  So quickly did Jenny, aided by her impetuous lover, effect the transfer of her business, that she was out of it before Christmas Day. The basket-maker's wife had the benefit of the holiday custom, and the ex-proprietors the pleasant consciousness of having laboured successfully, in every sense of the word, and being now entitled to that rest and recreation which only those who have worked well can appreciate. They were all glad to be free. They had not realised the severity of the constant strain until it was removed, and wondered that people who could spend their days as they pleased were not more grateful for the privilege. "And now," said Anthony, "I want you all to be my guests for Christmas. A friend has lent me his yacht, and we will go for a cruise wherever you like—inside the Bay or outside—according to how you stand it. Sarah is looking thin—she wants taking right out of this air; and the mother will not be the worse for a sea blow after living at the oven-mouth so long. Tell Joe to bring a mate—any male friend he likes. I have invited one of my own—a very good fellow—who wants to know you. Jenny, is a day long enough to get ready in? You don't want any finery." "Quite," she replied, for she had been previously acquainted with this plan for enabling him and her to enjoy long days together; and she set to work to pack for the family with her business-like promptitude. While thus engaged she was called into their little parlour to receive a visit from Mr. Churchill. The old gentleman presented himself in his most benevolent aspect, bearing a bouquet of flowers; and, while Jenny could hardly speak for blushing gratitude, he asked her if she would give an old man a kiss, and secured her doting affection for ever by that gracious recognition of her new rights. "And so you are going to be my daughter," he said, patting her head. "Well, well!" "I know I am unworthy of him," murmured Jenny. "Oh, not at all! Just at first, perhaps——But then fathers are old fools. They never do think anything good enough for their children. I am quite pleased, my dear—quite satisfied and pleased. I am proud of my son for making such a choice. He has looked for true worth, rather than a brilliant match. Not many young men in his position have the discernment, the—a—what shall I say?" "I have no worth," repeated Jenny, who really thought so, "compared with him. I know I am not fit for him." "Tut, tut! He says differently, and so do I. It's your gallant conduct since your father's death, my dear—that's what it is. And I'm proud of my boy, to think he can fall in love for such a cause. He's got a bit of his mother in him—a good seed that hasn't been choked with riches and—and so on. The more I think of it the more I approve of him. We had an idea of marrying him to a lady of title, and making a great swell of him; but there—it's best as it is. A good wife is above rubies, doesn't the Bible say?—something like it—a crown to her husband, eh? You'll make a good wife, I'll warrant, and, after all, that's the main thing." "I will indeed," declared Jenny solemnly, "if love and trying can do it—though I shall never be good enough for him." "Oh, he's not an angel, any more than other men; I know that, though he is my son, and a good son too. You mustn't disparage yourself, Sally—isn't your name Sally?—no, Jenny, of course—nice, old-fashioned name. You are his equal, as I have been telling Mrs. Churchill—but these young ladies go so much by appearances—his equal in all but money, which anybody can have, and no credit to him. Your father was"—she thought he was going to say an "Eton boy," but he spared her—"a true gentleman, my dear, upright and honourable, the sort of man to breed good stock—if you'll excuse the phrase—the sort of blood one needn't be afraid to see in one's children's children. But there, I won't keep you. You are getting ready for your little trip? I wish you a happy Christmas, my dear, and a happy married life, you and him together, and—and—and I hope you'll look on me as your father, my dear——" Emotion overpowered him, and a second kiss, warmer than the first, concluded the interview. Jenny let him out of the house, and then ran upstairs to tell her anxious sister that Anthony's father transcended the winged seraphs for goodness. And Mr. Churchill returned to Toorak with a swelling breast, to keep a careful silence towards his wife as to what he had been doing. For Maude had declared that nothing should ever induce her to recognise "that person" whom Tony had chosen to pick out of the gutter; and her outraged family abetted her in this resolve. The yacht sailed on Christmas Eve, with a party of seven in addition to the crew; and Jenny had her first taste of the luxury that was thenceforth to be her portion. She found herself a little queen on board. Mr. Danesbury was introduced to her at the gangway, and rendered a quiet homage that Maude and Lady Louisa, on the previous cruise, had looked for at his hands in vain. Jarvis was there, in the capacity of cabin steward, and was called up to be introduced to her as his future mistress; and Jarvis waited on her as only he could wait, anticipating her little wants and wishes before she had time to form them. He had felt that, in the course of nature, he must have a mistress some day, if he remained in his present service; and, from a first impression that she might have been worse, he gradually adopted his master's view that she could hardly have been better, and treated her