Chapter III: Part 3

As he stood peering through the falling water the carriage turned about, left the house, and came down the driveway. May was astounded. He tried his best to see who was in it, but the distance was too great. He fancied that he made out a figure upon the back seat, but it was that of a young man. He was surely too young for Serge; but, possibly, Serge had left a son. This, indeed, was extremely probable. And the son was gone to the gate to await more formal introduction to his papa-in-law; and had left the countess in the house.

This was the most terrible possibility that had yet occurred to his fevered imagination, overwrought with suspense and too much tobacco as it was. For a moment the idea of the buggy and the fast horse in the stable presented itself as the only certain means of escape. But at the same instant he saw Fides emerge from the side-door, carrying something white in his mouth. The hound came to the door of the pavilion and scratched there; not finding any response, he took to coursing around the building, in wider and wider distances, until his circle included the whole pond. When he had once more made the circuit of this, without getting trail of his master, he lifted his nose from the ground to give utterance to occasional lugubrious howls.

This was impossible. Something must be done at once, or his chief retreat would be discovered. May rapidly descended through the subterranean passage, and appearing at the door of the pavilion, whistled softly. The dog bounded toward him, and May took the letter from his mouth. It was accompanied with a card of “Mr. Burlington Quincy,” as May hurriedly read. Now, Mr. Burlington Quincy bore a name utterly unknown to Austin May.

He looked at the note. It was certainly not in the handwriting of Madame Polacca de Valska, and May breathed a sigh of relief. He opened it.

“MY DEAR MR. MAY: (it began)

“I know you will not misinterpret my action, when I write to tell you
that our engagement cannot be made known to-day. The bearer of this,
Mr. Burlington Quincy, of Boston, I did not know when our pleasant
acquaintance began last year, but I feel sure that he is the only man
I have ever----”

“Loved,” added May to himself, mechanically, as the first page came to an end. Without troubling himself to read any further, he merely looked at the signature, which was, “yours ever sincerely, Georgiana Rutherford.”

“Bah!” said Austin to himself again, and he crumpled up the letter and threw it upon the pedestal of the Venus of Milo. A very different sort of girl from Georgy Rutherford, she looked at him with an air of dignity offended by his flippancy. Certainly a great weight was off his mind, even if it did leave behind the faintest conceivable smart of irritation. One, at least, was disposed of satisfactorily, and he threw himself into the great arm-chair with a sigh of relief. He wished Miss Rutherford joy of her bargain, though he could not but think it ill-bred of her to choose the replacing victim as the messenger of his release. The only man she had ever loved, indeed! And who was Mr. Burlington Quincy? Well, it mattered little to him.

May looked at his watch; it was seven o’clock. Only five hours more of this awful day remained! His condition was one of absolute nervous prostration; and he looked in a glass to see if his hair had yet turned gray. Could it be that they would none of them appear? He felt almost hungry, but that eating was out of the question for one in his position. He could, however, take a biscuit and a glass of claret; and this he did.

But May was fated that day to have hard luck with his uncle’s wine. Hardly had he begun to sip the glass, when a loud knocking at the very door of his pavilion made him drop it, and again seek refuge in his fountain hiding-place. From there he looked through the jets of water and saw that the knocker was none other than the faithful Schmidt.

May hastened back again to the pavilion and opened the door.

“What do you mean by this?” said he, angrily. “Did I not tell you not to come out under any circumstances, unless you heard a pistol-shot?”

But, alas! The effect of the solitude, the heat, and the excitement of his master’s strange behavior had been too much, even for the perfect valet. Moreover, he had felt it his duty to finish all his master’s so precipitately abandoned bottles, lest they should fall into the hands of the enemy. If Mr. Schmidt was not tipsy, it was clear that he soon would be. He had been leaning heavily against the door, and as his master opened it suddenly, he fell into the room, head over heels to the floor; and there, without getting up, he endeavored to bow apologetically, and swayed to and fro with the effort, smiling a meaningless smile and holding a visiting-card in his right hand. May took it mechanically. It was edged in deep black; and upon it he read the simple legend:

_Mrs. Terwilliger Dehon_.

IV.

THE KEEPING OF THE TRYST.

May grasped the half-drunken valet by the coat. “And you let her in?” said he.

“I said, m’sieu’,” gasped out poor Schmidt, “that m’sieu’, was here.”

With a groan of mingled rage and terror, May flew to the door and made it fast. Then he took Schmidt by his offending coat and shoved, rather than led, him into the subaqueous passageway. When they emerged upon the island, May said, with a final shake:

“Now, sir, go and tell all the world that I’m not at home--d’ye hear? And come back and tell me; and that you may come back sober, I’ll clear your thick head for you.” And suiting the action to the word, May hurled poor Schmidt through the cool jets of the fountain; and he disappeared with a startling plunge in the waters of the ornamental lake. They were but a few feet deep, however, and Schmidt scrambled to his feet and went wading through the lily-pads to the shore. And in a few moments he came back, still wet, but quite sobered, to the brink nearest the island.

“What does she say?” cried May.

