Delphi Complete Works of John Kendrick Bangs (Illustrated) E-Book

John Kendrick Bangs

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics Ltd
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Delphi Series Ten
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 7533

Beschreibung

The late nineteenth century American humorist John Kendrick Bangs was an inventive satirical writer, who inspired the genre of Bangsian fantasy. Famous works like ‘A House-Boat on the Styx’ employed a fantastical premise, involving the use of famous literary or historical individuals and their interactions in the Afterlife. In the popular magazines ‘Puck’ and ‘Life’, Bangs created numerous hilarious characters, including Jimmieboy, the Idiot, Alice in Blunderland, the Unwiseman and a popular Raffles spin-off series — all revealing his important contribution to the development of humorist literature. For the first time in publishing history, this comprehensive eBook presents Bangs’ complete fictional works, with numerous illustrations, rare texts, informative introductions and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Bangs’ life and works
* Concise introductions to the novels and other texts
* All 14 novels, with individual contents tables
* Features rare novels appearing for the first time in digital publishing, including Bangs’ almost lost first novel, ‘Roger Camerden’
* The complete Idiot and Jimmieboy series
* Images of how the books were first published, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the texts
* All of the famous works are fully illustrated with the original artwork, with thousands of images
* Rare magazine stories available in no other collection, including ‘The Paradise Club’ series
* Includes Bangs’ rare non-fiction work ‘Uncle Sam, Trustee’, digitised here for the first time
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and genres

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CONTENTS:

The Novels
Roger Camerden (1887)
Toppleton’s Client (1893)
Mr. Bonaparte of Corsica (1895)
A Rebellious Heroine (1896)
Emblemland (1901)
Mollie and the Unwiseman (1902)
Olympian Nights (1902)
The Andiron Tales (1906)
Alice in Blunderland (1907)
The Whole Family: A Novel by Twelve Authors (1908)
The Autobiography of Methuselah (1909)
Mollie and the Unwiseman Abroad (1910)
Jack and the Checkbook (1911)
From Pillar to Post (1916)

The Jimmieboy Series
Tiddledywink Tales (1891)
The Tiddledywink’s Poetry Book (1892)
In Camp with a Tin Soldier (1892)
Half Hours with Jimmieboy (1893)
The Mantel-Piece Minstrels, and Other Stories (1896)
Bikey the Skicycle and Other Tales of Jimmieboy (1902)
Uncollected Jimmieboy Tales

The Raffles Series
Mrs. Raffles (1905)
R. Holmes & Co. (1906)

The Idiot Series
Coffee and Repartee (1893)
The Idiot (1895)
The Idiot at Home (1900)
The Inventions of the Idiot (1904)
The Genial Idiot (1908)
Half-Hours with the Idiot (1917)

Associated Shades Series
A House-Boat on the Styx (1895)
The Pursuit of the House-Boat (1897)
The Enchanted Type-Writer (1899)
Mr. Munchausen (1901)

Other Short Fiction
The Lorgnette (1886)
New Waggings of Old Tales by Two Wags (1888)
Three Weeks in Politics (1894)
The Water Ghost, and Others (1894)
The Paradise Club (1895)
Paste Jewels (1897)
Ghosts I Have Met and Some Others (1898)
Peeps at Peoples (1899)
The Dreamers: A Club (1899)
The Booming of Acre Hill and Other Reminiscences of Urban and Suburban Life (1900)
Over the Plum-Pudding (1901)
Potted Fiction (1908)
A Little Book of Christmas (1912)

The Plays
The Bicyclers, and Three Other Farces (1896)

The Poetry
Cobwebs from a Library Corner (1899)

The Non-Fiction
Uncle Sam, Trustee (1902)

Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles or to purchase this eBook as a Parts Edition of individual eBooks

Leseprobe

The Complete Works of

JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

(1862-1922)

Contents

The Novels

Roger Camerden (1887)

Toppleton’s Client (1893)

Mr. Bonaparte of Corsica (1895)

A Rebellious Heroine (1896)

Emblemland (1901)

Mollie and the Unwiseman (1902)

Olympian Nights (1902)

The Andiron Tales (1906)

Alice in Blunderland (1907)

The Whole Family: A Novel by Twelve Authors (1908)

The Autobiography of Methuselah (1909)

Mollie and the Unwiseman Abroad (1910)

Jack and the Checkbook (1911)

From Pillar to Post (1916)

The Jimmieboy Series

Tiddledywink Tales (1891)

The Tiddledywink’s Poetry Book (1892)

In Camp with a Tin Soldier (1892)

Half Hours with Jimmieboy (1893)

The Mantel-Piece Minstrels, and Other Stories (1896)

Bikey the Skicycle and Other Tales of Jimmieboy (1902)

Uncollected Jimmieboy Tales

The Raffles Series

Mrs. Raffles (1905)

R. Holmes & Co. (1906)

The Idiot Series

Coffee and Repartee (1893)

The Idiot (1895)

The Idiot at Home (1900)

The Inventions of the Idiot (1904)

The Genial Idiot (1908)

Half-Hours with the Idiot (1917)

Associated Shades Series

A House-Boat on the Styx (1895)

The Pursuit of the House-Boat (1897)

The Enchanted Type-Writer (1899)

Mr. Munchausen (1901)

Other Short Fiction

The Lorgnette (1886)

New Waggings of Old Tales by Two Wags (1888)

Three Weeks in Politics (1894)

The Water Ghost, and Others (1894)

The Paradise Club (1895)

Paste Jewels (1897)

Ghosts I Have Met and Some Others (1898)

Peeps at Peoples (1899)

The Dreamers: A Club (1899)

The Booming of Acre Hill and Other Reminiscences of Urban and Suburban Life (1900)

Over the Plum-Pudding (1901)

Potted Fiction (1908)

A Little Book of Christmas (1912)

The Plays

The Bicyclers, and Three Other Farces (1896)

The Poetry

Cobwebs from a Library Corner (1899)

The Non-Fiction

Uncle Sam, Trustee (1902)

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

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Version 1

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The Complete Works of

JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

By Delphi Classics, 2020

COPYRIGHT

Complete Works of John Kendrick Bangs

First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2020.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 78877 951 7

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

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The Novels

View of Yonkers, a city in Westchester County, New York, 1860 — Bangs’ birthplace

Yonkers today, viewed from New Jersey Palisades

Roger Camerden (1887)

A STRANGE STORY

First published by George J Coombes of New York in April 1887, this novel was initially released anonymously with Bangs only admitting authorship of it once his career had started to take off. He was just twenty-five at the time that it first appeared and he’d written it the previous year when he and his new wife had honeymooned in England. The year after publication he went to work for publisher’s Harper & Bros, “to take charge of the humorous department of their periodicals” at $50 per month for “two or three afternoons a week”.