accordingly. "The best servant in the country," Anthony said to her. "And I think we'll take him with us on our travels. You'd find him fifty times more useful than a maid. When we come back and set up housekeeping, he is to be our butler." Jenny smiled at the prospect. "How absurd it is!" she ejaculated. "I don't see it," said Tony. "I suppose not," she rejoined. Lest unseasoned persons should have their appetites interfered with, the yacht did not venture outside the Heads, but cruised about in quiet waters, touching now and then at little piers, for the variation of a shore ramble or a picnic in the scrub; and it was a beautiful time. Adam Danesbury and Sarah became great friends. She talked to him by the hour of the virtues of her beloved sister, and he to her of the equal excellencies of Miss Lennox; topics of interest that never palled upon them. Mrs. Liddon was happy, knitting a shawl for Jenny's trousseau, and losing herself in sensational novels, and getting "wrinkles," as she called them, from the very swell cook who daily concocted dishes that she had never so much as heard of. If there was a fly in the sweet ointment of her satisfaction, it lay in the fact that Joey was not taken much notice of. But Mr. Churchill was not interested in Joey, and had invited the friend on purpose to relieve himself of the obligation to take much notice. The young men had each other's company, together with tobacco, books, cards, chess, and Jarvis to bring them cool drinks when they were thirsty; what could junior clerks require more? Joey was a very good boy on this occasion, very subdued and inoffensive, keeping all his swagger until he should return to the office to tell of his doings and the high company he had kept; and he was undeniably a handsome youth, with the proper bearing of a gentleman. But his sex was against him. Crippled Sarah, wizened and sallow, was infinitely more interesting to the distinguished host Between him and her a very strong bond existed. And, as he had foreseen, the yachting arrangement was perfect for lovers on whose behalf every other member of the party was minded to be unobtrusive and discreet. What days were those that he and Jenny had together in the first bloom of their courtship! What fresh sea-mornings, in which to feel young blood coursing to the tune of the salt wind and the bubble of the seething wake! What dream-times under the awning in the tempered heat, with soft cushions and poetry books! What rambles on the lonely shores, and rests in ti-tree arbours, and talks and companionship that grew daily fuller and deeper, and more and more intimate and satisfying! In the quiet evenings four people sat down to whist round the lamp in the little cabin, and the fifth dozed over her knitting, so that the remaining two had the deck to themselves, and the romantic hours to revel in undisturbed. Then Tony smoked a little because Jenny wished it, and she leaned on his arm as they paced to and fro; and they opened those sacred chambers of thought which are kept locked in the daytime, and acquainted each other with dim feelings and aspirations that expressed themselves in sympathetic silences better than in speech. Thus did they grow together so closely that Jenny's wedding-day came to her with no shock of change or fear. After the Christmas cruise he called to see her at all hours—to disturb her at her flying needlework, which she would slave at, in spite of him—making her own "things" to save expense, as if expense mattered; nightly taking her down to St Kilda for that blow on the pier which still refreshed her more than anything. And very soon they saw the mail boat come in—the very mail boat in which he had taken berths for their wedding journey. As they watched her passing in the falling dusk, they recalled their first meeting in that place—how very few mails had arrived since then, and what stupendous things had happened in the interval! "What a funk you were in!" said Tony, laying his big hand over the small one on his arm. "Poor little mite! You took me for a gay devil walking about seeking whom I might devour, didn't you? What would you have thought if you had known I had followed you all the way—stalked you like a cat after a mouse—eh?" "You didn't, Tony!" "I did, sweetheart. It was Sarah put me up to it." "Sarah! I won't believe such a thing of my sister." "Ask her, then. Sarah understood me a long time before you did. And I made a vow that I'd repay her for that good turn, and I haven't done it yet. What do you think she would like best?" "I know what she would like," said Jenny wistfully. "To go abroad with us. It has been the dream of her life." "Not this time, pet. Next time she shall. This time I must have only you, and you must have only me. Besides, she wouldn't go, not if you went on your knees to her. She knows better. She's a deal cleverer than you are—in some things." "I know she is. Poor Sally! And she might have been like me, with everything heart can wish for! Mother says she was a finer baby than I—beautifully formed and healthy; but she had an accident that hurt her back—a fall. And so all the sweetness of life has been taken from her, while I—I am overwhelmed with it." "Not all," said Tony. "We shall make her happy between us." "If she can't have this," said Jenny, pressing his arm, "she can't know what happiness means." He drew the warm hand up, and kissed the tips of her fingers, on which gloves were never allowed on these occasions. "I foresee," he said