Hildegarde passed a wakeful night of troubled thought. Only after the
tardy dawn of the early spring was in the room did she fall into the
dull slumber of exhaustion, from which she roused at last, unrefreshed
and languid. Before she broke her fast she dispatched a note to Mrs.
Floyd-Rosney, declining on second thoughts the invitation to make the
trip to New Orleans and St. Simon’s Island, which she had welcomed so
enthusiastically when it was broached the previous day. She gave no
reason for her change of mind, but expressed her thanks very prettily
and courteously; the conventional, suave phrases exacted by decorum
incongruous with the pale, stern, set face that bent above them. Her
mother cried out in surprise and solicitude when she came into the
library, with this mask, so to speak, alien to the joyous countenance
she was wont to wear, so soft and glowing, so bland and gay, but she
petulantly put aside all inquiries, declaring that she was quite well
and only wanted to be left alone. To be quit of the family she escaped
into the solitary sun-parlor, and sat there in a wicker chair among the
palms, and watched the blooms in the window-boxes that illumined the
space with their vivid glintings. For there was no sun to-day--a hazy,
soft, gray day, and but for the gleam of her white dress in the leafy
shadows Randal Ducie might not have seen her there when he was ushered
into the library; after somewhat perfunctory greetings to her father and
mother he strode, with the freedom of an acknowledged friend of the
family, through the room into the sun-parlor and sat down beside her.
She was wearing a house dress of white wool, sparsely trimmed with only
a band of Persian embroidery about the sleeves and belt and around the
neck, which was cut in a high square, showing her delicate throat. She
looked up embarrassed as he came in, conscious that she had on no
guimpe, and no lace on the sleeves, and murmured something about not
being fit to be seen. But in his masculine inexperience he perceived no
lack in point of the finish of her attire, though the change of her
countenance instantly struck his attention.
“Oh, what has happened?” he cried, solicitously. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing--nothing at all,” she replied, scarcely lifting her heavily
lidded eyes. “I wish everybody would quit asking me that.”
“I can see that something is troubling you dreadfully,” he protested.
“Won’t you let me help you? I could brush it away with one hand.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she declared, irritably.
For a few moments there was silence between them as he sat gazing at her
pallid and listless face, with its downcast and dreary eyes, her
languid, half-reclining attitude, her idle, nerveless hands clasped in
her lap. The change in her was pathetic,--appealing.
“See here, Miss Dean, trust me; if you have stolen a horse, I will hide
him for you.”
An unwilling smile crept to the verge of her drooping lips, but she
ejaculated impatiently:
“Oh, nonsense!”
“I don’t want to intrude on your confidence, but,--but”--with deep
gravity and a lowered voice, “have you allowed yourself to become
involved in some--conspiracy against the government?”
The unwelcome laugh had crept into her eyes as she lifted her heavy lids
and glanced at him.
“Oh, you know I haven’t!”
Then the contending emotions were resolved into tears, and slowly and
painfully they overflowed her sapphire eyes, coursing one by one down
her white cheeks.
“I should not have spoken,” he said, contritely, “I only add to your
distress. Forgive me. I’d better go.”
“No--no--don’t. But I can’t explain. I’ve promised--only this I know--I
can’t _say how_ I know, but I _know_ that my best friend has told me a
lie--a wicked, defamatory, deliberate lie--and I can’t forgive it.”
“Why should you forgive it?” he asked. “It is the limit, the
unforgivable.”
There was a momentary pause. The tears welled up anew in the blue eyes
and the white cheeks were all wet with them; however, she mopped them
with her handkerchief rolled into a little ball for the purpose.
“It was such a cruel lie, deliberately planned, so circumstantial,” she
sobbed, “so plausible, apparently confirmed by facts. I do believe it
would have deceived anybody, everybody, but me. I can’t controvert
it--the circumstances are out of my scope. But I _know_--I know--I
_know_ of my own accord,--I can’t say how,--but every breath I draw,
every fiber in me is a witness of the truth--the eternal truth!”
She burst into a tempest of sobs, and Ducie was carried beyond bounds.
