 
Annette had been waked early by two young swallows which had flown into her room, and had circled swiftly round it with sharp, ecstatic cries, and then had sped out again into the dawn. She dressed, and went noiselessly into the garden, and then wandered into the long meadows that stretched in front of the house. The low slanting sunshine was piercing the mist which moved slowly along the ground, and curled up into the windless air like smoke. The dew was on everything. She wondered the blades of grass could each bear such a burden of it. Every spider's web in the hedgerow, and what numbers there seemed, all of a sudden had become a glistening silver-beaded pocket. Surely no fly, however heedless, would fly therein. And everywhere the yellow tips of the groundsel had expanded into tiny white fluffy balls of down, strewing the empty fields, floating with the floating mist. But though it was early, the little world of Riff was astir. In the distance she could hear the throb of the mill, and close at hand across the lane two great yellow horses were solemnly pacing an empty clover-field, accompanied by much jingling of machinery and a boyish whistle. Men with long rakes were drawing the weeds into heaps, and wreaths of smoke mingled with the mist. The thin fires leaped and crackled, the pale flames hardly wavering in the still, sunny air. Instinctively Annette's steps turned towards the sound of the mill. She crossed the ford by the white stepping-stones, dislodging a colony of ducks preening themselves upon the biggest stone, and followed the willow-edged stream to the mill. There had been rain in the night, and the little Rieben chafed and girded against the mill-race. She watched it, as a year ago she had watched the Seine chafe against its great stone bastions. The past rose before her at the sight and sound of the water, and the crinkling and circling of the eddies of yellow foam. How unendurable her life had seemed to her on that day! And now to-day life was valueless. Once again it had been shattered like glass. She had been cast forth then. Now she was cast forth once more. She had made herself a little niche, crept into a crevice where she had thought no angel with a flaming sword would From where she stood she looked past the mill to the released and pacified water circling round the village, and then stretching away, silver band beyond silver band, in the direction of Riebenbridge. The sun had vanquished the mist, and lay warmly on the clustered cottages and the grey church tower, and on the old red and blue faÇade of Hulver among its hollies. And very high up above it all stretched a sky of tiny shredded clouds like a flock of a thousand thousand sheep. How tranquil it all was, and how closely akin to her, how fraught with mysterious meaning!—as the kind meadows and trees ever do seem fraught where we have met Love, even the Love that is unequal, and presently passes away. She must leave it all, and she must part with Roger. She had thought of him as her husband. She had thought of the children she should bear him. She looked at the water with eyes as tearless as a year ago, and saw her happiness pass like a bubble on its surface, break like the iridescent bubble that it is on life's rough river. But the water held no temptation for her to-day. She had passed the place where we are intolerant of burdens. She saw that they are the common lot. Roger and Janey had borne theirs in patience and in silence and She felt no anger to-day, no bitter sense of humiliation, but her heart ached for Roger. Something in her needed him, needed him. There was no romance now as she had once known it, no field of lilies under a new moon. Her love for Roger had gone deeper, where all love must go, if it is to survive its rainbow youth. She had thought she had found an abiding city in Roger's heart. But he had let her leave him without a word after her confession. He had not called her back. He had not written to her since. "I am not good enough for him," said Annette to herself. "That is the truth. He and Janey are too far above me." She longed for a moment that the position might have been reversed, that it might have been she who was too good for Roger—only it was unthinkable. But if he had been under some cloud, then she knew that they would not have had to part. She had reached the stile where the water meadows begin, and instinctively she stood still Across the empty field thin smoke wreaths came drifting. Here too they had been burning the weeds. At her feet, at the water's edge, blue eyes of forget-me-not peered suddenly at her. It had no right to be in flower now. She stooped over the low bank, holding by a twisted willow branch, and reached it and put it in her bosom. And as she looked at it, it seemed to Annette that in some forgotten past she had wandered in a great peace by a stream such as this, a kind understanding stream, and she had gathered a spray of forget-me-not such as this, and had put it in her bosom, and she had met beside the stream one that loved her: and all had been well, exceeding well. A great peace enfolded her, as a mother enfolds Along the narrow path by the water's edge