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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> <h3>BERENGARIA</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'I have led her home, my love, my only friend, There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blood And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished-for end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 45%;" /> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> None like her, none.'—Tennyson's Maud. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> Two years had elapsed since Olive Lambert had made her noble decision, and during that time triple events had happened. Mr. Trelawny's suffering life was over, Rex had married his faithful Polly, and Dr. Heriot and Mildred had rejoiced over their first-born son. Mr. Trelawny did not long survive the evening when Richard found him on the sunny terrace; towards the end of the autumn there was a brief rally, a strange flicker of restless life; his confused faculties seemed striving to clear themselves; at times there was a strained dilated look in the dark eyes that was almost pitiful; he seemed unwilling to have Ethel out of his sight—even for a moment. One night he called her to him. She was standing at the window finishing some embroidery by the fading light, but at the first sound of the weak, querulous tones, she turned her cheerful face towards him, for however weary she felt, there was always a smile for him. 'What is it, dear father?' for in those sad last days the holy name of father had come involuntarily to her lips. True, she had tasted little of his fatherhood, but still he was hers—her father. 'Put down that tiresome work and come to me,' he went on, fretfully; 'you are always at work—always—as though you had your bread to earn; there is plenty to spare for you. Rupert will take care of you; you need not fear, Ethel.' 'No, dear, I am not afraid,' she returned coming to his side, and parting his hair with her soft fingers. How often she had kissed those gray streaks, and the poor wrinkled forehead. He was an old man now, bowed and decrepit, sitting there with his lifeless arm folded to his side. But how she loved him—her poor, stricken father! 'No, you were always a good girl. Ethel, are the boys asleep?' 'Yes, both of them, father,' leaning her cheek against his. 'And your mother?' 'Yes, dear.' 'I had a fancy I should like to hear Rupert's voice again. You remember his laugh, Ethel, so clear and ringing? Hal's was not like it; he was quiet and tame compared to Rupert. Ethel,' wistfully, 'it is a long time since I saw my boys.' 'My poor dear, a long, long time!' and then she whispered, almost involuntarily, '"I shall go to them, but they shall not return to me."' He caught the meaning partially. 'Yes, we will go to them—you and I,' he returned, vacantly, patting her cheek as she hung over him. 'Don't cry, Ethel, they are good boys, and shall have their rights; but I have not forgotten you. You have been a good daughter to me—better than I deserved. I shall tell your mother so when——' But the sentence was never finished. He had seemed drowsy after that, and she rang for the servant to wheel him into his own room. He was still heavy when she drew the curtains round him and wished him good-night; he looked placid and beautiful, she thought, as she leant over him for a last kiss; but he only smiled at her, and pressed her hand feebly. That smile, how she treasured it! It was still on his lips when the servant who slept in his room, surprised at his master's long rest, undrew the curtains and found him lying as they left him last night—dead!' 'You have been a good daughter to me—better than I deserved. I shall tell your mother so when——' 'Oh, Ethel, he has told her now! be comforted, darling,' cried Mildred, when Ethel had thrown herself dry-eyed on her friend's bosom. 'God do so to me and mine, as you have dealt with him in his trouble.' But for a long time the afflicted girl refused to be comforted. Richard was smitten with dismay when he saw her for the first time after her father's death. Her paleness, her assumed calmness, filled him with foreboding trouble. Mildred had told him she had scarcely slept or eaten since the shock of her bereavement had come upon her. She had come to him at once, and stood before him in her black dress; the touch of her hand was so cold, that he had started at its clamminess; the uncomplaining sadness of her aspect brought the mist to his eyes. 'Dear Ethel, it has been sudden—awfully sudden,' he said, at last, almost fearing to graze the edge of that dreary pause. 'Ah! that it has.' 