  "Dear Caro," said Lawrence, in the same whisper, "can you bear it?" The girl sank on her knees by the bed. She reached up, and caught hold of Lawrence's arm; she clung to it. "No, no!" she cried, in a half voice; "it can't be! Let us try the bath! Let us try everything! The dear little brother! I will not have it so!" She rose as quickly as she had knelt. She endeavored to take the boy from the arms that held him. "I will carry him," said Lawrence, rising. He had no hope, but he walked steadily to the bathroom. He helped the mother put the rigid form in the hot water. The next moment he uttered a quick exclamation below his breath. Had a faint flush come to the white little face? Carolyn stood leaning against the door-frame. She could do nothing more; she could only wait, her pulses beating in her throat and threatening to choke her. Suddenly Lawrence stood upright. "Thank God!" he breathed. He turned to Carolyn and took her hand, holding it firmly. They did not speak; they stood there hand in hand. It had all happened so quickly to him, the terror, the relief, that now it still seemed as if he had not come to Savin Hill, as if he must be in his own room at the hotel, and dreaming all this. But the touch of that soft, tender, and strong hand,—was not that real? And now the hand was withdrawn. "Hullo, Rodney! That you?" A small, piping voice from the bath-tub thus spoke. "Run and get another blanket," said Mrs. Ffolliott. In another moment the blanket was tightly wrapped about the boy in his dripping nightgown, and Rodney had taken him again in his arms. Thus the procession started back to the "What's the row, anyway?" asked a weak voice from Lawrence's shoulder. "Wait," said Carolyn from behind. "I won't wait, either," said the boy, feebly, but quite in character. "Tell me now." "You've been ill." "Have I? I feel kinder queer, I do believe." A silence followed, and continued, until the boy had been invested with a dry night-robe and covered in bed. "I don't want Rod to go," he now announced. "I want Rod to lie down on this bed." "Rodney, you must," said Mrs. Ffolliott. "But, mamma, it may not be convenient—" began Carolyn. "I want Rod!" There were indications that the small legs under the bed-cover were about to kick with what strength they had. "I'll stay," said Lawrence. So it came about that he did not go back to the hotel that night, and that the crow spent the remainder of the time until morning on the same chair The doctor came and spoke vaguely of "convulsive seizure," said nothing could have been better than a warm bath, left some medicine, and drove away. Lawrence kept his promise to the boy, and passed the night on the bed by Leander's side. In the early morning he rose. The boy was asleep, but it was evident that he would be ill,—how ill could not yet be told. Weary, indescribably depressed, the young man went slowly down the stairs. A servant had apparently been watching for him, for a tray with hot coffee and bread and butter was immediately brought to him. Having eaten and drunk, a spark of courage seemed to come to his consciousness. He looked out of the window. An east fog had risen in the early morning, and all the world was a dense mist. He could hear the low booming of the sea against the shore. Do you think he thought of Carolyn as those in battle think of peace, as those in despair think of that time when they may hope? He turned from the window and went to the room where he had left Devil. He would take the crow The house was utterly still. A clock struck six. Mrs. Ffolliott was with her son. Yes, there was the crow, looking as if it had not stirred all night. But it moved now as its master approached, raised itself, and turned its head that it might gaze at him with one eye. It lifted its wings also, and stretched out one leg, gaping as it did so. The man's pulses gave a great start, and he sprang forward, seized the bird, and found a small roll of thin paper fastened to its wing. "So you are a carrier-dove," he said, harshly. He took the paper to the window and unfolded it with hands that trembled in spite of all his efforts to make them firm. Yes, there was his wife's handwriting, close, upright, regular; her hand had not trembled when she had penned these lines. Lawrence's lips set themselves hardly under his mustache, as his eyes, beneath heavily frowning brows, glanced at the first words. These words were "My dear Rodney." Having read thus much, Lawrence turned and pulled a chair up to the window. Then he looked at Was it possible that he hated the woman who had written this? And now had she disgraced him? He walked out of the room with the letter held tightly in his hand. As he reached the outer door Mrs. Ffolliott's voice called from above the stairs: "Rodney! You mustn't go! Lee may want you when he wakes." "I will come back," he answered. "Be sure! Come right back." Lawrence made an inarticulate sound in response, then he closed the outer door behind him and stood in the open air. He hastened beyond a thicket of syringa; then, leaning against a tree, he opened the paper again. "My dear Rodney:—It strikes me that Devil will be a remarkably fit messenger for the letter I'm going to write you. You see, I shall have it all written when I ride away this morning, but I think it will be more appropriate to take it with me and let Devil deliver