Punctual to the hour, and in a suitable evening dress, Rupert Colchester appeared at the Achesons’ house. Mrs. Acheson received him with her usual kindness. She was alone in the room when the young man happened to put in an appearance.
“Do you know,” she said, “that I am quite glad to have an opportunity of seeing you by yourself. I am not at all happy about your sister.”
“Indeed,” replied Rupert, putting on a sympathetic and very interested air. “Be sure of this, that anything you may happen to say to me about Annie will have my most tender consideration and my deepest interest. Annie and I are practically alone in the world. What is wrong with the dear girl?”
“She is very far from well; that I can see,” replied Mrs. Acheson. “She is also very much depressed, unnaturally so; and do you know, Mr. Colchester, that she did not know anything about your appointment in the Civil Service. She was amazed when I told her you were going to India.”
“Ah!” said Rupert, thoughtfully tapping the back of his heel against the brass rail of the fireplace, “I felt sure she would feel it dreadfully. The fact is, up to the present I have not dared to break the news to her, she is so intensely affectionate. Of course I intended to do so to-night. Now that you have done so, it is a great relief to me. She will not feel it so dreadfully after a little; and I know I can buoy her up with hope, for my intention is that she shall join me in a year or two. She shall be my housekeeper until she enters a good home of her own. I could not think of marrying until my dear Annie had a home of her own.”
“I felt certain that you had a good motive in keeping the important news back from her,” replied innocent Mrs. Acheson; “and I respect you all the more for your consideration.”
Just at that instant Belle and Annie entered the room. Belle wore her best dress. It was not much to look at; but something very great and uncommon must have induced her to put it on. It was made of soft black silk, and had ruffles of lace round the neck and wrists. She wore also a very narrow gold chain round her neck. When Rupert spoke to her, Belle found herself blushing.
Dinner was announced. Mrs. Acheson asked him to take her daughter down, and she herself conducted Annie to the dining-room. Annie had made no attempt to improve her appearance; she sat, feeling shy and uncomfortable, scarcely opening her lips, while Rupert carried the conversation his own way. He was a clever man, and he contrived on the present occasion to make himself quite brilliant. He talked about India, spoke of the liner in which he was going out; turned aside to Annie to say, “I will explain everything to you, my dear, presently”; told good stories about his early life in America, and then about his education in London; and managed to delight both Mrs. Acheson and Belle by the peep he gave them into a world which they had never entered. His manners to Belle were all that could be desired. He was extremely courteous and deferential and managed to convey a touch of admiration which was never unduly obtrusive. Such a strong effect did he have upon her that she forgot her beloved classics as she listened to him.
The meal came to an end, and when the ladies rose Rupert accompanied them to the drawing-room.
“No wine for me, thanks,” he said. “I am practically a teetotaler.” He then drew a chair near Belle’s side, and contrived to draw her into a literary conversation of deep interest.
Annie felt on thorns as she watched the two. More firmly each moment was she making up her mind. If Rupert dared to ask Belle to lend him any of the money in the wooden box she would confess all. She felt herself a hypocrite, and could scarcely stand Mrs. Acheson’s kind and affectionate remarks.
At last the slow evening came to an end. By this time Rupert had perambulated almost every foot of the drawing-room. He had stood close to the box—once his hand had touched it. It was when he was looking at Belle’s precious Greek Testament which lay on top of it. Rupert quoted a few sentences out of the Testament in his melodious voice to Belle, who nodded and praised his accent. He then went and stood in the deep embrasure of the window, looked out at the moon, which threw its radiance over the garden outside, and all of a sudden, without the least warning, began to talk of burglars.
“This is a very nice house,” he said; “but with that garden at the back it is not too safe; and you have no men on the premises, have you?”
“No,” said Belle; “but I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Well, I have the greatest dread of burglars breaking into a house inhabited only by women.”
“Oh, we are not at all afraid,” replied Belle. “Who would burgle here? We have no special valuables; a very little silver, no more. Besides, the windows are all thoroughly secured.”
She showed the device of the latch to Rupert, who said it was clever, very ingenious indeed. A moment or two afterwards he took his leave. As he did so, he nodded to Annie.
“See you to-morrow, little sis,” he said. “Cheer up about India, old girl; you shall come and join me by and by.—Good-by, Mrs. Acheson; I cannot tell you how I have enjoyed my evening.”