“That she will wait for M’sieur,” came back the answer that May heard; and he sank upon the rustic seat with a feeling that all was over with him. Should he still fly? He could not bring himself to break his word at this late hour. If it could be that the widowed Mrs. Dehon had come all this distance--unwomanly as it was--he could not leave her now. Moreover, it was exactly like her. She was just the woman to take the leap herself, rather than trust herself and her heart-secrets to written words. And as May pulled himself together and went toward the house he wished he could have conjured back one spark of that flame he once felt for her. His crusty old uncle had not foreseen that thus, by the rash heir’s promise, the wise provisions of his will could be evaded. What would his wise uncle have done in a similar situation?--Ordered a monument at Mount Auburn and prepared the remains for it afterward, perhaps. His head was too cloudy to think.

May reached the doors of the house. It was already dark; and he had one last moment of hesitation as he pressed his hand upon the carved-oak door-knob. Then, with a rally of his sense of honor, he turned it and entered the house.

The great hall was quite dark; and Austin had to feel his way to the dining-room, into which, as being the only habitable apartment, Schmidt had had to show the fair Gladys. Here was a single candle burning; and beyond the remains of what was evidently Schmidt’s dinner, just under the Copley portrait of the lady in the lilac dress, sat a solitary figure.

But May started back as he saw it. It certainly was not Gladys. It was--it was a man; and as it rose and came forward to the candle-light there appeared unmistakably the red face and pudgy figure of her elderly husband! For a moment the joyous reaction held May speechless; but then he sprang forward.

“Mr. Terwilliger Dehon, I am delighted to----”

But Terwilliger waved him back with the gesture of an M.P. quelling an assembly of constituents; and in his hand he carried a letter. “May I ask, Mr. May, what is the meaning of this?” And Dehon brought the offending document close beneath May’s nose, lying upon his chubby palm; and then slapped it violently with his other hand.

“Of this?” said May, innocently. “What is it?”

“That, sir, is a letter I found among my wife’s effects.” And beyond all question the letter was in May’s own handwriting. May stared helplessly at Dehon; and Terwilliger glared fixedly at May. And through all the embarrassment of the situation loomed up May’s consciousness, antagonistic as their meeting was, that he was uncommonly glad to see him.

“Is--is Mrs. Dehon with you?” said May, feebly, as the awful possibility occurred to him that they had been divorced.

“My beloved wife is in heaven,” said Dehon, pulling out a large pocket-handkerchief and sinking back into his chair.

“My dear sir,” cried May, grasping both his hands, “I am--unfeignedly sorry to hear it. When did----”

“That, sir,” cried Terwilliger, furiously, “is no answer to my question. Did you, or did you not, write this letter?” And he jumped from his chair and smacked the letter savagely against the dinner-table.

Evasion was impossible. “I am afraid, Mr. Dehon, that I did.” Dehon fumed.

“And now, my dear sir,” said May, his face unconsciously broadening to a smile, “will you not stay and dine with me? I have only----”

But at this the peppery old gentleman positively sailed off the floor in his passion. In vain May told him that he had received nothing from the late Mrs. Dehon but a long course of snubs; in vain May assured him that he himself was more delighted than ever Mr. Dehon could be, that there had never been a possibility of his marrying the lamented Gladys; it was to no purpose that he besought him to stay and dine. He tried to sympathize with Terwilliger in his loss, and Terwilliger grew only the more infuriated. He pointed out to him that his letter had been entirely contingent, to take effect solely upon Mr. Terwilliger’s death; but upon this the old gentleman fairly choked with rage.

Finally poor Austin gave it up. He abandoned all effort to pacify him, and listened submissively to the philippic the indignant Terwilliger poured forth. And, to use the expressive but inelegant phrase of the day, he blew himself off right well. Austin sat and listened with a mind at peace.

A man’s own eloquence is a great relief, and there is no knowing how far Mr. Dehon would have cooled off in time. It is possible that he would have ended by staying to dinner. But, just as he was finishing a most effective exordium, the noise of carriage-wheels was heard outside upon the gravel.

In two strides May was at the window, had thrown open the sash with a crash that shivered all the glass, and hurled himself through it into outer darkness, leaving the astounded Mr. Dehon, one eloquent arm extended in the air, addressing himself most earnestly to the four Copley portraits and the two battle-pieces of indigestible fruit.

V.

THE RETURN OF THE COUNTESS.

Beyond all question this was now the Comtesse Polacca de Valska. She was the only one left. All others were present or accounted for. Again May gained his pavilion, with the fleetness of an Exmoor deer; it was quite dark by this time, and he could run about fearlessly. With a trembling hand he adjusted his dark-lantern, lit the lamp, and fixed the focus full upon the house-front door.

He was just in time to see a veiled and much beshawled lady assisted down from the vehicle that stood at the door; and after a word of colloquy with the driver, she entered the house. May could not see her face; but it was just the figure, he fancied, of the Countess de Valska. The carriage drove away, the front door closed, and all again was silent, save the thumping of poor Austin’s strained and shaken heart. Great heavens! he complained to the harmless Venus of Milo. The worst had been realized indeed.

This time there was no indecision. The only safety lay in flight. When it came to the point of marrying the de Valska, he would be damned if he would. No sooner had he gained this conclusion than he sought to put it in practice. With quick and stealthy steps he gained the stable. A drive of fifteen miles to Framingham would put him on the New York train; and the Umbria sailed on the morrow. Little difficulties with countesses were better understood on European shores.