“Oh, you must not, you shall not, give yourself so much pain for this
vile liar, whoever it is. Have some mercy on me, if not on yourself. I
can’t endure to see you so distressed--it breaks my heart. I have loved
you too long, too devotedly----”
He paused abruptly; he had not intended to broach the subject thus, to
put his fate to the touch while she was hardly herself, overwhelmed by
the agony of some poignant, covert grief which he could not share.
Surely this was not the moment to decide the course of his future life
and hers. He had had his grave misgivings as to her preference. She was
joyous and lovely, and sweet and congenial to many alike who basked in
the radiance of her charm. She was the reigning belle of the winter, and
doubtless her relatives entertained high ambitions as to her settlement
in life. Since the loss of Duciehurst from his material hopes and
prospects he had scarcely felt himself justified in asking her to share
his restrictions and limited resources. He lived on the look in her
eyes, a chance word among all the others, and he had not had hope
enough, encouragement enough of her preference to urge his suit upon
her. He felt as if he stood in an illumination of heaven and earth when
she turned her face suddenly, and asked:
“How long?”
He had both her little hands in his when he strove to differentiate for
her just when and how he first recognized the unfolding of this flower
of love to irradiate his life with bloom and fragrance and then to urge
upon her some word of promise to set his plunging heart at rest.
Her face, all fluctuating with happy smiles and flushes, grew affectedly
grave as she seemed to consider.
“I am not much like a parched flower,” she said, “but I have been
waiting some time for this dewdrop.”
“Oh, if I had only known, how much I could have saved myself,” exclaimed
Randal, voicing the sentiment of many an accepted lover.
“I expected this--remark--of yours,” she declared, her blue eyes archly
glancing, “at the De Lille reception--’way back, ’way back in the Middle
Ages, when you said in such an impassioned voice, ‘Will you--will you
have some more frappé?’”
Then they both laughed out joyously, and her father in the library,
turning over the journal in his hand to get at the river news, had a
vague realization of the instability of the moods of women and
especially of girls, and was pleased that Hildegarde had recovered her
equanimity since her tiff against Mrs. Floyd-Rosney, as he interpreted
it, had induced her to forego her charming springtide outing.
The cruise, though somewhat delayed, that the party of guests might be
selected anew and assembled, took place according to the plans of Mrs.
Floyd-Rosney, at once the most discriminating and lavish of hostesses;
but before the _Aglaia_ weighed anchor the news of the engagement was
sown broadcast in the town and it became the subject of conversation one
day as the yacht steamed down the Mississippi on her mission of
pleasure. Mrs. Floyd-Rosney, whose experience and training had developed
great powers of self-control, hearkened with special interest to the
details of the gossip, and often commented characteristically. The
bride-elect, it was surmised, would receive splendid presents, in view
of her many wealthy relatives and friends and her great popularity, but
none could compare with the necklace of Ducie diamonds, the gift of the
groom, which it was said she would wear with her wedding dress of white
satin.
“And how ridiculous for people of their limited means,” cried Mrs.
Floyd-Rosney. Her late husband himself could hardly have seemed more
scornful of moderate circumstances.
“Except that the necklace is an heirloom,” said Colonel Kenwynton.
“A man in love thinks nothing is _too_ fine,” suggested one of the
ladies.
“Randal Ducie is not and never was in love with Hildegarde,” said Mrs.
Floyd-Rosney with an air of much discernment. “She is not of the type
that would appeal to him; but she was very instant in bringing herself
to his notice and diverting his mind, and taking him out of himself
after his bereavement and so became a sort of consolatory habit.”
“That is a beautiful idea,” said Colonel Kenwynton warmly,--“to add to
the blessed relation of a wife the sacred mission of a ministering
angel.”
This was not in the least what Mrs. Floyd-Rosney had intended to
intimate, as was abundantly manifest by the thinly veiled anger and
repugnance on her face, which was now beginning to have need of all the
suavity and grace she could command. It was growing perceptibly hard in
these days, and its incipient angularities were more definitely
asserted. There was a recurrent expression of bitter antagonism in her
eyes that gave added emphasis to the satiric fleer in the occasional
upward lift of her chin. People were already commenting on the strange
deterioration in her beauty of late, and although Colonel Kenwynton was
in no degree aware of the reason for her state of mind, he felt vaguely
depressed by her look and manner.