Described by some as a horror novel and by others as a psychological fantasy it is certainly an oddity in his oeuvre, for all his subsequent genre work would be humorous. The story opens with a dinner of the Knights of St George and with Camerden dead, as Henderson, a friend of his since college, tells his story. During their college course they struck up a friendship; however, shortly after their junior year started, Camerden was called home. When he returned he was a changed man, absent-minded, reserved, silent, irritable.

Many years later Henderson learns that Camerden’s father committed suicide and his mother died of grief soon after. Camerden spent a lot of time and effort trying to track down Henry Marville, the man he believes responsible for his father’s suicide. He moves from the city to the country and falls in love with his neighbour’s daughter, Hester, only to later discover that her father is the man he’s been looking for. Then Camerden dies. Palmer, another of the Knights, is the nephew of Henry Marville and knows his side of the story. Henry Marville, he says, did not have a daughter. Who was Hester Marville and was the house in which Roger died really haunted?

Perhaps prompted by the novel being published as anonymous, critical reaction at the time is hard to trace, but the lack of any significant reprints until the twenty-first century suggests that it was generally overlooked.

The first edition

CONTENTS

I. THE DINNER OF THE KNIGHTS OF ST. GEORGE.

II. MR. CHARLES HENDERSON’S STORY.

III. MR. CHARLES HENDERSON’S STORY CONTINUED, BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS INTERVIEW WITH ROGER CAMERDEN.

IV. MR CHARLES HENDERSON’S STORY CONCLUDED, BEING LIKEWISE THE CONCLUSION OF HIS INTERVIEW WITH ROGER CAMERDEN.

V. THE COMMENTS OF THE KNIGHTS UPON HENDERSON’S NARRATIVE LEAD TO FURTHER REVELATIONS.

VI. HENRY PALMER’S DEFENCE OF MARVILLE.

VII. THE CLUB DISCUSSES HESTER MARVILLE — DR. MARTIN COMES TO THE RESCUE.

VIII. DR. MARTIN’S EXPLANATION.

The second edition’s title page

TO

A. H. B.

I. THE DINNER OF THE KNIGHTS OF ST. GEORGE.

THEDEVICE, WHICHcertain unregenerate members of the association termed the “trade mark,” of the St. George Society, representing the patron saint of England seated upon the steed of rationalism, engaged in deadly combat with the dragon of superstition, showed plainly the object for which the association had been formed.

The knights, as the thirteen members of the society called themselves, upon their initiation had sworn a dreadful oath to fly directly in the face of Providence by disregarding the warnings of proverb, fable, and crone. On all possible occasions they sat thirteen at table; never was there lost an opportunity to break through the long line of carriages of passing funerals; always was the cracking of a mirror greeted with a smile of contemptuous incredulity; and as for marriage, no knight ever let pass the opportunity to postpone indefinitely that epoch in the life of man and womankind, when it was possible so to defer it by falling up-stairs without loss of dignity or other serious damage.

Late in December, 188-, such of the Knights of St. George as had successfully braved the ravages of superstition during the six years of the club’s existence were partaking of their annual dinner at Mantelli’s well-known restaurant, and were beginning to be as merry as they well could be under unusually trying circumstances.

It was not long since they had received by Indian mail the unhappy news that a sixth member had succumbed to the unconquerable foe, and that light-hearted, genial Harry Seymour, the life and spirit of their last annual gathering, had fallen a victim to the jungle fever. An ominous feeling that the Club had best disband before further disaster had overtaken its members oppressed them.

The paradox of drinking the health of the deceased knights was put through with an unusual and, one might say, undue haste, and a unanimous sigh of relief broke forth as the last toast to the long life or, more properly speaking, long rest of Roger Camerden was drained.

A deep and painful silence came over the young men, who were outvying each other in an attempted display of nonchalance — too plainly a thin veneering upon the underlying nervousness of all present. The ticking of the clock alone broke in upon the stillness of the room, and when it slowly chimed the hour of three the president of the little band started uneasily, and, knocking the ashes from his cigar, remarked in a scarcely audible tone of voice, “What a strange ending that was of Camerden’s!”

“Too strange for my taste,” said his vis-à-vis, George Forrester, rising and poking the smoking log, which with a splutter blazed out fiercely, its flames resolving themselves into phantasmic figures that to the highly wrought imaginations of the company were unpleasantly suggestive.

A waiter entered the room at this moment and extinguished all the lights, calling to mind an inviolable rule of the Club, probably inserted by a thoughtful lover of the grotesque into the already grotesque regulations, that the postprandial ceremonies should invariably be performed by no other light save the warm glow of the blazing logs.

It was evident, from the way in which the diners drew closer together and formed a more compact circle about the fire, that it was something more than the chill of a bitterly cold night that had penetrated their robust frames, and, had it not been that they deemed it an unmanly display of weakness on their part, there was not one of them who would not willingly have asked that, upon this occasion at least, the bright light of the hanging crystal chandelier should be allowed to diffuse its cheerful radiance throughout the room.

“You were more intimate with Camerden than most of us, were you not, Henderson?” continued Forrester, addressing a pale-looking man, apparently thirty years of age, seated at one end of the semicircular group, and holding an unlighted cigar in his hand.