But alas! it was only to find that the stable-door was locked. He could hear inside the noises of a restless horse, but both fast horse and buggy were beyond his reach. The over-cautious Schmidt had locked them in, and taken the key. May’s heart sank. He looked around for an axe, a log, anything to batter down the door with--he would have set fire to his own stable if necessary; then a brilliant thought occurred to him--of the pistol-shot that was to be the signal to Schmidt in cases of emergency.

He ran back to the pavilion. As he passed the house he thought he heard sounds of angry collocation in the entry. But this was no time for idle curiosity; and he ran on to the pavilion, grasped the revolver, ran back before the house, placed himself in the little clump of pines, and fired. The noises in the house ceased. He fired again.

The second report of his revolver was followed by a wild and shrill screaming in the house. A second after, the front door was violently flung open, and Mr. Terwilliger Dehon burst forth with the celerity of a pellet from a pop-gun. He was immediately and closely pursued by a female figure, screaming violently. After her, all in the focus of the dark-lantern, appeared a gaunt and stooping individual with a shot-gun, which he brought to his shoulder and incontinently fired, aiming, as far as May could judge, at the North Star. Then he threw away the shot-gun and joined in the pursuit; and after him came the faithful Schmidt, in obedience to his master’s signal, once more unperturbed.

“What has happened?” cried May, rushing forward. “Where is she?”

But even as he spoke, feminine arms were thrown around his neck, a fainting feminine figure hung about his shoulder, and feminine lips whispered in his ear:

“At last!”

With a gasp of despair, May disengaged her and led her to the front door, where he deposited his precious burden upon the china garden-seat. The countess seemed less graceful than of yore, and she certainty was heavier. But the countess, of course it was.

“Sech a time, Mr. May,” said she. “Me a-comin’ up with the dépôt-man, and findin’ a burglar in the house; an’ the volleys from the ambushes as was outside; an’ Mr. Eastman a-runnin’ for his gun, an’ I chasin’ the burglar; an’ all along of that furriner in the kitchen as left the cellar-door wide open; an’, says I----”

“Mrs. Eastman!” cried May, with a sigh of relief, as if he saw the dawn again. But that heroine’s short-lived valor was exhausted. To chase an elderly burglar out one’s own front door, amid salvoes of musketry, was surely excuse enough for leaning on the shoulder of the first reliable male one met and knew; but the thought of both actions was too much for feminine nerves, and Mrs. Eastman proceeded to get up the best notion of hysterics her Maine training could produce. As for May, he was so glad that it was not the Polacca de Valska that he could have kissed even the elderly housekeeper; but he thought better of it, and consigned her to the tender soothing of her husband.

“Mirandy,” he heard Mr. Eastman say, “don’t ye be a fool!”

Scene Fifth

THE RESIDUARY BEQUEST

I.

THE ORDER OF DISCHARGE.

May went back again to his pavilion. Great heavens, what a day! He looked at his watch. It was already after ten o’clock; and his heart gave a leap of joy. Could it be that the countess would never turn up at all?

He was too much shaken by the excitements of the day to sit still quietly, and count the minutes; so he took to wandering in the driveway about the lake. He was conscious of a marvellous accession of spirits! Poor Mr. Terwilliger Dehon! And May laughed to himself as he pictured their meeting, and the Eastmans taking him for a burglar. What could she have done to drive Dehon in such terror from the house? May wondered what had become of him, and looked with some apprehension lest he should have rushed into the lily-pond. But that was impossible in so light a night. Moreover, he could have waded out. Well, well! he never should have known how to get rid of him. Peace to his widower’s weeds.

The harvest moon had risen, and shone brightly on the familiar fields. Beauty is only relished by the free. How strong and sweet is our memory for places! Each swell of grassy hill seemed like an old playmate; the very contour of the masses of elm-foliage, darkly outlined under the moon, seemed all familiar to him. Every time that May walked by the main gate-way, with the iron cannon-balls, he looked nervously through it; but the white, shady road was clean and empty, and the night was still.

His fortune was almost too great to be believed in, and he looked frequently at his watch, and listened timidly for every sound. Had the countess forgotten him? Had she captured another? Well, Gladys was dead, and Georgiana “was married;” and he sat there, “dipping his nose in the Gascon wine”--still seven years short of “forty year.”

But the night waxed and the moon rose higher, and the white mists began to drift in, stilly, from the distant river; and there was yet no manifestation of the Countess Polacca de Valska.

And at last the village church rang out twelve bells; and the cocks crew; and May pitched his cigar into the lake with a sigh that resembled a benediction. The day was over. That most terrible twenty-four hours of his life was safely passed. He could go to bed and sleep serenely, in the consciousness that no one of his idle old dreams was to be realized, that no folly of his past was to assume shape and confront him now. And all his arsenal of weapons, his laboratory of drugs, his store-house of Dutch courage, had proved unnecessary.

He walked along by the margent of the little lake; and as he did so, a thought struck him. He entered the pavilion and set the fountain playing, in celebration of his deliverance. He threw open all the shutters and the wide door--useless precautions now--and the flood of moonlight streamed again into the familiar old hall. He looked about at the misanthropic pictures, and the moonlight fell fair upon the beautiful Venus of Milo in the corner. He looked again at the old will, and Georgiana Rutherford’s note, and Mrs. Dehon’s visiting-card lying beside it. Through such various fortunes had he tended into Latium.

He patted Fides on his massive head, as the dog walked along beside him. He went back into the house. It was all his own now; all his own, and untrammelled. He called his valet to him.

