cup. "But now I go. I dare not stay one leetle
minute longer. I have not the wish to be deported like the Pomeranian
dog. Ah, he have gone away with the other grand things of 'brother's'
grand house. But 'brother' looks happier. And every month 'brother' will
be happier. Not so many illustrious expenses, not so much animato
agitato of the spirits! I know. I am calmer since I cut down the half of
my native maccaroni. For the times is bad, Signorina. No one is pining
himself to learn the violoncello or listen to it. No, he prefer to dash
away in a motor-car, and the poor musician--well, he must cut down his
maccaroni and play to himself and give lessons to himself. Or he must
change his profession and be motor-car driver. I have the serious
thoughts about it, Signorina. But I will not drive you and 'brother'
till I have practised on other people. Ha, here is 'brother.'"
Ronald came in looking pleased.
"We have got the order for that organ in Natal," he said, nodding to
Signor Luigi. "I am awfully glad about it. Don't go, Luigi."
"Noble 'brother,' I must go," the little Italian answered. "I have a
pupil at twelve o'clock, and it is now two. She go out in the motor-car,
and I allow her three whole hours for being late for her lesson. Ah, the
times has indeed changed. The enthusiasms has gone to sleep. Never mind.
Vive le quartette! Remember, 'brother,' there is a meeting next week at
Herr Edelhart's, and an audience of one is expected."
He looked at Katharine as he spoke, put his hand to his heart, and was
gone. But he returned immediately, and added:
"Monsieur Gervais begged the Signorina would be careful not to get the
brain fevers over her hard work. He will come next week to pay his
compliments. He says he now has the inflammations of the lungs himself."
Ronald, left alone with Katharine, put his hand on her arm.
"Kath," he said gently, "you must not work too hard. You are looking
tired. I know well that my shameful behaviour has ploughed into you
awfully. You have been a brick to me, old girl. You shall never regret
that you stood by me with your money and your kindness. I shall never
forget how you hurried back from Norway, and came to the rescue, and
saved me and the good name of the firm. I can't say much about it to you
now, for I am still too ashamed. But----"
"We went through bad times, Ronald, you and I and Gwendolen," Katharine
answered; "but we are coming out of it with our chins well up in the air
and a better understanding in our hearts. I had lost you, Ronnie; but I
have found you again. I had never won Gwendolen, but--but I am winning
her. And there is nothing to thank me for. This crisis in your affairs
was my salvation. I never forget that. There are other crises than
business crises, Ronnie. And I have been very thankful to turn away from
inner troubles to outside difficulties. I begin to see why life is far
easier to men than to women. The fight with the outer world braces men
up. They go forth, and pass on strengthened. But the women are chained
to circumstance--or chain themselves."
"You are in trouble, Kath, and have not told me?" he asked
reproachfully.
"There was nothing to tell, dearest," she said, touched by his old
loving manner.
"In the old days you would have told me that nothing," he said
sorrowfully.
She looked up from the letters which she had suddenly begun to arrange.
There were tears in her eyes. There was a grey sadness spread over her
face. She was not the old Katharine of a few months ago.
"Kath," he said, "I have been thinking only of myself. I have not been
noticing. But I see you are in trouble. May not a selfish fellow know
even at the eleventh hour?"
She shook her head as she took his hand and fondled it.
"Some day, Ronnie," she said, almost in a whisper; "not just now."
She could not tell him. She could not tell any one. She owed it to her
own self-respect, her own wounded pride, to keep silent about Clifford
Thornton's strange silence to her. When she had left the Gaard, she had
come home by the overland route, _viâ_ Copenhagen and Hamburg. At
Hamburg she had rested for a few hours, and in the hotel facing the lake
she had written to Clifford. She poured her whole heart, all her longing
and love, all her understanding tenderness into that letter. She wrote
it feverishly, with emotional abandonment of all restraint. She loved
him, believed in him, and what she could not tell him face to face up at
Peer Gynt's stue she told him in that letter. And she received no answer
to it. More than three months had passed since she wrote it, and still
no sign had come from him, no signal across the vast, nothing. She had
offered all she could offer, her best self--and his answer was silence.
She suffered. She did not regret her impulsiveness. Throughout her life
Katharine had been willing to take the consequences of her emotional
temperament. She had never shrunk from paying the due price exacted by
life from those who do not pause to think and weigh. Nevertheless her
heart was chilled, her pride was wounded. But she said to herself time
after time that she would not willingly have written one sentence, one
word less. She was impelled to write that letter in that way. No other
way would have been possible to her. But she believed that, from his
point of view, she had said too much, let herself go too far, frightened
the reserved man, lost his respect perhaps, touched him perhaps too
roughly on the painful wounds which the chances of life had inflicted on
him.
It was great good luck for her that she had work to do, and pressing
matters and anxieties which demanded her time and intelligence. She
turned herself into a business woman with that remarkable adaptability
which men are only beginning to recognise and appreciate in the other
sex. From her pretty flat across the water she sallied forth day after
day to the organ-factory. The manager and the workmen welcomed her. They
were willing to teach her. She was willing to learn. Her quick brain
dealt with difficulties in a surprising fashion. Mr Barlow, the manager,
had always believed in her business capacities; and it was encouraging
to her to know that he was not disappointed. Moreover, she had stepped
into the thick of things at a serious crisis, and by her generous action
had safeguarded the honour and position of the firm; for she had sold
out many of her own investments to meet Ronald's Stock Exchange debts,
which otherwise might have been enforced against him as a partner of the
firm. She had covered up his extravagant recklessness and his
indifferent husbanding of their united interests. She knew that he had
yielded to dishonourable recklessness as many another man had yielded
before--for love of, and at the importunity of, a woman. She knew that
as the months had gone on, he must have been increasingly harassed and
torn between his passionate love for Gwendolen and his own natural
feelings of what was upright in his business relationships. She was very
pitiful with him: yearning as a mother over him. But on one point she
was adamant. Ronald had sent Gwendolen to rich friends in the North.