To Belle he did not say a word about his special enjoyment; but he gave her a look full of eloquence. She found herself blushing, and her heart beat a trifle quicker than its wont.
When the hall-door closed behind him, both ladies were eloquent in his praise.
“A charming fellow, and what a nice expression!” said Mrs. Acheson.
“He is a clever, which is better than being a charming, man,” said Belle; “he has a great and sincere respect for all learning. In his way he is an enthusiast. I do not care for conversation with men as a rule; but I must own that I respect Mr. Colchester, and enjoy talking to him. He is so sincere and so straightforward.”
“May I go to bed?” said Annie suddenly. “I have a bad headache, and should like to lie down.”
“Oh, poor child,” said Mrs. Acheson, “I do hope you are not sickening for anything, dear. You have looked so ill since you have been with us. Will you have some sal-volatile or eau-de-Cologne? What do you take when you have bad headaches?”
“Nothing,” answered Annie. “I lie down and try to sleep.”
She hurried from the room, scarcely waiting to bid either lady good-night. Mrs. Acheson and Belle sat up a little longer, then they also retired for the night.
Annie had lain down on her bed without undressing. It is true she pulled the counterpane over her in case Mrs. Acheson or Belle should come into the room; but sleep was far from her wakeful eyes.
By and by the house grew quiet. She heard the servants going up to their attics overhead; she heard Mrs. Acheson shut herself into her own room, and Belle shut herself into hers. Belle slept with her door locked, and Annie heard the key being turned. A few moments later profound silence fell upon the house; the lights were all out. One by one the inhabitants slept, all but Annie, who lay with every nerve tingling and her sense of waiting preternaturally acute.
While Rupert had been in the house she had followed all his movements with a terrible knowledge of him and his ways which gave her the clew to much that he was doing. When he laid his hand on the wooden box, Annie felt as if a burning-red hand had touched her own heart. When he stood by the window she could scarcely contain her uneasiness. When he spoke about burglars it seemed to her that the whole of what was immediately to follow was laid bare to her. Rupert was in desperate straits; he would stop at nothing to achieve his object. Was it possible that he, the man whom Annie loved, whose father had been good and respectable, whose mother had been one of the gentlest and sweetest of women, would stoop as low as this? Alas! Annie feared it. Now was her time for action. She slipped softly out of bed, unfastened her door without making any noise, and glided down through the silent house. Mrs. and Miss Acheson were both sound sleepers; the servants were far away. She reached the ground floor, turned the handle of the drawing-room door, found the door locked from the outside. Taking great care, she unlocked it, still without making any sound. Then, in her stockinged feet she crossed the room and took her place in shadow close to the window where Rupert had stood that evening.
The moon was still up, and its light fell across the room. The drawing-room had three large windows with Venetian blinds. It looked on to a fair-sized garden; the windows were not more than three feet from the ground. Annie now observed with increased apprehension that the blind to this window was up. She instantly remembered that it had got out of order that morning, and heard Mrs. Acheson say that she must send for a man to repair it. Rupert must have also noticed that fact as he stood with Belle close to the window.
Annie got still deeper into the shadow of the thick curtains, and waited. All too soon she heard just what she expected to hear—steps in the garden outside; the steps approached the window. The bright flood of moonlight was broken by a huge shadow; a man was standing on the window-sill. Annie did not stir. She heard the grating noise of a small diamond against the glass; a square was quickly cut out, a hand and arm intruded themselves, and the hasp, the construction of which had been explained to Rupert by Belle, was quickly unfastened. The next instant the window was lifted, and Rupert Colchester stepped into the room. He went at once to the table where the wooden box stood, laid his hand on it, and was about to turn back when Annie, making a sudden movement, confronted him, standing in the white light caused by the moon.
“You must put that box back, Rupert,” said Annie; “if you don’t I shall call out.”
Her sudden and unlooked-for appearance and her brave words staggered the man. He was holding the box in his hand. He dropped it now in his agitation. Before he could stoop to pick it up, Annie had snatched at it, flown across the room, and put it out into the hall. She then locked the drawing-room door, and slipped the key into her pocket.
“Now, Rupert,” she said, coming back to him, “the window is open, and you can go. I know you won’t injure me, for, after all, however wicked you are, I am your own sister, and the only person in all the world who loves you. You can go, Rupert; you can escape; the way is clear. But steal that box you don’t; I would rather die than let you.”
