Chapter XVI: In the Library

Roswell Sanderson was in the library writing. A week had passed since his departure for St. Louis, and a considerable accumulation of mail was absorbing his attention. He had arrived home that morning on an early train, and not caring to awake his wife had gone into the library to look over his letters. It was Sunday, and the measured patter of the raindrops on the window-panes seemed to forebode a cheerless day, while the dismal light, almost obscured by the lowering clouds and heavy window draperies, produced an air of gloom intensified, perhaps, by the unusual chill of the summer atmosphere. Roswell was alone, and as he wrote the scratching of his pen on the paper blended monotonously with the pattering raindrops. Perhaps half an hour passed. Marion entered the room and stood for a moment near the door. There was a fresher color in her cheeks, even in that dim light, and her eyes seemed to have lost their look of restless longing. As she watched her husband writing, a smile of mingled tenderness and sadness came to her lips. Then she walked softly on tip-toe to where he sat, and placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

Roswell looked up startled. "Why, Marion," he said, "I didn't expect to see you so early." Then, leaving his seat, he took both his wife's hands in his and kissed her.

"I am thankful you have come back," said Marion. "I have wanted you so much."

She placed her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder. There had been a tenderness in her voice which made Roswell's heart beat faster than it had ever done before. "Yes, dear," he said, "I have come back, and I think I have a surprise for you, too."

"A surprise," said Marion, looking up.

"Yes. Sit down and I will tell you all about it."

Roswell resumed his seat, and Marion took a low stool at his side and waited for him to speak.

"It is not very much," he said, taking a letter from the table, "but I have here a refusal of the McIlvaine cottage at Bar Harbor for the season. Would you like to go there?"

An expression of astonishment came to Marion's face. "Is this true?" she asked.

"I am only waiting for you to say yes before sending my reply."

"Why did you do this, Roswell?" she said, with a tone of tenderness in her voice.

"Because I felt it would be better for both of us to go away this summer. I am working too hard, I think, and must have a rest. But that is only a selfish reason; I feel it would do you good to be among new people and new scenes."

Marion looked into his eyes a moment and a dark expression of disgust came across her face. "Why don't you speak the truth, Roswell?" she said. "Why don't you say that you are going away because your wife is a selfish woman who is discontented in her home; why don't you say that she is a wicked creature who cares for nothing but her own amusement, and that you are taking her where she can find new excitements? Why don't you say this?" she repeated, and then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Roswell leaned forward and stroked her head softly. "I love my wife," he said, "and I will not permit you to say such things about her."

"You don't know how wicked she is; you don't know how black her heart has been," Marion replied, between the sobs. "O, Roswell, I shall never be happy till I tell you all about it and ask you to forgive me. I have thought it over every moment since you left, and I have tried to feel right in my heart, but I can't until you know how wicked I have been. You are too good and generous for a selfish creature like me; but you must know that I have been untrue to you in my heart. Roswell, I did not love you when I married you; I never loved you until a week ago. I did not know your goodness before, and I was thoughtless. O, forgive me, Roswell; forgive me."

Roswell raised her head until he could look into her face. "I forgave you long ago, dearest," he said, "and now I want to see you dry those sweet eyes. I guessed your trouble last winter. At first it was hard for me to bear, and I had black thoughts in my heart, too; but when I remembered how I had been bound up in my musty cash books and ledgers, and how I had failed to enter into your life, I felt I had no right to reproach you. I saw that you were drifting from me, and I knew the fault was mine. Then I prayed that I might save you and win you back again."

"And you forgive me," said Marion, sobbing still.

Roswell kissed her. "It is I who must be forgiven," he said. "I ought to have seen before that a woman like you could not love a crusty old banker, who came home every night covered with the dust of the office. I am a rough fellow who needs a lot of polishing up, but I want you to try and see what you can make of me, and I want your love."

"My darling," said Marion. "I love you as I never knew I could love. I thought the wild fancy of the moment was love, but I have learned my mistake. If you will take me into your heart again I will try so hard to make you a good wife."

A faint sunbeam came through the eastern window and glanced feebly along the floor; then it grew stronger and stronger, until the gloomy library was brightened by a flood of rich, warm sunlight. The storm had ceased. The clouds had rolled away.

"It takes some such trial as ours," Roswell said, "to call forth love. We know now how necessary we are to each other, don't we, dear?"

