It was a happy winter we spent in Florence and Rome and Sorrento, going in the early spring to Venice and the Lakes, and later on to Paris. Here there were four delightful weeks, and I wanted to stay longer, but Carl hurried us on to London, where he was to be married. We all urged him to wait until we were home at The Elms, but he said No,—he had waited long enough; and so one 462morning in early June there was a very quiet wedding in —— church, with only a few personal friends present, and Katy was Mrs. Carl Haverleigh. There was a wedding breakfast at the Grand, where we were stopping, and where on our return from church we found a letter and package from Julina,—now the Countess de Varré! Fortune had favored her again. The brother-in-law had died and left her a good share of the money he had taken from her. The chateau at Passy was hers once more, where she was living with the Count and very happy, as a titled lady. Accompanying her letter was an individual tea set of exquisite china, with gold lined spoons and sugar tongs and silver tray,—her wedding gift to Katy and Carl conjointly, with a hope that sometimes when they were using it they would think of one who was not so bad as to American eyes she might seem to be. Katy was pleased, but Carl did not express himself, and I do not think he has ever yet taken a cup of tea from the pretty set which stands on Katy’s little tea-table in Boston and is greatly admired.
It was the middle of July when we reached New York and found Fanny waiting for us on the dock, and insisting upon our going with her to the cottage she had rented at Newport. It was too hot for either Virginia or Washington, she said, and she carried her point so far as Carl and Katy and Miss Errington were concerned. Jack said he must go home to his business, and I, of course, went with him, taking Paul, who was beginning to droop with travel and excitement. It was a lovely summer day when we drove up the avenue to our home, where Phyllis and many of our neighbors greeted us with a warmth which told us that nowhere in the world were there truer friends than in Lovering.
463“And nowhere so pleasant a home,” I said, as I went all over the house, happy as a child to be back again among the Virginia hills with her blue sky over my head and the breath of the woods and pines upon my cheek.
It was better than Newport, where Katy was a great belle and where Fan had more than one offer of marriage, which she promptly declined. She was on the best of terms with her sister-in-law, and when the season was over the two went together to the house in Washington. Carl and Katy came to us and staid all through the autumn and were joined at Thanksgiving by Fan and Miss Errington. What a day that was,—and dinner, too, which Phyllis thought she superintended, although the real head was Norah, who had come with Katy, but who for once was careful of the old negress’ feelings and humored her fancies.
Towards the close of dinner Katy said, “We have no wine, but water will do as well. Let us drink to the health of the Countess de Varré.”
“Good,” Carl said, and we drank to her health and amused ourselves with reminiscences of her when she was Julina Smith and served us as our maid.
Phyllis had received the news of her advancement with a snort and a dangerous topple of her turban. She had never liked the girl, and when, as she chanced to be in the room, we drank her health, she exclaimed, “Oh, my Lord, my Lord! Ef I couldn’t drink suffin better’n July, I’d go dry a spell.”
It is many years since that day and many more since most of the incidents of this story took place. Jack and I are quite old people now, or the younger generation think us so. I am forty-seven, and have a double chin. Jack calls me a roly-poly, while a boy, who stands six feet 464and has eyes like Jack, says I waddle like a duck when I walk, but am the sweetest and jolliest little mother in the world. Jack is fifty-three and getting grey and stout, and is a fine type of the well-conditioned southern gentleman,—not too much pressed with business, but still with enough to do. He has been to Congress twice and there is talk of sending him as a State Senator next year. One winter we took a house in Washington, and I staid there with Jack and saw all I ever care to see of fashionable society. Fanny was on the top wave, and as Katy was with us a part of the time we were made much of and went everywhere,—sometimes to three different places in one night, and by the close of the long term I was quite worn out and glad to get back to the old home under The Elms, with only Phyllis and a bright mulatto girl to look after instead of the crew I had in Washington, who stole my handkerchiefs and collars and Jack’s socks and wore my black silk dress to one of their carousals, and who always hoped to die if they had done anything of the sort when charged with the offense.