By this time the astonished and discomfited man had found his voice.
“I have not come here to be betrayed by you,” he said. “I am desperate, so you had best leave me alone. Give me the key of the door this minute; if you don’t I shall take it by force.”
“Rupert, I hear someone stirring overhead: Mrs. Acheson has heard you already. Oh, go, for Heaven’s sake.”
“A nice position you’ll be in,” he said with a sneer.
The noise in the room above was more audible than ever. Someone was heard walking across it.
“You’ve done for me,” he cried. “A nice sister you are! Yes, I suppose I had best hook it.”
Steps were now heard coming downstairs. Rupert, scowling at Annie, made a rush to the window, put his foot over the ledge and disappeared. He had scarcely done so before Mrs. Acheson’s voice was heard calling at the other side of the locked door.
“Is anybody in this room?” she cried. “Who has taken the key? What is wrong?”
Annie thought for a moment; she then walked straight to the door and flung it open.
“How you frightened me,” said Mrs. Acheson, coming in. “My dear child, what is the matter? How terrible you look! What is wrong?”
“I have had a fright,” replied Annie; “there has been an attempt at burglary.” She shook all over. “Don’t question me now, for I cannot bear it,” she said. “It is safe—he has not taken it. Do you see the square cut out of that pane of glass? He came in that way; he was just about to take the box when I showed myself.”
“The box, child? What box?”
“Belle’s wooden box.”
“What! that wooden box that Belle keeps full of coins?”
“Yes, the same. I saved it; it is in the hall. I—I feel a little faint.”
“Poor child, no wonder! What a terrible scare you have had! Who would have supposed that burglars would come to us? Well, dear, if the box had been stolen, how disappointed they would have been to find only ordinary coins. But come upstairs, Annie; I must get you some sal-volatile at once.”
Mrs. Acheson dragged Annie upstairs, then went to the servants, awoke them, and sent two of them off immediately to the nearest police-station. She questioned Annie still further with regard to the burglary; but could get little or nothing out of her, and concluded that she was stunned by the sudden shock. It was not until the widow had gone back to her room that she remembered how very strange it was that Annie should have locked the drawing-room door, how still stranger it was for Annie to be in the drawing-room at all. She was not naturally suspicious: but these circumstances did cause her a little serious thought.
When the morning dawned she went to her daughter’s bedroom.
Belle had heard nothing of the adventures of the previous night, and was considerably annoyed when her mother rattled the handle of the locked door, and asked for admission. Belle opened the door, and then stood somewhat crossly waiting for Mrs. Acheson to speak.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
The widow related what had occurred; said that she had found Annie in the drawing-room with the door locked, and Belle’s wooden box of coins at the other side.
“My coins! my treasures!” said Belle, color and animation rushing into her face. “How brave of dear Annie: how splendid of her! I know why she did it; it is unnecessary to explain the matter to you just at present, mother. I can only say that the box was full of valuables, and dear, brave little Annie has rescued them. Oh, she and I must indeed be one after this, all during the remainder of our lives. How queer, mother; it was only last night Mr. Colchester said something about burglars. He seemed to think we were in danger with the drawing-room window so close to the ground and looking into the garden; but I explained to him the ingenious way in which the windows were fastened, and then he seemed to think we were absolutely safe. I must go at once now to dear Annie, and thank her.”
“I wish you would, Belle; she was very sad last night, poor child. But, my dear, I never knew there were valuables in the box. You only spoke of coins.”
“Coins of the realm,” said Belle with a laugh; “very nearly one hundred pounds, money I have saved from my college expenses for a noble purpose. Don’t question me now, mother; I will tell you by and by.”
Belle put on her dressing-gown and ran across the landing to Annie’s door. She knocked; there was no answer. She turned the handle and entered, Annie’s bed was empty—Annie herself had disappeared.
Yes, Annie Colchester had made up her mind. There was only one thing to be done; she must see Mr. Parker without a moment’s delay, make full confession, and fling herself upon his mercy.
“Even prison would be better than this present agony,” thought the poor girl. “Whatever happens, I cannot face the Achesons again without their knowing the truth.”
With the first dawn she rose and dressed, and then wrote a little note to Mrs. Acheson.