The look of sweet tenderness in Marion's eyes gave him his answer.

"Let us think no more of those days, my darling," said Roswell, throwing his arms about his wife and drawing her closer to his side. "We will forget the past and live in the future. What answer shall I send about the cottage?" As he said this he reached toward the table to get the letter. Marion's eyes followed his hand, and they fell upon a name signed to a note lying there.

"That man!" she cried, turning her head away and hiding her face on Roswell's shoulder.

"That man will worry you no more," he said, taking up the note. "Read what he says."

Marion took the paper and read:

"DEAR MR. SANDERSON:

"I wish to say that I have obtained the loan I required from
the 'Grocers' National,' so I shall not need to keep my
appointment with you. I leave for New York to-day, and shall be
unable to see you on your return from St. Louis. Thanking you
for your kindness to me while in Chicago, believe me, with
kindest regards,

"Yours faithfully,

"June 29. DUNCAN GRAHAME."

Marion shuddered as she put down the note. It told its story and she felt that there was nothing more to be said.

"This is the letter I want you to answer," said Roswell, taking up the one from Bar Harbor.

Marion looked thoughtfully at the floor a moment, then, glancing up, she said: "If you don't mind, dear, I should like to go to some quieter place. I have had excitements before, but I have never had my husband, and I want him all to myself."

"My darling," said Roswell.

Florence entered the room and stood for a moment near the door. At first she was too surprised to speak, then, appreciating the propriety of making her presence known, she retreated a few steps and said: "May I come in?"

"Of course you may, you dear girl," said Marion, looking up. "You may come in and find the happiest woman in the world. Don't look surprised. Roswell and I are young lovers, and we are laying plans for our honeymoon. I don't deserve my happiness, but I have just discovered that I have the best husband in the world."

Florence ran to Marion's side and kissed her. "Let me share your joy," she said.

That evening Harold Wainwright dined at the Sandersons, and four happy people seated themselves at the little, round table. The candles shed the same cheerful light upon the white linen and the glistening plate, and Francois moved from place to place with his wonted precision; but the fire of love had kindled on the hearth, and in that home a new life had begun.

THE END.

MRS. ABBOTT'S BOOKS.

ALEXIA.

We have rarely found a more perfectly idyllic little love story
than this--_The Living Church, Chicago._

The story is told with such an airy touch, such a fine sense of
humor, such delicate crispness, that the reader is dealt little
shocks of pleasure at every successive sentence.--_Evening
Post, Chicago._

Little books like this, unpretentious, honest in motive, pure
in sentiment, and marked by true sympathy are not common in
current American literature, and therefore appeal all the more
strongly to people who are tired of the didactic, and so relish
keenly any representation which depends for its final effect
not on preconceived notions of the author, but on fidelity to
life.--_The Beacon, Boston._

THE BEVERLEYS,

_A Story of Calcutta._

As a story of character it is of high and rare merit. Every
person who appears in it is outlined with a distinctness of
individuality which cannot be mistaken.--_The Churchman, New
York._

"The Beverleys" is one of the notable novels of the year....
The writer knows life and has met people of breeding.... In
Eileen she draws a charming creature whose social adventures in
Calcutta will be read with unflagging interest.--_The
Philadelphia Press._

To have read "Alexia" is to feel a kindly predisposition
towards the successor of that charming little book. "The
Beverleys" has followed it, and it is perhaps unreasonable to
be disappointed at missing in a novel the wild-rose perfume of
the story. It is a novel clever in form and style, and in its
portraits from Calcutta society. The moods and fascinations of
the wild Irish girl and the labyrinths of her naughty heart are
prettily described; there are pungent observations on men,
women, and manners a plenty; what more would one have.--_The
Nation, New York._

Other Books

MONK AND KNIGHT.

An Historical Study in Fiction.

BY THE REV. DR. F. W. GUNSAULUS.

This work is one that challenges attention for its ambitious
character and its high aim. It is an historical novel,--or,
rather, as the author prefers to call it, "An Historical Study
in Fiction." It is the result of long and careful study of the
period of which it treats, and hence is the product of genuine
sympathies and a freshly-fired imagination. The field is
Europe, and the period is the beginning of the sixteenth
century,--a time when the fading glow of the later Renaissance
is giving place to the brighter glories of the dawning
Reformation.

