by Charles King
CHAPTER XVII.
Another week opened. In honor of Captain Barclay's restoration tohealth, the Fraziers had issued invitations for a picnic to the WhiteGate. Many of the officers and ladies had accepted. Most of them hadbeen bidden. Captain Mullane had been on sick report fourdays,--contusions resulting from tumbling from a broken-legged chair,was the explanation; but every Pat in the command had his tongue in hischeek when he spoke of it, and of matters growing out of the"contusions" mentioned. Frazier had heard rumors of the former fracas,and had notified Messrs. Mullane, Bralligan, _et al._ that he would haveno duelling in his bailiwick; and deep was the mystery surroundingcertain consultations held by night in Mullane's quarters.
"The blood of that young braggart be on his own head," said Mullane tohis henchmen. "And you, Hodge, can console the disconsolate widow."
He had no more doubt of the issue of the contemplated combat, no morecompunction in the matter, than had Thackeray's valiant and inimitablelittle Gascon, _ne_ Cabasse, in his duel with Lord Kew. He had longbeen the leader of the Hibernian set, and, despite every effort on thepart of the witnesses to the affray at the sutler's to keep the matter asecret, rumors got out, and the Faugh-a-Ballaghs knew their chief hadbeen braved by that hated coxcomb Winn. Every one of them knew furtherthat Mullane must have sent his demand for satisfaction, despite thefact that his "pistol oi," the right, had been damaged by the collisionand was not yet in condition for effective service. Everybody who was inthe secret knew that Mr. Winn had instantly accepted, naming Brayton ashis second, pistols as the weapons, and suggesting his father's oldduelling set, that had seen long years and some service in the old army,as proper to the occasion; the time and place, however, wouldnecessarily depend on the victim of the knock-down blow. All Winn askedand urged was utter secrecy meantime.
To Mullane there was nothing in the episode over which to brood orworry. As dragoon sergeant in the old days, he had "winged his man"according to the methods described in "Charles O'Malley" and practisedoccasionally by his superiors in rank. He had known many a bar-roombroil, and was at home with pistol, fists, or sabre,--no mean antagonistwhen not unsteadied by liquor. He had now a chance of meeting on thefield one of the set he secretly hated, "the snobocracy of the arrumy,"and he meant to shoot the life out of Harry Winn if straight shootingwould do it. That Winn had taken advantage of him and knocked him downwhen he was drunk was excuse sufficient for the crime he planned; thathe had brought the blow upon himself by an insult ten times more brutalwas a matter that concerned him not at all. He had no wife or child toworry about: Mrs. Mullane and the various progeny were old enough tolook out for themselves, as indeed most of them had long been accustomedto do. Mullane thirsted for the coming meeting, and for the prominenceits outcome would give him among all good soldiers all over Texas.
And as for Winn,--he who had come riding home from his successful scoutbarely a fortnight before, buoyant, hopeful, almost happy,--the changethat had come over him was something all men saw and none could fullyaccount for. Cashing the draft from the bank at San Antonio, he had nowenough to take Trott's receipt in full for the value of the stolenstores, even to some recovered plunder, slightly damaged by roughhandling and by rain. He would then still have some four hundreddollars, and he asked his wife for certain bills that had beenfrequently coming to her accompanied by urgent demands. Laura said shehad not kept them. Which ought to be paid first? he asked. Which hadbeen longest outstanding? Laura's reply was that she did not know, butif he had got that money from San Antonio at last she ought to have someto send to Madame Chalmette. She positively had not a dinner-dress fitto be seen. Winn did not even glance at the open doors of a big closet,hung thick with costly gowns his wife had hardly worn at all, but thatnow, she said, were out of style. There were other matters to be thoughtof than dinner-gowns, he told her, gravely, and her face clouded atonce. She had almost forgotten the troubles of the week gone by.
He went down to his den and sat there thinking. What ought he to do?what should he do with this money? Every cent of it would be swallowedup if he squared those commissary accounts and turned the balance intochecks and sent it off to pay these bills, and then if Mullane's bulletsped true to its mark, what would there be to take Laura and the babyNorth? "Home" he dared not say. She had no home: Collabone's diagnosisof that situation was correct. Then, too, if Mullane's pistol did notfail him, there would be no way in which that mysterious friend andbeneficiary of his father's could ever be repaid. What right had he touse one cent of this money for any purpose whatever, when another daymight be his last? Winn wished he still had the San Antonio checkinstead of these bulky packages of greenbacks. They were now locked upin Trott's safe, unbroken, pending action at Department Head-Quarters onthe new schedule sent thither, based on the recovery of some of thedamaged stores. He thought of it all as, long before gun-fire thatmorning, the black care of his life came and roused him from his fitfulsleep and bade him face his daily, hourly torment. He had risen, and ashe softly moved about the room, thoughtful for her, she slept onplacidly as a happy child, soundly as slept the nurse and the little onein the adjoining room.