“You will think badly of me, and no wonder,” wrote Annie. “The man who tried to steal the wooden box last night was my brother Rupert. Yes, he was my brother. He cut the square of glass out of the window, and entered your house as a common burglar. Pray, don’t do anything until you hear from me again. I am going to Mr. Parker.”
Belle found this note, read its contents, flushed slowly all over, rubbed her forehead in a distracted way, and then, hiding the note in the pocket of her dressing-gown, returned to her own room.
“Poor Annie has gone out of her mind,” she said to herself. “Mr. Colchester, that charming, scholarly, delightful man enter the house in order to take my box of money—impossible! I should not believe it if a thousand Annie Colchesters swore to it. This note is my property, and I refuse to divulge its contents for the present.”
Meanwhile Annie wandered about the streets until it was time for Mr. Parker to appear at his office. He had been called unexpectedly out of town on the previous day, or events would have come to an issue before now. On his arrival this morning he looked eagerly through his correspondence, and had just taken up the letter from the expert and was reading its contents when his clerk entered, said that Miss Colchester had called, that she looked in serious trouble, and wished to see Mr. Parker without delay.
“Ask Miss Colchester into my waiting-room, and say I will send for her presently,” was the reply.
The clerk withdrew. Mr. Parker continued to read the expert’s letter.
“I thought so,” he said to himself; “he says the writings are not identical, that they have not been written by the same person. Miss Annie little knows what a trap she has got into. She is just here in the nick of time. Yes, I will see her; I will get the whole naked truth out of her. Guilty! of course she is guilty. After she has made her confession she shall come with me to the Gilroys. What an old, blind fool I have been. How could I ever doubt a girl with a face like Leslie’s?”
He stood up as he spoke. The expert’s letter had pleased him; but he could not but own that he felt nearly as puzzled as ever.
“Bless me if I know what it means even now,” he said anxiously to himself.
The puzzled man was standing on his hearth. His hair was wildly rubbed over his head, and his eyes looked fiercer than Annie had ever seen them when she entered the room.
“Well, Miss Colchester,” he said, “may I ask what is the meaning of this visit? It so happens that I am anxious to see you, and should have called upon you if you had not come to me. But, as a rule, I do not see people on private business in my office.”
“I have come to speak to you about Leslie Gilroy,” said Annie. “You are fond of Leslie?”
“It does not matter to you whether I care for her or not. What have you got to say about her?”
“Only that she is quite innocent,” said Annie. “She never wrote that letter.”
Mr. Parker’s face wore an ugly sneer.
“I wonder now,” he said, coming a step or two forward, “if you have been following me about on the sly for the last day or two? Do you happen to know that I had taken that letter and also the writing Leslie Gilroy left here the other day to Essex the expert? You are sharp enough to know most things. Did you find out about that?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“My meaning is plain enough. It is better to make confession before open detection, is it not?”
“I don’t know anything,” continued Annie; “I have never heard of Mr. Essex before. I am the most wretched, miserable girl in the world. I came to you to confess, not knowing that you were able to expose me. It does not matter now in the very least whether you expose me or not, for I am going to expose myself. I did write that letter. I knew at the time that it was forgery; but I was desperate. Rupert wanted sixty pounds. He said that if he did not get the money he would be locked up; the police were already after him. He owed the money for a debt of such a nature that if he did not pay it he would be locked up.”
“Well, all this is coming to the point with a vengeance,” said Mr. Parker.
Annie clutched hold of the nearest chair to steady herself.
“I am miserable, and I know that I deserve imprisonment, or anything you like to give me,” she said.
“We will leave out the question about your deservings for the present,” said the merchant. “What I want is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“Well, I did it,” said Annie; “I did commit forgery. I was nearly mad. I have always loved Rupert better than I ought. He was my only brother, and I—I could never turn from him. It was idolatry, and I am punished.”
“Go on with your story,” said Mr. Parker.
“I am doing so; only you must give me time. Rupert wanted the money, and I was distracted. Leslie and I were roomfellows; she was always good to me.”
“A nice return you have made for her kindness.”