Katharine insisted that she should return and take her part at once in
Ronald's altered circumstances; for the luxurious house in South
Kensington had to be given up, and a more modest home sought for and
found in Chelsea. Ronald fought this. He wished to spare his goddess.
"She has never been accustomed to having things in a small way," he
said.
"Then she must learn," Katharine answered determinedly.
"You are hard on your own sex," Ronald had said, stung by her decided
manner.
"I believe in my own sex," Katharine replied, flushing. "Most women are
bricks, Ronnie, if men will allow them to be so. You men make fools of
women in the early days of your passionate love, and then later, when it
is too late, expect them to behave as sane and reasonable human beings.
Gwendolen must come, and at once."
It was in vain that he pleaded.
"She is so young and beautiful, Kath, and she is having such a happy
time up North," he said. "I cannot bear to bring her back to worries."
"She must come," Katharine answered.
So Gwendolen came rustling back in her silks and satins, and astonished
every one, including herself, by her delighted behaviour.
"Dear old Kath!" she said. "You did not think I was a monster of
selfishness and iniquity, but believed in me. You will see how fearfully
economical I shall be in the future. I shall sell all my jewels, dress
in brown holland, and take in all the darning of the neighbourhood!"
So Katharine had reason to be a little comforted. If she had lost some
joys in life, she had gained others.
But she fretted. She had not much leisure, but in her spare time she
went down to the Natural History Museum and hung over the cases in the
Mineral Department. That was a mournful sort of consolation to her: to
be where she had been with Clifford. Once or twice she started off to
see Alan. But she turned back. If the father had given no sign, it was
not fitting for her to seek out the boy. Several times she wrote long
letters to Knutty, and tore them up. The letters she did send to Knutty
contained no allusion to Clifford. When the old Dane read them, she
said, "Great powers! Is she becoming an iceberg too, or am I mad?"
She sat constantly in the Abbey. She listened to the organ, to the
singing. She thought of the gracious day in the summer when Clifford and
she had passed along by the glacier-river, and stopped to rest in the
old brown church where they sat silently. There was no organ. There was
no singing. The music was in their own hearts.
One day she met Herr Edelhart in the Poet's Corner. He was looking
grave.
"Yes," he said, "the times are wunderbar bad for great souls, great
artistes like mineself. No one wishes to hear me play. And, lieber
Himmel, when I think of it, what a tone I have! In this Abbey I could
make my little violino into a great orchestra. Ach, Fräulein, but you
know. You, with the wunderbar charm, know. But you yourself are sad.
'Brother's' troubles have been too much for you?"
Katharine smiled to herself.
"Poor 'brother'!" she thought. "I am letting him be held responsible for
all my sadness."
Willy Tonedale was the only one who did not think Ronald entirely
responsible for Katharine's altered manner. He questioned her about
Clifford Thornton, and could get nothing from her in the way of
confidence. He found her reading weird books about dreams, their meaning
and their relationship to normal consciousness. She spent long hours
over that subject, and could make nothing of it.
"I did not know you went in for this sort of game, Kath," he said one
day.
"Oh, I do not go in for it," she said, with a slight laugh. "But I was
curious to see what had been written about it. The books are
disappointing. They record such trivial incidents."
Willy looked at her uneasily.
"I believe you are going to become a scholar as well as a business
woman, Kath," he said.
He shook his head. He seemed to think that she was in a very bad way.
A few days afterwards he found her studying a scientific book, "Outlines
of Organic Chemistry." It was true that she had it upside down; but, as
he remarked, that only added to the abstruseness of the subject.
"Good heavens, Kath!" he said, as he took up the book gingerly, treating
it as if it were an explosive, "what on earth have you got here? Didn't
know you went in for chemistry too. What in the name of all the Caesars
does an asymmetric atom of carbon mean? I never heard of the beasty
before."
"Nor did I," answered Katharine, with a hopeless smile. That book had
really been too much for her. Yet she loved to have it. It was only one
of the many scientific books she had been buying since she returned from
Norway. Willy saw them on the shelf. They were nearly all lives of great
chemists, or handbooks on chemistry. He examined them one by one, and
then turned to her.
"Kath," he said gently, "don't forget that you trusted me before."
CHAPTER II.
But Katharine could tell him nothing; and he, seeing that she wished to
keep her own counsel, asked her nothing. But he insisted that she should
spend some of her leisure time in his home; and when she was there, he
tried to be, so he said, his brightest and quickest self, in order to
cheer her and chase away all bad effects of business and culture. One
Sunday when she went, he was in great spirits. He had sold his picture
of Mary, Queen of Scots.
"You now see the advantage of working slowly," he said in a grandiose
manner. "I have taken sixteen years of continuous thought and study to
paint that immortal picture. One year less would not have done the
trick! By Jove! Kath, won't that look well in the papers? All the
fellows I know paint six pictures a-year, or write twelve books a-month.