He rose presently and strolled away from the group on the deck, smoking
his cigar and scanning the weather signs of the coming evening. The
stress of the subject of Randal Ducie’s bereavement weighed heavily on
his nerves in this vicinity. If, under all the circumstances, it could
be so easily and openly mentioned here he was not sure of his ability to
listen with discretion. The world was growing strange to him,--he felt
himself indeed a survival. He did not understand such views as seemed to
possess this woman, such standards of right, such induration of
sensibilities. Man and soldier though he was, he could look only with
glooming and averse eyes at the wreck of the _Cherokee Rose_, where a
dread deed was wrought, lying white and stark, skeleton-wise, like
bleaching bones on the sand-bar in that immaterial region between the
pallid mists of the evening and the gray sheen of the river. Very
melancholy the aspect of the forlorn craft, he thought in passing, and
he scarcely wondered at the prevalence of the riverside legend that
strange presences were wont to revisit the glimpses of the moon on this
grim, storied wreck of the Mississippi.
He could not imagine how Mrs. Floyd-Rosney in pursuit of pleasure could
endure to pass this poignantly ghastly reminder, and still further down
the stream to approach the site of Duciehurst under its swirling
depths,--the packets now made a landing called by the name a mile to the
rearward of the spot where the old mansion had stood. But presently the
graceful yacht was steaming swiftly down this glamourous reach of the
river, and beneath its gliding shadow in inconceivable depths lay this
epitome of the past,--the demolished home altar, with its spent incense
of domestic affection, the lost hopes, with their lure of tenuous
illusions; the futile turmoils of grief; the transient elation of joy;
the final climax of death,--all the constituent elements of human
experience. Now they were naught, nullified, while the world swept on
uncaring, typified by the swift yacht, leaving astern the site of
oblivion.
* * * * *
+-------------------------------------------------------+
|The following pages contain advertisements of Macmillan|
| books by the same author, and new fiction. |
+-------------------------------------------------------+
* * * * *
BOOKS BY
CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK
(MISS MARY MURFREE)
The Storm Center
_Cloth, 12mo. $1.50 net._
In the course of its review of _The Storm Centre_, the Louisville
Courier-Journal says: “This beautiful novel by Charles Egbert
Craddock shows the brilliant and popular writer in her best vein.
None of Miss Murfree’s later books possesses more interest than
this story of love and war and life. The war scenes, the guiding
motives of the opposed sides, the pictures of the old Southern
household, are strikingly impressive by the nobility and the
breadth of their portrayal. The book is one to be held in high
favor long after many of to-day’s ‘best sellers’ are forgotten.”
The Amulet
_Cloth, 12mo. $1.50 net._
“The whole story is as natural and freshly told as if the author
herself had been the heroine of the happy
adventure.”--_Independent._
The Story of Old Fort Loudon
_Cloth, $1.50 net._
_Standard School Library Edition, 50c. net._
A tale of the Cherokees and the Pioneers of Tennessee, 1760, by the
author of _The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains_. Illustrated
by Ernest C. Peixotto.
PUBLISHED BY
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York
* * * * *
NEW MACMILLAN FICTION
The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman
By H. G. WELLS.
_Cloth, 12mo. $1.50 net._
The name of H. G. Wells upon a title page is an assurance of merit. It
is a guarantee that on the pages which follow will be found an absorbing
story told with master skill. In the present book Mr. Wells surpasses
even his previous efforts. He is writing of modern society life,
particularly of one very charming young woman, Lady Harman, who finds
herself so bound in by conventions, so hampered by restrictions, largely
those of a well intentioned but short sighted husband, that she is
ultimately moved to revolt. The real meaning of this revolt, its effect
upon her life and those of her associates are narrated by one who goes
beneath the surface in his analysis of human motives. In the group of
characters, writers, suffragists, labor organizers, social workers and
society lights surrounding Lady Harman, and in the dramatic incidents
which compose the years of her existence which are described by Mr.
Wells, there is a novel which is significant in its interpretation of
the trend of affairs to-day, and fascinatingly interesting as fiction.
It is Mr. Wells at his best.
PUBLISHED BY
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York
* * * * *
NEW MACMILLAN FICTION
The Mutiny of the Elsinore
By JACK LONDON, Author of “The Sea Wolf,” “The Call of the Wild,”
etc.