gravely, "that I shall have to beat you and refuse to give you money for new bonnets, to make you realise that your little feet are standing on the earth, Jenny, and not on the clouds of heaven." They were married in February, that they might have a quiet month before sailing in March. Mrs. Rogerson wanted to undertake the wedding, but was politely informed that there was to be no wedding; and there was none in her sense. Jenny went out for a walk with her mother and sister, and Anthony went out for a walk with Adam Danesbury; old Mr. Churchill and his daughter Mary, who happened to be staying with him, took a hansom from the office, Joey having been released from his desk therein; and these people met together for a few minutes, transacted their business briefly, and adjourned to the CafÉ Anglais for lunch; after which the bride and bridegroom, being already dressed for travel, with their baggage at the station, fared forth into the wide world. Thus ended the tea-room enterprise. And I don't know whether the moral of Jenny's story is bad or good. It depends on the point of view. Virtue, of course, ought to be its own reward—at any rate, it should seek no other; and there are people who think a husband no reward at all, under any circumstances, but quite the contrary. For myself, I regard a rich marriage as rather a vulgar sort of thing, and by no means the proper goal of a good girl's ambitions. Also, however well a marriage may begin, nobody can foretell how it will eventually turn out. It is a matter of a thousand compromises, take it at its best, and all we can say of it is that there is nothing above it in the scale of human satisfactions. That I will maintain as beyond a doubt, because it is the dictum of nature, who is the mother of all wisdom. She says that even an unlucky marriage, which is a living martyrdom, is better than none, but that a marriage like that which arose out of Jenny's tea-room is a door to the sanctuary of the temple of life, never opened to the undeserving—the nearest approach to happiness that has been discovered at present. Yes—although, without beating her or keeping her short of pocket-money, the husband necessarily makes his wife feel that the earth is her habitation and the clouds of heaven many miles away. THE END.Warwick House E. H. STRAIN
"Quite the best historical novel of the day."—The Sketch. "A powerful and impressive historical novel.... A chronicle of intense and unflagging interest."—Daily Telegraph. "'A Man's Foes' is the best historical novel that we have had since Mr. Conan Doyle published 'Micah Clarke.' ... One of the most picturesque, dramatic and absorbing historical romances we have read for a long day.... An exceptionally fine romance."—Daily Chronicle. SHAN F. BULLOCK
"This is a charming book, and affords quite the best picture of Irish rural life that we have ever come across."—The AthenÆum. "It is an Irish 'Thrums,' in which the character is drawn as straight from life as in Mr. Barrie's delightful annals of Kirriemuir."—The Sketch. GUY BOOTHBY
"A more lively, romantic and amazing bit of fiction than 'The Beautiful White Devil' it would be hard to indicate.... It is full of surprise and fascination for the fiction-lover, and is worthy of the reputation of the creator of the famous Nikola." By the same Author
"He never allows the interest to drop from first page to the last.... The plot is highly ingenious, and when once it has fairly thickened, exciting to a degree."—The Times. "It is impossible to give any idea of the verve and brightness with which the story is told. Mr. Boothby may be congratulated on having produced about the most original novel of the year."—Manchester Courier. By the same Author
"A capital novel of its kind—the sensational adventurous. It has the quality of life and stir, and will carry the reader with curiosity unabated to the end."—The World. By the same Author
"A story full of action, life, and dramatic interest.... There is a vigour and a power of illusion about it that raises it quite above the level of the ordinary novel of adventure."—Manchester Guardian. BERTRAM MITFORD
Readers who wish to have a realistic picture of the South African life, concerning which recent events have aroused such interest, should not fail to get Mr. Mitford's new work. It brings the whole scene before the reader's eye with startling vividness, and is an intensely interesting story as well. By the same Author
"Telling us wonderful incidents of inter-racial warfare, of ambuscades, sieges, surprises, and assaults almost without number.... A thoroughly exciting story, full of bright descriptions and stirring episodes."—The Daily Telegraph. By the same Author
"We have seldom come across a more thrilling narrative. From start to finish Mr. Milford secures unflagging attention."—Leeds Mercury. MAX PEMBERTON
"The most interesting and entrancing 'mystery' stories that have appeared since the publication of the doings of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."—The Literary World. "Mr. Pemberton has attempted a great deal more than to give mere plots and police cases, and he has succeeded in capturing our attention, and never letting it go, from the first story to the last."—The Bookman. ARTHUR MORRISON
"Most people like tales of this sort, ... and no one writes them better than Mr. Morrison does. The narratives are written not only with ingenuity, but with conviction, which is, perhaps, even the more valuable quality."—Globe. By the same Author