'That afternoon we had both been sitting with him. Do you remember he had complained of weariness, and yet he would not suffer us to wheel him in? Who would have thought his weariness would have been so soon at an end!' She made no answer, only her bosom heaved a little. Yes, his weariness was over, but hers had begun; her filial work was taken from her, and her heart was sick with the sudden void in life. For months he had been her first waking and her last sleeping thoughts; his helplessness had brought out the latent devotion of her nature, and now she was alone! 'Will you let me see him?' whispered Richard, not daring to break on this sacred reserve of grief, and yet longing to speak some word of comfort to her stricken heart; and she had turned noiselessly and led him to the chamber of death. There her fortitude had given way a little, and Richard was relieved to see her quiet tears coursing slowly down her cheeks, as they stood side by side looking on the still face with its changeless smile. 'Ethel, I am glad you have allowed me to see him,' he said, at last; 'he looks so calm and peaceful, all marks of age and suffering gone. Who could have the heart to break that rest?' Then the pent-up pain found utterance. 'Oh, Richard, think, never to have bidden him good-bye!' 'Did you wish him good-night, dear? I thought you told me you always went to his bedside the last thing before you slept?' 'Yes—but I did not know,' the tears flowing still more freely. 'No—you only wished him good-night, and bade God bless him. Well, has He not blessed him?' A sob was her only reply. 'Has He not given him the "blessing of peace"? Is not His very seal of peace there stamped on that quiet brow? Dear Ethel, those words, "He is not, for God took him," always seem to me to apply so wonderfully to sudden death. You know,' dropping his voice, and coming more closely, 'some men, good men, even, have such a horror of death.' 'He had,' in a tone almost inaudible. 'So I always understood. Think of the mercy shown to his weakness then, literally falling asleep; no slow approach of the enemy he feared; no deadly combat with the struggling flesh; only sleep, untroubled as a child; a waking, not here, but in another world.' Ethel still wept, but she felt less oppressed; no one could comfort her like Richard, not even Mildred. As the days went on, Richard felt almost embarrassed by the trust she reposed in him. Ethel, who had always been singularly unconventional in her ideas, and was still in worldly matters as simple as a child, could see no reason why Richard should not manage things wholly for her. Richard in his perplexity was obliged to appeal to Dr. Heriot. 'She is ill, and shrinks from business; she wants me to see the lawyer. Surely you can explain to her how impossible it is for me to interfere with such matters? She treats the man who aspires to be her husband exactly like her brother,' continued the young man, in a vexed, shamefaced way. Dr. Heriot could hardly forbear a smile. The master of Kirkleatham had been lying in his grave for weeks, but his faithful daughter still refused to be comforted. She moped piteously; all business fretted her; a quiet talk with Mildred or Richard was all of which her harassed nerves seemed capable. 'What can you expect?' he said, at last; 'her long nursing has broken her down. She has a fine constitution, but the wear and tear of these months have been enough to wear out any woman. Leave her quiet for a little while to cry her heart out for her father.' 'In the meantime, Mr. Grantham is waiting to have those papers signed, and to know if those leases are to be renewed,' returned Richard, impatiently. With her his gentleness and sympathy had been unfailing, but it was not to be denied that his present position fretted him. To be treated as a brother, and to be no brother; to be the rejected suitor of an heiress, and yet to be told he was her right hand! No wonder Richard's heart was sore; he was even aggrieved with Dr. Heriot for not perceiving more quickly the difficulties of his situation. 'If my father were in better health, she would go to him; she has said so more than once,' he went on, more quietly. 'It is easy to see that she does not understand my hints; and under the present circumstances it is impossible to speak more plainly. She wanted me to see Mr. Grantham, and when I refused she looked almost hurt.' 