The tall boy, with eyes like Jack, is our first-born,—our son Hathern, who is nearly seventeen, and preparing for Yale. My choice is for some other college, but only Yale will suit him and we have yielded, his father telling him, however, that if he thought to join in all the sports which have sometimes made the students of Yale a by-word as well as a terror to the towns they visited, he would be mistaken, as he had no money to spend that way,—“and without money,” he added, “you can’t be in it.”
Hathern, who is a splendid specimen of young manhood and fond of athletic sports of all kinds, looked rather blue until Fan came from Washington and he took her for a 465drive. That night he confided to his sisters that aunt Fan was a brick! That he intended to stand well in all his classes and with his teachers and to be graduated with honor, and never drink a drop of anything stronger than water, but—he was also going to be in it; and with the enthusiasm of a girlhood which sees more to admire in an athlete than in a student, the sisters agreed that Aunt Fan was a brick,—that the cold water and standing well in classes and graduating with honor was all right, but the athletics were more fun, and it was worth some knocks and scratches and bruises, and even a broken bone now and then, to be in it.
These girls, who are fourteen, are twins, named Fan and Ann, and very much like the originals, except that Fan is not quite as handsome or as tall as her aunt, and Ann is taller and handsomer than her mother. Otherwise, they are much like the girls introduced in the first chapter of this story, and often, when I see them flitting through the house and grounds, doing the things Fan and I used to do,—saying the things we used to say, in voices much like ours,—the years of my life roll back and I am young as they are, with as little care or thought for the future. Then Jack comes in and calls me Annie-mother, a name he resumed the day he brought Hathern to me and said, “Would you like to see our boy?” and I am myself again,—a matron-mother of forty-seven, but feeling scarcely older than when I was a girl like my Fan and Ann.
Fanny, as I call her now, to distinguish her from my daughter, is a beautiful woman still, and she knows it and the world knows it, and had she chosen she might have married a General or a Judge or an ex-Governor, or have used her large fortune to build up the impoverished estate 466of an Englishman with a title. But she would have none of them. “I am very happy as I am,” she says, and I think she is. She is more quiet and dignified than she used to be and strangers call her proud. But to me she is the same Fan as ever,—a part of myself,—while to Jack I think she is really a sister whom he honors and consults in some matters more than he does me. She comes and goes as she pleases. Is sometimes in Washington,—sometimes in Newport, sometimes in Florida, where the Hathern villa is a reality, sometimes at The Plateau,—and once she spent eighteen months in Europe with Paul, whom, in a way, she has adopted. He is now twenty-seven, with a refined, delicate face and an air of languor about him caused by his weak back, which has always troubled him more or less. He is a graduate of Yale, and when Hathern decided to go there he began to question him as to what he did, but soon gave it up, saying Paul was no good. He didn’t know about anything but rules and books and professors and wasn’t in it at all! When he chooses he stops with us, or with Katy, but is most with Fanny, who needs him more than we do. “Our room” at The Plateau has been given to him and fitted up as a kind of study, or den, where he spends a great deal of his time with his books. He is something of a scientist and goes into every ism and ology and osophy of the day. Just now he has taken up microbes and is studying their habits, if they have any, and he writes long articles for Reviews, in which he tries to interest Fan and Hathern and the twins, and sometimes myself, but generally fails, as they are too deep for us.
There is one, however, who always listens and applauds, although it is doubtful whether he understands a word, and that is Sam Slayton, Fan’s factotum, who takes care 467of The Plateau when she is there and takes care of it when she is not, and makes more at it than he did in his grocery. He has never married again, but every year he goes to Vermont to visit Mirandy’s grave and mourn. During the mourning he wears a tall hat with a band of crape around it, and on his return to The Plateau puts it away carefully until the period comes again. As it is the hat he wore on his wedding trip it is somewhat out of date, but he does not mind it and felt greatly insulted when last winter some one wanted to borrow it for Uriah Heep to wear at a Dickens Carnival given for the Y. M. C. A.’s in Lovering.