Donning his stable dress, he carried his boots into the hall and downthe creaking stairs, and sat there, with solitary candle, at his desk,wearily jotting down inexorable figures. The dawn came stealing in theeastward window: from aloft a querulous little wail was uplifted on thestillness of the summer morning. There was no answering hush of loving,motherly voice. Laura could not stand wakeful nights. He tiptoed swiftlyup again to rouse the nurse in case she too slept on, but he heard herhand beating drowsy time on the coverlet, and the soothing "Shoo, shoo,shoo," with which she communicated her own heaviness to her littlecharge. Laura had turned uneasily, he saw as he peeped in at the opendoorway, but again slept soundly, her lovely face now full turnedtowards him, half pillowed on the white and rounded arm he used to kisswith such rapture in the touch of his lips. Her white brow was shaded bythe curling wealth of her soft, shining hair. The white eyelids droopedtheir long curving lashes over the rounded cheeks, faintly tinged withthe rosy hue of youth and health. The exquisite lips, warm, delicatelymoulded, parted just enough to reveal the white, even, pearly teeth. Thesnowy, rounded throat and neck and shoulders were enhanced in theirbeauty by the filmy fabric of her gown, beneath which her full bosomslowly rose and fell in healthful respiration. How beautiful she was,how fair a picture of almost girlish innocence and freedom from allworldly dross or care! Even now, in the light of all the gradualrevelation of her shallow, selfish vanity, the heart of the man yearnedover and softened to her. If he had only realized,--if he had only knownmore of the world and life and duty other than mere soldier obligation,how different all might have been! What right had he to ask her to behis wife? She should have wedded a man many years her senior,--onefitted to guide and direct her,--able to lavish luxury upon her. Itwasn't all her fault that she had been so thoughtless, poor girl! Whatelse had her mother been before her? What else could one expect of her?Would she miss him? he wondered. Not long,--not long, thank God! Beautysuch as hers would soon win for her and baby home and comfort such as hecould never give. That was all over. Something almost like a sob rosefrom his heart as he bent and softly touched with his lips the floatingcurl above her temple, then turned back to resume his work and refacehis troubles. Thank God, Mullane's pistol would soon end them all andsave him from the sin that was in his soul the day he took his ownrevolver with him. She was sleeping still when the morning gun shook theshutter of her window and he went forth to meet the sorrows of anotherday, as he had met those of the past,--alone.
The air was strangely still, yet the smoke from the kitchen chimneysback of the barracks settled downward about the adobe capping or driftedaimlessly along the roof-trees. Down in the stream-bed and over aboutthe low bluffs of the farther shore, swallows and sand-martins wereshooting and slanting about their nests in clamorous, complaininggyration. The flag, run up to the topmast at the crack of the gun, hunglimp and lifeless, without s
o much as a flutter. Away to the northwest,over the pine crests of the range, a belt of billowy cloud gleamedsnow-white at their summits, but frowned dark and ominous underneath.Huge masses of cumulus, balloon-like, thrust distended cheeks to themorning kiss of the sun; but these were well down to the west. Theorient and the zenith skies were fleckless. Over at the stables twofour-mule teams were hitching in, and army-wagons were being laden withtentage, luncheon-baskets, ice, boxes of bottled beer, band instruments,and the like, all going ahead to the White Gate, while Frazier'sbandsmen were to follow in another as soon as they had finishedbreakfast. Their duty would be to set up the tents, thedancing-pavilion, and the lunch-tables on the level green in a lovelydell a mile within the gates, and have everything in readiness againstthe coming of the joyous party from the post. It was planned to carrythe women-folk and such men as couldn't ride in the available ambulancesand spring wagons, while the cavaliers would canter along on horseback.They would lunch at one, dance, fish, and flirt through the afternoonhours, have a supplementary bite and beer towards five o'clock, anddrive homeward before dark. "Captain Barclay, as the guest of honor,"said Mrs. Frazier, would go with her and 'Manda in her own vehicle, avenerable surrey. The colonel would drive, and Miss Frazier, nowwithdrawn by a maternal order from the supposed competition, in orderthat 'Manda's charms might concentrate, was bidden to ride. Winn had nothought of going. Mrs. Frazier had no thought that it would be possiblefor him or Laura to go,--the latter being reported ill in bed,--andtherefore had found it easier to comply with the colonel's dictum thatthey must be invited, and she did it by dropping in and bidding "MissPurdy" say to her mistress that she had called to inquire for her, andwas so sorry, so very sorry, that her illness would prevent her comingto the picnic, whereupon Laura herself had appeared in becoming_negligee_ at the head of the stairs and smilingly assured thenonplussed lady that she was so much better she thought it really mightdo her good to go. But of this she said no word to Harry until,returning from stables at seven o'clock, he was surprised to find her upand dressing.