Roger was coming: now dimly seen through the curling smoke, now visible in the sunshine. Annette felt no surprise at seeing him. She had not heard of his return, but she knew now that she had been waiting for him. He came up to her and then stopped. Neither held out a hand, as they looked gravely at each other. Then he explained something about having missed the last train from Ipswich, and how he had slept there, and had come out to Riebenbridge by the first train this morning. "I have the will," he said, and touched his breast. And his eyes passed beyond her to the familiar picture he knew so well, of Riff beyond the river, and the low church tower, and the old house among the trees. He looked long at it all, and Annette saw that his inheritance was his first thought. It seemed to her natural. There were many, many women in the world, but only one Hulver. His honest, tired face quivered. "I owe it to you," he said. She did not answer. She turned with him, and they went a few steps in silence; and if she had not been wrapt away from all pain, I think she must have been wounded by his choosing that moment to tell her that the notary had "Annette," he said, "of course you understood about my not writing to you, because I ought to have written." Annette said faintly, as all women must say, that she had understood. No doubt she had, but not in the sense which he imagined. "I owe it all to you," he said again, "but I shouldn't have any happiness in it unless I had you too. Annette, will you marry me?" She shook her head. But there would be no marriages at all if men took any notice of such bagatelles as that. Roger pressed stolidly forward. "I had not time to say anything the other day," he said, hurrying over what even he realized was thin ice. "You were gone all in a flash. But—but, Annette, nothing you said then makes any change in my feeling for you. I wanted to marry you before, and I want to marry you now." "Didn't they—the doctor and the notary—didn't they tell you when you saw my signature that I was—guilty?" "Yes," said Roger firmly, "they did. The doctor spoke of you with great respect, but he did think so. But you have told me you were not. That is enough for me. Will you marry me, Annette?" "You are good, Roger," she said, looking at him with a great tenderness,—"good all through. That is why you think I am good too. But the will remains. My signature to it remains. That must be known when the will is proved. Mrs. Stoddart says so. She said my good name must suffer. I am afraid if I married you that you and Janey would be the only two people in Riff who would believe that I was innocent." "And is not my belief enough?" She looked at him with love unspeakable. "It is enough for me," she said, "but not for you. You would not be happy, or only for a little bit, not for long, with a wife whom every one, every one from the Bishop to the cowman, believed to be Dick's cast-off mistress." Roger set his teeth, and became his usual plum colour. "We would live it down." "No," she said. "That is the kind of thing that is never lived down—at least, not in places like this. I know enough to know that." He knew it too. He knew it better than she did. He got the will slowly out of his pocket and opened it. They looked together at her "Oh! Annette," he said, with a groan. "Why did you sign it?" "I did it to please Dick," she said. Across the water the church bell called to an early service. Roger looked once more at his little world, grown shadowy and indistinct in a veil of smoke. It seemed as if his happiness were fading and eddying away into thin air with the eddies of blue smoke. "We must part," said Annette. "I am sure you see that." The forget-me-not fell from her bosom, and she let it lie. He looked back at her. He had become very pale. "I see one thing," he said fiercely, "and that is that I can't live without you, and what is more, I don't mean to. If you will marry me, I'll stand the racket about the scandal. Hulver is no good to me without you. My life is no good to me without you. If you won't marry me, I'll marry no one, so help me God. If you won't take me, I shall never have any happiness at all. So now you know!—with your talk of parting." She did not answer. She stooped and picked up the forget-me-not again, and put it back in her bosom. Perhaps she thought that was an answer. "Annette," he said slowly, "do you care "Yes." "It will come very hard on you, Annette." "I don't mind." "I shan't be able to shield you from evil tongues. There is not a soul in the village that won't end by knowing, sooner or later. And they think all the world of you now. Can you bear all this—for my sake?" "Yes." "And yet you're crying, Annette." "I was thinking about the aunts. They will feel it so dreadfully, and so will Mrs. Nicholls. I'm very fond of Mrs. Nicholls." He caught her to him and kissed her passionately. "Do you never think of yourself?" he stammered. "You chucked your name away to please poor Dick. And you're ready to marry me and brave it out—to please me." "You are enough for me, Roger." She clung to him. He trembled exceedingly, and wrenched himself away from her. "Am I? Am I enough? A