Miss Errington is often with us. The twins call her Aunt Cornie, and think almost as much of her as of their stately Aunt Fanny. Some meddling person has told them of that chapter in Fan’s life and their father’s which was almost a tragedy and I do not think they have quite forgiven her for her part in it, although each has said to me that she would rather have me for her mother than Auntie Fan, who is so grand and cold. Fan has made her will and left her money to Paul and my children, with a proviso for Katy’s should any be born to her. As yet Carl and Katy are childless, but very, very happy with each other. They travel a great deal and when at home their handsome new house on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston is usually filled with guests and Katy makes a charming hostess and Carl a delightful host. In most respects he is the same genial, handsome Carl we knew as a boy, with something about him which makes everyone his friend. He still admires a pretty face when he sees it, and discusses its points with Katy, but always winds up by saying, “But by Jove, she can’t hold a candle to you, the most beautiful woman I ever saw, and the older you grow the handsomer you are.”
468I think Carl is right, and that, if possible, Katy is lovelier in her maturity than when she was a girl. Paul worships her; Hathern worships her; the twins worship her; we all worship her, and yet she is not spoiled. She was a sweet, unselfish, loving child, and is a loving, unselfish woman. If she has ever regretted the Career she gave up for Carl, she has made no sign, and seems to find her greatest happiness with him. Occasionally, when she is in Lovering she sings in our pretty Concert Hall and everybody comes to hear her, but never have I heard her sing as she sang at Monte Carlo, or seen upon her face the expression I saw there after she knew Carl was in the audience listening to her. Now, when she sings in Lovering he is to all intents and purposes stage manager, adjusting the lights and the piano, and the curtain, and then sitting behind the scenes and applauding her with the rest. Once when she seemed to have excelled herself and the hall rang like the salon in Monte Carlo, he said to her after it was over, “Upon my soul, Katy, I believe you’d have made your mark if you had gone on with your Career. How would you like to begin it now?”
For an instant there was a look on Katy’s face which made me think of a war-horse scenting the battle. Then it faded and she shook her head saying, “Too late, my voice will crack pretty soon,—or wobble as Hathern says old Mrs. Mosier’s does when she tries to sing high. I am content as I am and perfectly happy with you.” What answer Carl made I do not know, for I discreetly left the room just as he took her in his arms. Carl is rather demonstrative, and the twins say that if Katy could have been squeezed and kissed to death she would have died long ago. Norah runs the house in Commonwealth Avenue and runs Carl and Katy, too; but as she allows 469them a good many privileges, and is wholly faithful to their interests, they do not mind it, and in most matters let her have her way.
Phyllis is very old,—how old she does not know,—but she is wholly disabled from taking charge of the kitchen, where a younger woman is installed as cook, with Phyllis as nominal superintendent. Only in this way can I hope for peace. The instructions which Norah left so many years ago have been found and tacked up over the sink, and are held up as iron rules to the patient, much enduring Sarah, who says, “I ’specs we mus’ let the ole woman have her way, or think she has it; but, Lord bless you, I has to cheat her. I can read writin’ an’ she can’t, an’ I reads it wrong a heap o’times, an’ when she gits too high I done tell her I’m follerin’ Norah O’Rock’s ’structions, an’ she comes down like a lam’. I knows how to manage her.”
The house under The Elms has been enlarged and improved and is, I think, an ideal country home, although Hathern and the twins would like a square hall and a tower and many projections here and there, and porcelain bath-tubs and electric lights,—and a big fortune to keep it all up, their father says, his solid sense always coming to the front when the young blood gets rampant. Hathern has his horse and wheel, and the twins have each her riding pony,—presents from Fan, who usually gives them what they want, if it is feasible and proper. Black Beauty died years ago and was buried in the woods behind The Plateau, with Fan and Paul as mourners.