On the homeward way he had met Mr. Bralligan, whom he passed withoutrecognition, but not without mental note of the unusual circumstance,Bralligan being a late riser, as a general thing, and having nobusiness at Barclay's quarters anyhow. Brayton awaited him on the piazzaand drew his arm within his own.
"Mullane sends word that he'll be ready at sunrise to-morrow, Harry, andI have said we were ready any time."
But the young fellow's voice trembled a bit as he anxiously scanned hisclassmate's grave, solemn face. It couldn't be that Winn was weakening,losing his nerve. It couldn't be that. But had his trouble so weighedupon him that he really welcomed the possible coming of the end?Brayton's was a hard lot just now. Assiduously he was hiding from hisown captain all indications of the forthcoming meeting. Somehow he feltthat Barclay would not hesitate to disclose the project to the postcommander, and then every cad in Texas would jeer and crow and say itwas Winn and he who crawfished. Barclay had noted that Winn seemedavoiding him again, and spoke of it to Brayton, who answered that Winnwas avoiding everybody: he was blue and depressed about his affairs.
"Yet I understood that he had received more than enough to settle thosecommissary accounts," said the captain.
"Oh, yes," answered Brayton, "but there are other matters." How could hetell Barclay that he thought Winn's love and faith in his wife weredead and gone? How could he tell him that Winn would touch no dollar ofthe money until he had first met and satisfied another claim? Barclay'ssuspicions would have been aroused at once.
But Winn was having another trouble now. Laura had set her heart ongoing to the picnic, and for no other reason, she declared, than thatshe must show the women there was nothing amiss. If he and she, eitheror both, should fail to attend the Fraziers' entertainment, every onewould say he still believed her guilty of having a rendezvous withBarclay at that unearthly hour, and that she was unforgiving.
As he had done many a time before, Winn yielded. What mattered it? Theremight be only that day for him. He could accomplish nothing by absentinghimself. He could aid in brushing away any cloud upon her name by goingand being devoted to her. So go they did, and women who watched withwary and suspicious eyes long remembered how fond and lover-like wereWinn's attentions to his beautiful wife; how often on the way he rode tothe side of that ambulance to say some little word to her; how anxiouslyhe seemed to scan that lowering westward sky, for by the time theyreached the Blanca gorge the cloud-banks were climbing to the zenithand the westward heavens were black as the cinder-patches along theheights about them, where fir and spruce and stunted pine had strewn theslopes with dry, resinous carpet, too easily ignited by the sparks fromhunter's pipe or campfire. At two o'clock, Blythe, Brooks, and Frazier,clambering a rocky ridge to the southeast of the lovely picnic cove,looked gravely at the blackening sky, then gravely into one another'sfaces. "I think we ought to start at once," said the colonel. "That's noplace to be caught in a storm." And he pointed downward as he spoke.
At their feet was the deep, grassy valley, hemmed by precipitous bluffs.The greensward at the base of the barrier ridge was soft and velvety. Aricher soil nourished the roots of the bunch-grass, and all men knewthat more than once in bygone days the sudden swelling of the brawlingwaters that came foaming and swirling down the ravine from the depths ofthe crested heights within had turned that beautiful little shelterednook into a deep lake that slowly emptied itself through the narrow,twisting, rocky gorge that ended at the White Gate. On the level turfthe dancers were merrily footing it even now to the music of aninspiring quadrille, the pretty gowns of the women, the uniforms of themen, adding brightness to the picture. Below the camp the mules andhorses were placidly grazing close by the inner opening of the gorge,the white covers of the wagons and the snowy canvas of the two or threetents adding to the picturesqueness of the scene. All at the feet of thewatching group was life, laughter, and careless joy; all beyond thatmerry scene a black and ominous heaven, frowning down on gloomy pine androcky hill-side. The ceaseless clamor of the seething waters, as theyturned whirling into the tortuous gorge, rose steadily above the throband thrill of the dance-music, and aloft those relentless clouds sailedsternly eastward over the sky.
Still the smoke from the camp-fires settled back and shrank about theearth, as though dreading the encounter with the sleeping forces of theair. Then, as the watchful eyes of the elders turned once more up themountain side, there came a cry from Brooks. "By God! it's coming! Thereisn't a second to lose!"