“Yes, I think Roger and I were more closely connected by the ties of a long friendship, dating from our college days, than are most of those who call themselves friends. Now that we are on the subject, I don’t know that I ever told any of you of the awful shock Roger’s death gave me. I had seen him but a few hours before he died, and he appeared to be in perfect health. It was then that he told me the story of his life, and there were details connected with it that made his taking away particularly sad and untimely.”

With these words Henderson drew a deep sigh, and something very like tears might have been seen glistening in his eyes had his face not been hidden by the dark shadow of the mantel corner near which he was seated. His words aroused the interest of the listeners, who were sincerely desirous that someone should be talking, no matter upon what subject, as a pleasant relief from the depressing stillness of the room.

Henderson, who was human enough to be fond of the sound of his own voice upon most occasions, and especially upon an occasion when it was the unanimously expressed desire of his companions to hear what he had to say in regard to their dead friend, lighted his cigar and, throwing himself back into his chair, spoke substantially as follows:

II. MR. CHARLES HENDERSON’S STORY.

“AS I TOLDyou a few moments since, my acquaintance with Roger Camerden began during our college course. We were thrown together a great deal during our Freshman year at Yale, and so intimate did we become that at the beginning of our Sophomore year Roger asked me to pack up my traps and join him in a small suite of rooms.

“I took to him greatly from the first.

As you all remember, there was a charm about his quiet ways that strongly appealed to one’s affections, and it seemed to me I had never before met with one of my own sex who had made so great an impression upon that very impressionable organ, my heart.”

At this allusion to his heart, several of Henderson’s auditors summoned up sufficient courage to smile quite audibly, for the speaker was one of those large-hearted individuals whose capacity for loving leads them into dangerous complications with the law on one side and broken-hearted maidens on the other. Henderson had the reputation of being the most frequently engaged man in the rigidly select circles of New York society, and although he had never involved himself in any discreditable bit of fickleness he was none the less looked upon askance by many a managing mamma of eligible daughters.

Ignoring the interruption, Henderson proceeded:

“Of course, I was only too glad to accept Camerden’s offer, and from that time on we were known as the Damon and Pythias of our class.

“Shortly after our junior year opened, Camerden was called home by the sudden illness of his father, an illness that terminated fatally. Following closely on the death of Mr. Camerden came that of Roger’s mother, and news was received at college that Roger himself had been taken dangerously ill and that his life was despaired of.

He recovered, however, and at the beginning of our second term returned to college a changed man.

“He had developed a most peculiar phase of character, and his nature was quite the reverse of what it had been before his troubles came upon him. At times he would grow very absent-minded, and would pay not the least attention to anything that was said to him. He became reserved and silent, and on some occasions was irritable to an almost unbearable degree; but it was his preoccupation that impressed me beyond all else. He did not seem to exist in the same world with me. Once, I remember, when we were practising some of our glee-club music together, Camerden stopped suddenly in the middle of a bar, and, nodding pleasantly toward the open door, remarked in a commonplace tone, ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’ Five minutes later he put on his hat, and, saying that his friend was waiting for him below, left the room.

“This seemed most strange to me, for I had seen no one in the doorway and had heard no one on the staircase without, which at all times when in use creaked abominably — so much so, in fact, that we had jocularly christened it the ‘Camerden-

Henderson Burglar Betrayer, patent applied for.’ The so-called music which Roger and I were indicting upon the unhappy neighborhood may perhaps have overcome all other sounds, just as it drowned all the efforts of rival melodists on the floors above and below us; but I happened to be looking in the direction of the door when Camerden spoke, and I would have pledged my word that there was no one there. At any rate, Roger’s friend was a great mystery to me. He always avoided speaking of him; and it comes to mind now that upon one occasion — the only one upon which he really lost his temper with me — when I asked him a few questions about his new acquaintance, he went so far as to say that if I could not think of any better subject to harp upon than who his friend was, and how he got up and down those stairs without my hearing him, we had best make arrangements for accommodations apart.

“Warned by this, I never again broached the subject to Camerden; but I watched him closely always, fearing that his peculiar actions were but the forerunner of some mental disorder, which, in his then weakened physical state, might result in my losing one of the best friends I ever had. A strong believer in the theory that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, I felt it my duty to prevent as far as was within my power; but I possessed all of a young man’s dislike of being laughed at, and as I was never quite certain that Roger’s friend had not appeared in the doorway, I did not impart to anyone my suspicions as to his condition. That there was something mysterious about the vanished creature I was morally certain. I contented myself with watching Camerden in secret. Nothing came of it. Only once or twice again had I any reason to suspect that all was not right with Roger, but his habit of talking to himself, asking questions and apparently answering others, rather worried me.

“Senior year came and went, we graduated, and parted with mutual promises that the friendship of our college days should be prolonged in the greater world; and when, some six years later, Camerden moved to Harden Roads, he at once looked me up and informed me that the fact of my residence there had largely determined him in his final selection of a home. Having a fair practice at the New York Bar, Roger wished to settle down in some place where he could enjoy all the advantages of a country life and still be within easy distance of his office in the city.

“Harden Roads offered itself as the most conveniently situated village in the vicinity for him, and with my assistance he found and rented a neat little box at the lower end of the town. The upper end was noted chiefly for its inaccessibility, due to its situation upon a hill from whose summit the inhabitants had so inured themselves to looking down upon their neighbors of the lower-lying lands that they could never free themselves from that supercilious mien which befits a gathering of snobs. Camerden preferred to settle down in an atmosphere not so saturated with the starch of pride as to render life a burden to him who was condemned to live in it.

“Of course, I made myself at home in Camerden’s house. His sole companions were his sister and maiden aunt, who divided the responsibility of his household affairs, and who would doubtless have spoiled their idol had he been of a spoilable nature.

There was nothing of the Sardanapalus about Camerden, and, if there had been, I flatter myself that I kept him well enough supplied with the society of the sterner sex to discourage any such symptoms, had they ever displayed themselves.

“Around his house were beautiful grounds — the acreage of the place was from ten to fifteen acres, I should imagine — and their arrangement was undoubtedly the work of an artist in landscape gardening. Roger, always fond of outdoor work, took much pleasure in superintending personally the planting of a new tree here, or the making of another flower-bed there.