“Schmidt,” said he, “I am not going to sit up any longer. If anyone comes, I have been here and gone--you understand? I have gone--to Arizona.” Schmidt bowed. He had regained his imperturbability, and was fearful of being discharged. An American servant would have left, and brought an action for his ducking; not so the obsequious Oriental. And Austin May took his candle and went quietly to bed. He had kept his tryst honorably; he had made due tender of himself; and by all laws, human and divine, his three offers of marriage had now expired.

II.

A PRIOR MORTGAGE.

Our hero sank comfortably into the great old-fashioned bed, with a sigh of relief that he could sleep at last in peace. The broad windows were opened, and the moonlight lay across the lawn; and from it came the speech of insects, and of summer birds; far off, one whip-poor-will.

If anyone ever deserved sleep, he thought that he did; but this is not a world where we get our deserts. All night long he lay awake. His mind would go from his infatuation with the de Valska to his passion for poor Gladys Dehon; from the Exmoor hounds to his engagement with Miss Rutherford. He was devoutly thankful that he had escaped them all, and yet the peace he had expected did not come. He heard the familiar old church-bell strike two, and three, and four, as he had heard it in his boyhood, when wakeful for a fishing-excursion, or for some country ride. What was he to do next?

He could not analyze his state of mind. The night hours passed, and still he lay there wondering. The whip-poor-will had some time been silent; suddenly, as if at a wave of an unseen baton, the orchestra of day birds fell to singing. May listened; in eleven years he had not heard them. Then, as suddenly, they stopped. And then the dawn came, one ray of orange sunlight, and the fragrance of the new-born day.

At last he rose, impatiently, and went to the wide window. The sunbeams slid beneath the arching elms and slanted through the sward. Such scenes had been wont to make him happy when he was young--and when he was in love. This was a strange mood for him at thirty-three and free--a mood of melancholy, almost a loneliness.

Even his cold bath failed to restore him. He was glad they had none of them come; he was certain of that. And yet----

As he was dressing, he opened the closet door. There was the broad straw hat, with its pink ribbons, still hanging, faded, on the nail; and suddenly he recognized it. He took it down, and looked at it curiously; and as he sat there, holding it in his hands, the great St. Bernard dog came up and sniffed at it. It was May Austin’s. And as Austin sat there, he remembered that he had loved her.

He walked out upon the lawn again, brushing the dews upon the grass. Fool that he was! First loves were best, after all.

But where was she? He had not heard from her for years. He had never even written, after the Trouville episode. And she--she must have divined that he was false. First loves were best. Oh, cruel Uncle Austin! Yet his own wretched fickleness was the most to blame, after all. His uncle was a cynic; but he had been a young man in love.

Of one thing he was sure--though he had taken eleven years to find it out. Wherever she might be, throughout the world, there he would find her. And he knew now what had been in his mind, that yesterday, when he had walked beside the lily-pond, along the soft path no longer trod by her. Where could she be? First loves were best. And he fell into a reverie.

He was still holding the hat in his hand, and Fides came up again and sniffed at it. There was something in his mouth--was it a glove?

May took the glove, and almost thought he recognized it. It was a woman’s glove, a garden-glove with a long arm--where had he found it?

The dog looked up at him, almost as if he read his thoughts, and then he led the way and Austin followed. He went across the lawn, and through the hedge, to the well-remembered seat in the orchard, by the linden-tree, and there he stopped. And May sat down upon the seat and dreamed.

An hour he sat there, and then he saw a figure coming through the field. And his heart told him that this was May Austin. She did not see him, and he waited there.

When she came out from under the last apple-tree, he saw her stop and waver. She was lovelier still than he remembered her, and he went up to her and took her hand. She blushed, and he could feel it tremble as it lay in his.

“I--I thought you were abroad,” said she.

“I have come back,” he answered, simply.

III.

THE POSTHUMOUS JEST.

An hour later Schmidt was sitting by the front door, smoking his long pipe, when he thought he saw his master crossing the lawn along the lily-pond. But he was walking hand in hand with a young lady. The long pipe dropped from Schmidt’s hand; and

“Potztausend!”

The imperturbable valet was moved to say as much as this, but of further speech remained incapable. May approached.

“Schmidt, you will go to town and get the rest of my luggage.”

The valet only stared.

“And after this I shall not need your services. I will find you a good place (with some of my bachelor friends,” thought May; “poor devils!”). Schmidt still stood there, his broken pipe upon the door-step.

“Do you hear what I say?”

Schmidt made an effort. “There is a letter for monsieur--in the pavilion.” A letter! May trembled to himself once more.

“I must go home,” said May Austin, still blushing violently. She lived in a cottage there, near by, that she had bought with her slender fortune. But May begged her to wait until he had gone to the pavilion, and then he would go with her. He feared that he knew what the letter was. But it had come too late! A thousand countesses could not bind him now.

Coming thither, May sat upon the door-step, and Austin opened the letter.

LAW OFFICES OF VESEY & BEAMES,
3 COURT STREET, BOSTON,
August 14, 1886.

AUSTIN MAY, Esq., Brookline, Mass.

DEAR SIR: The eleven years’ delay required by the will of your late
uncle, John Austin, having expired to-day, I have much satisfaction
in sending you a copy (herein enclosed) of the document contained in
the sealed envelope referred to in said will, and constituting his
residuary legatee; although, as I am informed that you have never
married, the residuary clause of the will does not take effect.
The executors hold themselves in readiness to deliver over to you
all the securities and title-deeds representing your uncle’s estate
upon receiving from you an affidavit that you have not, up to date,
contracted a legal marriage.