But I, Willy Tonedale, the much-abused slow one, have painted one
picture in sixteen years. I admit that an artist does not become rich on
one picture in sixteen years. But reflect, I beg you, on the thought,
the patient historic research involved, and the reward reached after
long, long years of toil! What a good thing I didn't die over that
pneumonia affair! I should have gone spark out if you had not come over
from Norway and called me back to life. I began to get better directly
you returned, Kath, and directly mother left off engaging the Christian
Science creature to heal me. Of course mother makes out that I was
cured by Christian Science; but I say I was cured by Katharine Science.
Smart of me, isn't it? But then I am getting awfully sharp! I'm amazed
at myself. Seems to me, though, that as I become sharper, every one I
know becomes duller. Margaret is quite flattened out with Causes, and
wears sandals. Mother is a weird mixture of depression and superiority
from Christian Science and the Salisbury treatment; even my belovèd
cousin Julia looks devitalised and chastened. She only speaks in a
whisper, and her face is the colour of artichoke-soup. She says she had
a fright in Norway."
Katharine laughed.
"I should think she did have a fright in Norway," Katharine said,
brightening up. And she told Willy something of what had happened up at
the Saeter.
"And what are you going to do to her when you see her?" he asked.
"Nothing," Katharine answered. "I do not mind what she thinks of me. I
know you do not think I ever behaved badly to you."
"I know what I am going to do to her when I see her again," he said.
"Don't do anything stupid," Katharine said. "It isn't worth while."
"What will Professor Thornton do to her?" Willy asked slowly, after a
pause.
"I could not say," replied Katharine quietly. "Probably nothing."
"Haven't you seen him lately?" Willy asked.
"No," she replied, turning away from him. She could not bear to talk of
Clifford, and yet she wished to make the effort in return for all
Willy's gentle kindness.
Willy waited. She turned to him again with her old impulsiveness, and
there were tears in her eyes.
"I think he did not care for me after all, Willy," she said almost in a
whisper. "That is all there is to tell you."
"It would not be possible for him not to care," Willy answered; and this
time it was he who turned away.
"But, all the same, Kath," he went on when he had recovered himself,
"you must not work too hard at business. Ronnie is a duffer and doesn't
see, and Gwendolen wouldn't notice if any one were ill except herself.
But I know you are overdoing it. I don't half like your being down at
the factory."
"It is most curious how I seem to have to apologise to my friends for
taking up some serious work," Katharine said. "No one would have any
criticism to make if I were tiring myself over pleasure. And yet I
assure you that dealing with pipes and reeds and bellows and
sounding-boards and pedals, and even clergymen, is far less tiring than
the ordinary routine of leisured pleasure, and much more interesting."
"I always understood clergymen were tiring persons," Willy suggested.
"They may be tiring in their pulpits," Katharine answered, "but not when
they come to order organs! At any rate, one can put up with them then.
Then, the price is worth the preaching!"
"Ah," he said, "there is a bit of your old fun again. Your friends will
not mind what you do, if only you keep your old bright happiness; we'll
allow you to be as business-like, as cultured, as learned--yes, Kath--as
scientific as you please, only you must not be unhappy. I'm not going to
be unhappy. I am going to begin another picture to-morrow. I shall get
cousin Julia to sit for me as Lucretia Borgia in a chastened mood. Do
you remember my saying that you were made for happiness? As I am a
living artist of great but slow genius, I mean it, Kath. You'll get your
heart's desires. I know you will. Believe my word. I am never mistaken.
And as for cousin Julia, you are right, we will not bother about her:
she will have to sit for Lucretia Borgia."
"I think that ought to be a severe enough punishment," Katharine
answered. "To sit to you for--sixteen weary years!"
At that moment the door opened, and the servant announced Mrs Stanhope.
Mrs Stanhope, who was looking pale, came into the studio. She glanced at
Katharine, and seemed confused; for since her return from Norway she had
been haunted by fears of prosecutions for slander and other terrors of
the law.
Katharine made no sign, no movement. She appeared not to see Mrs
Stanhope. But Willy, without any hesitation, went forward to greet his
cousin Julia.
"Cousin Julia," he said, with his peculiar drawl, which was always
accentuated when he was particularly stirred, "I am glad you have come.
I have been hearing that up on a Norwegian mountain, you made the
statement that Katharine Frensham played with me--and threw me over.
Yes, she has played with me. We've played together ever since I can
remember; and even as little children, we were proud of our jolly good
understanding. But she never threw me over. And, by Jove, I hope she
never will."
"I am glad I was mistaken, Willy," Mrs Stanhope said, with a touch of
diluted sarcasm.
"Yes, I daresay you are," he answered. "But I rather advise you not to
make any more mistakes of that sort. Might be awkward for you. Can't
help being sorry for you though, cousin Julia. I believe Professor
Thornton intends----"
Mrs Stanhope turned paler.
"Where is your mother?" she asked hurriedly.
"Gone to a Christian Science or Salisbury Service," he replied. "Don't
know which. I always mix up those two services."
Then Mrs Stanhope, with another glance at Katharine, who still ignored
her presence, hastened away.
"By Jove, Kath!" Willy said when they were alone again, "I never saw you
so still or so quiet before. You didn't move a muscle."
"If I had moved a muscle, I should have whipped her!" Katharine answered
with some of her old spirit.
"Ah," said Willy, nodding his head approvingly, "I perceive you won't
die yet. You are still human."
CHAPTER III.
It was the 19th of December. Clifford was sitting in his study at
"Falun" when the letters were brought to him. He did not look up from
his work. The postman could bring him nothing that he cared to have that
day; for he had already heard from Alan, who was still at school; he
knew that all was well with the boy, and that he would be home for the
holidays on the 21st.