It was not long before he had made his nest a very bed of roses, and the air he breathed became, under the joint ministrations of nature, an Irish gardener, and himself, one of delicious fragrance such as we rarely find outside of fiction.

“Half a mile back from his house, over a somewhat steep hill, Roger worshipped nature unadorned. There were such romantic forests, such ruggedly wild and beautiful bits of scenery as a trip to the Hampshire Hills could scarcely bring to view — all within twenty miles of this noisy metropolis; and along the numerous intersecting paths of this delightful spot Roger spent much of his leisure, meditating deeply on his past, maturing his plans for the future, and occasionally, being somewhat of a poet, with a fallen log for his desk and a cluster of leaves, mosses, and ferns for his seat, inditing lines to some unknown fair — the idol of his dreams and the inspiration of such future greatness as the fates would vouchsafe him. His absent-mindedness still clung to him, and an uncomfortable habit of staring vacantly into space and nervously starting, as if from some unpleasant dream, had come upon him; but, though often moody and silent, there were still some traces of that feeling of good-fellowship and love of fun that had characterized him in the early days of his college life.

“Under circumstances such as these Roger lived for two and a half years.

Everything seemed to run smoothly, without interruption, until a week before his death, when a radical change came over him — a change that for the moment seemed to be for the better.

“Although never careless in his dress, he appeared to me to become even more careful than usual, and I remember bringing a smile to his lips by telling him one day on the train, when I felt particularly tired and unhappily dirty, that he was offensively clean. His manner brightened, his old ringing laugh came back to him, the moody, absent-minded state seemed to have left him entirely, and he was more like the Roger Camerden that I had first known than he had been for many years.

“On the afternoon of the day on which he died he explained to me the cause of this happy transformation. What he then told me has made me think that his sudden ending was most hard for him, standing as he was upon the threshold of a happiness that he had never experienced save in his dreams; and, weak as it may be, I can never think of another, upon whom his death must have fallen with a most crushing force, without having tears come into my eyes.”

Rising from his chair, Henderson walked to the table, filled his sherry glass, and, hastily draining it, returned to his place by the fire and resumed his story:

“It was late one afternoon in October last that my front door-bell rang and Camerden was announced. His nervous manner betrayed that he was laboring under an unusual excitement. Greeting me in the ordinary way, he seated himself by my table and said:

“‘Well, Henderson, you must congratulate me. I am a happy man at last, and that you may see how thoroughly worthy of congratulation I am I have come to tell you the story of my life. It is a longish tale, but it will interest you I am sure.

I have been accustomed to confide my woes to you to a certain extent, and I think I should compensate you by letting you participate in my joys also. I unbosom myself to yon as I do to no other man, and while I live I want you to regard what I tell you to-day as confidential. When the light of this flickering candle of humanity is snuffed, you may tell whom you please.

Dead men care as little about the tales that are told of them as they do to tell tales of other people.’

“This was said in a way that excited my interest. Roger’s face was flushed, and his utterance, owing to the dryness of his lips, was somewhat thick; the amount of iced water he consumed at that sitting was sufficient to float every object in the room.”

“Without exaggeration?” queried a flippant knight.

“Without the slightest, my dear fellow,” gravely replied Henderson. “But to continue. I was gratified beyond measure to be the recipient of his confidence, and to note that gayety had succeeded his usual moodiness gave me inexpressible relief. There had been times when I bitterly reproached myself for not having more courage and insisting upon his consulting a physician; but the one subject upon which he would neither converse nor allow others to speak was his condition of health. The fear of losing a friend in life was even harder to bear than that of losing one in death, and I was not strong-willed enough to do what seemed to be my plain duty. Now I saw, or thought I saw, that my forebodings were unfounded, and it soothed a troubled conscience, I assure you.

“Naturally, I expressed my willingness to hear what Roger had to tell me, and he, removing his overcoat, drew closer to my table and plunged in.”

III. MR. CHARLES HENDERSON’S STORY CONTINUED, BEING THE SUBSTANCE OF HIS INTERVIEW WITH ROGER CAMERDEN.

“‘BEFORE I WENTto Yale,’ said Camerden, ‘I lived in a thriving manufacturing town in Massachusetts, where my family had resided since the original Camerden came over. Exactly when that was I will not attempt to say; for, although my father always insisted that he had a distant relative upon that overcrowded ark which foundered on Plymouth Bock, we have never been able to prove by any documents in our possession, or among the archives of others, that a Camerden was anywhere to be found upon the Mayflower. If there was any such person, you may count upon it that he was a stowaway and did not pay his fare. For this reason I never claim to have any furniture that my great-great-grandfather’s great-grandfather brought with him on that memorable trip.

“‘ My father, doubtless, liked to imagine that he started right; and as it is useless to strive with even an every-day life in Massachusetts without some such stray root as this to one’s family tree, he, being a man of enterprise, made up his mind to have it if he had to plant it himself.

What our claim to the distinction was I know not; but certain it is that when the rumor first crept abroad that the Camerdens were Mayflower people, their hither-to indifferent fortunes began to look up.

When I arrived upon the scene my father was the leading banker of the town, and in all pertaining to social matters my mother was the acknowledged queen.

“‘The salary attached to the presidency of a country bank is not large, but the esteem in which its incumbent is held is gratifying, and a more happy, self-satisfied family than the Camerdens were at the time of which I speak never existed. Everything prospered with us, and when I reached the proper age and was far enough advanced in my studies I was sent to college, where you and I met and laid the foundations of our present friendship — which I pray may never be shaken. I enjoyed life as only those who have no care for the future can, and the brightest of prospects for a successful career were mine.

“‘ Perhaps you noticed that about the middle of my junior year I became moody and irritable. I had every cause. The agonies of mind that I then went through were such that at times I contemplated self-destruction. Bad news came from home.

My sister wrote that my father was in trouble, that he had withdrawn himself from the outer world and was hardly accessible to his own wife and daughter; his manner was reserved and he had grown morose — a situation of affairs which, in view of his general light-heartedness, was alarming.

