Two days before this little gathering of friends was to assemble Jeannie
left Itchen Abbas for town. Victor did not go with her, for the
unpunctual May-fly was already on the river, and, since subsequent days
had to be abandoned, he preferred to use these. He thought it (and said
so) very selfish of Jeannie to go, since who cared what gowns she wore?
But it seemed that Jeannie thought this nonsense, and went. Also a
tooth, though it did not ache, said that it thought it might, and she
arranged an appointment in Old Burlington Street for Saturday afternoon.
She would meet Victor down at Bray.
The tooth proved a false alarm. It was tapped and probed and mirrored,
and she was assured that she need feel no anxiety. So in the elation of
a visit to the dentist over, she emerged into the street. There was a
willing but unable motor there that puffed and snorted, and did not do
anything. And immediately she heard a familiar voice.
"Why, Jeannie," it said, "what confounded and stupendous luck! Never
thought to meet you here. Going to Bray, aren't you? And so am I.
Old Puffing Billy is having his fit here this time. Or do you think
he'll have another on the road? I'll go down by train with you, or
I'll take you down in Puffing Billy. But we'll go together. By Jove,
you look ripping!"
Jeannie gave him both her hands.
"Oh, Tom," she said, "what fun! Let's go down in Puffing Billy. I've
been to the dentist, and there isn't anything."
Puffing Billy gave out a volume of blue smoke.
"Good old chap," said Tom sympathetically. "Hope he'll stick again on
the level.--Is it all right for the present, Stanton?--Get in, Jeannie.
Never saw such luck! Who would expect Puffing Billy to break down
opposite a dentist's, when you needn't have gone there at all. Jove! it
is good to see you."
The incredible happened. Once again the car broke down on the level, and
once again Stanton had to go upon his belly, like the snake, while his
passengers sat on a rug by the wayside.
"We shall be late again," said Tom. "Do you know, it is nearly six
months since I saw you last?"
Jeannie remembered the invitation he had received and refused.
"That's your fault," she said.
"I know. Your man asked me. Awfully good of him."
"Why didn't you come, then?"
The inimitable Stanton ceased to be a snake, and, becoming erect,
touched his cap.
"Car's all right, my lord," he said.
"Oh, is it? Get in, then.--I didn't know if you wanted me to come,
Jeannie. I'm not sure if I wanted to either. But I expect the two are
one. It's funny, isn't it? Try me again."
"Well, come back with Victor and me after Bray," she said.
"Rather. It's Bray first, though. We shan't be late for dinner after
all. What a bore; I like being uniform and consistent. Look here, do
promise me a morning or an afternoon or something down there. Just half
a day alone with you."
She got into the car, he following.
"Yes, you dear," she said. "Of course you shall have it. A whole day if
you like, morning and afternoon."
"Jove! I'm on in that piece. Sure you won't be bored?"
"I'll try not."
"H'm. You think it will need an effort."
Jeannie laughed.
"Once upon a time a man went out fishing for compliments--" she began.
"And he didn't catch any," said Tom.
"Not one. And now we've chattered enough, and you shall tell me all
about yourself."
* * * * *
It was a very quiet and simple history that she heard, and all told it
amounted to the fact that he had settled down as he told her nearly a
year ago he was thinking of doing, but without marrying. There was
little to say, and in that little he was characteristically modest. For
the greater part of the year he had been down at his place in Wiltshire,
of which he had been so studiously absentee a landlord, and for the
first time had taken his place as a big landowner, and that which, with
rather a wry face, he alluded to as a "county magnate."
It was from other sources that Jeannie knew how modest this account was,
and at the end--
"Tom, you're a brick!" she said.
He laughed.
"Didn't know it," he said. "But the man who went fishing caught
something after all, in that case."
* * * * *
Daisy came into her aunt's room when the women went upstairs that
night for a talk. She was radiantly in love, but it was a different
Daisy from her who had made so many plans and known her own mind so
well a year ago.
"I know Willie has a cold," she said, "but men are so tiresome. They
won't take reasonable care of themselves. Don't you think he looked
rather run down, Aunt Jeannie?"
"Not the very slightest, I am afraid."
"How horrid of you! Oh, Aunt Jeannie, what a nice world!"
Daisy settled herself on the floor by her aunt's chair, and possessed
herself of her hand.
"And to think that till less than a year ago I was quite, quite blind,"
she said. "I always loved you, I think, but I am so different now. What
has happened, do you think?"
"I think you have grown up, my dear," said Jeannie.
"I suppose it may be that. I wonder how it happens. Do you think one
grows up from inside, or does something come from outside to make one?"
"Surely it is a combination of the two. It is with us as it is with
plants. From outside comes the rain and the sun, which make them grow,
but all the same it is from within that this growth comes, so that they
put forth leaves and flowers."