For nearly four months he had waited and longed for a letter from
Katharine. But now he had given up hoping. He believed that he had
alienated her by his merciless outspokenness up at Peer Gynt's stue; not
at the moment, for he remembered the ring in her voice and the
expression on her face when she said, "_Judge you_--_judge you_," but
later, when, quietly by herself, in her own surroundings, away from him,
she was able to think things out and measure them. She had judged
him--and left him. He suffered. He dared not attempt to approach her. He
had told her all--and her answer was silence. He haunted Westminster and
Stangate; but he never met her once. He walked up and down Westminster
Bridge, knowing that if he did see her in the distance, he would be
constrained to turn away. For he had told her all; and since her answer
was silence, he had no right to force himself on her.
"Love has passed me by," he said to himself sadly.
He made no accusation on life.
"I was not worthy of it," he said.
"I had to tell her all," he said. "I had to lay it all before her."
"Love was so near to me," he said. "I almost reached it. And now I have
to pass on alone."
He went two or three times during the term to see Alan. Alan was well
and happy. But he was disappointed that Katharine had not been to see
him.
"She promised, father," he said. "And I've looked for her week after
week. But I believe that she will still come."
"Do you?" asked Clifford eagerly.
"Yes," the boy answered. "She was not the sort of chum to break her
word."
"She promised to write to me," Clifford said. "But I have not heard."
"Oh, you'll hear," Alan said staunchly.
But that was several weeks before Christmas; and now Christmas had
nearly come, and Katharine's promised visit to Alan had not been paid,
nor her promised letter to Clifford been received.
And the man had given up expecting it. So now he did not look up from
his work. He had looked up many times on other occasions and been
disappointed. He had gone back to his work many times with a sore
feeling of personal bereftness, as though fate had put him outside the
inner heart of things. So now he bent over his desk, immersed in some
abstruse calculation. After an hour, he rose and went to his laboratory
to give some instructions to his new assistant, a young Welshman from
Aberystwith, who had arrived that morning. A case of glass apparatus had
just been brought in. He lingered to see if they were in good condition.
He came out, and then went back to fetch his notebook, which he had left
on the bench. He stood for a moment looking at the enlargements which he
had carried out since his return from Norway.
"Alan and Knutty will be pleased," he said.
"I had hoped that she too would--would see them," he thought. "I
hoped--ah, I don't know what I hoped. I was mad."
He returned to his study and closed the door. He stood leaning against
the mantelpiece, thinking. His grave face looked sad. He had reconquered
his power of working. Peace was in his house; but sore loneliness and
longing were in his heart. Still, he was working, and with satisfaction
to that part of his nature which had been so greatly harassed by poor
Marianne's merciless turbulence.
"After all, I only asked to work and to be at peace," he said aloud, as
if in answer to some insistent disputant.
"But----" began that inner voice.
"I only asked to work and be at peace," he answered again sternly.
Then he went to the table by the door and looked at his letters. One was
from Knutty.
"No," he said, as he fingered it; "Knutty asks an impossibility of me.
She does not know all--she does not see all around. Katharine Frensham
has shown by her silence that...."
He opened Knutty's letter. There was one enclosed, addressed in a
gallant handwriting: "Clifford Thornton, Esq., Solli Gaard,
Gudbrandsdal, Norway." It was old and stained. On a slip of paper Knutty
had written: "Solli has this moment sent this letter to me. He says it
must have been to many Sollis all over the Gudbrandsdal, until the
Norwegian post-office got tired. You see there is no district mentioned,
and Solli is as common as Smith. Ragnhild Solli found it reposing in the
Otta post-office, waiting, no doubt, for next year's tourists."
Clifford's hands trembled. A great pain had seized his beating heart. He
sank down into his chair, broke open the letter, and read with dim eyes
the following lines:--
CHAPTER IV.
"Judge you, judge you. Oh, my dearest, my dearest, if I could have told
you what was in my heart when you said those words to me, up at Peer
Gynt's stue, then I should not be writing this letter to you, though I
want to write it, want to write down everything that is in my heart,
everything that sprang into flower at the moment when I first saw you.
For I love you, and I am holding out my arms to you, have been holding
them out ever since I first saw you. Does it seem overbold that I say
this to you? Why should not a woman say it? Anyway, I say it, and am not
ashamed. I love you, and I am waiting for you. I have loved you with
tears in my heart from the very beginning, grieving over you as over one
whom I had known all my life, and with whom I had the right to
sympathise with all the sympathy of my best nature.
"You know, dearest, I had been away from England for three years. You
remember that I told you I went away when my brother married. I can
never describe to you how I had dreaded my home-coming. There was
nothing and no one to come back for. Twice I turned back. I had not the
courage to face the loneliness which, with my mind's eyes, I saw
stretched before me like some desolate plain. But one day I felt a
sudden irresistible impulse to return. When I saw you that evening, I
knew that I had returned to find you. And I knew that in some strange
way you recognised me and claimed me in your heart of hearts, as I
claimed you. From that moment my life changed.
"Is it not wonderful, my belovèd, how one rises up and goes forth to
meet love: how time and space become annihilated, and all barriers of
mind and circumstance are swept away as by an avalanche? Yes, from that
moment my life changed, and yours changed too. But I knew that I had to
wait. I knew that you had to free yourself in your own way from the
memories which were encompassing you. And all the time I was yearning to
say to you: 'Do not fight with the past. Do not try to push the past on
one side. It can never be forgotten, never be ignored. But something
better can be done with it. It can be faced, understood, and then
gathered up with the present and the future. Let me help you to do it. I
will gather it up with a tenderness never dreamed of before in the whole
world of love.'