Frazier, following the direction of that pointing finger, looked upward,saw the crestward firs and pines and cedars bending, quivering before ablast as yet unfelt below, saw sheets of ashen vapor come sailing overthe hill-tops and sweeping down the rocky sides, saw the whole mountainface turn black as in a single minute, as though hiding from the stormthat came roaring down the slope, then lighting up the next instant indazzling, purplish glare, as a zigzag bolt of lightning ripped thestorm-cloud in twain, and in the instant, with crash and roar as of athousand cannon rolled into one, let loose the deluge sleeping in itsdepths. As though Niagara were suddenly turned upon the hill-side, avast volume of water swept downward, hissing, foaming, rolling over therocks, and the leaping spray dashed high in air, as the black wealth ofwaters came surging down into the ravine.
"A cloud-burst, by all that's holy!" screamed Brooks, as he sprang downthe grassy side of the bluff. "Up with you, up the hill-side, for yourlives!" The dancers, faltering through the sudden flutter of the band,for the first time looked upward, and saw the peril. Then, men andwomen, bandsmen and "strikers," the camp made a wild rush up theeastward hill-side. Another blinding flash, another thunderous roar thatseemed to shake and loosen the rocks about them, and in that second ofbrilliant, dazzling glare the watchers could see the white wall of theBlanca come spray-tossing, seething, whirling huge logs and trees on itsoutermost wave, tumbling them end over end, now deep-engulfed, now highin air,--one immense, furious moving mountain of raging water,
sweepingtowards them from the depths of the chasm. Then, rolling and frothingover its puny banks in the valley below, a chocolate flood,foam-crested, spread right and left through the deserted camp, lickingup the cookfires, sweeping camp-chairs and tables off their legs, bodilylifting wagons and ambulances and sending them waltzing to the wildmusic of the storm over the flats where twinkled dainty-slippered feetthe moment before, then bore them away towards the inner mouth of thegorge just in time to mix them up with such frantically struggling mulesas through native obstinacy had resisted the impulse to scamper tohigher ground while yet there was time. Worst sight of all, right therein the midst of the logs, chairs, wagon-beds, that came swirling beneaththem, was a despairing woman's struggling form, revealed by a woman'swhite dress.
"Merciful God!" shrieked Mrs. Faulkner; "it's Laura Winn. She went uptowards the falls not ten minutes ago."
Vain fool! What could have been her object? Barclay, never dancing, hadbeen looking smilingly on. Both the Frazier girls had been led, not toowilling, away by partners. Four sets had been formed, and Mrs. Winn,pleading fatigue, had asked to be excused, had sauntered past Barclay'sseat, and, before his eyes, had turned up the narrow, winding, shelteredpathway by the Blanca. Had she dreamed it possible that he would follow?Follow her he did not. Was it--a far more charitable thought--in searchof Harry she had gone? Sombre and absent-minded, he had earlier slippedaway among the trees, avoiding even Brayton. But now Barclay was seen onthe near side of the torrent, limping up and along the steep slope, inimminent danger of slipping in, swinging in his hand a long lariat thathe had drawn from the nearest wagon when the wild up-hill fight began.They remembered later that he was the last man out of the hollow.Already Brooks, Brayton, De Lancy, and half a dozen men were hurryingalong the hill-side to aid, but Brayton reached him first and seized hisarm just as another cry went up from the hill-top,--just as from theopposite side of the seething torrent the tall figure of Harry Winn camebounding through the stunted trees, and, hatless, wild-eyed, he seemedsearching the tossing mass of wreckage on the bosom of the waters.Another instant still a white hand was waved aloft in their midst; thena white arm encircling a log, a terror-stricken white face, all showeddimly one moment before again borne underneath, hidden by the yellowbody of a whirling ambulance, and in that one instant, far leaping,Winn plunged into the torrent and struck out savagely to reach his wife.
Vain, hopeless effort! Eddying in huge circle at the rocky shoulder justabove the entrance to the gorge, the wild waters near the eastward shorebore their burden, jarring and crushing, close under the heights onwhich were clustered the panic-stricken revellers from Fort Worth. Buton the farther side, as it narrowed towards the entrance, the hissingtorrent tore like a mill-horse on its way. Into this heaving floodleaped Winn, and, before the eyes of screaming women and helpless,horror-stricken men, was sucked into the rush and whirl of foaming wavessweeping resistless through the rocky canon, away towards the fair WhiteGate, away out and beyond the lovely foot-hills, tossed and battered andcrushed by whirling logs, dragged under by the branches of uprootedtrees, borne away at last, rolling, gasping, still feebly, faintlystruggling, until on the broad lowlands the torrent spent the fury ofits concentrated spite, and, swiftly still, but no longer raging as whencurbed and held by the barrier gate, the Blanca foamed away to strew thetokens of the fearful storm right and left for miles along its banks,and to land all that was mortal of Harry Winn, bruised, battered, yetso placid in death that strong men's voices broke when telling how theyfound him, resting with weary head upon his arm on the sandy flat thatlay just beneath the little summer-house on the overhangingbluffs,--just where Laura had looked down over the misty shallows fromthat very height the morning her soldier husband had reached his home atreveille and found her--wanting.