“I know that well; but you cannot understand the temptation. There, I don’t mean to excuse myself. On the very evening when I saw Rupert, and found out all about his trouble, Leslie talked about you. I was so startled to find that she also knew you. She told me what you were doing for her, how liberal you were with your money, how very kind. She said that her father had been your greatest friend, and that you had made a sort of promise to help his children. As she spoke, a desperate idea came into my head. I was always very clever at imitating handwriting, and there was plenty of Leslie’s about. The idea of making her appear to write to you for money came into my brain, and would not go away again. I thought of it all night, and the scheme seemed almost impossible to be detected, and was my last and only resource. I rose very early, got hold of some of Leslie’s handwriting, copied it carefully, wrote the letter which I brought to you, got permission to go to London from Miss Lauderdale, and saw you that afternoon. You gave me the money. I took it back. I gave it to Rupert.”
“But even now I do not understand,” said Mr. Parker. “I came down to Wingfield the next day. I was very much disturbed, I can tell you. That letter, which seemed to be Leslie’s, shook my faith. I always considered her the finest, sweetest girl I had ever come across, like, very like, one whom I have lost; but no matter, you are unworthy to hear that name. I came to Wingfield, and I saw Leslie, and she knew all about it; she did not deny anything.”
“That is because she was noble. I was obliged to tell her the truth, and she resolved to screen me and take the consequences.”
“’Pon my word! I never heard anything like this in the whole course of my life,” said Mr. Parker. “Noble! I should think she was; but what were you made of? You allowed her! Think what she suffered. I distrusted her, and you allowed her to screen you.”
“I did, for Rupert’s sake. I know I was bad, but I was not wholly bad. She knew that if it were discovered I should be expelled from St. Wode’s, and my chance in life would be over, so she agreed to screen me. I didn’t guess at the time how much she would suffer, and what it would mean to her. Leslie saw Rupert and told him that if he would leave the country, and never return, she would keep his secret and mine. Rupert promised to go away. He went, and I thought I should never see him again. Then I lost my interest in my work. I found I could not study; and when I passed my exam. I only took an ordinary, and my prospects were more or less ruined. I was terribly poor, for the little money that I had saved I had already given to my brother. When my own money was nearly gone I went to Leslie; that was a few days ago. I heard that you wanted a secretary, and I begged and implored of her to ask you to give me the post. Leslie did not like asking you. She said you were terribly changed to her; but at last she consented. She came here with me. You told her that if she told the real truth about the money you would give me the post. How could she tell you the truth without ruining me? We both knew it was all up then, although she implored me at the eleventh hour to make confession; but I could not—how could I without ruining Rupert?”
“You conscience has become very tender since then,” said Mr. Parker. “How is it you are here this morning?”
“I will tell you. Because Rupert himself has opened my eyes. Oh, I love him still; yes, I love him still; but my heart is broken. I don’t care what happens to me. Friends of mine of the name of Acheson asked me to stay with them for a week. I had only fourteen shillings in the world, and I thought I would go. Mrs. Acheson was very kind—she was like a mother to me; but on the very day I went, on the day I saw you last, I met my brother. He had never gone away; he had broken his word to Leslie; he had got into fresh, awful trouble. He wanted more and more money; and, oh, Mr. Parker, last night he broke into the very house where I was staying, in order to steal some money which was in the drawing-room. What am I to do? Oh, if I might only die!”
The miserable girl fell on her knees, burying her face in a chair near by; her faint sobs sounded through the room.
Mr. Parker stood still for a moment, the color in his face was coming and going. What was he to do? He hated Annie Colchester, and yet from the bottom of his soul he pitied her. Before he could decide anything, there came a knock at the door.
“Particularly engaged just now,” he called out.
“It’s Miss Gilroy, sir. She wants to see you as soon as possible.”
“Miss Gilroy! Bless my soul! what can she have come about?”
“Oh, do let her in. I know she will plead for me. She will ask you not to be too bitterly hard,” said poor Annie.
Mr. Parker opened the door.
“Come right in, Leslie,” he said. His manner had changed; there was a tremble in his deep voice.
Leslie came eagerly forward.
“I have come to ask you if you know anything about Annie Colchester,” she began. “We are in dreadful trouble about her; she has disappeared, and—— Why, what is it? You seem to know something. What is wrong?”
“Only that I have learned the truth at last, Leslie. Annie Colchester is here; she has confessed everything. Stand up, Annie, and speak this moment.”
But Annie was past this, her head was buried in her hands, and sobs shook her frame. Leslie gave one glance from Mr. Parker to Annie, and then sprang forward.