"All this I yearned to say to you before I knew the whole history of
your troubled life. And now that you have told me the whole history,
what shall I say to you? I will say to you that my love for you is a
thousandfold greater than before: that as I learn to know the depth of
your suffering and sadness, I shall learn to make my love deeper still
to reach those depths: that I am waiting for you, with arms
outstretched, a thousandfold more eagerly than before: that my love for
you is the love of a woman for a man, the sore yearning of one kindred
spirit for another kindred spirit, the tender sympathy of friend with
friend, the frank understanding of comrade with comrade,--this is my
love for you.
"Take it, my belovèd. It is yours. If it were worthier of you, I should
be more joyous still in offering it. But, side by side with you, the
best and the worst in me will become better. This is my answer to you.
This is the answer I longed to give you up at Peer Gynt's stue.
Everything that I have been telling you now was in my heart then. But I
could not, dared not, tell you then. You knew why I was silent? Let us
speak of it, dearest. I saw your poor Marianne's face. And that moment,
the moment of my life, when the story had been told to the very end, and
your barrier had been broken down--that moment was consecrated to her.
I shall always feel deeply thankful that I, an impulsive, impetuous
woman, was able to be silent then--was able to turn from you then....
"And now, my Clifford, I want to speak to you of Marianne's death. There
will come times when you will be assailed by this old wrongful belief
that you were responsible for her sad end. You and I will fight those
times out together. I have no fear of them; I have no fear of that poor
Marianne; I have no fear of anything. You and I will work through those
cruel hours. You must and shall learn to be just to yourself. You spoke
of Marianne's defenceless state of dreaming. I remember those were your
very words. I remember that my heart and mind cried out to you, 'And
your own defenceless state of dreaming? May no one plead that to you?'
"I plead it now. I plead it with my heart, my brain, my spirit. My
belovèd, I entreat of you to give yourself bare justice; nothing more. I
would not wish you to sacrifice one inch of the gentle chivalry of your
nature. If I were asking you to do that, I should indeed be asking you
an unworthy thing. If I were asking you to do that, I should be asking
you to injure that which I love and adore in you. But bare justice: a
cold, stern, reluctant measuring-out. That is all I entreat of you to
give yourself. Will you do this? Will you trust me? You may trust me. If
I had my doubts, it would not be possible for me to keep them back. I
might try, and I should fail. I am not a prisoner of silence. My words
and thoughts come tumbling out recklessly. You may trust me. I should
tell you, and risk losing you and breaking my heart--because I could not
help myself.
"Lose you now that I have found you. No, no, that can never be. I am
yours, you are mine. We dare not lose each other now that we have found
each other. We have found each other not very early in life, but what
does that matter? What does Time matter to you and me? I never yet knew
the time of day, the day of the month, the month of the year, nor cared
to know. But I knew full well when spring had come. I know that spring
has come now. I rise up from the darkness of winter to meet the glorious
days which you and I will live through together. You have made my life
splendid for me already, and I will make your life splendid for you. You
shall love and work, and work and love. Your career shall be a glory to
me. You shall go on and on, and be all things you want to be, and do all
the things you want to do, and take your rightful place in your own
world--my world, because it is yours. And I, who know nothing of
science, will become a woman of science--because I love you. Ah, I can
see a smile on your grave face. You are thinking that the paths to
science are long and arduous. Long and arduous indeed! I shall find the
short cut--because I love you.
"And, oh, my dearest, we will not shut others out in the cold because we
love. I have been out in the cold. I have been freezing there until you
came into my life. Great love and great sorrow are apt to shut the whole
world out of the Cathedral. Let us keep the doors wide open. Then those
who love us can come in.
"My dearest, my belovèd, if you only knew, it has not been easy for me
to tear myself away from Norway, from you, from Alan, from Knutty, from
the beautiful surroundings where our love has grown apace. But my
brother was in trouble, and, you see, the Cathedral doors had to be
opened at once. And if I had spoken to you and told you all that this
letter tells you, I could not have left you. But it tears my heart to be
away from you. All the time I have wanted passionately to turn back and
come to you and say, 'I am yours, and you are mine.' But I went on and
on, in spite of myself, farther away from you, and yet getting nearer
every minute--that has been my consolation: that I was getting nearer to
you, because--because at a distance I dared to open my heart to
you--because--the moment of silence up at Peer Gynt's stue was past--not
forgotten, not ignored--but gathered up tenderly, tenderly. So I get
nearer to you all the time. That is why I am writing this long letter to
you. Every word has sped me quicker on my joyous way to you. When I
began it I was near to you, my belovèd. Now that I am ending it, I am by
your side. There is no space between us.
"But before I end it, there is something else I want to tell you. I want
to tell you how I love and admire you for not having become bitter. It
is so easy to become bitter. You must have lifted the cup of bitterness
to your lips many a time, and then put it resolutely down. Will you
forgive me if I speak of this? It is only because I want you to know
that I have always prized that power ever since I can remember; striven
after it myself; failed lamentably; but shall not fail now, because of
you.
"Yes, and there is still something else I must tell you. Do you remember
that I did not come back to the Gaard, but stayed behind at the
posting-station? Oh, my dearest, you can never know what it cost me not
to be there, with Knutty and Alan, to receive you if by chance you
should have returned. You can never know what it would have cost me if I
had lost you.
