POPULAR NOVELS.
BY
_Mrs. Mary J. Holmes_.
I.—TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.
II.—ENGLISH ORPHANS.
III.—HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE.
IV.—’LENA RIVERS.
V.—MEADOW BROOK.
VI.—DORA DEANE.
VII.—COUSIN MAUDE.
VIII.—MARIAN GRAY.
IX.—DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
X.—HUGH WORTHINGTON.
XI.—CAMERON PRIDE.
XII.—ROSE MATHER.
XIII.—ETHELYN’S MISTAKE.
XIV.—MILLBANK.
XV.—EDNA BROWNING.
XVI.—WEST LAWN. (_New._)
Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books
are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the
sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention
to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.
All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each and sent _free_
by mail, on receipt of price, by
G. W. CARLETON & CO.,
New York.
WEST LAWN
AND
THE RECTOR OF ST. MARK’S.
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF
TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.—’LENA RIVERS.—MARIAN GREY.—MEADOW BROOK.—ENGLISH
ORPHANS.—COUSIN MAUDE.—HOMESTEAD.—DORA DEANE.—DARKNESS AND
DAYLIGHT.—HUGH WORTHINGTON.—THE CAMERON PRIDE.—ROSE MATHER.—ETHELYN’S
MISTAKE.—MILLBANK.—EDNA BROWNING.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
M.DCCC.LXXIV.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
DANIEL HOLMES,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Maclauchlan, Stereotyper,
145 & 147 Mulberry St., near Grand, N. Y.
JOHN F. TROW & SON, PRINTERS,
205–213 EAST 12TH ST., NEW YORK.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.— Dora’s Diary 7
II.— Author’s Journal 15
III.— Dr. West’s Diary 19
IV.— Johnnie’s Letter to Dora 27
V.— Dora’s Diary 31
VI.— Letters 44
VII.— Dora’s Diary Continued 54
VIII.— Jessie’s Diary 80
IX.— Extract from Dr. West’s Diary 84
X.— Dora’s Diary 87
XI.— Richard’s Story 102
XII.— The Shadow of Death 119
XIII.— At Beechwood 134
XIV.— In the Spring 146
XV.— Waiting for the Answer 159
XVI.— The Engagement 169
XVII.— Extract from Dr. West’s Journal 178
XVIII.— Poor Max 182
XIX.— Anna 193
XX.— Richard 209
XXI.— The Night before the Wedding 212
XXII.— Down by the Lake Shore 216
XXIII.— The Bridal Day 226
XXIV.— The Shadows of Death 235
XXV.— Breaking the Engagement 240
XXVI.— Giving in Marriage 254
XXVII.— More of Marriage 263
XXVIII.— Dora’s Diary 270
THE RECTOR OF ST. MARKS.
I.— Friday Afternoon 283
II.— Saturday Afternoon 291
III.— Sunday 299
IV.— Blue Monday 309
V.— Tuesday 319
VI.— Wednesday 328
VII.— At Newport 341
VIII.— Showing How it Happened 354
IX.— Anna 368
X.— Mrs. Meredith’s Conscience 379
XI.— The Letter Received 383
XII.— Valencia 393
XIII.— Christmas Day 403
WEST LAWN.
CHAPTER I.
DORA’S DIARY.
“BEECHWOOD, June 12th, }
11 o’clock P. M. }
“At last, dear old book, repository of all my secret thoughts and
feelings, I am free to come to you once more, and talk to you as I can
talk to no one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer struggle
than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion that to-morrow
night some other voice than mine would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too,
the darling, cried himself to sleep because I was going away, while the
other children manifested in various ways their sorrow at my projected
departure. Bless them all, how I do love children, and hope if I am ever
married, I may have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me
twice as faded and sickly, and,—and,—yes, I will say it,—as peevish as
Margaret’s six have made her, I should rather be excused. But what
nonsense to be written by me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged
twenty-eight,—the Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went home
with me from the sewing society. But they were mistaken, for if the
family Bible is to be trusted, I was only twenty-five last Christmas,
and I don’t believe I look as old as that.”
Here there was a break in the diary, while Dora glanced in the mirror at
a graceful little figure, with sloping shoulders and white neck,
surmounted by a well shaped head with masses of reddish-brown hair,
waving just enough to suggest an idea of the curls into which it might
be easily coaxed; low forehead; piquant nose, with an undeniable curve
which ill-natured people call a turn-up; bright, honest eyes of
reddish-brown, like the hair; mouth which did not look as if it had ever
said a disagreeable thing; rows of white, even teeth, with complexion
remarkable for nothing except that it was natural, and just now a shade
or two paler than usual, because its owner was weary with the months and
years of care which had fallen on her youthful shoulders.
This was the picture Dora saw, and nodding to the _tout ensemble_ a
little approving nod, and pushing behind her ears the heavy braids of
hair to see if the style were becoming, as somebody once had told her,
she resumed her pen and diary, as follows:
“Where was I when vanity stopped me for an inspection of myself? Oh, I
know; I had been writing things about being married, for which I ought
to blush, and through which I put my pen, so— But there’s what I said of
Margaret; I’ll let that stand, for she is peevish and cross, and it’s a
relief to tell it somewhere. Poor Margaret! I cannot help pitying her
when I look at her now, and remember what she used to be at the dear old
home,—so beautiful, so petted, and admired. Ah me! that was twelve years
ago, and I was a little girl when Margaret was married, and we danced on
the lawn in the soft September sunlight, with papa looking on, so happy
and so proud; and then the bonfires they kindled and the bells they rang
at nightfall in honor of the bride, Mrs. John Russell, Esquire. Alas!
when next on a week day that bell was rung, it tolled for my dear lost
father, who died with apoplexy, and left his affairs all in confusion,
his property, which was reputed so great, all mortgaged, and _I_ a
little beggar. Shall I ever forget John Russell’s kindness when,
hurrying home from Europe, he came to me at once and said I should be
his daughter, and should live with him and Margaret at Beechwood, where
we came eleven years ago this very June,—Margaret a splendid-looking
woman, who would not wear black because her bridal dresses were so much
more becoming; and I a timid, awkward girl of fourteen, who cried so
much for the dear father gone, and the old homestead sold, that people
said I looked and acted older than my sister, the stylish Mrs. Russell.