I have some embarrassment in speaking to you of another aspect of
this case, and can only hope you will think I acted for the best.
You will remember that immediately after your uncle’s death, I sent
you a copy of the will as it was filed for probate. But when it came
to a hearing I found that the court utterly refused to allow probate
of a will which contained as a most important part the contents of
a sealed letter, left in my custody, and the purport of which was
unknown to the court. His honor intimated that he considered the
will ridiculous in tenor and inartificial in structure; and that it
was at least questionable whether the residuary devise was not void,
as dependent upon a condition in restraint of marriage. It was in
vain that I cited the case where a man chalked his will upon his
own barn-door, and the barn-door having been brought into court and
copied was allowed to be replaced upon its hinges. The court wholly
objected to being made, as it were, a confidant of Mr. Austin’s love
projects; and insisted that the sealed letter should be opened then
and there, and read to the court, and appended to the will and filed
away with it. Accordingly this was done.

But I conceived that I should be best following out the wishes of
your uncle and my old friend by not telling you of this. Suspecting
that it would never occur to you to inspect the court records, the
reporters were paid for their silence, and although you might at any
time during the past eleven years have read this sealed envelope,
your continued absence abroad leads me to hope that you have never
done so.

I am, sir, with great respect,
Faithfully yours,
J. VESEY, JR.

Austin May dropped the letter from his hands and looked at May. “I might have known it any time these eleven years,” said he.

“Known what?” said she, picking up the enclosure, which had fluttered to the floor.

“Perhaps it is as well,” gasped Austin; and he shuddered as he thought of Mrs. Terwilliger and the scheming Countess. He took the paper from May’s hands and read as follows:

“I, John Austin, gentleman, hereby incorporate this sealed writing, referred to in my will of even date herewith, as part of my said will. Having provided in such my will that in the event of my said nephew, Austin May, becoming married before he attain the age of thirty-five, or before the period of eleven years shall have elapsed from the date of my death, whichever shall first happen, all my property, real and personal, except my said bin of Lafite claret, shall go to my residuary legatee; and having observed a certain tenderness existing between my said nephew, Austin May, and my said niece, May Austin, I hereby nominate and create my dear niece, May Austin, as such my residuary legatee--in the hope that as I, marrying without love, have been unhappy, they, my said niece and nephew, marrying for love alone, giving up all thoughts of worldly advantage, may enjoy the blessings of this world besides.”

The paper slipped from Austin’s hands.

“To think that I have waited eleven years!” said he. And he struck his hand against his forehead.

But May Austin looked up to him and smiled.

* * * * *

Of the Countess Polacca de Valska, Austin never heard. Terwilliger Dehon remarried, and, for the second time, a very pretty woman; such men always do. The Burlington Quincys have also been married; and Tom Leigh has come to stay at Brookline for this season; and Mrs. Eastman’s reign is ended; but Fides is an honored inmate of the Brookline house. And if you drive by there, some summer afternoon, you will note once more about the windows those frilled and pleated things that denote the presence of a woman’s hand.

THE END.

BRIEF LIST OF BOOKS OF FICTION PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
743-745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.

_Mary Adams._

AN HONORABLE SURRENDER. (16mo, $1.00.)

“The story belongs distinctly to the realistic school of modern
fiction. The situations are those of every day. The characters are
not in the least eccentric; the dialogue is never extravagant; the
descriptive and analytical passages are neither obtrusive nor too
prolix. The sum of all these negations is a charming book, full of a
genuine human interest.”--_The Portland Advertiser._

_William Waldorf Astor._

VALENTINO: An Historical Romance. (12mo, $1.00.)

“It is well called a romance, and no romance indeed could be more
effective than the extraordinary extract from Italian annals of the
16th Century which it preserves in such vivid colors. The incidents
are presented with dramatic art. The movement of the story never
drags.”--_The New York Tribune._

_Arlo Bates._

A WHEEL OF FIRE. (12mo, $1.00.)

“The novel deals with character rather than incident, and is evolved
from one of the most terrible of moral problems with a subtlety not
unlike that of Hawthorne. One cannot enumerate all the fine points
of artistic skill which make this study so wonderful in its insight,
so rare in its combination of dramatic power and tenderness.”--_The
Critic._

_Hjalmar H. Boyesen._

FALCONBERG. Illustrated (12mo, $1.50)--GUNNAR. (Sq. 12mo,
$1.25)--TALES FROM TWO HEMISPHERES. (Sq. 12mo, $1.00)--ILKA ON THE
HILL TOP, and Other Stories. (Sq. 12mo, $1.00)--QUEEN TITANIA (Sq.
12mo, $1.00).

“Mr. Boyesen’s stories possess a sweetness, a tenderness, and a
drollery that are fascinating, and yet they are no more attractive
than they are strong.”--_The Home Journal._

_H. C. Bunner._

THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE. Illustrated by A. B. Frost (12mo,
$1.25)--THE MIDGE. (12mo, $1.00)--IN PARTNERSHIP. With Brander
Matthews (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00).