"Lost you. No, no. It was impossible, once having found you. It is
impossible. I should find you, over the mountains, over the
sea--anywhere.
"Oh, my dearest, Norway will always be the fairest land in the whole
world to me: the land where the barrier was broken down between you and
me.
"KATHARINE FRENSHAM."
CHAPTER V.
The letter fell from Clifford's hands. He leaned over his desk, and
covered his face with his hands. The tears streamed down his cheeks.
Then he took the letter, pressed it to his heart, kissed it
passionately, kissed the signature, read it all over again with dim
eyes, pressed it to his heart again--and was made whole.
When he had recovered himself, he rang the bell, ordered the trap,
caught the train to Waterloo, and ran up the stairs to Katharine's flat.
Katharine had come home rather earlier than usual from business. She had
finished tea, and was standing by the window of her pretty drawing-room,
watching the lights on the river. She was in one of her sad, lonely
moods; she was feeling outside everything.
"Mercifully I have my work," she said to herself. "If any one had told
me ten years ago that I should be thankful to go down to business every
day at the same hour, I could not have believed it."
Some one had sent her Matthew Arnold's poems as a Christmas present. She
took the volume now, and opened it at these words:--
"Yes, in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know."
She read them through again. Then she leaned against the mantelshelf and
stared into the fire, still holding the book in her hand.
The bell rang. Katharine did not hear. The thought in those words was
holding her. The door opened. Katharine did not hear. Gerda's Swedish
song had suddenly come into her remembrance, "The lover whom thou lov'st
so well, thou shalt reach him never."
She recalled the time when she had first heard it. She saw the great
Gudbrandsdal spread out before her, and the hillside opposite the Solli
Gaard, where Gerda was strolling, singing as she went. She remembered
Knutty's words, "But that is not true for you. You will reach him; I
know you will reach him." She remembered that when she turned round, she
saw that Clifford had come back from over the seas.
Something impelled her to turn round now--and she saw him.
"Katharine, my belovèd," he said in a voice that thrilled through her,
"I have only just had your letter."
And he folded her in his arms.
Long and silently they stood thus, whilst outside in the great world,
the noise of the traffic went on unheeded, the barges passed down the
river, the lights of Westminster shone out, Big Ben rang the hour of the
evening, stars crowned the towers of the Abbey, the moon rose above the
Houses of Parliament.
So they had found each other at last.
The lonely wilderness of their inner hearts became a fair and gracious
garden.
And when their long embrace was over, and the moment for speech had
come, they sat near together as lovers, friends, comrades of all time,
talking frankly and fearlessly of the sad past which was to be gathered
up with sane and tender understanding into the present and the future,
talking of their love for each other: of their first meeting: of their
separation: of their longings after each other: of their companionship
in Norway: of this three months' desolation in England: of Knutty's
impatient admonitions that they should break through all reserve and
seek each other out: of Alan's love and trust restored and strengthened:
of their new life, in which he would grow up to manhood in gladness and
happiness: of Mrs Stanhope, made of no account by reason of their great
joy: of Knutty's unselfish anxiety on their behalf: of her tenderness
and all her dear quaint ways: and of Alan's criticism of Katharine, "She
is not the sort of chum to break her word."
"And I will not break it," Katharine said joyously. "We can go together
to-morrow and fetch him back."
Suddenly there came a loud knock at the hall-door. And when it was
opened, an excited voice with a slight foreign accent asked impatiently
for Miss Frensham.
Clifford and Katharine heard it. They looked at each other.
"It's Knutty!" they cried together; and they ran out into the hall.
"Knutty! Knutty!" they cried. "Welcome! welcome!"
"Dear ones," she answered, gasping. "Oh, what stairs! I hope I shan't
die from apoplexy, but I feel very much like it now. Talk about
sea-sickness indeed! Stair-sickness is much worse! Ak, ak! Give me some
aqua vitae or some mysost instantly! Ak, ak, why did I ever come? Oh
yes, I know why I came. No use writing and inquiring. Could have got no
news out of an iceberg. So I came to see for myself. And what do I see?
By St Olaf! I see daylight--full daylight! Gerda and Ejnar said I was
not to interfere. Interfere! Of course I shall! It is the duty of every
woman not to mind her own business! Oh, those stairs! I believe there
were nearly a hundred of them! Dear ones, dear ones, what a happy old
woman I am! If I don't die from apoplexy, I shall cry from happiness!
What it is to be a Viking...!"
THE END.
_NELSON SHILLING LIBRARY._
NELSON SHILLING LIBRARY
Price One Shilling net.
New and handsome editions, at a popular price, of many recent books of
outstanding merit and great interest, the original cost of which has
restricted their enjoyment to a limited circle of readers.
They are well printed and illustrated, and bound in Blue Cloth with gilt
top.
The Series includes works of Travel, History, Biography, etc., nothing
but Novels being excluded.
_A New Volume is published Twice a Month_.
DESCRIPTIVE LIST.
A Book about the Garden. DEAN HOLE.
Dean Hole was chiefly famous as an expert rose grower; but in the
present volume he gossips wisely and entertainingly about all the
thousand and one things which appertain to the garden.
Culture and Anarchy. MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Matthew Arnold's most notable prose work, in which he expounds his
philosophy of conduct and education. It contains that gospel of
self-development and culture which is chiefly associated with his
name.
Collections and Recollections (Second Series). (_Aug_. 1909.) G. W. E.
RUSSELL.