Daisy sighed.
"What a lot of time I wasted," she said. "To think that Willie was
waiting so long before I could see him as he was. Yes, I know what the
sun and the rain were in my case. They were you, you darling, when for
my sake and poor Diana's you did what you did."
"Ah, my dear," said Jeannie, "we need not speak of that."
"But I want to just once--just to tell you that it was you who opened my
eyes. And it wasn't my eyes alone you opened. It was his too--Tom's, I
mean. He knows that, and he told me so."
"That is quite enough about me," said Jeannie, with decision. "Daisy, I
wish Tom would marry. Can't we find some nice girl for him?"
"Oh, we can find a hundred nice girls for him," said Daisy, "and he will
respectfully reject them all. He doesn't want any nice girl. Oh, Aunt
Jeannie, why shouldn't I say it? He's in love with you. I think he
always will be. Some people might call it sad, but I don't think it is
at all. The thought of you makes him so tremendously happy."
Daisy plaited Jeannie's long white fingers in with her own.
"I think it's one of the nicest things that ever happened," she said.
"It's like some old legend of a man who has--well, racketed about all
his life, and then suddenly finds his ideal, which, though she is quite
out of reach, entirely satisfies him. He is so fond of Uncle Victor too.
That's so nice of him, and so natural, since Uncle Victor is your
husband. It's just what the man in the legend would do."
Jeannie gave a long, happy sigh.
"Oh, I thank Heaven for my friends," she said.
"They thank Heaven for you," said Daisy softly.
* * * * *
April continued to behave with incredible amiability, and superb and
sunny weather blessed Lady Nottingham's rash experiment. Everywhere the
spring triumphed; on the chestnut trees below which Jeannie and Lord
Lindfield had sat on the afternoon of the thunderstorm last year a
million glutinous buds swelled and burst into delicate five-fingered
hands of milky green; and on the beech-trunks was spread the soft green
powder of minute mosses. The new grass of the year was shooting up
between the older spikes, making a soft and short-piled velvet, on which
the clumps of yellow crocuses broke like the dancing reflection of sun
on water. Daffodils danced, too, in shady places, a company of nymphs,
and the celandines were like the burnished gold of some illuminated
manuscript of spring.
And all these tokens of the renewed and triumphant life of the world
were but the setting to that company of happy hearts assembled by the
Thames' side. The time of the singing bird had come, and their hearts
were in tune with it.
The little party, so it had been originally planned, were to disperse on
the Wednesday after Easter, but on the Tuesday various secret
conferences were held, and with much formality a round-robin was signed
and presented to Lady Nottingham, stating that her guests were so much
pleased with their quarters that they unanimously wished to stop an
extra day.
So they stopped an extra day, another day of burgeoning spring, and were
very content. Tom was content also next morning, for he went with
Jeannie to her home.
THE END.
* * * * *
ESTABLISHED 1798
[Illustration]
T. NELSON
AND SONS
PRINTERS AND
PUBLISHERS
Notes on
Nelson's New Novels.
_No work of unwholesome character or of second-rate quality
will be included in this Series._
The novel is to-day _the_ popular form of literary art. This is
proved by the number of novels published, and by the enormous sales
of fiction at popular prices.
While _Reprints_ of fiction may be purchased for a few pence, _New
Fiction_ is still a luxury.
The author of a New Novel loses his larger audience, the public are
denied the privilege of enjoying his latest work, because of the
prohibitive price of 4s. 6d. demanded for the ordinary "six
shilling" novel.
In another way both author and public are badly served under the
present publishing system. At certain seasons a flood of new novels
pours from the press. Selection becomes almost impossible. The good
novels are lost among the indifferent and the bad. Good service can
be done to literature not only by reducing the price of fiction, but
by sifting its quality.
The number of publishers issuing new fiction is so great, that the
entrance of another firm into the field demands almost an
apology--at least, a word of explanation.
Messrs. Nelson have been pioneers in the issue of reprints of
fiction in Library Edition at Sevenpence. The success of _Nelson's
Library_ has been due to the careful selection of books, regular
publication throughout the whole year, and excellence of manufacture
at a low cost, due to perfection of machinery.
Nelson's Sevenpenny Library represents the best that can be given to
the public in the way of _Reprints_ under present manufacturing
conditions.
Nelson's New Novels (of which this book is one of the first volumes)
represents the same standard of careful selection, excellence of
production, and lowest possible price applied to _New Fiction_.
The list of authors of Nelson's New Novels for 1910 includes Anthony
Hope, E. F. Benson, H. A. Vachell, H. G. Wells, "Q," G. A.
Birmingham, John Masefield, Mrs. W. K. Clifford, J. C. Snaith, John
Buchan, and Agnes and Egerton Castle. Arrangements for subsequent
volumes have been made with other authors of equally high standing.