They bore her wailing home that night, widowed and crying, Woe is me!yet with what wild thoughts throbbing through her brain! Who was it thatcame leaping to her aid as she felt herself again dragged under in thatswirling eddy? Whose voice was it that rang upon her drowning ears?Whose strong arms had clasped and sustained her and held her head abovewater, while other strong hands, hauling at the lariat made fast abouthis waist, drew them steadily to shore? Then angels came and ministeredto her,--the women,--while the men clustered about her dripping hero,Galahad. Only for a moment, though, for there was mounting bareback inhot haste and thundering away at mad gallop, despite the drenching rain,for he who had saved the wife implored those who could ride to haste andsave the husband.
All Fort Worth again went into mourning with the setting of that wofulsun. It had borne its fill and more of battle and of sudden death.
And people resurrected Hodge's stories later on, though Hodge himselfwas readily excused. They recalled how Channing's widow and little oneswere cared for after that officer's untimely death in the shadows of oldLaramie Peak. They recalled Porter's ailing wife and the sea-sidesojourn, and the old ordnance sergeant's family burned out at Sanders.It wasn't many days before the lovely, drooping widow of poor Harry Winnwas quite well enough to be sent the long journey to the North; yet someweeks elapsed before she would consent, she said, to be torn from herbeloved's grave. When, gently as possible, she was told in July that thequarters she still occupied were needed for her husband's successor, sheproposed to spend a few weeks with Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner, but they wereforced to limit that visit to a few days. There was no reason why shecould not have started in June, for that devoted mother, Mrs. Waite, haddropped temporarily the pursuit of Senators and Representatives inCongress assembled, and wired that she would meet her daughter in NewOrleans, and the commanding general at San Antonio notified her thatabundant means for all her homeward journeying for self and nurse andbaby were in his hands. She thought she ought to stay until all poorHarry's affairs were straightened out; and Frazier had to say that that,too, was all attended to. Yet all the while she seemed to think that shecould not sufficiently thank the heroic Captain Barclay, and begged tosee him for that purpose, also to consult him, day after day, until--wasthere collusion?--he suddenly received orders to proceed to San Antonioon court-martial duty, and was on his way before she knew it,--before,said the Fraziers, she could get ready to go with him. Nor was he therewhen she passed through, under Fuller's escort, to the Gulf, nor did shesee him once again in Texas. Letters, fervently grateful letters, cameto him from Washington, whither she had flitted, and where, it isreported, she was to have a clerkship. But when people spoke of her toBarclay he smiled gravely and had nothing to say. All her late husband'saccounts were declared settled and closed within a very few months, andall men knew by that time whose hand it was that had lifted the burden;yet Laura Waite had lost the last vestige of her power where GalbraithBarclay was concerned.
Long before the fall set in, Barclay returned to his post of duty,eagerly welcomed by officers and men, except the Faugh-a-Ballaghs.Somebody had sent from San Antonio a marble headstone for Winn's lonelygrave in the little cemetery. Somebody had secured for his widow thatclerkship in the Treasury Department, which within another year she leftto wed a veteran admirer of her mother, to the unappeasable wrath ofthat well-preserved matron and the secret joy of 'Manda Frazier, whothought that now perhaps the eyes of Galahad would open to her own manycharms of mind and person. Yet they did not. Somebody in a childish,sprawling hand was writing letters every week to the doughboy trooper,who by that time had the best drilled company at Worth, owing, said theFaugh-a-Ballaghs, when forced to admit the fact, to Brayton's abilitiesand to an Irish sergeant. Barclay's weekly mail was bigger than that ofanybody else except the commanding officer, whose missives, however,were mainly official, and the number of letters penned in feminine orchildish hands seemed, like Galahad's godchildren, ever on the increase.Mrs. Blythe came back from leave, bonnier than ever, and blissful beyondcompare in the possession of secrets she could not share with even heroldest cronies, yet that leaked out in ways no man could hope to stop.Ned Lawrence's children were well, happy, thriving,--little Jim atBarclay's home wi
th other godsons, two or three, where a widowed sistercared for them as for her own, so said Mrs. Blythe when fairly cornered,while Ada was at a famous old Connecticut school not far from theBarclay homestead.