man who would put you through such a thing, even if you're willing, Annette. You stick at nothing. You're willing. But—by God—I'm not." She looked dumbly at him, with anguish in her violet eyes. She thought he was going to discard her after all. "I thought I wanted Hulver more than anything in the world," he said wildly, tearing the will out of his pocket, "but the price is too high. My wife's good name. I won't pay it. Annette, I will not pay it." And he strode to the nearest bonfire and flung the will into it. The smoke eddied, and blew suddenly towards them. The fire hesitated a moment, and then, as Annette gazed stupefied, a little flame curled busily along the open sheet. Before he knew she had moved, she had rushed past him, and had thrust her hands into the fire and torn out the burning paper. The flame ran nimbly up her arm, devouring her thin sleeve, and he had only just time to beat it out with his hands before it reached her hair. He drew her out of the smoke and held her forcibly. She panted hard, sobbing a little. The will gripped tight in her hand was pressed against her breast and his. "Annette!" he said hoarsely, over and over again. Still holding the will fast, she drew away from him, and opened it with trembling, bleeding fingers, staining the sheet. "It is safe," she said. "It's safe. It's only scorched. You can see the writing quite clear through the brown. Look, Roger, but you mustn't touch it. I can't trust you to touch Roger drew in his breath, and looked at the blood-smeared, smoke-stained page. "It is all right now," he said in a strangled voice. And then he suddenly fell on his knees and hid his convulsed face in her gown. "You mustn't cry, Roger. And you mustn't kiss the hem of my gown. Indeed, you mustn't. It makes me ashamed. Nor my hands: they're quite black. Oh! how my poor Roger cries!" THE END Printed by Morrison & Gibb Limited, Edinburgh BY THE SAME AUTHOR MOTH AND RUST Together with Geoffrey's Wife and the Pitfall 2s. 6d. net " ... A fine story, admirably told."—World. "The best short stories written in English that we have read."—Times. " ... Admirable alike as a story and as a presentation of human character.... We must not give away too many of the details of a story which, besides being well put together, is exceptionally well written."—Globe. "Miss Cholmondeley's new book will distinctly add to an already high reputation.... We have rarely met in recent fiction two more thoroughly real and convincing characters than Lady Anne Varney and Wilson the millionaire.... It is rare indeed that any one displays so great an aptitude for the long and the short story, and Miss Cholmondeley can be heartily congratulated on her success in this volume."—Pall Mall Gazette. "A delectable story. 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" ... an admirable selection of noble and inspiring thoughts."—Westminster Gazette. " ... delightful little volume ... one can find nothing but praise for a happy idea so admirably carried out"—Ladies' Field.
Mr. Taylor's work is at once an absorbing record of personal adventure, and a real contribution to history, for it presents to us, from the pen of a principal actor, the most complete account we have of a great blockade in the early days of steam. As a picture of exciting escapes, of coolness and resource at moments of acute danger, of well-calculated risks, boldly accepted and obstinately carried through, it has few rivals in sea story.
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This is the great missionary-explorer's own narrative of his first travel experiences in Africa, and consists chiefly of a full account of his wonderful journeys in the years 1849-1856, in the course of which he discovered the Victoria Falls, and crossed the continent from west to east. Many books have been written on the subject of Livingstone and his travels, but all who are interested in the greatest of African travellers should read this record.
Through this little book runs the road of life, the common road of men, the white highway that Hilarius watched from the monastery gate and Brother Ambrose saw nearing its end in the Jerusalem of his heart. The book is a romance. It may be read as a romance of the Black Death and a monk with an artist's eye; but for the author it is a romance of the Image of God.
"We should not know where to stop if we were to attempt to notice all that is instructive and interesting in this volume. It will be found equally interesting to students of human nature, to engineers, to astronomers, and even to archÆologists. Among other merits, there are few books which could be put with more advantage into a young man's hands, as affording an example of the qualities which conduce to legitimate success in work."—The Quarterly Review.
Mr. T. P. O'Connor in the Daily Mail says:—"I turned over the leaves rapidly, almost greedily, and had read almost all its story before I could allow myself to sleep.... It is a loud cry, not merely of one intoxicated and torn heart, but of the claim of inner and true emotion to be still the greatest force of life; the one thing worth having—worth living for, longing for, dying for."