She fell on her knees by Annie’s side, and put her arms round her.
“Oh, poor, poor Annie; have you really confessed?” said Leslie. “It was brave of you, dear; it was brave.” She put her arms round Annie’s neck and began to kiss her.
“Oh, you don’t know how she has been tried and tempted,” she continued, turning to the merchant. “You cannot be angry with her any longer. Even the worst sinner ought to be forgiven when he confesses; and Annie is sorry, so sorry.”
Leslie’s kisses fell on Annie’s hot cheeks like rain. After a time Annie slightly moved her position, and stole one arm softly round Leslie’s neck.
Mr. Parker looked at the two.
“Bless my soul! this will upset me,” he muttered to himself. “Never met a girl like Leslie; it makes one believe in Christianity; that it does.”
He suddenly left the room. An hour later he came back.
Annie was now quite collected and calm. She had told Leslie everything. Leslie went straight up to Mr. Parker, and took his hand.
“You have got to do something for me,” she said.
“I’ll do anything for you, Leslie; I feel fit to die when I think how I mistrusted you.”
“You had good reasons to mistrust me, and I am not the least surprised. You need not reproach yourself in the very least. Now, if you will do something, if you will grant me a great, great favor, I shall be the happiest of girls; I shall gladly rejoice in the thought of my past suffering if it can help Annie now.”
“You want a favor for her?”
“I do; and I know you will grant it.”
“It would be difficult for me to refuse you anything; but what is it?”
“I want you to do this. I don’t wish Rupert Colchester, bad as he is, to be locked up. I want him to leave the country; I want you to see that he goes. He must be seen off, for Annie is not to be persecuted by him any longer. When he is away I want Annie to become your secretary. I will be responsible for her conduct, for her probity and honesty; she shall come and live at my mother’s, and she shall work for you. Annie must be saved. Oh, I love her, Mr. Parker; I love her, notwithstanding her sin. She was terribly tempted. You and I do not know anything of such temptation; but now we will save her, won’t we? Will you do this for my sake?”
“I declare I’d do anything in the world for you; but it’s rather a big order. I shan’t mind helping that poor girl; but the brother! is he to go off scot-free?”
“For Annie’s sake, yes. It would hurt her too terribly if he were punished. Give him one last chance, Mr. Parker; he may be saved even at the eleventh hour. Oh, you are the best man I know; prove it now.”
“And this would make you quite happy, my dear?”
“It would make me so happy I should scarcely know how to contain myself. Oh say ‘Yes,’ here and now.”
“Then here is my hand on it; I say it here and now.”
Mr. Parker was as good as his word. He was not a man to do things by half-measures, and he did not lose an hour in taking means to discover Rupert Colchester’s whereabouts. He found that young man hiding from the police, gave him such a talking to that even he felt a little ashamed; and finally, securing a berth for him on board a vessel which was bound for Australia, saw him off himself on the following day. The curtain drops forever on Rupert as far as this story is concerned.
Annie is happy at last, notwithstanding her great trials. She is very busy, and has little time to think. She makes an excellent secretary; is painstaking, persevering, clever, and affectionate. Mr. Parker does not like to own it; but he is really getting very fond of her, and actually asks her advice on several matters in the most unwarrantable and unbusinesslike manner. Annie lives with Mrs. Gilroy, who is as kind as kind can be to the motherless girl.
As to the other girls, whose opening lives have been so briefly sketched in these pages, they are some of them still undergraduates at St. Wode’s, and some are starting in the real battle of life; but they are all without exception doing well.
Lettie has given up her collegiate training, has entered society, making Mrs. Chetwynd very happy by so doing, and is much liked for her cheerful and taking manners and her pretty face.
Eileen has quite recovered her health and strength. She and Marjorie are still at St. Wode’s, and Marjorie never forgets that time when God answered her prayer and spared Eileen’s life.
Leslie is more beautiful and more beloved than ever by all those who know her. Mr. Parker openly talks of her as his adopted daughter, and her love for the old man is the sunshine of his declining years.
Belle hopes to open her hostel within a year at the latest. There is a change for the better in Belle, and she is less arrogant than formerly, although she still firmly believes that the true aim of a woman’s life is to delve in the rich soil of past literature and not to trouble herself much about the future.