"Good heavens!" said Blythe, one day in late October, "these women havepowers of divination that would be priceless at police head-quarters.Why, they've got hold of facts I thought only Mrs. Blythe and Iknew,--facts that Barclay would have kept concealed from every one, butthat we simply can't deny."
And so, little by little, the details of some, at least, of Galahad'sbenefactions became known, though no man knew how many more were held inreserve. For three long years he lived his simple, studious, dutifullife at Worth, a man the soldiers and their wives and children learnedto love and look up to as their model of all that was kind and humane(they well-nigh worshipped him at Christmas times),--a man his brotherofficers of the better class honored as friend and comrade, worth theirwhole trust and esteem, and from the armor of whose reserve andtolerance the shafts of the envious and malicious glanced harmless intoempty air.
There were women, old and young, who thought him lacking in more waysthan one. The Fraziers said not much, but looked unutterable thingswhen they went North on leave and people asked for Galahad. It was afamily tradition that he had treated 'Manda very badly; that is, mammasaid as much, but the elder sister had views of her own not entirely inharmony with those of her beloved parent. 'Manda herself foundconsolation by marrying in the army not two years later, and her husbandthinks to this very day that Barclay, with all his wealth, secretlyenvies him his treasure, though admitting, in those lucid intervals towhich so many lords are subject, that perhaps Barclay wasn't soconfoundedly unlucky after all. It was at their quarters some yearslater still, at a far-distant post, that in the course of an evening'scall, in company with his host, Lieutenant-Colonel Brooks, thechronicler of a portion, at least, of this episode of old-time army lifewas favored with the most important facts of all.
"What do you think!" said the stout possessor of Mrs. 'Manda's maturedand rounded charms, as he came bustling in with the _Army and Navy_ inhis hand, "Galahad Barclay's married at last. Here it is: To Ada, onlydaughter of the late Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel Lawrence, --th U. S.Cavalry."
"Ada Lawrence! That child!" screamed madame, with eyes and drawlexpansive. "Well, of all----"
But others, who have seen her in her happy wifehood, declare that AdaLawrence grew up to be one of the loveliest of the lovely girls thatmarried in the army,--and they are legion.
THE END.
* * * * *
By A. Conan Doyle.
A Desert Drama.
BEING THE TRAGEDY OF THE KOROSKO. With thirty-two full-pageillustrations. 12mo. Cloth, ornamental, $1.50.
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The Vicar.
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When Greek Meets Greek.
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The Banishment of Jessop Blythe.
In _Lippincott's Series of Select Novels_. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50cents.
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In Quest of the Ideal.
"It possesses distinct interest, and there are not a few passages whichcommand our deepest feelings."--_Philadelphia Evening Bulletin_.
"This story owes much of its charm to the skill of the translator,Florence Belknap Gilmour, who has translated several other of thisauthor's books, and who has been able to catch his style in a way rarelymet with. The characters are carefully and naturally drawn, and there isa great deal of dialogue which is bright."--_Boston Times_.
"The story has a strong, uplifting tone throughout, and the seriousnessand the crusading spirit of these modern seekers for the ideal, isshared by every individual in the novel, as well as by the reader. Thetranslator reproduces the original with a master knowledge. Her choiceof words is smooth and easy, and they convey exactly the meaning theauthor meant they should."--_Boston Courier_.
A Forgotten Debt.
"The story reads as if it were a true life tale, told simply and withnone of the unpleasant element found repulsive to American taste in manyof the latest French novels. It is healthful and hearty, and well suitedfor summer's day perusal by old or young."--_Boston Transcript_.
"A very interesting novel which tells of life in the French provincesand metropolis, and also in an American frontier military post, anddepicts the local atmosphere of all three--a difficult
feat, which showsthe versatility and analytical and descriptive powers of the author. Theplot is interesting, and holds the attention of the reader frombeginning to end."--_Detroit Tribune_.
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
The Fault of One.
12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
"The unhappiness resultant upon the mismating of a man and woman,utterly divergent in everything that is essential to make their union ahappy one, is depicted in a forceful, clear, and well-sustained manner.It carries a healthy moral. The author discloses considerable skill incharacter-drawing."--_Brooklyn Eagle_.
"My Pretty Jane!"
12mo. Cloth, uncut, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
"A sweeter love story than 'My Pretty Jane' has not been written in manya day. It is just that, and nothing more. There is no studied finewriting, no moral essaying, no analysis of character,--nothing whateverto detract the reader's attention."--_New York World_.
The Spell of Ursula.