“‘ He was greatly annoyed, my letter said, by a stranger, who seemed to exert a powerful influence over him, whom he feared and apparently hated, but of whose presence he never seemed able to rid himself. This stranger neither my mother nor sister had seen, but when the two men were locked up in the library together, my father had been heard, first storming at him, and then entreating him to spare him disgrace. —

“‘My poor mother could get no satisfactory answer to her oft-repeated questions as to who the stranger was, or what the trouble between him and my father might be; and one morning, shortly before my examinations, I was summoned by telegraph to return home at once — my father was dangerously ill. On my arrival at the house I found my father lying dead, and my mother wringing her hands and calling upon him to deny the truth of what his hand had written upon a slip of paper found on his table near by.

“‘He had committed suicide. An empty phial at his side told the story. The letter he left stated briefly that he was a ruined man; that he had speculated with the bank’s funds, had been cheated by the man he trusted, had lost, and in fact had been guilty of a crime which brought irretrievable dishonor upon himself and his family, and the burden of it was too great for him to bear.

“‘ This overwhelming confession of disgrace, coupled with the shock of my father’s death and such a terrible interruption of a hitherto uneventful life, nearly unsettled my reason, and I was taken down with a severe illness that lasted for weeks, during which time I was in a delirium. When reason returned I learned that during my sickness my mother had died from grief, and that my sister and I were the sole remaining members of our formerly happy family; but there was news coupled with this that made our outlook brighter and gave me a desire to live that I might not otherwise have had. A thorough examination of the bank’s securities divulged the astounding fact that not a single breach of trust had been committed by my father, that no securities were missing, and that there was no foundation whatever for his self-accusation.

“‘I thanked God that in all my trials He had at least left me an untarnished name.

“‘ With the idea of clearing up the mystery which enshrouded my father’s last days, and discovering, if possible, by what malignant persecution had been forced upon him the terrible and totally unfounded ideal that drove him to suicide, I spent the following summer in the endeavor to learn the identity and whereabouts of the stranger who, I could not but feel, had been instrumental in bringing all this trouble upon us.

“‘With no knowledge as to the man’s appearance, and with, indeed, no idea concerning him save that he was a villain, you may imagine that I had a slender chance of finding him. No one at the bank knew anything about him, and, as far as I could learn by questionings and cross-questionings, not a soul in the village remembered ever to have seen my father with any strange person. Despite my efforts I never could discover the slightest clew, and after three months of fruitless search I gave up what I might have known better than to begin.

“‘The associations of our house at Brookville were too painful for my sister and myself to live there any longer, so, availing ourselves of the suggestion of my aunt, who now lives with me, to make our home with her, we moved away as soon as was practicable I returned to college, and by devotion to my studies and attention to such pleasures as I could consistently take part in I tried to forget the past.

“‘Unfortunately, the past could not be forgotten. Asleep or awake, my father’s mysterious visitor was always uppermost in my thoughts. In my dreams he took on all sorts of horrible shapes, and as a creature of the imagination he drove me almost to the verge of lunacy, just as in the flesh he had pushed my father quite over it. Even by day I could not rid myself of his unseen presence. I found myself scanning the features of every man who passed me in the street, and an inner something told me that, should my enemy and I meet face to face, I should know him.

“‘One day, after my return to New Haven, I was looking in one of the shopwindows on College Street, when over my shoulder, reflected in the glass, appeared the dim outline of the face that haunted me.

There was someone at my back, and that that someone was the man I sought was the thought that flashed through my mind.

When I turned, there was no one there, but farther up the street the fast-receding form of a man was visible. I don’t know why, Henderson, but I linked that receding form with my father’s misfortunes, and nothing could have kept me from following it. Darkness was coming on at this time, and I soon lost sight of the man notwithstanding my utmost efforts to keep up with him. He was a fast walker, and I had become so weak under the excitement of the moment that I could barely stagger along.

“‘I was encouraged, however, by the thought that he was in New Haven, and for several days afterward I lay in wait near the post-office, feeling certain that he would pass that way. At last he came, and as he approached me he stared me nearly out of countenance; then he stopped, smiled, and actually asked me my name. My face was familiar to him, he said. Before I knew it I was shaking hands with the man who, I was morally certain, had betrayed those I loved best. It seemed to me policy to do so. I had no power over him then, and if I were surly or vindictive and repelled his advances, how was I to discover what mere caprice made me think he had to tell me? I went so far as to give a fictitious name and express the hope that he would form my acquaintance then, if he never had done so before.

“‘We met many times after this, and our chance acquaintance ripened into what seemed a friendship, but which, as far as I was concerned, was simply a cloak to cover my schemes for his betrayal. We visited each other, and it was he who appeared in the doorway that day when you and I were practising our glee-club music. I noticed, as well as you, the stealthiness of his approach; but as he was always quiet in his ways it did not trouble me half so much as on another occasion, when he and I were engaged in conversation in our rooms and you walked in between us ignoring his presence entirely.

His weird appearance, together with his stealthy, panther-like action, fascinated but worried me to the last degree, and the fact that he was apparently unseen by you, or if seen, ignored, set my mind in an unpleasant train of thought regarding him.

“‘As we became more intimate I began to ply him with questions leading up to that great question which had become the problem of my life. Was he, or was he not, connected with my father’s fate? His answers were such as to convince me that my suspicions were not totally unfounded; but from the moment he perceived toward what end my questions tended his manner cooled, and we were fast becoming, as we had begun, strangers to one another.

“‘ He told me one morning that he had been called from New Haven, and would probably have to leave within a day or two, and added that if I would be frank with him and tell him by what right I questioned him concerning that unfortunate Camerden affair, as he was pleased to term it, he would be equally frank with me and tell me what he knew about it, pledging me, however, to secrecy. I accepted the offer, feeling that a pledge given under the existing circumstances could be broken without injury to my conscience, if duty pointed to my playing false to him.