Sir John Tenniel's beautiful illustrations are a notable feature of this edition of "the most popular moral and political class-book of more than two thousand years." The Fables have been re-translated chiefly from original sources, and are printed in a clear and attractive type. They are accompanied by a scholarly and interesting introductory sketch of the life of Æsop and the history of the Fables.
This sporting classic is a fascinating first-hand narrative of hunting expeditions in pursuit of big game and adventures with native tribes. A special interest now attaches to it by reason of the great changes which have come over the "scene of the lion hunter's" exploits in a comparatively short space of time—in districts where his was the first white man's foot to tread, our armies marched and fought in the late South African War, and prosperous towns are now established.
Written in the form of letters to her sister, this book gives practically the author's day to day experiences during journeys of over one hundred and four thousand miles in Japan. Mrs. Bird was the first European lady to visit many of the places described, and her journeys took place at what is perhaps the most interesting period of the country's history, when she was just beginning to awake to the glow of Western civilisation. As a faithful and realistic description of Old Japan by one of the most remarkable Englishwomen of her day, this book has an abiding interest.
Sir Mountstuart Grant Duff, besides being a distinguished public-servant, was a popular member of society with a genius for gathering and recording good stories. In his series of "Notes from a Diary" he jotted down the best things he heard, and thereby made some very enjoyable volumes, which in cheaper guise will repeat and increase the success they gained in their more expensive form.
This edition contains the unaltered text of the original issue: with the addition of some Suppressed Episodes printed only in the Editions issued by Mr. Murray; MS. Variorum, Vocabulary, and Notes by the late Professor W. I. Knapp.
An historical sketch of the lineage of our Authorised Version, which was published in 1901 under the title of "The Evolution of the English Bible." The aim of the sketch is to give, in a continuous and narrative form, a history of our English translations, and to exhibit them in close connection with the story of the national life.
Published by authority of his Majesty King Edward VII. This edition is not abridged, but is the complete and revised text of the original.
The first edition of Darwin's "Origin of Species" has now passed out of copyright. It should, however, be clearly understood that the edition which thus loses its legal protection is the imperfect edition which the author subsequently revised and which was accordingly superseded. This, the complete and authorised edition of the work, will not lose copyright for some years. The only complete editions authorised by Mr. Darwin and his representatives are those published by Mr. Murray.
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In spite of the countless books which have appeared on the Peninsular War, this great work has preserved its popularity as a standard book on the subject for over half a century and still holds its own when most rivals, which have appeared since, have faded into oblivion.
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The success of this book must constitute a record in modern sermonic literature. There can be no question, however, that its success is due to its own intrinsic value. Cultured and scholarly, and yet simple and luminous, eloquent in tone and graceful in diction, practical and stimulating, it is far and away the best exposition of the Sermon on the Mount that has yet appeared.
"The House of Quiet" is an autobiography, and something more—a series of very charming essays on people and life—particularly rural life. The writer has placed himself in the chair of an invalid, an individual possessed of full mental vigour and free from bodily pain, but compelled by physical weakness to shirk the rough and tumble of a careless, unheeding, work-a-day world. Cheerfully accepting the inevitable, he betakes himself to a little temple of solitude, where he indulges himself in mild criticism and calm philosophy, exercising a gift of keen observation to the full, but setting down all that comes within his ken, with quaint and tolerant humour and tender whimsicalness. He writes with a pen dipped in the milk of human kindness, and the result is a book to read time and again.
The Guardian says:—"The style of the writing is equally simple and yet dignified; from beginning to end an ease of movement charms the reader. The book is abundantly suggestive.... The work is that of a scholar and a thinker, quick to catch a vagrant emotion, and should be read, as it was evidently written, in leisure and solitude. It covers a wide range—art, nature, country life, human character, poetry and the drama, morals and religion."
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The Irish Times says:—"'A Lady's Life in the Rocky Mountains' needs no introduction to a public who have known and admired Mrs. Bishop (Isabella L. Bird) as a fearless traveller in the days when it was something of an achievement for a woman to undertake long and remote journeys. Mrs. Bishop is a charming and spirited writer, and this cheap edition of her work will be heartily welcomed."
This is the standard biography of the great missionary who will for ever stand pre-eminent among African travellers. |
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