12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
"'The Spell of Ursula' is certainly a readable novel. It deals with thatmost difficult material, the common-place every-day life that everybodyknows. The writer invests the simple things of life with a charm whichadmits her at once to the reader's friendship."--_Minneapolis Tribune_.
A Faithful Traitor.
12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
"In 'A Faithful Traitor' the author has done something more than toplace before us the people and the events of an ordinary love-affair. Itis a story that is entirely original in its conception and construction,and it is excellently worked out."--_Boston Courier_.
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
By Edgar Fawcett.
"Mr. Fawcett is admirably equipped to write of life in New York, thecity of his birth (over forty years ago), of his education, and of hisliterary work. The characters that he presents are admirably drawn inbold, clear lines. He observes society keenly, and some of his bits of'showing up' are delightfully done."--_Washington Public Opinion_.
A Romance of Old New York.
Small 12mo. Yellow cloth, ornamental, with polished yellow edges, $1.00.
"Clever, bright, spirited, and even daring, this is an ingeniouslywritten romance. The leading figure in the story is that of Aaron Burr,and we may say, without fear of contradiction, that no better picture ofthat statesman was ever drawn by any pen."--_Boston Courier_.
Douglas Duane.
Square 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
A Demoralizing Marriage.
Square 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
By W. C. Morrow.
The Ape, the Idiot, and Other People.
12mo. Ornamentally bound, deckle edges, $1.25.
"This book is a collection of short tales, characterized by what may becalled a spirit of imaginative invention, the possession of which is arather uncommon gift at the present day. If Mr. Morrow be, as wesuppose, a new writer, his future is in his own hands."--_New York Mailand Express._
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
By Louis Becke.
"In this most attractive series of stories of a quarter of the planet'ssurface are to be got such delights as go with life even beforeliterature. They fascinate even when they excite, and soothe andnarcotize in the communication of their subtle power. The author ishimself mentally steeped in the softened colorings of the life he sodeliciously depicts. It is like finding a coveted rest to yield theforces of the imagination to the rythmical flow of his skilfullyarranged narratives."--_Boston Courrier._
The Boat-Steerer, and Other Stories.
12mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.50.
The Mutineer;
A ROMANCE OF PITCAIRN ISLAND.
By LOUIS BECKE AND WALTER JEFFERY.
12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
The Ebbing of the Tide.
SOUTH SEA STORIES. Large 12mo. Cloth extra, $1.25.
By Reef and Palm.
16mo. Illustrated. Polished buckram, 75 cents.
"'By Reef and Palm' consists of a number of brief bits of romance andstrange experience among the islanders of the tropics. They are told intragical vein, and appear to be serious pictures of real lifethroughout."--_Boston Courier._
His Native Wife.
16mo. Illustrated. Polished buckram, 75 cents.
"'His Native Wife' is a masterly sketch, in which a native woman gainsher revenge upon a white woman for attempting to steal away the love ofher English husband."--_Boston Courier._
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
By Rachel Penn.
[Mrs. E. S. Willard.]
A Son of Israel.
12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
"The picture of the Russian ghetto impresses us, like Zangwill's ownsketches, with its seemingly truthful realism. And delightful creations,truly, are the little dark-eyed dancer, Salome, and her family, and theancient La Meldola. The interior of Michael's household gives us anexcellent view of Russian family life. In fact, exceptional praise isdue the author, who is said to be the wife of Edwin S. Willard, theactor."--_The Philadelphia Record._
"Rachel Penn need have no fears about allowing her work to stand uponits merits. 'A Son of Israel' is a powerful and fascinating contributionto current fiction having a deep religious coloring, of which 'QuoVadis' and 'Fabius the Roman' are notable examples. The scene of thestory is laid in Russia, and its predominating theme is the bitterhostility of the Russian nobility toward the much despised Jew. DavidRheba, a skilled silversmith, is the central figure, and his strong yetpure and simple Christian character is drawn with wonderfulclearness."--_The Minneapolis Tribune._
"'A Son of Israel; an Original Story,' by Rachel Penn, has a dangeroustitle, for original stories were never common, and are now scarcer thanever, but the characterization is justified by the contents. It is asodd a tale as will often be seen."--_Springfield Republican._
"It is an open secret that Rachel Penn, whose first serious venture infiction, 'A Son of Israel,' is in reality the wife of Mr. E. S. Willard,the well-known English actor. Mrs. Willard was formerly an actress, and,like her husband, began her career under the auspices of the late E. A.Sothern, of Lord Dundreary fame. After playing opposite roles forseveral seasons, the two were married, Mrs. Willard retiring soonafterwards from the stage. As she has no children to occupy herthoughts, and lacks the physique to endure the strain of accompanyingher husband on his lengthy tours in the United States and elsewhere,Mrs. Willard has for several years devoted much time to literarywork."--_New York Commercial Advertiser._
"Fine dramatic qualities mark 'A Son of Israel,' which is not to bewondered at when we learn that the supposed author is Mrs. E. S.Willard, wife of the actor, using the pseudonym Rachel Penn. The writerhas abandoned the commonplace in devising a plot, and shows literaryskill as well as spirit and vivacity in the narration."--_PhiladelphiaPress._
"The story fairly bristles with melodrama, and contains incident enoughfor any three ordinary books, while a complete list of the _dramatispersonae_, which range all the way from an ex-ballet dancer to a buyerfor an English firm of dealers in curios, and from serfs to theCzarowitz himself, would tax the limits of the longest handbill."--_NewYork Commercial Advertiser._
"'A Son of Israel' is a timely book. Of peculiar interest now, the bookwill be read, appreciated, and condemned. It is a novel of feeling, anovel built out of the suffering sympathy of a woman's heart for theoppressed of her people and of her God."--_Chattanooga Times._
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
By Mrs. Lindon W. Bates.