One and all in their different ways are going forward to a goal. Each has an ideal which will never be quite realized on earth; but each with strength and courage has learned to take her part bravely in life’s battle. To each has been accorded a strength higher than her own, which enables her to refuse the evil and choose the good.
THE MASTERLY AND REALISTIC NOVELS OF FRANK NORRIS
Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents per volume, postpaid.
THE OCTOPUS. A Story of California.
Mr. Norris conceived the ambitious idea of writing a trilogy of novels which, taken together, shall symbolize American life as a whole, with all its hopes and aspirations and its tendencies, throughout the length and breadth of the continent. And for the central symbol he has taken wheat, as being quite literally the ultimate source of American power and prosperity. The Octopus is a story of wheat raising and railroad greed in California. It immediately made a place for itself.
It is full of enthusiasm and poetry and conscious strength. One cannot read it without a responsive thrill of sympathy for the earnestness, the breadth of purpose, the verbal power of the man.
THE PIT. A Story of Chicago.
This powerful novel is the fictitious narrative of a deal in the Chicago wheat pit and holds the reader from the beginning. In a masterly way the author has grasped the essential spirit of the great city by the lakes. The social existence, the gambling in stocks and produce, the characteristic life in Chicago, form a background for an exceedingly vigorous and human tale of modern life and love.
A MAN’S WOMAN.
A story which has for a heroine a girl decidedly out of the ordinary run of fiction. It is most dramatic, containing some tremendous pictures of the daring of the men who are trying to reach the Pole * * * but it is at the same time essentially a woman’s book, and the story works itself out in the solution of a difficulty that is continually presented in real life—the wife’s attitude in relation to her husband when both have well-defined careers.
McTEAGUE. A Story of San Francisco.
“Since Bret Harte and the Forty-niner no one has written of California life with the vigor and accuracy of Mr. Norris. His ‘McTeague’ settled his right to a place in American literature; and he has now presented a third novel, ‘Blix,’ which is in some respects the finest and likely to be the most popular of the three.”—Washington Times.
BLIX.
“Frank Norris has written in ‘Blix’ just what such a woman’s name would imply—a story of a frank, fearless girl comrade to all men who are true and honest because she is true and honest. How she saved the man she fishes and picnics with in a spirit of outdoor platonic friendship, makes a pleasant story, and a perfect contrast to the author’s ‘McTeague.’ A splendid and successful story.”—Washington Times.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York
MEREDITH NICHOLSON’S FASCINATING ROMANCES
Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 75 cents per volume, postpaid.
THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND CANDLES. With a frontispiece in colors by Howard Chandler Christy.
A novel of romance and adventure, of love and valor, of mystery and hidden treasure. The hero is required to spend a whole year in the isolated house, which according to his grandfather’s will shall then become his. If the terms of the will be violated the house goes to a young woman whom the will, furthermore, forbids him to marry. Nobody can guess the secret, and the whole plot moves along with an exciting zip.
THE PORT OF MISSING MEN. With illustrations by Clarence F. Underwood.
There is romance of love, mystery, plot, and fighting, and a breathless dash and go about the telling which makes one quite forget about the improbabilities of the story; and it all ends in the old-fashioned healthy American way. Shirley is a sweet, courageous heroine whose shining eyes lure from page to page.
ROSALIND AT REDGATE. Illustrated by Arthur I. Keller.
The author of “The House of a Thousand Candles” has here given us a buoyant romance brimming with lively humor and optimism; with mystery that breeds adventure and ends in love and happiness. A most entertaining and delightful book.
THE MAIN CHANCE. With illustrations by Harrison Fisher.
A “traction deal” in a Western city is the pivot about which the action of this clever story revolves. But it in the character-drawing of the principals that the author’s strength lies. Exciting incidents develop their inherent strength and weakness, and if virtue wins in the end, it is quite in keeping with its carefully-planned antecedents. The N. Y. Sun says: “We commend it for its workmanship—for its smoothness, its sensible fancies, and for its general charm.”
ZELDA DAMERON. With portraits of the characters by John Cecil Clay.
“A picture of the new West, at once startlingly and attractively true. * * * The heroine is a strange, sweet mixture of pride, wilfulness and lovable courage. The characters are superbly drawn; the atmosphere is convincing. There is about it a sweetness, a wholesomeness and a sturdiness that commends it to earnest, kindly and wholesome people.”—Boston Transcript.
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York