And now the story winds to a close. It was commenced in June, the month of roses, when the south wind blew softly through the doors of the wide hall, and on the lawn outside there was the sound of young voices in the 470tennis court, where Paul and Hathern and the twins were playing. Jack was away on business, and Phyllis was sitting under the dogwood tree watching the play and sympathizing equally with both sides. She is sitting there now asleep in the sunshine, but the tennis court is silent and the twins’ ponies and Hathern’s horse stand in the lane with their noses on the gate looking towards the house as if asking why they are not taking their usual canter through the woods or over the smooth turnpike. Jack is again away on business as he was a year ago, and I am alone, for Fanny and Carl and Katy, who are here, have gone with the young people to the town hall, which is filled with flowers and ferns and evergreens. It is Memorial Day, when, north and south, east and west, the graves of our soldiers will be decorated by the loving hands of many who were not born until after the war and to whom that time is only a dark page of history nearly blotted out.
Others there are, however, whose hearts will ache with the old pain as they think of the loved ones who, whether their cause were right or wrong, gave their lives for it and died on the battlefield. Boxes of rare flowers, ordered by Fanny, have come from Washington, and few graves will be more beautiful than the two where Charlie and The Boy are lying. Hathern and the twins have taken the Stars and Stripes and the Stars and Bars from the faded uniforms of grey and blue, where they have hung so long, and carried them to the little cemetery across the field. From where I sit I can see them side by side waving in the breeze and occasionally touching each other as if in friendly greeting. Through the open doors of the wide hall where I am writing the wind blows in and the wind blows out as it did a year ago, breathing of 471peace in the land. In the distance I hear the sound of martial music, and know that the procession has formed and will soon be marching down the street, and I wonder if I shall have time to finish my story before it passes The Elms. With the first beat of the drum Phyllis rouses from her sleep under the dogwood tree, and coming to me says, “It seems mighty like de wah, but thank God dat is over and gone.”
The procession is in sight. Hathern is carrying the tattered flag, and Paul is walking by his side, laden with flowers. They have stopped opposite the hillside cemetery. They are decorating the graves of Charlie and The Boy. My eyes are full of tears, and I cannot write any more.
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The North American Review, vol. 81, page 557, says of Mrs. Mary J. Holmes’ novel “English Orphans”:—“With this novel of Mrs. Holmes’ we have been charmed, and so have a pretty numerous circle of discriminating readers to whom we have lent it. The characterization is exquisite, especially so far as concerns rural and village life, of which there are some pictures that deserve to be hung up in perpetual memory of types of humanity fast becoming extinct. The dialogues are generally brief, pointed, and appropriate. The plot seems simple, so easily and naturally is it developed and consummated. Moreover, the story thus gracefully constructed and written, inculcates without obtruding, not only pure Christian morality in general, but, with especial point and power, the dependence of true success on character, and of true respectability on merit.”
“Mrs. Holmes’ stories are all of a domestic character, and their interest, therefore, is not so intense as if they were more highly seasoned with sensationalism, but it is of a healthy and abiding character. The interest in her tales begins at once, and is maintained to the close. Her sentiments are so sound, her sympathies so warm and ready, and her knowledge of manners, character, and the varied incidents of ordinary life is so thorough, that she would find it difficult to write any other than an excellent tale if she were to try it.”—Boston Banner.
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| INFELICE, | 2.00 |
| AT THE MERCY OF TIBERIUS, | 2.00 |
“The author’s style is beautiful, chaste, and elegant. Her ideals are clothed in the most fascinating imagery, and her power of delineating character is truly remarkable. One of the marked and striking characteristics of each and all her works is the purity of sentiment which pervades every line, every page, and every chapter.”
All handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold everywhere, and sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price, by
G. W. Dillingham, Publisher,
33 West 23rd Street, New York.
MAY AGNES FLEMING’S
Popular Novels.
The following is a list of the Novels by the Author of “Guy Earlscourt’s Wife.”
SILENT AND TRUE.
A WONDERFUL WOMAN.
A TERRIBLE SECRET.
NORINE’S REVENGE.
A MAD MARRIAGE.
ONE NIGHT’S MYSTERY.
KATE DANTON.
GUY EARLSCOURT’S WIFE.
HEIR OF CHARLTON.
CARRIED BY STORM.
LOST FOR A WOMAN.