“‘The moment he learned my true name his agitation was great, and he averred that he could not then speak, but that if I would meet him the next morning at his rooms, he would tell me all. I refused, holding him to his word; but I offered, since he asked for time alone, to dine with him and go thereafter to my lodgings, where he could speak without fear of interruption. You were then away on leave — to bury your fourteenth grandmother, I believe. He had no choice but to accept, and after a silent dinner at the New Haven House, where he seemed to be thinking deeply — probably concocting some lie for my edification — we adjourned to our rooms.

“‘You remember we had two rooms on the third floor, and there was no way whatsoever of entering or leaving the inner room except through the study, which opened upon the landing. Keeping in mind the stealthy tread of my visitor and his ability to move noiselessly about, I conducted him to the inner room and locked the door of the outer. I was a determined man, and having found that for which I had so long searched I was not to be balked by any escape. I left my guest for a moment to hang up my coat on the peg in the outer room, and when I returned — Henderson, I hope you will believe me — that man was gone. There were no closets in the room in which he could have concealed himself; the windows were closed, and to try to escape by them, even were they open, would have either killed the man or crippled him for life. The outer door was still locked, and it could not possibly have been opened without my hearing it. I could not have fainted under the excitement of the moment and permitted his escape; there was not a sufficient lapse of time for that between my leaving him and my return to the room where I supposed he was.

“‘You may well imagine how startled I was by this ending of my promised interview. I began to doubt my sanity and the existence of the vanished being, but the check of the New Haven House calling for payment for two dinners convinced me of the reality of everything.

“‘The ephemeral nature of all connected with the man, and his identity or connection with my father’s mysterious friend, led me to fear that I was myself a part of the dream of some mortal, by whose awakening I might be snuffed out of existence at any moment. Not a pleasant thought, I can assure you. To this day the matter is a mystery to me. I have never since laid eyes upon the creature, and all my letters sent to his home, the address of which he gave me, have been returned to me unopened, stamped either “unknown” or “cannot be found.”

“‘ The effect of all this was to make me gloomy and irritable, and had it not been for my sister I should have been sorely tempted to give up the struggle for a comfortable existence and, with a poisonous draught or pistol shot, put an end to my troubles.

“‘ I grew worse as years went by, and close attention to the practice of my profession soon brought my health down to a low ebb. I consulted a physician, who. advised me to give up the city, rent a house in the country and settle down to a quiet life with plenty of out-door exercise, It was his notion that the confinement to “walled lanes,” as he called our closely-built streets, was telling surely upon my strength. I needed sunlight and air. Sunlight mentally as well as bodily, he said; and remembering that you, my old class-mate and friend, had happily settled at Harden Roads, I appealed to you for help in the selection of my home.

“‘How I came, saw, and was conquered, yon know; so, without dwelling upon the past two happy years, I will come to the most important part of my story.’”

“At this point,” said Henderson, “Roger’s whole demeanor changed. While he was speaking of the man who had betrayed his father, his eyes had a haunted, despairing look in them that frightened me not a little.

He would rise from his chair and pace the room, gesticulating unpleasantly like one whose reason was unsettled. Once, when he was speaking of his father’s suicide, I thought he was about to faint, but he changed suddenly from an apparently weak man to one of towering strength, the effect of the passion he felt against the mysterious person who had exercised so baleful an influence over him.

“When he had closed that chapter of his story and proceeded to the recital of that which was full of light and happiness for him, his manner changed. His eyes brightened, he was calmer, and his smile, like the sunlight playing amid shadows, would come and go, brightening his face and giving him an expression of contentment that had been sadly wanting there for many long and weary years.”

IV. MR CHARLES HENDERSON’S STORY CONCLUDED, BEING LIKEWISE THE CONCLUSION OF HIS INTERVIEW WITH ROGER CAMERDEN.

“ROGERCONTINUEDASfollows,” said Henderson.

“‘ Under the benign influence of early hours and good air I grew stronger every day. Bodily and mental vigor became mine as of old, and those delightful strolls over the hills, through well-nigh impenetrable woods and dense, deep ravines, and over moss-covered rocks, became a necessary part of my existence. I loved the solitude that was thus made possible. By very contrast with the noise and bustle of my business surroundings, the quiet of the woodlands where I was likely to meet no one seemed stiller and sweeter, and the more impenetrable the forest the greater was my happiness.

“‘ There, alone with nature, I would think of my past life, and alas! of its hardships, which, as they receded further and further into the past, seemed not less, but more, hard to bear. The unhappy destruction of a harmonious home-circle, into which no care had entered and where all seemed safe from the ills of the world, played an important part in those meditations. Revenge for the ills we had all suffered was ever uppermost in my mind, and at times I would rush through those scarcely visible paths, slashing from side to side the saplings and stunted growth with my cane, as if I were cutting down an army of enemies that had brought destruction upon my parents and had worked well-nigh irreparable injury upon my sister and myself.

“‘ Then, as we run from one extreme to another, from indulging in angry passions I would revert to sentimentality. I felt the need of some kindred creature who could be all in all to me, who could share with me what joys my poor life afforded, and could make me more resolute to bear the burdens which I have had to shoulder so early in life.

“‘I am something of a painter and à little of a versifier. I would picture to myself the ideal face, the face I could love. I would sing in rhyme the beauties and excellences of character, of intellect, that the woman should have whom I could love with the whole strength of my heart. Thus went my hours of leisure and solitude, happy hours enough for me who have been good company for no man for many years. Now, Henderson, I hope all is changed. I am a new man, filled with new life, new hopes.

I want to live, for I have discovered my ideal and she is more than perfect.

“‘ Perhaps you remember that when I moved to Harden Roads there was but one vacant house in my neighborhood. That was the old mansion on Halcott Hill, about two hundred yards north of us. As you know, it possesses something of an element of mystery, and for that reason, I am told, it never keeps a tenant long. For nearly the two years or more that I have been here it has been vacant; three months! ago a family bearing the name of Marville moved in. Mr. Marville I have never known even by sight, but one thing is as certain as death, the name of my mysterious friend at New Haven was Marville!