_With frontispiece in colors by Anton Fischer._
_Cloth, 12mo. $1.35 net._
Everyone who remembers _The Sea Wolf_ with pleasure will enjoy this
vigorous narrative of a voyage from New York around Cape Horn in a large
sailing vessel. _The Mutiny of the Elsinore_ is the same kind of tale as
its famous predecessor, and by those who have read it, it is pronounced
even more stirring. Mr. London is here writing of scenes and types of
people with which he is very familiar, the sea and ships and those who
live in ships. In addition to the adventure element, of which there is
an abundance of the usual London kind, a most satisfying kind it is,
too, there is a thread of romance involving a wealthy, tired young man
who takes the trip on the _Elsinore_, and the captain’s daughter. The
play of incident, on the one hand the ship’s amazing crew and on the
other the lovers, gives a story in which the interest never lags and
which demonstrates anew what a master of his art Mr. London is.
PUBLISHED BY
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York
* * * * *
NEW MACMILLAN FICTION
The Three Sisters
By MAY SINCLAIR, Author of “The Divine Fire,” “The Return of the
Prodigal,” etc.
_Cloth, 12mo. $1.35 net._
Every reader of _The Divine Fire_, in fact every reader of any of
Miss Sinclair’s books, will at once accord her unlimited praise for
her character work. _The Three Sisters_ reveals her at her best. It
is a story of temperament, made evident not through tiresome
analyses but by means of a series of dramatic incidents. The
sisters of the title represent three distinct types of womankind.
In their reaction under certain conditions Miss Sinclair is not
only telling a story of tremendous interest but she is really
showing a cross section of life.
The Rise of Jennie Cushing
By MARY S. WATTS, Author of “Nathan Burke,” “Van Cleve,” etc.
_Cloth, 12mo. $1.35 net._
In _Nathan Burke_ Mrs. Watts told with great power the story of a
man. In this, her new book, she does much the same thing for a
woman. Jennie Cushing is an exceedingly interesting character,
perhaps the most interesting of any that Mrs. Watts has yet given
us. The novel is her life and little else, but that is a life
filled with a variety of experiences and touching closely many
different strata of humankind. Throughout it all, from the days
when as a thirteen-year-old, homeless, friendless waif, Jennie is
sent to a reformatory, to the days when her beauty is the
inspiration of a successful painter, there is in the narrative an
appeal to the emotions, to the sympathy, to the affections, that
cannot be gainsaid.
PUBLISHED BY
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York
* * * * *
NEW MACMILLAN FICTION
Saturday’s Child
By KATHLEEN NORRIS, Author of “Mother,” “The Treasure,” etc.
_With frontispiece in colors, by F. Graham Cootes._
_Decorated cloth, 12mo. $1.35 net._
“_Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child must work for her living._”
The title of Mrs. Norris’s new novel at once indicates its theme.
It is the life story of a girl who has her own way to make in the
world. The various experiences through which she passes, the
various viewpoints which she holds until she comes finally to
realize that service for others is the only thing that counts, are
told with that same intimate knowledge of character, that healthy
optimism and the belief in the ultimate goodness of mankind that
have distinguished all of this author’s writing. The book is
intensely alive with human emotions. The reader is bound to
sympathize with Mrs. Norris’s people because they seem like _real_
people and because they are actuated by motives which one is able
to understand. _Saturday’s Child_ is Mrs. Norris’s longest work.
Into it has gone the very best of her creative talent. It is a
volume which the many admirers of _Mother_ will gladly accept.
Neighborhood Stories
By ZONA GALE, Author of “Friendship Village,” “The Love of Pelleas
and Etarre,” etc.
_With frontispiece. Decorated cloth, 12mo. boxed. $1.50 net._
In _Neighborhood Stories_ Miss Gale has a book after her own heart,
a book which, with its intimate stories of real folks, is not
unlike _Friendship Village_. Miss Gale has humor; she has lightness
of touch; she has, above all, a keen appreciation of human nature.
These qualities are reflected in the new volume. Miss Gale’s
audience, moreover, is a constantly increasing one. To it her
beautiful little holiday novel, _Christmas_, added many admirers.
_Neighborhood Stories_ will not only keep these, but is certain to
attract many more as well.
PUBLISHED BY
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York