“It is Mr. Bunner’s delicacy of touch and appreciation of what is
literary art that give his writings distinctive quality. Everything
Mr. Bunner paints shows the happy appreciation of an author who has
not alone mental discernment, but the artistic appreciation. The
author and the artist both supplement one another in this excellent
‘Story of a New York House.’”--_The New York Times._

_Frances Hodgson Burnett._

THAT LASS O’ LOWRIE’S. Illustrated (paper, 50 cents; cloth,
$1.25)--HAWORTH’S. Illustrated (12mo, $1.25)--THROUGH ONE
ADMINISTRATION. (12mo, $1.50)--LOUISIANA. (12mo, $1.25)--A FAIR
BARBARIAN. (12mo, $1.25)--SURLY TIM, and Other Stories (12mo,
$1.25).

_The above 6 vols., in uniform binding, $7.50 per set._

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY. Illustrated by R. B. Birch (Sq. 8vo,
$2.00)--SARA CREWE; or, What Happened at Miss Minchin’s. Illustrated
by R. B. Birch (Sq. 8vo, $1.00).

_Earlier Stories by the same author, each 16mo, paper covers._

LINDSAY’S LUCK (30 cts.)--PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON (40 cts.)--KATHLEEN
(40 cts.)--THEO (30 cts.)--MISS CRESPIGNY (30 cts.).

“Mrs. Burnett discovers gracious secrets in rough and forbidding
natures--the sweetness that often underlies their bitterness--the soul
of goodness in things evil. She seems to have an intuitive perception
of character. If we apprehend her personages, and I think we do
clearly, it is not because she describes them to us, but because they
reveal themselves in their actions. Mrs. Burnett’s characters are as
veritable as Thackeray’s.”--RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

_William Allen Butler._

DOMESTICUS. A Tale of the Imperial City (12mo, $1.25.).

“Under a veil made intentionally transparent, the author maintains a
running fire of good-natured hits at contemporary social follies.
There is a delicate love story running through the book. The author’s
style is highly finished. One might term it old-fashioned in its
exquisite choiceness and precision.”--_The New York Journal of
Commerce._

_George W. Cable._

THE GRANDISSIMES. (12mo, $1.25)--OLD CREOLE DAYS. (12mo, cloth,
$1.25; also in two parts, 16mo, cloth, each, 75 cts.; paper, each,
30 cts.)--DR. SEVIER. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25)--
BONAVENTURE. A Prose Pastoral of Acadian Louisiana (12mo, $1.25).

_The set, 4 vols., $5.00._

“There are few living American writers who can reproduce for us more
perfectly than Mr. Cable does, in his best moments, the speech, the
manners, the whole social atmosphere of a remote time and a peculiar
people. A delicious flavor of humor penetrates his stories, and the
tragic portions are handled with rare strength.”--_The New York
Tribune._

_Mary Mapes Dodge._

THEOPHILUS AND OTHERS. (12mo, $1.50.)

“Mrs. Dodge has a marked gift of being constantly entertaining. There
is a certain spiciness and piquancy of flavor in her work which
makes even the slightest things that come from her pen pleasant and
profitable reading.”--_The New York Evening Post._

_Edward Eggleston._

ROXY. Illustrated (12mo, $1.50)--THE CIRCUIT RIDER. Illustrated
(12mo, $1.50)--THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER. Illustrated (12mo,
$1.25)--THE MYSTERY OF METROPOLISVILLE. Illustrated (12mo,
$1.50)--THE END OF THE WORLD. Illustrated (12mo, $1.50).

_The set, 5 vols., $7.25._

“Dr. Eggleston’s career as a novelist has been a peculiar one. His
first work achieved a swift and unmistakable success. Its fresh and
vivid portraiture of a phase of life and manners, hitherto almost
unrepresented in literature; its boldly contrasted characters; its
unconventional, hearty, religious spirit, and its reflection of
the vigorous individuality of the author, took hold of the public
imagination.”--_The Christian Union._

_Erckmann-Chatrian._

FRIEND FRITZ--THE CONSCRIPT. Illustrated--WATERLOO. Illustrated
(Sequel to The Conscript)--MADAME THERESE--THE BLOCKADE OF
PHALSBURG. Illustrated--THE INVASION OF FRANCE IN 1814.
Illustrated--A MILLER’S STORY OF THE WAR. Illustrated.

_Each, 12mo, $1.25._

“Not only are these stories interesting historically, but
intrinsically they present pleasant, well-constructed plots, serving
in each case to connect the great events which they so graphically
treat.”--_The Philadelphia Inquirer._

_Harold Frederic._

SETH’S BROTHER’S WIFE. (12mo, $1.25.)

“A novel that stands out in clear relief against the fiction of the
time. It is made of tangible stuff, is serious without being heavy,
brisk and interesting without being flippant; takes hold of real
life with an easy yet firm and confident grasp that denotes judicial
habits of thought as well as a comfortable mastery of the literary
medium.”--_The Brooklyn Times._

_Robert Grant._

FACE TO FACE. (12mo, paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.25.)

“This is a well-told story, the interest of which turns upon a game of
cross purposes between an accomplished English girl, posing as a free
and easy American Daisy Miller, and an American gentleman, somewhat
given to aping the manners of the English.”--_The Buffalo Express._

_Edward Everett Hale._

PHILIP NOLAN’S FRIENDS. Illustrated (12mo, $1.75).