'Yes, I see, she must be roused to do things herself. Don't be vexed about it, Richard, it will all come right, and you cannot expect her to see things as we do. I will have a little talk with her myself; if it comes to the worst I must constitute myself her man of business for the present,' and Richard withdrew more satisfied. Things were at a low ebb just now with Richard. Ethel's heiress-ship lay on him like a positive burden. The riches he despised rose up like a golden wall between him and his love. Oh, that she had been some poor orphaned girl, that in her loneliness he might have taken her to his heart and his father's home! What did either he or she want with these riches? He knew her well enough to be sure how she would dread the added responsibility they would bring. How often she had said to him during the last few weeks, 'Oh, Richard, it is too much! it oppresses me terribly. What am I to do with it all, and with myself!' and he had not answered her a word. Dr. Heriot found his task easier than he had expected. Ethel was unhappy enough to be slightly unreasonable. She felt herself aggrieved with Richard, and had misunderstood him. 'I suppose he has sent you to tell me that I must rouse myself,' she said, with languid displeasure, when he had unfolded his errand. 'He need not have troubled either himself or you. I have seen Mr. Grantham; he went away by the 2.50 train.' 'I must say that I think you have done wisely,' returned Dr. Heriot, much pleased. 'No one, not even Richard, has a right to interfere in these matters. The will is left so that your trustees will expect you to exert yourself. It seems a pity that you cannot refer to them!' 'You know Mr. Molloy is dead.' 'Yes, and Sir William still in Canada. Yet, with an honest, straightforward man like Grantham, I think you might settle things without reference to any one. Richard is only sorry his father is so ailing.' 'No, I could not trouble Mr. Lambert.' 'Richard has been so much about the house during your father's illness, that it seems natural to refer to him. Well, he has an older head than many of us; but all the same you must understand his scruples.' 'They have seemed to me far-fetched.' But, nevertheless, Ethel blushed a little as she spoke. A dim sense of Dr. Heriot's meaning had been dawning on her slowly, but she was unwilling to confess it. She changed the subject somewhat hastily, by asking after Mildred and the baby, and loading Dr. Heriot with loving messages. Nothing more was said about Richard until the close of the visit, when Dr. Heriot somewhat incautiously mentioned him again; but, as he told Mildred afterwards, he spoke advisedly. 'You will not let Richard think he is misunderstood?' he said, as he rose to take leave. 'You know he is the last one to spare himself trouble, but he feels in your position that he must do nothing to compromise you.' 'He will not have the opportunity,' she returned, with brief haughtiness, and turning suddenly very crimson; but as she met Dr. Heriot's look of mild reproach, she melted. 'No—he is right, you are all of you quite right. I must exert myself, and try and care for the things that belonged to my darling father, only I shall be so lonely—so very lonely,' and she covered her face with her hands. Ethel met Richard with more than her usual kindness when she saw him next; her sweet deprecating glance gave the young man a sorrowful pang. 'You need not have sent him to see me, Richard,' she said, a little sadly. 'I have been thoughtless, and hurt you. I—I will trouble no one but myself now.' 'It was not the trouble, Ethel; you must know that,' he returned, eagerly. 'I wish I had the right to help you, but——' His voice broke, and he dropped her hands. Perhaps he felt the time had not come to speak; perhaps an involuntary chill seized him as he thought of the little he had to offer her. His manner was very grave, almost reserved, during the rest of the visit; both of them were glad when a chance caller enabled Richard, without awkwardness, to take his leave. After this, the young curate's visits grew rarer, and at last almost entirely ceased, and they only met at intervals at the vicarage or the Gray House, as Dr. Heriot's house was commonly called. Ethel made no complaint when she found she had lost her friend, only Mildred noticed that she grew paler, and drooped visibly. Mildred's tender heart bled for the lonely girl. Both she and her husband pleaded urgently that Ethel should leave her solitary home, and come to them for a little. But Ethel remained firm in her refusal. 'Your life is so perfect—so beautiful, Mildred,' she said, once, when the latter had pressed her almost with tears in her eyes, 'that I could not break in upon it with my sad face and moping ways. I should be more wretched than I am now.' 