A WIFE’S TRAGEDY.
A CHANGED HEART.
PRIDE AND PASSION.
SHARING HER CRIME.
A WRONGED WIFE.
MAUDE PERCY’S SECRET.
THE ACTRESS’ DAUGHTER.
THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE (New).
These vols. can be had at any bookstore in the cloth bound library edition. Price $1.50.
“Mrs. Fleming’s stories are growing more and more popular every day. The delineations of character, life-like conversations, flashes of wit, constantly varying scenes, and deeply interesting plots, combine to place their author in the very first rank of Modern Novelists.” MARION HARLAND’S SPLENDID NOVELS. The following is a list of the Novels by the Author of “Alone.” Alone. Hidden Path. Moss Side. Nemesis. Miriam. Sunny Bank. Ruby’s Husband. At Last. My Little Love. Phemie’s Temptation. The Empty Heart. From My Youth Up. Helen Gardner. Husbands and Homes. Jessamine. True as Steel. These vols. can be had at any bookstore in the clothbound library edition. Price, $1.50.“It is a strong proof of Marion Harland’s ability, that she has been able, for such a length of time, to retain her hold upon the public. The secret of her success is that her books are truly excellent.”—Phila. Times.
“Marion Harland understands the art of constructing a plot which will gain the attention of the reader at the beginning, and keep up the interest unbroken to the last page.”—Phila. Telegram.
“Marion Harland is very popular because she is natural and chaste. She is welcome to the home circle because she is imbued with the holiest principles. She arranges her plots with great skill, and developes them with language commendable for purity and earnestness of expression.”—Lockport Union.
“As a writer of fiction, Marion Harland has attained a wide and well-earned reputation. Her novels are of surpassing excellence and interest.”—Home Journal.
All handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold everywhere, and sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price ($1.50), by
G. W. Dillingham, Publisher,
33 West 23rd Street, New York.
POPULAR & NEW BOOKS.
“NEW YORK WEEKLY” SERIES.
Messrs. Street & Smith, publishers of The New York Weekly, having been requested by their readers to issue some of their best and most popular Stories in Book Form, have consented, and have now made arrangements for such publications with the well-known New York House of
G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher. The volumes already published are as follows: Thrown on the World.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. Peerless Cathleen.—A Novel, by Cora Agnew. Faithful Margaret.—A Novel, by Annie Ashmore. Nick Whiffles.—A Novel, by Dr. J. H. Robinson. Lady Leonora.—A Novel, by Carrie Conklin. Charity Grinder Papers.—By Mary Kyle Dallas. A Bitter Atonement.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. A Wife’s Tragedy—A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. Curse of Everleigh.—By Helen Corwin Pierce. Love Works Wonders.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. Evelyn’s Folly.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. A Changed Heart—A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. Lady Damer’s Secret.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. A Woman’s Temptation.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. Brownie’s Triumph.—A Novel, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. A Wronged Wife—A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. Pride and Passion—A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. Repented at Leisure—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. Forsaken Bride.—A Novel, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. Between Two Loves—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. His Other Wife.—A Novel, by Rose Ashleigh. Earle Wayne’s Nobility.—By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. A Struggle For a Ring.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. Lost—A Pearle.—By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. Maude Percy’s Secret—A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. The Actress’ Daughter (New)—A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. Young Mrs. Charnleigh.—A Novel, by T. W. Hanshew. Earl’s Atonement.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. Put Asunder.—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. A Woman’s Web.—By Rose Ashleigh. Beyond Pardon—A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. Stella Rosevelt.—A Novel, by Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.☞ Sold by Booksellers everywhere—and sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price, $1.50 each, by
G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher.
(Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co.)