it. You'll be sure to find it sooner or later. "I'm going away with Lord Maxwell. I suppose you'll "I'm going to be very frank with you, Rodney. I'll confess that I might not take such a decided step as this if I were not afraid Maxwell would marry Carolyn. The dear girl! She has already refused him once, so he tells me; but what does one refusal mean? Just nothing at all; though it might with Carolyn. But I don't want to risk that. They say the third time never fails, and I shall be Lady Maxwell sooner or later. Of course I shall be under a cloud for awhile, but I'm not afraid but that I can win my way. And Donald is perfectly infatuated with me. That goes without saying. This time no brewer's daughter will step between us. How I am going on! But I wanted you to understand the whole thing. I hope you won't delay any about the divorce. Of course I know you love Thus the letter ended, without even a name signed to it. "But it doesn't need a name," Lawrence said. He stood there and read the pages three times, each reading seeming to shed a still brighter glare on the character of the writer. "That is the woman I married," he was thinking. "That woman!" He turned about and faced the house, the turrets of which he could see above the trees, blurred in the mist. He walked out from among the syringas, walking unevenly, like a man who is drunk. Above, in her chamber, Carolyn saw him. She was standing by the open window. She leaned forward and watched him, her tired eyes dilating as she watched. After a moment she left the room and ran quickly down the stairs and out of the house. "Rodney, lean on me," said Carolyn, in an unsteady voice, "Oh, how ill you are! Here, sit on this bench. I will go and get some one to help you." Lawrence sank down on the bench, but he caught at the girl's skirt, saying, breathlessly: "Stay! Stay! Read this." The letter fluttered out towards her. She stopped, standing perfectly still. She recognized her cousin's writing, and her eyes darted over the lines, not reading much, but taking in, as by a flash of lurid light, the whole sense of the base epistle. She did not speak, but stood gazing down at the letter after she had ceased to read it. She did not wish to look in her companion's face; she felt that she could not. Her own cheeks were hot with humiliated indignation. Lawrence had leaned his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. He was not thinking; he was not even feeling. A dull sensation of sinking down—down, he knew not where, was all that he was conscious of. Then some keen stab, as if from a hot knife, went through him. He started "Oh, Caro, my love!" he cried, not knowing what he said. Then he fell forward on the ground at her feet. The climax of illness and anxiety and unhappiness seemed to have been reached. The inanimate body was taken to the room which had always been Lawrence's, and put upon his old bed. Then followed days and weeks of illness, during which the man was sometimes delirious, sometimes lying in a stupor. A nurse and Mrs. Ffolliott and Carolyn watched over him. At last, when summer had waned towards its end, and there were already hints of the autumn glories, Lawrence opened his eyes and saw Mrs. Ffolliott sitting by him. "Is it a good while?" he asked, feebly. She bent over him. "A few weeks." "And Lee?" "He's all right. Don't talk." "No. I can't." Then, in a moment, "Aunt Tishy, I'm going to die, and I'm glad of it." "No, no!" He closed his eyes; he spoke dreamily, then was silent. But he did not die. He began to gain steadily, and he often remarked that it was a great mistake; then was the time for him to die. Carolyn came no more to his room. Sometimes he heard her voice when a door opened, or he could hear her singing far off somewhere. Frequently the crow was allowed to come to the chamber, where he would gravely amuse himself by hopping over the floor, occasionally picking at something; or he would sit on the top of a chair and look at the man on the bed. At last Lawrence could go down-stairs and sit in the sun on the lawn, the shadow of a man, his long, bony frame stretched out, his gaunt face and great eyes turned towards the shining blue water. Every day he told himself that perhaps the next day he could go away. He was longing to work; he felt the springs of life and strength slowly rising within him. Happiness was not for him, but there was work. One day Mrs. Ffolliott came across the grass and sat down beside him. Indeed, she often did this, "You're getting very much stronger and better, aren't you, Rodney?" she asked. "Oh, yes; I shall soon be all right," was the reply. "And I shall go away as soon as I can. How good you've been to me!" "Don't mention such a thing. Rodney—" The speaker paused. She looked uneasily about her. "Caro says it's time you were told," she went on, and then stopped again. Lawrence sat up erect. He began to brace himself for he knew not what. "You might hear it from some one else, now—" "Hear what?" in an imperative voice. Mrs. Ffolliott twisted her fingers together. But she tried to go on. "That day when Prudence went bicycling with Lord Maxwell—" "Yes, I have her letter; I know all about it," he said, in a hard voice. "Don't be afraid to speak of it." "No, you don't know. Oh, how can I tell it? She was killed. They were run into; she was thrown on to a rock,—killed instantly. Lord