Nelson's New Novels are of the ordinary "six shilling" size, but are
produced with greater care than most of their competitors. They are
printed in large, clear type, on a fine white paper. They are
strongly bound in green cloth with a white and gold design. They are
decorated with a pretty end-paper and a coloured frontispiece. All
the volumes are issued in bright wrappers. The books are a happy
combination of substantial and artistic qualities.
A new volume is issued regularly every month.
The price is the very lowest at which a large New Novel with good
material and workmanship, and with an adequate return to author,
bookseller, and publisher, can be offered to the public at the
present time.
* * * * *
_Descriptive Notes
on the Volumes for 1910_:--
SECOND STRING. _Anthony Hope._
This brilliant social comedy contains all the qualities which have
given Anthony Hope his unique reputation as a historian of modern
life. He introduces us to the society of the little country town of
Meriton, the tradespeople, the loungers in the inn parlour, the
neighbouring farmers and squires, and especially to Harry Belfield,
the mirror of fashion in the county and candidate for its
representation in Parliament. We see also his former school friend,
Andy Hayes, who has returned from lumbering in Canada to make a
living at home. The _motif_ of the tale is the unconscious
competition of the two friends, of whom Andy is very willing to play
"second fiddle," did not character and brains force him to the
front. The young squire of Halton is too selfish and capricious to
succeed, and in spite of his loyalty to friendship, Andy finds
himself driven to take his place both in love and in politics. A
host of characters cross the stage, and the scene flits between
Meriton and London. The book is so light in touch, so shrewd in its
observation, so robust and yet so kindly in its humour, that it must
be accorded the highest rank among Anthony Hope's works--which is to
say, the first place among modern social comedies.
FORTUNE. _J. C. Snaith._
Mr. J. C. Snaith is already known to fame by his historical
novels, his admirable cricketing story, his essay in Meredithan
subtlety "Brooke of Covenden," and his most successful Victorian
comedy "Araminta." In his new novel he breaks ground which has
never before been touched by an English novelist. He follows no
less a leader than Cervantes. His hero, Sir Richard Pendragon, is
Sir John Falstaff grown athletic and courageous, with his
imagination fired by much adventure in far countries and some
converse with the knight of La Mancha. The doings of this
monstrous Englishman are narrated by a young and scandalized
Spanish squire, full of all the pedantry of chivalry. Sir Richard
is a new type in literature--the Rabelaisian Paladin, whose foes
flee not only from his sword but from his Gargantuan laughter. In
Mr. Snaith's romance there are many delightful characters--a
Spanish lady who dictates to armies, a French prince of the blood
who has forsaken his birthright for the highroad. But all are
dominated by the immense Sir Richard, who rights wrongs like an
unruly Providence, and then rides away.
THE HISTORY OF MR. POLLY. _H. G. Wells._
If the true aim of romance is to find beauty and laughter and
heroism in odd places, then Mr. Wells is a great romantic. His
heroes are not knights and adventurers, not even members of the
quasi-romantic professions, but the ordinary small tradesmen, whom
the world has hitherto neglected. The hero of the new book, Mr.
Alfred Polly, is of the same school, but he is nearer Hoopdriver
than Kipps. He is in the last resort the master of his fate, and
squares himself defiantly against the Destinies. Unlike the others,
he has a literary sense, and has a strange fantastic culture of his
own. Mr. Wells has never written anything more human or more truly
humorous than the adventures of Mr. Polly as haberdasher's
apprentice, haberdasher, incendiary, and tramp. Mr. Polly discovers
the great truth that, however black things may be, there is always a
way out for a man if he is bold enough to take it, even though that
way leads through fire and revolution. The last part of the book,
where the hero discovers his courage, is a kind of saga. We leave
him in the end at peace with his own soul, wondering dimly about the
hereafter, having proved his manhood, and found his niche in life.
THE OTHER SIDE. _H. A. Vachell._
In this remarkable book Mr. Vachell leaves the beaten highway of
romance, and grapples with the deepest problems of human
personality and the unseen. It is a story of a musical genius,
in whose soul worldliness conquers spirituality. When he is at
the height of his apparent success, there comes an accident, and
for a little soul and body seem to separate. On his return to
ordinary life he sees the world with other eyes, but his
clearness of vision has come too late to save his art. He pays
for his earlier folly in artistic impotence. The book is a
profound moral allegory, and none the less a brilliant romance.