Bunch-Grass Stories.
12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
There is uncommon freshness, like a wind from the wide plains, in thesetales called _Bunch-Grass Stories_. They are the work of a writer whoobserves and seizes the picturesque traits in every land where fortunehappens to call her, and her travels have evidently been many and faraway. She has, likewise, much reading, which sh
e puts to good account instories that impart the ring of truth to classic episodes.
A Blind Lead.
The Story of a Mine.
12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
"'A Blind Lead' is certainly a powerful book. We took it upindifferently enough, but we had read a few pages only before we foundit was no ordinary work by no ordinary writer. A good deal of skill isshown in the drawing of character. There are no dull pages, and theinterest is continuous from the first chapter to the last."--_BostonAdvertiser._
A Nameless Wrestler.
12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
"Her story, 'A Blind Lead,' was very promising, and it is followed by anextremely interesting tale, 'A Nameless Wrestler.' Here is somethingoutside the hackneyed course of fiction--fresh, strong, fascinating,dramatic, and wholesome--scenes laid in an unfamiliar country, thoughour own, and characters human enough to be all the more interestingbecause touched with strange traits by virtue of environment."--_DetroitTribune._
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
By Mrs. Molesworth.
Philippa.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
"Mrs. Molesworth's books are always interesting, particularly to girls.This story tells of the adventures of a young girl, Philippa, who, inthe capacity of a lady's maid, accompanies her married sister on a visitto the latter's connections by marriage. Many complications ensue, whichare graphically told."--_Norristown Herald._
Olivia.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
"The girls everywhere will gratefully thank Mrs. Molesworth for givingthem this pure, unconstrained, sympathy-moving story of one of their ownage and experience, to whom their hearts will go out warmly as theyconclude their pleasant reading of her creation."--_Boston Courier._
Meg Langholme.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
"It is the story of a girl's life from babyhood to her marriage with asweetheart who comes home from India just in time to rescue her from agreat peril. It is thoroughly healthy in tone, and is a charmingmingling of romance and realism."--_New Haven Journal-Courier._
Molesworth Library for Girls.
Olivia.Meg Langholme.Philippa.
3 volumes. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $3.75.
"This author wins her host of readers through her evident desire toplace them in immediate touch with the plans, the secrets, the hopes,and the fears of her inimitable characterizations, and to make them, atleast, cognizant of every mystery, if there be any, that surrounds thepersonale of her stories. Her art as a story-writer is not emphasized byany subterfuge, but one perceives, with every step, her skill, and thewholesome design invariably in view."--_Boston Courier._
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
By S. Baring-Gould.
Richard Cable, the Lightshipman.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
The Queen of Love.
12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
The Gaverocks.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
Court Royal: A Story of Cross-Currents.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
Guavas the Tinner.
12mo. Illustrated. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00.
"There is a kind of flavor about this book which alone elevates it farabove the ordinary novel, quite apart from any particular merit in thestory. The curious aloofness of these miners from the generality ofEnglish people, and the convincing manner in which the author throws thereader amongst them and makes them perfectly natural, perhaps accountfor this flavor of plausible singularity; but it is a hard task todefine it. The story itself has a grandeur in harmony with the wild andrugged scenery which is its setting. Isolt, with her cold and passionatenature, is a most haunting figure, and her mysterious appearances arevery dramatic. The hero in a different way is equallyfine,--distinguished by a silence at once pathetic andmagnificent."--_London Athenaeum._
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