Maxwell was badly hurt, but is nearly recovered. We Mrs. Ffolliott had risen. "Oh, don't look so!" she cried. "Aunt Tishy, please leave me a few minutes." She could hardly hear what he said, but she did hear it, and walked away. She looked back and saw him leaning forward in the old attitude, with his hands over his face. Up-stairs Caro saw him also. Her own face was ashen. She left the window and sat down. He was still sitting thus when Mrs. Ffolliott went back to him. She put her hand on his shoulder. "Rodney," she said, "I must remind you that no one knows what—what there was in her letter,—that they were going away together,—only Lord Maxwell, and you, and I, and Caro. You see, there'll be no scandal." "And she is dead. Now I am going to leave you, really." It was three days later that Lawrence announced that he was going, and he would not yield to remonstrances and assertions that he was not well enough. He saw Caro alone when he bade her good-by: he had asked to see her alone. Caro was in the embrasure of a window, leaning against it. She made a silent motion of assent. Lawrence walked about the room. "I'm going to try to make something of my life," he went on. He came and stood a moment before the girl. He took both her hands. But all he said was: "Caro, I shall come back." THE END. SELECTIONS FROM Selections from An Enemy to the King. An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the adventures of a young French nobleman at the Court of Henry IV., and on the field with Henry of Navarre. The Continental Dragoon. A stirring romance of the Revolution, the scene being laid in and around the old Philipse Manor House, near Yonkers, which at the time of the story was the central point of the so-called "neutral territory" between the two armies. Muriella; or, Le Selve. This is the latest work from the pen of the brilliant author of "Under Two Flags," "Moths," etc., etc. It is the story of the love and sacrifice of a young peasant girl, told in the absorbing style peculiar to the author. The Road to Paris. An historical romance, being an account of the life of an American gentleman adventurer of Jacobite ancestry, whose family early settled in the colony of Pennsylvania. The scene shifts from the unsettled forests of the then West to Philadelphia, New York, London, Paris, and, in fact, wherever a love of adventure and a roving fancy can lead a soldier of fortune. The story is written in Mr. Stephens's best style, and is of absorbing interest. Rose À Charlitte. In this novel, the scene of which is laid principally in the land of Evangeline, Marshall Saunders has made a departure from the style of her earlier successes. The historical and descriptive setting of the novel is accurate, the plot is well conceived and executed, the characters are drawn with a firm and delightful touch, and the fortunes of the heroine, Rose À Charlitte, a descendant of an old Acadien family, will be followed with eagerness by the author's host of admirers. Bobbie McDuff. Clinton Ross is well known as one of the most promising of recent American writers of fiction, and in the description of the adventures of his latest hero, Bobbie McDuff, he has repeated his earlier successes. Mr. Ross has made good use of the wealth of material at his command. New York furnishes him the hero, sunny Italy a heroine, grim Russia the villain of the story, while the requirements of the exciting plot shift the scene from Paris to New York, and back again to a remote, almost feudal villa on the southern coast of Italy. In Kings' Houses. Mrs. Dorr's poems and travel sketches have earned for her a distinct place in American literature, and her romance, "In Kings' Houses," is written with all the charm of her earlier works. The story deals with one of the most romantic episodes in English history. Queen Anne, the last of the reigning Stuarts, is described with a strong, yet sympathetic touch, and the young Duke of Gloster, the "little lady," and the hero of the tale, Robin Sandys, are delightful characterizations. Sons of Adversity. A tale of adventure on land and sea at the time when Protestant England and Catholic Spain were struggling for naval supremacy. Spanish conspiracies against the peace of good Queen Bess, a vivid description of the raise of the Spanish siege of Leyden by the combined Dutch and English forces, sea fights, the recovery of stolen treasure, are all skilfully woven elements in a plot of unusual strength. The Count of Nideck. A romance of the Black Forest, woven around the mysterious legend of the Wehr Wolf. The plot has to do with the later German feudal times, is brisk in action, and moves spiritedly from start to finish. Mr. Fiske deserves a great deal of credit for the excellence of his work. No more interesting romance has appeared recently. The Making of a Saint. "The Making of a Saint" is a romance of MediÆval Italy, the scene being laid in the 15th century. It relates the life of a young leader of Free Companions who, at the close of one of the many petty Italian wars, returns to his native city. There he becomes involved in its politics, intrigues, and feuds, and finally joins an uprising of the townspeople against their lord. None can resent the frankness and apparent brutality of the scenes through which the hero and his companions of both sexes are made to pass, and many will yield