'But at least you might have some lady with you; such perfect loneliness is good for no one. I cannot bear to think of you living in a corner of that great house all by yourself,' returned Mildred, almost vexed with her obstinacy; and, indeed, the girl was very difficult to understand in those days. 'I have no friends but all of you dear people,' she answered, in the saddest voice possible, 'and I will not trouble you. I could not tolerate a stranger for a moment. Mildred, you must not be hurt with me; you do not know. I must have my way in this.' And though Mildred shook her wise head, and Dr. Heriot entered more than one laughing protest against such determined self-will, they were obliged to yield. It was a strange life for so young a woman, and would have tried the strongest nerves; but the only wisdom that Ethel Trelawny showed was in not allowing herself an idle moment. The old dreaming habits were broken for ever, the fastidious choice of duties altogether forgotten; her days were chiefly devoted to her steward and tenants. Richard, returning from his parochial visits to some outlying village, often met her, mounted on her beautiful brown mare, Zoê. Sometimes she would stop and give him her slim hand, and let him pet the mare and talk to her leaning on Zoê's glossy neck; but oftener a wave of the hand and a passing smile were her only greeting. Richard would come in stern and weary from these encounters, but he never spoke of them. It was in the following spring that Boy and Polly were married. Roy had been successful and had sold another picture, and as Mr. Lambert was disposed to be liberal to his younger son, there was no fear of opposition from Polly's guardian, even if he could have resisted the pleadings of the young people. But, after all, there was no actual imprudence. If Roy failed to find a continuous market for his pictures, there was still no risk of positive starvation. Mr. Lambert had been quite willing to listen to Richard's representations, and to settle a moderate sum on Roy; for the present, at least, they would have enough and to spare, and the responsibility of a young wife would add a spur to Roy's genius. Richard was not behind in his generosity. Already his frugality had amassed a few hundreds, half of which he placed in Roy's hands. Roy spent a whole day in Wardour Street after that. A wagon, laden with old carved furniture and wonderful bric-à-brac, drew up before The Hollies. New crimson velvet curtains and a handsome carpet found their way to the old studio. Polly hardly recognised it when she first set foot in the gorgeous apartment, and heaved a private sigh over the dear old shabby furniture. A little carved work-table and a davenport of Indian wood stood in a corner appropriated to her use; a sleep-wooing couch and a softly-cushioned easy-chair were beside them. Polly cried a little with joy when the young husband pointed out the various contrivances for her comfort. All the pretty dresses Dr. Heriot had given her, and even Aunt Milly's thoughtful present of house-linen, which now lay in the new press, with a sweet smell of lavender breathing through every fold, were as nothing compared to Roy's gifts. After all, it was an ideal wedding; there was youth, health, and good looks, with plenty of honest love and good humour. 'I have perfect faith in Polly's good sense,' Dr. Heriot had said to his wife, when the young people bad driven away; 'she has just the qualities Rex wants. I should not wonder if they turn out the happiest couple in the world, with the exception of ourselves, Milly, darling.' The wedding had taken place in June, and the time had now come round for the rush-bearing. The garden of Kirkleatham, the vicarage, and the Gray House had been visited by the young band of depredators. Dr. Heriot's glass-house had been rifled of its choicest blossoms; Mildred's bonnie boy, still in his nurse's arms, crowed and clapped his hands at the great white Annunciation lily that his mother had chosen for him to carry. 'You will not be late, John?' pleaded Mildred, as she followed him to the door, according to her invariable custom, on the morning of St. Peter's day; his wife's face was the last he saw when he quitted his home for his long day's work. At the well-known click of the gate she would lay down her work, at whatever hour it was, and come smiling to meet him. 'Where are you, Milly, darling?' were always his first words, if she lingered a moment on her way. 'You will not be later than you can help?' she continued, brushing off a spot of dust on his sleeve. 'You must see Arnold carry his lily, and Ethel will be there; and—and—' blushing and laughing, 'you know I never can enjoy anything unless you are with me.' 