33 West Twenty-third St., New York.
G. W. DILLINGHAM’S PUBLICATIONS.
Captain Mayne Reid’s Works.
| The Scalp Hunters | $1 50 |
| The Rifle Rangers | 1 50 |
| The War Trail | 1 50 |
| The Wood Rangers | 1 50 |
| The Wild Huntress | 1 50 |
| The Headless Horseman | 1 50 |
| The Rangers and Regulators | 1 50 |
| The White Chief | 1 50 |
| The Tiger Hunter | 1 50 |
| The Hunter’s Feast | 1 50 |
| Wild Life | 1 50 |
| Osceola, the Seminole | 1 50 |
| The White Gauntlet | 1 50 |
| Lost Leonore | 1 50 |
| The Habits of Good Society—The nice points of taste and good manners | $1 00 |
| The Art of Conversation—For those who wish to be agreeable talkers | 1 00 |
| The Arts of Writing, Reading and Speaking—For Self-Improvement | 1 00 |
| Carleton’s Hand-Book of Popular Quotations | 1 50 |
| Blunders in Educated Circles Corrected—Bowden | 75 |
| 1000 Legal Don’ts—By Ingersoll Lockwood | 75 |
| 600 Medical Don’ts—By Ferd. C. Valentine, M.D. | 75 |
| His Complete Writings—With Biography, Steel Portrait and 100 Illustrations | $2 00 |
| Stephen Lawrence | $1 50 |
| Susan Fielding | 1 50 |
| A Woman of Fashion | 1 50 |
| Archie Lovell | 1 50 |
| Thou Shalt Not | $0 50 |
| Speaking of Ellen | 50 |
| Her Husband’s Friend | 50 |
| The Garston Bigamy | 50 |
| Thy Neighbor’s Wife | 50 |
| Young Miss Giddy | 50 |
| Out of Wedlock. (New.) | 50 |
| His Private Character | 50 |
| In Stella’s Shadow | 50 |
| Moulding a Maiden | 50 |
| Why I’m Single | 50 |
| An Original Sinner | 50 |
| Love at Seventy | 50 |
| Complete Comic Writings—With Biography, Portrait and 50 Illustrations | $1 50 |
| Surry of Eagle’s Nest | $1 50 |
| Fairfax | 1 50 |
| Hilt to Hilt | 1 50 |
| Beatrice Hallam | 1 50 |
| Leather and Silk | 1 50 |
| Miss Bonnybel | 1 50 |
| Out of the Foam | 1 50 |
| Out of the Foam | 1 50 |
| Hammer and Rapier | 1 50 |
| Mohun | 1 50 |
| Captain Ralph | 1 50 |
| Col. Ross of Piedmont | 1 50 |
| Robert E. Lee | 1 50 |
| Stonewall Jackson | 1 50 |
| On the Chafing Dish—By Harriet P. Bailey | $0 50 |
| New Things To Eat and How To Make Them | 50 |
| Philosophers and Actresses—By Houssaye. Steel Portraits, 2 vols. | 4 00 |
| Men and Women of 18th Century—By Houssaye. Steel Portraits, 2 vols. | 4 00 |
| Fifty Years among Authors, Books and Publishers—By J. C. Derby. 8 vo. | 5 00 |
| Children’s Fairy Geography—With hundreds of beautiful illustrations | 1 00 |
| An Exile’s Romance—By Arthur Louis | 1 50 |
| Laus Veneris, and other Poems—By Algernon Charles Swinburne | 1 50 |
| Hawk-eye Sketches—Comic book by “Burlington Hawk-eye Man.” Do. | 1 50 |
| The Culprit Fay—Joseph Rodman Drake’s Poem. With 100 illustrations | 2 00 |
| Love [L’Amour]—English Translation from Michelet’s famous French work | 1 50 |
| Woman [La Femme]—The Sequel to “L’Amour.” Do. Do. | 1 50 |
| Verdant Green—A racy English college story. With 200 comic illustrations | 1 50 |
| For the Sins of his Youth—By Mrs. Jane Kavanagh | 1 50 |
| Mal Moulée—A splendid novel, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | 1 00 |
| Birds of a Feather Flock Together—By Edward A. Sothern, the actor | 1 50 |
| O’er Rail and Cross-ties with Gripsack—By Geo. L. Marshall | 1 50 |
| Legends of the Centures—By Victor Hugo | 1 50 |
- Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
- Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.