SIR GEORGE'S OBJECTION. _Mrs. W. K. Clifford._
Mrs. Clifford raises the old problem of heredity, and gives it a
very modern and scientific answer. It is the story of a woman
who, after her husband's disgrace and death, settles with her
only daughter upon the shore of one of the Italian lakes. The
girl grows up in ignorance of her family history, but when the
inevitable young man appears complications begin. As it happens,
Sir George, the father of the lover, holds the old-fashioned
cast-iron doctrine of heredity, and the story shows the conflict
between his pedantry and the compulsion of fact. It is a book
full of serious interest for all readers, and gives us in
addition a charming love story. Mrs. Clifford has drawn many
delightful women, but Kitty and her mother must stand first in
her gallery.
PRESTER JOHN. _John Buchan._
This is a story which, in opposition to all accepted canons of
romance, possesses no kind of heroine. There is no woman from
beginning to end in the book, unless we include a little Kaffir
serving-girl. The hero is a Scottish lad, who goes as assistant
to a store in the far north of the Transvaal. By a series of
accidents he discovers a plot for a great Kaffir rising, and by
a combination of luck and courage manages to frustrate it. From
beginning to end it is a book of stark adventure. The leader of
the rising is a black missionary, who believes himself the
incarnation of the mediaeval Abyssinian emperor Prester John. By
means of a perverted Christianity, and the possession of the
ruby collar which for centuries has been the Kaffir fetish, he
organizes the natives of Southern Africa into a great army. But
a revolution depends upon small things, and by frustrating the
leader in these small things, the young storekeeper wins his way
to fame and fortune. It is a book for all who are young enough
in heart to enjoy a record of straightforward adventure.
LADY GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. _"Q."_
Sir Oliver Vyell, a descendant of Oliver Cromwell, is the British
Collector of Customs at the port of Boston in the days before the
American Revolution. While there he runs his head against New
England Puritanism, rescues a poor girl who has been put in the
stocks for Sabbath-breaking, carries her off, and has her educated.
The story deals with the development of Ruth Josselin from a
half-starved castaway to a beautiful and subtle woman. Sir Oliver
falls in love with his ward, and she becomes my Lady and the
mistress of a great house; but to the New Englanders she remains a
Sabbath-breaker and "Lady-Good-for-Nothing." The scene moves to
Lisbon, whither Sir Oliver goes on Government service, and there is
a wonderful picture of the famous earthquake. The book is a story of
an act of folly, and its heavy penalties, and also the record of the
growth of two characters--one from atheism to reverence, and the
other from a bitter revolt against the world to a wiser philosophy.
The tale is original in scheme and setting, and the atmosphere and
thought of another age are brilliantly reproduced. No better
historical romance has been written in our times.
PANTHER'S CUB. _Agnes and Egerton Castle._
This is the story of a world-famed _prima donna_, whose only
daughter has been brought up in a very different world from that in
which her mother lives. When the child grows to womanhood she joins
her mother, and the problem of the book is the conflict of the two
temperaments--the one sophisticated and undisciplined, and the other
simple and sincere. The scenes are laid in Vienna and London, amid
all types of society--smart, artistic, and diplomatic. Against the
Bohemian background the authors have worked out a very beautiful
love story of a young diplomatist and the singer's daughter. The
book is full of brilliant character-sketches and dramatic moments.
TREPANNED. _John Masefield._
Mr. Masefield has already won high reputation as poet and dramatist,
and his novel "Captain Margaret" showed him to be a romancer of a
higher order. "Trepanned" is a story of adventure in Virginia and
the Spanish Main. A Kentish boy is trepanned and carried off to sea,
and finds his fill of adventure among Indians and buccaneers. The
central episode of the book is a quest for the sacred Aztec temple.
The swift drama of the narrative, and the poetry and imagination of
the style, make the book in the highest sense literature. It should
appeal not only to all lovers of good writing, but to all who care
for the record of stirring deeds.
THE SIMPKINS PLOT. _George A. Birmingham._
"Spanish Gold" has been the most mirth-provoking of Irish novels
published in the last few years, and Mr. Birmingham's new book is
a worthy successor. Once more the admirable red-haired curate, "J.
J.," appears, and his wild energy turns a peaceful neighbourhood
into a hotbed of intrigue and suspicion. The story tells how he
discovers in a harmless lady novelist, seeking quiet for her work,
a murderess whose trial had been a _cause celebre_. He forms a
scheme of marrying the lady to the local bore, in the hope that
she may end his career. Once started on the wrong tack, he works
out his evidence with convincing logic, and ties up the whole
neighbourhood in the toils of his misconception. The book is full
of the wittiest dialogue and the most farcical situations. It will
be as certain to please all lovers of Irish humour as the immortal
"Experiences of an Irish R. M."
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS,
London, Edinburgh, Dublin, and New York.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation has been retained as it appears in the
book. The following changes have been made:
Page 143 she must start to-day."
Unexpected closing quote removed
Page 203 you musn't do anything
musn't changed to mustn't
Page 235 "Indeed, I think I won't, Aunt Jeannie,'
Single close quote changed to double quotes]