“There is no question, we think, that this is Mr. Hale’s completest
and best novel. The characters are for the most part well drawn, and
several of them are admirable.”--_The Atlantic Monthly._

_Marion Harland._

JUDITH: A Chronicle of Old Virginia. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
$1.00)--HANDICAPPED (12mo, $1.50).

“Fiction has afforded no more charming glimpses of old Virginia life
than are found in this delightful story, with its quaint pictures, its
admirably drawn characters, its wit, and its frankness.”--_The
Brooklyn Daily Times._

_Joel Chandler Harris._

FREE JOE, and Other Georgian Sketches. (12mo, $1.00.)

“The author’s skill as a story writer has never been more felicitously
illustrated than in this volume. The title story is meagre almost to
baldness in incident, but its quaint humor, its simple but broadly
outlined characters, and, above all, its touching pathos, combine to
make it a masterpiece of its kind.”--_The New York Sun._

_Augustus Allen Hayes._

THE JESUIT’S RING. A Romance of Mount Desert (12mo, paper, 50 cts.;
cloth, $1.00).

“The conception of the story is excellent. It indicates a scholarly
research, a sensitiveness to artistic literary effect, and a fine
power of selection in material.”--_The Boston Traveller._

_E. T. W. Hoffmann._

WEIRD TALES. With Portrait (12mo, 2 vols., $3.00).

“Hoffmann knew how to construct a ghost story quite as skilfully
as Poe, and with a good deal more sense of reality. All those who
are in search of a genuine literary sensation, or who care for the
marvelous and supernatural, will find these two volumes fascinating
reading.”--_The Christian Union._

_Dr. J. G. Holland._

SEVEN OAKS--THE BAY PATH--ARTHUR BONNICASTLE--MISS GILBERT’S
CAREER--NICHOLAS MINTURN.

_Each, 12mo, $1.25; the set, $6.25._

“Dr. Holland will always find a congenial audience in the homes of
culture and refinement. He does not affect the play of the darker and
fiercer passions, but delights in the sweet images that cluster around
the domestic hearth. He cherishes a strong fellow-feeling with the
pure and tranquil life in the modest social circles of the American
people, and has thus won his way to the companionship of many friendly
hearts.”--_The New York Tribune._

_Thomas A. Janvier._

COLOR STUDIES. (12mo, $1.00.)

“Piquant, novel, and ingenious, these little stories, with all their
simplicity, have excited a wide interest. The best of them, ‘Jaune
D’Antimoine,’ is a little wonder in its dramatic effect, its ingenious
construction.”--_The Critic._

_Virginia W. Johnson._

THE FAINALLS OF TIPTON. (12mo, $1.25.)

“The plot is good, and in its working-out original. Character drawing
is Miss Johnson’s recognized _forte_, and her pen-sketches of the
inventor, the checker-playing clergyman and druggist, the rising young
doctor, the sentimental painter, the rival grocers, etc., are quite up
to her best work.”--_The Boston Commonwealth._

_Lieut. J. D. J. Kelley._

A DESPERATE CHANCE. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.)

“This novel is of the good old-fashioned, exciting kind. Though it
is a sea story, all the action is not on board ship. There is a
well-developed mystery, and while it is in no sense sensational,
readers may be assured that they will not be tired out by analytical
descriptions, nor will they find a dull page from first to
last.”--_The Brooklyn Union._

_The King’s Men_:

A TALE OF TO-MORROW. By Robert Grant. John Boyle O’Reilly. J. S., of
Dale, and John T. Wheelwright. (12mo, $1.25.)

_Andrew Lang._

THE MARK OF CAIN. (12mo, paper, 25 cts.; cloth, 75 cts.)

“No one can deny that it is crammed as full of incident as it will
hold, or that the elaborate plot is worked out with most ingenious
perspicuity.”--_The Saturday Review._

_George P. Lathrop._

NEWPORT. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25)--AN ECHO OF PASSION.
(12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00)--IN THE DISTANCE. (12mo, paper,
50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.)

“It is one of the charms of Mr. Lathrop’s style that it appeals to the
imagination of the reader by a delicate suggestiveness, which lies
like a fine atmosphere over the landscape of the story. His novels
have the refinement of motive which characterize the analytical
school, but his manner is far more direct and dramatic.”--_The
Christian Union._

_Brander Matthews._

THE SECRET OF THE SEA, and Other Stories. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.;
cloth, $1.00)--THE LAST MEETING. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
$1.00)--IN PARTNERSHIP. With H. C. Bunner (12mo, paper, 50 cts.;
cloth, $1.00).

“Mr. Matthews is a man of wide observation and of much familiarity
with the world. His literary style is bright and crisp, with a
peculiar sparkle about it--wit and humor judiciously mingled--which
renders his pages more than ordinarily interesting.”--_The Rochester
Post-Express._

_Donald G. Mitchell._

DR. JOHNS. (12mo, $1.25.)

“The author finds scenes and characters enough in a single parish to
furnish the staple of the book. There are capital descriptions of
parish life, home scenes, love-making, hard cases, and saintly men and
women, their ways, habits; in short, all the warp and woof going to
make the texture of this isolated rural life. There are few writers in
this country who have ever surpassed the author in the description of
rural New England life.”--_The San Francisco Bulletin._

_Fitz-James O’Brien._

THE DIAMOND LENS, with Other Stories. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
$1.00.)