"Certainly the most ingenious and entertaining of the numerous successors of Sherlock Holmes. There is not one of the stories in this collection that is not ingeniously constructed and cleverly written."—The Academy. FRANCIS PREVOST
"A series of nine fin de siÈcle stories of great power and picturesqueness.... A more appalling tale than 'A Ghost of the Sea' has not been recounted for many years past, nor have the tragical potentialities of modern life, as lived by people of culture and refinement, been more graphically illustrated than in 'Grass upon the Housetops,' 'The Skirts of Chance,' and 'False Equivalents.' As word-pictures they are simply masterpieces."—Daily Telegraph. By the same Author
Mr. Francis Prevost has as pretty a gift for style as any living writer. He touches often upon serious problems, but always with so graceful a touch that his books seem the lightest of reading. Each story is as distinct as an etching. The characters are alive, and the dialogue is witty and diverting. There is not a tale in the book which has not sparkle and spice. HENRY KINGSLEY
"Henry Kingsley was born to wear the purple of romance.... Where will any one who is ordinary and sane find better comradeship? Scarcely outside the novels of Walter Scott.... Messrs. Ward, Lock & Bowden's edition of this despotic and satisfying romancer is cheap, and well printed, and comfortable to hold. Those who love Kingsley will love him again and better for this edition, and those who have not loved have a joy in store that we envy them."—The National Observer. "To Mr. Clement Shorter and to the publishers the unreserved thanks of the public are warmly due; there can be no finer mission from the world of fiction to the world of fact than the putting forth of these ennobling novels afresh and in a fitting form."—The Daily Chronicle. "To renew your acquaintance with Henry Kingsley is for Henry Kingsley to stand forth victorious all along the line. His work, in truth, is moving and entertaining now as it was moving and entertaining thirty odd years ago."—The Pall Mall Gazette. ETHEL TURNER
"Ought to capture hearts young and old as 'Helen's Babies' captured them—a book which both children and adults will love."—The Queen. By the same Author
"Its charm consists in its simple and natural style, its mingled fun and pathos, and in the delineation of the characters."—The Standard. By the same Author
"A very fetching little story."—The New Budget. "'The Story of a Baby' is charmingly written."—Scotsman. By the same Author
The opening story, "The Little Duchess," is one of the most charming pieces of work Miss Turner has ever done. A prettier and more pathetic story has seldom been written. Some of the other stories in the book run over with humour, and reveal Miss Turner in quite a new vein. To readers who are weary of "problem-studies" and sex-stories—readers who want to be delighted and amused—the volume will afford infinite pleasure. OUTRAM TRISTRAM
"Both stories are well written in faultless English, and display a knowledge of history, a careful study of character, and a fine appreciation of a dramatic point, all too rare in these days of slipshod fiction."—National Observer. FRANCIS HINDES GROOME
"Seemingly at one bound Mr. Groome has taken rank among the most promising novelists of the day, so full is 'Kriegspiel' of interest, of stirring incident, and of vivid and varied sketches of men and manners from contemporary English life."—The Illustrated London News. "As regards the pictures of gipsy life, the book is full of touches which could only have come from a writer who has had intimate personal contact with the Romanies, and who was at the same time deeply versed in their traditional lore.... As a gipsy novel, as a novel depicting gipsy life, 'Kriegspiel' is unrivalled."—The AthenÆum. GEORGE MEREDITH
"'The Tale of Chloe' is one of the gems of English fiction.... We question whether, even in Mr. Meredith's rich array of female characters, there is any more lovable than Chloe."—Daily Telegraph. By the same Author
"One of the most brilliant of all George Meredith's novels."—The Speaker. EDITH JOHNSTONE
"Mr. W. T. Stead, in his article on 'Women Novelists,' writes of 'its intrinsic merit, its originality and its pathos, its distinctively woman's outlook on life, and the singular glow and genius of its author.' ... Lotus is a distinct creation—vivid, life-like, and original" (Review of Reviews). NORA VYNNE
"Not only do they abound in literary merit, but in thrilling interest, and there is not one of them that is not instinct with intense and veracious humanity."—Daily Telegraph. "Irresistibly amusing, full of character, humour, truth, with much underlying pathos."—The World. By the same Author
"A bright and racy little story.... This charming and meritorious story."—Literary World. "The story is as clever and as witty as previous works by Miss Vynne,"—The Scotsman. CAPTAIN CHARLES KING
"A rattling good story.... Keeps one interested and amused from first to last."—Pall Mall Gazette. "A story of border warfare, so interesting that it is hard to lay it down.... A very well-written story, full of keen interest and fine character."—Guardian. THOMAS NELSON PAGE
"Pathos and humour are mingled with singular felicity.... Few will read 'Marse Chan' with dry eyes."—Leeds Mercury. By the same Author
"Very beautiful and touching.... It is a heroic book, and also a most pathetic one,"—The Guardian. |
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