ungrudging praise to the author's vital handling of the truth. In the characters are mirrored the life of the Italy of their day. The book will confirm Mr. Maugham's reputation as a strong and original writer. Omar the Tentmaker. Mr. Dole's study of Persian literature and history admirably equips him to enter into the life and spirit of the time of the romance, and the hosts of admirers of the inimitable quatrains of Omar Khayyam, made famous by Fitzgerald, will be deeply interested in a tale based on authentic facts in the career of the famous Persian poet. The three chief characters are Omar Khayyam, Nizam-ul-Mulk, the generous and high-minded Vizier of the Tartar Sultan Malik Shah of Mero; and Hassan ibu Sabbah, the ambitious and revengeful founder of the sect of the Assassins. The scene is laid partly at Naishapur, in the Province of Khorasan, which about the period of the First Crusade was at its acme of civilization and refinement, and partly in the mountain fortress of Alamut, south of the Caspian Sea, where the Ismailians under Hassan established themselves towards the close of the 11th century. Human nature is always the same, and the passions of love and ambition, of religion and fanaticism, of friendship and jealousy, are admirably contrasted in the fortunes of these three able and remarkable characters as well as in those of the minor personages of the story. Captain Fracasse. This famous romance has been out of print for some time, and a new translation is sure to appeal to its many admirers, who have never yet had any edition worthy of the story. The Rejuvenation of Miss Semaphore. A fanciful, laughable tale of two maiden sisters of uncertain age who are induced, by their natural longing for a return to youth and its blessings, to pay a large sum for a mystical water which possesses the value of setting backwards the hands of time. No more delightfully fresh and original book has appeared since "Vice Versa" charmed an amused world. It is well written, drawn to the life, and full of the most enjoyable humor. Midst the Wild Carpathians. A thrilling, historical, Hungarian novel, in which the extraordinary dramatic and descriptive powers of the great Magyar writer have full play. As a picture of feudal life in Hungary it has never been surpassed for fidelity and vividness. The translation is exceedingly well done. The Golden Dog. A powerful romance of love, intrigue, and adventure in the time of Louis XV. and Mme. de Pompadour, when the French colonies were making their great struggle to retain for an ungrateful court the fairest jewels in the colonial diadem of France. Bijli the Dancer. A novel of Modern India. The fortunes of the heroine, an Indian Naucht girl, are told with a vigor, pathos, and a wealth of poetic sympathy that makes the book admirable from first to last. "To Arms!" A romance dealing with an interesting phase of Scottish and English history, the Jacobite Insurrection of 1715, which will appeal strongly to the great number of admirers of historical fiction. The story is splendidly told, the magic circle which the author draws about the reader compelling a complete forgetfulness of prosaic nineteenth century life. Friendship and Folly. An extremely well-written story of modern life. The interest centres in the development of the character of the heroine, a New England girl, whose high-strung temperament is in constant revolt against the confining limitations of nineteenth century surroundings. The reader's interest is held to the end, and the book will take high rank among American psychological novels. A Hypocritical Romance and other stories. Miss Ticknor, well known as one of the most promising of the younger school of American writers, has never done better work than in the majority of these clever stories, written in a delightful comedy vein. Cross Trails. A Spanish-American novel of unusual interest, a brilliant, dashing, and stirring story, teeming with humanity and life. Mr. Waite is to be congratulated upon the strength with which he has drawn his characters. A Mad Madonna and other stories. A half dozen remarkable psychological stories, delicate in color and conception. Each of the six has a touch of the supernatural, a quick suggestion, a vivid intensity, and a dreamy realism that is matchless in its forceful execution. On the Point. A bright and clever story of a summer on the coast of Maine, fresh, breezy, and readable from the first to the last page. The narrative describes the summer outing of a Mr. Merrithew and his family. The characters are all honest, pleasant people, whom we are glad to know. We part from them with the same regret with which we leave a congenial party of friends. Cavalleria Rusticana; or, Under the Shadow of Etna. Giovanni Verga stands at present as unquestionably the most prominent of the Italian novelists. His supremacy in the domain of the short story and in the wider range of the romance is recognized both at home and abroad. The present volume contains a selection from the most dramatic and characteristic of his Sicilian tales. Verga is himself a native of Sicily, and his knowledge of that wonderful country, with its poetic and yet superstitious peasantry, is absolute. Such pathos, humor, variety, and dramatic quality are rarely met in a single volume. |
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