The book deals, in a broad sense, with the grand theme of the
progress of intellectual liberty. Many of its characters are
well-known historical personages,--such as Erasmus, Sir Thomas
Moore, Cardinal Wolsey, Henry VIII. of England, Francis I. of
France, the disturbing monk Martin Luther, and the magnificent
Pope Leo X.; other characters are of course fictitious,
introduced to give proper play to the author's fancy and to
form a suitable framework for the story.

Interwoven with the more solid fabric are gleaming threads of
romance; and bright bits of description and glows of sentiment
relieve the more sombre coloring. The memorable meeting of the
French and English monarchs on the Field of the Cloth of Gold,
with its gorgeous pageantry of knights and steeds and silken
banners, and all the glitter and charm of chivalry, furnish
material for several chapters, in which the author's
descriptive powers are put to the severest test; while the
Waldensian heroes in their mountain homes, resisting the
persecutions of their religious foes, afford some thrilling and
dramatic situations.

AN ICELAND FISHERMAN.

BY PIERRE LOTI

Translated from the French

BY ANNA FARWELL de KOVEN.

"An Iceland Fisherman" is really a poem in prose. It has a pure
idyllic quality so unlike most of the work which now comes from
French hands that one must go back to "Paul and Virginia" to
find a worthy companion volume. Other French writers, George
Sand notably, have written idyllic chapters, but "An Iceland
Fisherman" is a complete idyl from beginning to end. M. Loti is
an impressionist of the most delicate quality. He feels with
the keenest sensibility the moods and phases of each passing
hour. In this little volume one is made aware of all the
strange, lonely beauty and terror of the North Seas. Few
writers have made so keen an observation of those elusive
phases through which sky and sea pass in a day or a season, and
still fewer have had the faculty of transferring these subtle
things into speech.--_The Christian Union, New York._

The translator of this remarkable story has done her work
wonderfully well. Her choice of words, apt, pat, and
picturesque--words which instantly appeal to the imagination,
is skillful to an uncommon degree. This is no doubt partly due
to the characteristics of the original. Whatever may be true of
the French, the English of this beautiful and wholesome story
is wonderfully idiomatic and good.--_The Advance, Chicago._

Of the story itself nothing can well be too good to say. We
pity the one who can read it without being deeply stirred by
its simple, pathetic, and, at moments, solemn beauty.--_The
Chicago Evening Journal._

It is a gem of the purest ray, a lovely idyl, whose strength is
drawn from what is best in human life.--_The Philadelphia
Enquirer._

THE STORY OF TONTY.

_AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

By Mrs. MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD.

"The Story of Tonty" is eminently a Western story, beginning at
Montreal, tarrying at Fort Frontenac, and ending at the old
fort at Starved Rock, on the Illinois River. It weaves the
adventures of the two great explorers, the intrepid La Salle
and his faithful lieutenant, Tonty, into a tale as thrilling
and romantic as the descriptive portions are brilliant and
vivid. It is superbly illustrated with twenty-three masterly
drawings by Mr. Enoch Ward.

Such tales as this render service past expression to the cause
of history. They weave a spell in which old chronicles are
vivified and breathe out human life. Mrs. Catherwood, in thus
bringing out from the treasure-houses of half-forgotten
historical record things new and old, has set herself one of
the worthiest literary tasks of her generation, and is showing
herself finely adequate to its fulfillment.--_Transcript,
Boston._

A powerful story by a writer newly sprung to fame.... All the
century we have been waiting for the deft hand that could put
flesh upon the dry bones of our early heroes. Here is a
recreation indeed.... One comes from the reading of the romance
with a quickened interest in our early national history, and a
profound admiration for the art that can so transport us to the
dreamful realms where fancy is monarch of fact.--_Press,
Philadelphia._

"The Story of Tonty" is full of the atmosphere of its time. It
betrays an intimate and sympathetic knowledge of the great age
of explorers, and it is altogether a charming piece of
work.--_Christian Union, New York._

Original in treatment, in subject, and in all the details of
_mise en scene_, it must stand unique among recent
romances.--_News, Chicago._

A vivid series of fascinating pictures.--_New York Observer._

End of Project Gutenberg's With Edge Tools, by Hobart Chatfield-Taylor