“These stories are the only things in literature to be compared with
Poe’s works, and if they do not equal it in workmanship, they
certainly do not yield to it in originality.”--_The Philadelphia
Record._

_Thomas Nelson Page._

IN OLE VIRGINIA--MARSE CHAN, and Other Stories. (12mo, $1.25.)

“There are qualities in these stories of Mr. Page which we do not find
in those of any other Southern author, or not to the same extent and
in the same force--and they are the qualities which are too often
wanting in modern literature.”--_N. Y. Mail and Express._

_Howard Pyle._

WITHIN THE CAPES. (12mo, $1.00.)

“Simplicity, earnestness, and directness are the appropriate qualities
of a tale supposed to be reeled by an old sea captain as he sits by
the chimney corner, stranded in a happy old age. The yarn proves to
possess all the wonderful elements of romance and adventure.”--_The
Boston Journal._

_Saxe Holm’s Stories._

FIRST SERIES.--Draxy Miller’s Dowry--The Elder’s Wife--Whose Wife Was
She?--The One-Legged Dancers--How One Woman Kept Her Husband--Esther
Wynn’s Love Letters.

SECOND SERIES.--Four-Leaved Clover--Farmer Bassett’s Romance--My
Tourmalene--Joe Hale’s Red Stocking--Susan Lawton’s Escape.

_Each, 12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00._

“Saxe Holm’s’ characters are strongly drawn, and she goes right to the
heart of human experience as one who knows the way. We heartily
commend them as vigorous, wholesome, and sufficiently exciting
stories.”--_The Advance._

_Julia Schayer._

TIGER LILY, and Other Stories. (12mo, $1.00.)

“Each of the fine short stories in the present collection is original
in subject and unique in treatment, and the story of ‘Tiger Lily’ is,
in its way, short as it is, a masterpiece.”--_The Critic._

_Robert Louis Stevenson._

STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE. (12mo, paper, 25 cts.;
cloth, $1.00)--KIDNAPPED. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00,
illustrated, $1.25)--THE MERRY MEN, and Other Tales and Fables.
(12mo, paper, 35 cts.; cloth, $1.00)--NEW ARABIAN NIGHTS. (12mo,
paper, 30 cts.; cloth, $1.00)--THE DYNAMITER. With Mrs. Stevenson
(12mo, paper, 30 cts.; cloth, $1.00).

“If there is any writer of the time about whom the critics of England
and America substantially agree it is Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson.
There is something in his work, precisely what, it is not easy to say,
which engages and fixes the attention from the first page to the last,
which shapes itself before the mind’s eye while reading, and which
refuses to be forgotten long after the book which revealed it has been
closed and put away.”--_The New York Mail and Express._

_J. S., of Dale._

GUERNDALE. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.25)--THE CRIME OF HENRY
VANE. (12mo, $1.00)--THE SENTIMENTAL CALENDAR. Head Pieces by F. G.
Attwood (12mo, $2.00).

“The author of that very bright, witty, and audacious story,
‘Guerndale,’ has written another, ‘The Crime of Henry Vane,’ which is
just as witty in many of its chapters and has more of a ‘purpose’ in
its whole structure. No young novelist in this country seems better
equipped than Mr. Stimson is. He shows unusual gifts in this and in
his other stories.”--_The Philadelphia Bulletin._

_Frank R. Stockton._

RUDDER GRANGE. (12mo, paper, 60 cts.; cloth, $1.25; illustrated by A.
B. Frost. Sq. 12mo, $2.00)--THE LATE MRS. NULL. (12mo, $1.25)--THE
LADY. OR THE TIGER? and Other Stories. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth,
$1.25)--THE CHRISTMAS WRECK, and Other Stories. (12mo, paper, 50
cts.; cloth, $1.25)--THE BEE-MAN OF ORN, and Other Fanciful Tales.
(12mo, cloth, $1.25.)

“Of Mr. Stockton’s stories what is there to say, but that they are an
unmixed blessing and delight? He is surely one of the most inventive
of talents, discovering not only a new kind in humor and fancy,
but accumulating an inexhaustible wealth of details in each fresh
achievement, the least of which would be riches from another
hand.”--W. D. HOWELLS, _in Harper’s Magazine_.

_Stories by American Authors._

_Cloth, 16mo, 50c. each; set, 10 vols., $5.00; cabinet ed., in sets
only, $7.50. Circulars describing the series sent on application to
the publishers._

“The public ought to appreciate the value of this series, which is
preserving permanently in American literature short stories that
have contributed to its advancement. American writers lead all
others in this form of fiction, and their best work appears in these
volumes.”--_The Boston Globe._

_T. R. Sullivan._

ROSES OF SHADOW. (12mo, $1.00.)

“The characters of the story have a remarkable vividness and
individuality--every one of them--which mark at once Mr. Sullivan’s
strongest promise as a novelist. All of his men are excellent. John
Musgrove, the grimly pathetic old beau, sometimes reminds us of a
touch of Thackeray.”--_The Cincinnati Times-Star._

_John T. Wheelwright._

A CHILD OF THE CENTURY. (12mo, paper, 50 cts.; cloth, $1.00.)

“This is one of the most thoroughly enjoyable novels that has been
published for a long time. It is a story of to-day, of American life
and character; a typical story of political and social life, free from
cynicism or morbid realism, and brimming over with good-natured fun,
which is never vulgar.”--_The Christian at Work._

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.