Originally published under the title of "An Onlooker's Notebook," this
work possesses the same qualities as the famous first series of
"Collections and Recollections," also included in this library (see p.
v). It is full of good stories, shrewd comments, and a kindly humour.
The Life of Frank Buckland. (_Aug. 1909._)
Frank Buckland was the most whimsical and original of modern
naturalists, and delightful are the chapters which deal with his boyhood
and youth when he pursued his hobby under many difficulties.
A Modern Utopia. (_Sept. 1909._) H. G. WELLS.
This is Mr. Wells's dream of an ideal future, and contains his famous
sketch of the "Samurai," the new aristocracy which is to justify itself
by social service.
With Kitchener to Khartoum. (_Sept. 1909._) G. W. STEEVENS.
Mr. G. W. Steevens was the greatest of all war correspondents, and his
story of Lord Kitchener's Nile campaign has always been regarded as his
masterpiece.
The Unveiling of Lhasa. EDMUND CANDLER.
A brilliant description of the romance of the "Hermit Land." A picture
of Lhasa which lives long in the imagination. (_Oct._)
Life of Lord Dufferin. Sir ALFRED LYALL.
The life of the greatest of modern British diplomats. A story of high
achievement and the revelation of a brilliant and fascinating
personality. (_Oct. 1909._)
Life of Dean Stanley. (_Nov._) R. E. PROTHERO.
Stanley exercised an influence which is without parallel in modern
ecclesiastical history. His friendship with Queen Victoria and with all
the great men of the Victorian era makes his life a wonderful epitome of
the history of his times.
NELSON SHILLING LIBRARY.
Selected Essays. AUGUSTINE BIRRELL.
A selection approved by Mr. Birrell himself, and which may be taken as
an anthology of his best work. There is no more delightful guide to a
library than the author of "Obiter Dicta."
Idylls of the Sea. FRANK BULLEN.
Conan Doyle says of this book that there have been no finer pieces of
descriptive work in our time. "If I had to choose a sea library of only
a dozen volumes, I should certainly give Bullen two places."
The Reminiscences of Sir Henry Hawkins (Lord Brampton).
A fascinating record of a great legal career, and a mine of good stories
and sayings.
The Simple Adventures of a Memsahib. SARA JEANNETTE DUNCAN.
As readable as any romance, and gives a genuine insight into the
conditions of English and native life in India.
The Golden Age. KENNETH GRAHAME.
A classic of child-life which has had no rivals since "Alice in
Wonderland." It is a work of positive genius in its insight into the
mind of a child, and the world as it appears to the eye of childhood.
The Forest. STEWART EDWARD WHITE.
Of the new type of travel literature, written by men who live close to
the heart of the wilds, "The Forest" is in many ways the best.
The Life of Gladstone. HERBERT W. PAUL.
By far the best short biography of this statesman. Not only good
history, but from its charm of style an admirable piece of literary
portraiture.
NELSON SHILLING LIBRARY.
Wild Life in a Southern County.
A volume of fascinating nature studies, containing some of Richard
Jefferies' best work.
The Psalms in Human Life. R. E. PROTHERO.
No modern book on a religious subject has enjoyed a wider popularity
than this. It is the history of how the Psalms have consoled, inspired,
helped, and solaced mankind through the ages.
The Memories of Dean Hole.
A delightful record of a busy and distinguished life, full of capital
stories and shrewd comments on men and things.
Life of John Nicholson. CAPTAIN TROTTER.
The "man of destiny" of our Indian Empire. The story of his Indian
career, culminating in his death at Delhi, is one of the romances of
Empire.
The Great Boer War. A. CONAN DOYLE.
By far the most popular and picturesque account of the South African
war.
Collections and Recollections. G. W. E. RUSSELL.
The present volume is G. W. E. Russell's best-known work, and no such
miscellany of good stories and witty sayings is to be found in modern
literature.
Scrambles Amongst the Alps. EDWARD WHYMPER.
Holds in mountaineering literature the same place as the "Compleat
Angler" in the library of the fisherman.
* * * * *
_Where no Publication Date is mentioned the Volumes are READY_.