“‘ The effect the knowledge of this produced upon me was, to say the least, unpleasant. My greatest misfortunes, I could not but feel, were in some measure due to the man who bore that name. What if it were he? Was this the forerunner of further evil? Was I to have no peace all the days of my life? I had felt secure in my new home. If I could not shake off the remembrance of my dreadful experience, I could at least free myself from the possibility of contact with its cause. My moments of sentimental thought were fast predominating, and I had become satisfied to let the past die. The one object of my former’ wishes was now an object of dread to me.

To be away from the world, where I could forget the past and form new associations, had become the devoutest wish of my soul.

“‘ Here was the shadow of a new trouble, perhaps. My vindictive feelings returned with greater force. I pondered deeply over the matter, as I roamed at will day by day; and had I met this Marville face to face in moments of my extreme wrath, I shudder to think of what awful crime I might have been guilty.

“‘ Fortunately, I never did meet him; but I feel that were we to come in contact to-day, and should he turn out to be my evil genius, as I sometimes think him, I should not harm him. My reason for this is simply that I am in love with his daughter, and she has promised to be my wife.

“‘ Duty points in one direction, but love stands in the path of duty. If this Marville is the man I have detested all these years, I — but no! I cannot believe her father to be the villain who has so ill-used us. It is not in the nature of things.

“‘ Henderson, she is perfection incarnate! She is the ideal of — but there! what a rambler I am! You see the effect that this long hoped-for, but unexpected, happiness has had upon me. I haven’t even told you when, where, and how we met.

“‘ It is about a month now since I first saw her. I was walking one Sunday afternoon, early in September, along one of my favorite paths on the hill, when suddenly, with a cry of terror, there dashed out from a clump of trees one of the most beautiful specimens of young womanhood it has ever been my good fortune to meet with. Tho deepest of deep-blue eyes were hers; her hair, slightly tinged with reddish brown, had come undone in her unceremonious scramble from among the leafy boughs, and hung in a rich mass over her shoulders; her complexion was as clear and as delicately tinted as a tea-rose, and — well, I am not equal to a further description. Let me sum up by saying that never before had such a vision of loveliness greeted my eyes — loveliness badly scared, however. She had seen a snake — one of those green reptiles that are as harmless as they are numerous in this locality — and, girl-like, thought her last hour had come.

“‘ To despatch the offending reptile, whose only fault lay in thus frightening a lovely creature, was the work of a moment. I turned to receive the thanks that I naturally felt I deserved, but the maiden was nowhere to be seen — never stopped running, I suppose, until she reached her home. I felt a little hurt at her apparent ingratitude; but I have seen enough of the world to make allowances for the ways of women when they are, or imagine they are, in deadly peril.

“‘The rest of my ramble was full of the fair stranger. Who was she, what was she, and where was she, were the thoughts now uppermost in my mind. What marvellously beautiful eyes she had; what a surprisingly perfect figure; and, most wonderful, what a remarkable resemblance was there between the heroine of the day’s adventure and the ideal of my own creation!

Was this a coincidence, or was it another example of the power of the mind to look into the future, or was it nothing more than a notion on my part? Of course these mental questionings were useless, for there was no possibility of an answer to any one of them.

“‘I resolved to see my new-found friend again, if I had to walk twice as far and often as had hitherto been my wont. Casually I would mention the incident in conversation with my sister, hoping that in her daily walks to and from the village she might have seen some such person and could give me some information concerning her. Alas! that sisters are less impressionable as to their own sex than are the brothers of this world! She declared that she had never met any such perfect creature, and wondered as much as I as to who she might be, exercising the while the sisterly prerogative of making her brother’s life happily miserable by her teasing sallies.

“‘ For days and days I haunted the hill.

It seemed singularly dreary, although to a man not looking for a frightened lassie the foliage of the maples, hourly changing color from the deep, dark green of summer to the superb russet-hue of early fall, would appear radiantly lovely. For a full week my search proved unavailing, but on the following Monday fortune favored me. I had returned from the city, late in the afternoon, greatly fatigued by the events of an unusually busy morning and had strolled off for my daily refreshment on the hills, with my eyes and ears on the alert for any signs of the approach of the one whom I ardently desired to see. At a turn in the path, stopping to look back through an opening in the trees at a glorious view of the river, I heard a footstep. Someone was approaching, and that someone was singing in a sweet, girlish voice, an old Arcadian melody that I once heard at a Baden concert many years ago, and that I had never heard since. Very soon the owner of the voice came in sight. It was she for whom I sought. When she saw me standing in her path she stopped short in her singing and smiled — and a rare smile it was!

“‘“I fear you think me very rude,” she said, “for not stopping to thank you for your kindness the other day.”

“‘“Not rude,” I replied, “but I was inclined to find fault with you for not rewarding me with a chance to speak to you.

I wished to call upon you the next afternoon to see if you had recovered from your fright, and I hadn’t an idea as to where I should look for you.”

“‘ She smiled an apology, which encouraged me to add, in a reproachful tone, “I don’t even know who you are!”

“‘“And that,” said she, naively, “is where I have the best of you. I know who yon are and all about you — where you live, what your neighbors think about you — and oh! ever so many things that I have found out, never mind where.”

“‘“I am hardly surprised,” I rejoined, “that you know what my neighbors think of me; for if there is one thing that the people of Harden Roads are celebrated for, it is their freely expressed opinions of one another, and the less they know the more they express.”

“‘“You are severe, Mr. Camerden.

Harden Roads is gossipy enough, but what small town is not? None, I believe; especially none that is so puffed up with a sense of its own importance.”

“‘“True enough. If our good neighbors could not converse of one another’s vices or peculiarities, what a dumb community it would be, to be sure.”

“‘“You, at all events, are not one of the gossipy order, although I may be,” said my companion, after a moment’s pause.

““‘And why do you thus distinguish me from my fellow-citizens and citizenesses?”

I asked.