How glad I was when in the autumn Johnnie was born and Margaret left him
so much with me, for in my love for him I forgot to mourn for father,
and came to think of him as safe in heaven, where mother went when I was
ten days old. Then those three delightful years at school, when I roomed
with sweet Mattie Reed, whom I am going to-morrow, to visit. No matter
if there were _three_ babies here instead of one when I came home; and
it was very wicked in me to feel annoyed, because I was so often
expected to see that nurse did her duty, or in fact turn nurse myself to
the wee little things. I cannot say that I was glad when Benny came, for
with the advent of each child, Margaret grew more delicate, more
helpless, and more,—I wonder if it is bad to say it,—more fault-finding
with her husband, who, though the very best man in the world, is not
like,—like,—well, say like Dr. West.”
Here the pen made three heavy strokes through that name, completely
erasing it, after which it continued:
“I cannot tell why I should bring _him_ up as a comparison, when I do
not like him at all, even if the whole village of Beechwood is running
mad about him,—I mean the old people, not the young, who sneer at him
and call him stingy. If there’s anything I hate, it’s penuriousness,
which holds so fast to a three-cent piece and hugs a battered sixpence.
Don’t I remember our fair last winter for the benefit of the church, and
how the girls, without the slightest reason for doing so, said to me,
‘Now, when Dr. West comes in, _you_ take possession of him. You are just
the one. He thinks more of _you_ than of all of us together. You can
sell him that dressing-gown and slippers. Ask _fifteen_ at first, and if
he demurs, fall to _ten_. They were both given, so we shall not lose.
Tell him, if necessary, how shabby his present gown and slippers are
looking, and how the ladies talk about it.’
“I did not believe he would come directly to my table, and, I think now,
the crowd must have pushed him there, for come he did, looking so
pleasant and kind, and speaking so gently when he said he hoped we
should realize a large sum, and wished so much he could help us more. Of
course, the gown and slippers were thrust upon his notice, so cheap,
only fifteen dollars; and, of course, he declined, saying, _sotto voce_:
“‘I would gladly buy them for your sake, if I could, but I cannot afford
it.’
“Then I fell to twelve, then to ten, and finally to eight, but he held
out firmly, notwithstanding that I told him how forlorn he looked in his
old ones, patched and tattered as they were. I could see a flush on his
face, but he only laughed, and said he must get a wife to mend his
things. It was surely my evil genius which prompted me to retort in a
pert, contemptuous tone:
“‘Umph! few ladies are insane enough to marry stingy old bachelors, who
would quarrel about the pin money!’
“I shall never forget how white he grew, or how quickly his hand went
into his pocket, as if in quest of his purse; but it was withdrawn
without it, just as that detestable Dr. Colby came simpering along,
smelling of cologne, and musk, and brandy. I knew, to a certainty, that
he did not pay his board bills, and yet I felt goaded into asking him to
become an example of generosity to Dr. West, and buy the gown and
slippers. I’d take it as a personal favor, I said, putting into my
hateful eyes as much flattery as I possibly could; and he bought them,
paying fifteen dollars right before Dr. West, who said softly, sadly
like:
“‘I’m glad you have found a purchaser. I did not wish you to be
disappointed;’ and then he walked away, while that Colby paraded his
dressing-gown and slippers until I hated the sight of them, and could
have cried with vexation.
“Still, when later in the evening Dr. West came back and asked me to go
with him for ice-cream, I answered saucily:
“‘Thank you; I can’t leave; and besides, I would not for the world put
you to so much expense!’
“If he was white before, he was livid now, and he has never appeared
natural since. I wish he knew how many times I have cried over that
affair, and how I detest that pert young Colby, who never has a patient,
and who called and called at Beechwood until Mrs. Markham, across the
way, sent in to ask who was so very sick. After that I took good care to
be engaged whenever I heard his ring. _Dr. West_,—I wonder why I will
persist in writing his name when I really do not care for him in the
least; that is, care as girls sometimes care for fine-looking men, with
good education, good morals, good manners, and a good profession. If I
could rid myself of the idea that he was stingy, I might tolerate him;
but of course he’s stingy, or why does he wear so shabby a coat and hat,
and why does he never mingle in any of the rides and picnics where money
is a necessary ingredient? Here he’s been in Beechwood three, yes, most
four years, getting two-thirds of the practice, even if he is a
homœopathist. I’ve heard that he gives liberally to the church, and he
attends the extreme poor for nothing. So there is some good in him. I
wonder if he’ll come to say good-by. I presume not, or he would have
reserved that package sent by Johnnie, and brought it himself instead.
It is marked ‘Mrs. David West, Morrisville.’ Who in the world can Mrs.
David West be? I did not know he ever saw Morrisville, and I am sure he
came from Boston. There’s the bell for midnight. I have written the
whole hour, and all of Doctor West, except the ill-natured things I said
of Margaret, and for which I am sorry. Poor Madge, as Brother John calls
her, she’s sick and tired, and cannot help being a little fretful, while
I, who never had an ache or pain, can help blaming her, and I will. I’m
sorry, Sister Maggie, for what I have written about you, and humbly ask
your pardon.”