_THE NELSON LIBRARY._
_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME._
1. The Marriage of William Ashe.
2. The Intrusions of Peggy.
3. The Fortune of Christina M'Nab.
4. The Battle of the Strong.
5. Robert Elsmere.
6. No. 5 John Street.
7. Quisanté.
8. Incomparable Bellairs.
9. The History of David Grieve.
10. The King's Mirror.
11. John Charity.
12. Clementina.
13. If Youth but Knew.
14. The American Prisoner.
15. His Grace.
16. The Hosts of the Lord.
17. The God in the Car.
18. The Lady of the Barge.
19. The Odd Women.
20. Matthew Austin.
21. The Translation of a Savage.
22. The Octopus.
23. White Fang.
24. The Princess Passes.
25. Sir John Constantine.
26. The Man from America.
27. A Lame Dog's Diary.
28. The Recipe for Diamonds.
29. Woodside Farm.
30. Monsieur Beaucaire, and The Beautiful Lady.
31. The Pit.
32. An Adventurer of the North.
33. The Wages of Sin.
34. Lady Audley's Secret.
35. Eight Days.
36. Owd Bob.
37. The Duenna of a Genius.
38. His Honor and a Lady.
39. Marcella.
40. Selah Harrison.
41. The House with the Green Shutters.
42. Mrs. Galer's Business.
43. Old Gorgon Graham.
44. Major Vigoureux.
45. The Gateless Barrier.
46. Kipps.
47. Moonfleet.
48. Springtime.
49. French Nan.
50. The Food of the Gods.
51. Raffles.
52. Cynthia's Way.
53. Clarissa Furiosa.
54. Love and Mr. Lewisham.
55. The Lonely Lady of Grosvenor Square.
56. Thompson's Progress.
57. The Primrose Path.
58. Lady Rose's Daughter.
59. Romance.
60. The War of the Carolinas.
_NELSON SIXPENNY CLASSICS._
1. A Tale of Two Cities.
2. Tom Brown's Schooldays.
3. The Deerslayer.
4. Henry Esmond.
5. Hypatia.
6. The Mill on the Floss.
7. Uncle Tom's Cabin.
8. The Last of the Mohicans
9. Adam Bede.
10. The Old Curiosity Shop.
11. Oliver Twist.
12. Kenilworth.
13. Robinson Crusoe.
14. The Last Days of Pompeii.
15. Cloister and the Hearth.
16. Ivanhoe.
17. East Lynne.
18. Cranford.
19. John Halifax, Gentleman.
20. The Pathfinder.
21. Westward Ho!
22. The Three Musketeers.
23. The Channings.
24. The Pilgrim's Progress.
25. Pride and Prejudice.
26. Quentin Durward.
27. Villette.
28. Hard Times.
29. Child's History of England.
30. The Bible in Spain.
31. Gulliver's Travels.
32. Sense and Sensibility.
33. Kate Coventry.
34. Silas Marner.
35. Notre-Dame.
36. Old St. Paul's.
37. Waverley.
38. 'Ninety-Three.
39. Eothen.
40. The Toilers of the Sea.
41. The Children of the New Forest.
42. The Laughing Man.
43. The Book of Golden Deeds.
44. Great Expectations.
45. Guy Mannering.
46. Modern Painters (Selections).
47. Les Misérables--I.
48. Les Misérables--II.
49. The Monastery.
50. Romola.
51. The Vicar of Wakefield.
"_Cheap, yet priceless._"
--SCOTSMAN.
_NELSON SHILLING LIBRARY._
Astronomy for Amateurs. (_Nov. 1909._)
CAMILLE FLAMMARION.
An authorized translation of the most popular book on astronomy ever
written.
Round the World on a Wheel. (_Dec. 1909._) J. FOSTER FRASER.
Mr. Foster Fraser is the prince of special correspondents and lightning
travellers. He started on his bicycle from England in 1896, crossed
Europe, reached Persia by way of the Caucasus, traversed India to
Calcutta, then went by way of Burmah through the heart of China, then to
Japan, and home at last by way of America, bicycling from San Francisco
to New York. The tale of this wonderful journey is told in a series of
brilliant impressionistic sketches.
Dream Days. (_Dec. 1909._) KENNETH GRAHAME.
The figures in this are the same as those in "The Golden Age" (see page
iv), and the art is no less delightful.
The Making of Modern Egypt.
Sir AUCKLAND COLVIN.
A book without a dull page, and in which the complex story of Egyptian
development is turned into a romance.
Life of Lord Russell of Killowen.
R. BARRY O'BRIEN.
As Lord Chief Justice, Lord Russell was the greatest figure on the
modern bench. The book gives a wonderful picture of a dominant and
massive personality.
Life of Alexander Hamilton. F. S. OLIVER.
To Hamilton on the intellectual and political side, as to Washington on
the military, the American Union was mainly due. The book was hailed on
its first appearance, three years ago, as one of the most remarkable and
most important of political biographies. It is specially appropriate at
the present moment in view of South African confederation.
From the Cape to Cairo. E. S. GROGAN.
An extraordinary journey, practically all on foot. The book is full of
startling pictures, strange adventures, and the story of appalling
hardships.
Transcriber's Notes:
Inconsistently-hyphenated words have been left as printed. The printed
text used both "deucèd" and "deuced".
Minor changes to punctuation that do not affect the meaning have been
made. Typographical errors have been corrected and are shown below.
William in the original was referred to as 'Willy' and 'Willie'
interchangeably. All instances of 'Willie' have been changed to 'Willy'
to avoid confusion. Blank pages in the original were numbered.
'dynamite-look disappeared from Ejna's gentle face, and'
'dynamite-look disappeared from Ejnar's gentle face, and'
'That makes twelve pair for those brave English'
'That makes twelve pairs for those brave English'
'knew whether Herr and Fru Ebbesen could receive her.'
'knew whether Herr and Frue Ebbesen could receive her.'
'ever heard of in Norwegian lore. Don't be anrgy'
'ever heard of in Norwegian lore. Don't be angry'
'that she was unmericful, but only ignorant,'
'that she was unmerciful, but only ignorant,'
'Blomros (red nose), and Fjeldros (mountain rose) responded'
'Blomros (red rose), and Fjeldros (mountain rose) responded'
'"Tak!" they said, turning round and waving to her.'
'"Tack!" they said, turning round and waving to her.'
'than the Scotch firs--"Grantraer," as the Norwegians'
'than the Scotch firs--"Grantraeer," as the Norwegians'
'saeter-girls (saeter-gjenter) were busily stirring the contents'
'saeter-girls (saeter-jenter) were busily stirring the contents'
'Every right-minded guests had the same desire when'
'Every right-minded guest had the same desire when'
'was not very jealous of her when my Ejnar began to'
'was not very jealous of her when my Enjar began to'
'She had been living her own personal life, focussing on'
'She had been living her own personal life, focusing on'
'platinum dishes, your carbon compounds, your assymmetric'
'platinum dishes, your carbon compounds, your asymmetric'