“‘“Because — if you had been one of them, you would have learned all about me by this time. You would have known where I live; you would have been told how much I know, with the most minute particulars as to what I do not know; what my father’s occupation in life is; the amount of his income to the very mill; how often I attend church; in fact, my whole character and past life would be before you — I will not say how truly — if you had made the slightest effort to find me out or had felt the slightest interest in me. I am beginning to believe you don’t care to know. I hardly feel complimented and, should I follow my inclinations, I should leave you at once in utter ignorance as to who I am, what I am, and where I live.”

“‘ “Would you be so cruel,” I asked, “so ungrateful, after my rescuing you from the fangs of that hideous reptile, which, by the way, was probably as badly scared as yourself? Never. You could not condemn me to another day such as those I have just passed through. If you must leave me to reflect on my sins, please tell me beforehand of some neighbor who, notwithstanding her miscalculations as to the number of times you attend church in the year, or her errors as to where you lived before you came to Harden Roads, can at least inform me who you are. Tell me where I may find some person so highly favored as to know you, with charity enough to be willing to introduce me. I swear to become a gossip for the nonce, if you will but give me the address of this neighbor.”

“‘“ Well, aren’t you nearly out of breath after all that?”

“‘“Not quite, but willing to rest my tongue and recover while you are telling me of yourself,” I replied, meekly.

“‘“Indeed! And don’t you know that it is very improper for me to sit here on this log talking to you and introducing myself?” she inquired, mischievously.

““‘In Mrs. Grundy’s mind, possibly.

But it is hardly fair that you should know so much about me while I am perishing in ignorance as to who you are. You should be just before everything.”

“‘“ A bit of special pleading,” she said, “that, were I a sterner judge, could not fail to move me. Well, my name is Hester.”

“‘“A good beginning. The rest of this entertaining story will be found in—”

“‘“Will be found not at all if you interrupt me again. My last name is Marville!”

“‘“  Marville!” I cried, starting from my seat.

“‘“Well, and why not? Is Marville such a disagreeable name that you must needs frighten me half to death when I tell it you?” she asked, rather sharply.

“‘ “Pardon me, Miss Marville,” I replied, turning my face from hers that she might not see my agitation,  “there are strong reasons for my behavior. Your name has suggested portions of my past that I have been trying my best to forget for many years.”

“‘ A long silence followed my remark — so long, indeed, that it surprised me. I looked around to the log upon which Miss Marville had been sitting, and found that I was alone — left without a word of farewell or of hope that we might meet again. I hoped that this was a bit of feminine freakishness, and that she had hidden herself from me; but a thorough search of the woods soon convinced me that I was indeed alone. I became very angry with her for so impolitely deserting me; but I knew that, in spite of myself, in spite of the hateful name she bore, I loved her as I had never loved any woman before or ever should again. Then I told myself that I had perhaps angered her by my apparent rudeness, and readily excused her.

“‘ Anxiously I looked forward to our next meeting. Was she angry with me, and would I have to begin all over again to establish myself in her good graces? I had felt that we were rapidly coming to a footing of friendship that might easily lead to something closer and dearer. Was all this overthrown by my unhappy lack of self-control?

The thought maddened me; and yet I knew absolutely nothing of Miss Marville save what she had told me — and that was very little — and what I could surmise. Verily a man is a fool in love. She was undoubtedly the daughter of my new neighbor, whom common report had set down as a hermit of hermits. Perhaps the cause of his secluded life was more easy of comprehension to me than to others.

“‘The following day we met again on the same spot as before. Happily Miss Marville seemed to have forgotten the manner of our separation at the previous meeting. We chatted merrily for an hour or more. To my eyes she grew more lovely every moment, and as the sense of the beauty of her character as well as of her person grew upon me, so the forebodings brought on by her possession of that name grew dim. We walked through those old paths, never so beautiful to my eyes, getting a deeper insight into each other’s thoughts at every passing moment. Finally we parted, firm friends at least — I hoped more.

“‘ Hester Marville! Hester Marville!

This was the burden of my thoughts.

Time went on, and we met again and again.

Each succeeding meeting revealed something new in her. Her qualities of mind surpassed those of any woman I had ever met. Her education went as far as the ideal woman’s should. She had not so much learning as would destroy those finer feelings which belong by nature to the true woman, but sufficient to bring them out, just as the background of a painting brings into greater distinctness the fine lines of the figures in the foreground. Her views and mine coincided in most respects, save that her opinions were distinguished by a liberality that I admired and aspired to, but had not the courage to attain. The intellectual enjoyment of her conversation entranced me, and so ready was she in argument that frequently she turned upon me with my own weapons and ignominiously defeated me.

“‘ As all people who talk much will do, we came after a while to speak of ourselves.

Her past life had been almost as devoid of pleasure as my own, and full of sadness.

She had never known her mother, and her father, while he allowed her everything she could reasonably desire, was cold and unaffectionate. Her tastes and his were not alike. He, a stern man of business, took no pleasure other than that of devising business operations; she, more intellectual, loved the arts, was passionately fond of music, yearned for society — not in the every-day sense of the word with its innumerable inanities — and, in short, was as unhappy as one can be with all one’s wants, but no tastes, catered to. She even apologized for not asking me to call upon her, saying that she could not well receive me at her home, her father was such a hermit that he might resent my coming as an intrusion.

It seemed to me that charity, if nothing else, — and there was much else — required me to play Perseus to this Andromeda, and rescue her from a home-life that bade fair to make her as morbid and unhappy as I myself had been. I loved her beyond everything, and could not but feel that my affection was returned. Resolved to put the question to the test, I went back to the hill on Friday last in the hope of seeing her and asking her to be my wife, but she was not to be found.

“‘For several days she did not appear; but yesterday fortune smiled once more, for, after a long ramble over our favorite paths, I discovered her reading beneath an old elm-tree on the crest of the hill. She was looking pale, and her absence on the previous days seemed clear enough to me. At first she did not see me, and for full five minutes I stood gazing at her, feeling that it was a pity to disturb a picture of such perfect loveliness.

“‘ Suddenly she looked up from her book and her eyes rested upon mine. She smiled me a greeting, and languidly said:

“‘ “I was thinking of you, and wondering what had become of you. You have been quite a stranger of late.”

“‘“As if that were my fault,” I replied.