'Fie, Milly, darling, we ought to be more sensible after two years. We are old married folks now, but if it were not for making my wife vain,'—looking at the sweet, serene face so near his own,—'I might say the same. There, I must not linger if I am under orders. Good-bye, my two treasures,' placing the great blue-eyed fellow in Mildred's arms. When Mildred arrived at the park, under Richard's guardianship,—he had undertaken to drive her and the child,—they found Ethel at the old trysting-place amongst a host of other ladies, looking sad and weary. She moved towards them, tall and shadowy, in her black dress. 'I am glad you are here,' said Richard, in a low voice. 'I thought the Delawares would persuade you, and you will be quiet enough at the vicarage.' 'I thought I ought to do honour to my godson's first appearance in public,' returned Ethel, stretching out her arms to the smiling boy. Mildred and Dr. Heriot had begged Olive to fill the position of sponsor to the younger Arnold; but Olive had refused almost with tears. 'I am not good enough. Do not ask me,' she had pleaded; and Mildred, knowing the girl's sad humours, had transferred the request to Ethel; her brother and Richard had stood with her. Richard had no time to say more, for already the band had struck up that heralded the approach of the little rush-bearers, and he must take his place at the head of the procession with the other clergy. She saw him again in church; he came down the chancel to receive the children's gay crowns. Ethel saw a broken lily lying amongst them on the altar afterwards. It struck her that his face looked somewhat sterner and paler than usual. She was one of the invited guests at the vicarage; the Lamberts were this year up at the Hall; but later on in the afternoon they met in the Hall gardens: he came up at once and accosted her. 'All this is jarring on you terribly,' he said, with his old thoughtfulness, as he noticed her tired face. 'I should be glad to go home certainly, but I do not like to appear rude to the Delawares; the music is so noisy, and all those flitting dancers between the trees confuse one's head.' 'Suppose we walk a little way from them,' he returned, quietly. No one but a keen observer could have read a determined purpose under that quietness of his; Ethel's worn face, her changed manners, were driving him desperate; the time had come that he would take his fate between his hands, like a man; so he told himself, as they walked side by side. They had sauntered into the tree-bordered walk, leading to the old summer-house in the meadows. As they reached it, Ethel turned to him with a new sort of timidity in her face and voice. 'I am not tired, Richard—not very tired, I mean. I would rather go back to the others.' 'We will go back presently. Ethel, I want to speak to you—I must speak to you; this sort of thing cannot go on any longer.' 'What do you mean?' she asked, turning very pale, but not looking at him. 'That we cannot go on any longer avoiding each other like this. You have avoided me very often lately—have you not, Ethel?' speaking very gently. 'I do not know; you are so changed—you are not like yourself, Richard,' she faltered. 'How can I be like myself?' he answered, with a sudden passion in his voice that made her tremble; 'how am I to forget that I am a poor curate, and you your father's heiress; that I have fifties where you have thousands? Oh, Ethel, if you were only poor,' his tone sinking into pathos. 'What have riches or poverty to do with it?' she asked, still averting her face from him. 'Do you not see? Can you not understand?' he returned, eagerly. 'If you were poor, would it not make my wooing easier? I have loved you how long, Ethel? Is it ten or eleven years? I was a boy of fourteen when I loved you first, and I have never swerved from my allegiance.' 'Never!' in a low voice. 'Never! When you called me C&oelig;ur-de-Lion, I swore then, lad as I was, that I would one day win my Berengaria. You have been the dearest thing in life to me, ever since I first saw you; and now that I should lose my courage over these pitiful riches! Oh, Ethel, it is hard—hard, just when a little hope was dawning on me that one day you might be able to return my affection. Was I wrong in that belief?' trying to obtain a glimpse of the face now shielded by her hands. 'Whatever I may feel, I know we are equals,' she returned evasively. 'In one sense we are not,' he answered, sadly; 'a woman ought not to come laden with riches to overwhelm her husband. I am a clergyman—a gentleman, and therefore I fear to ask you to be my wife.' 'Was Berengaria poor?' in a voice nearly inaudible; but he heard it, and his handsome face flushed with sudden emotion. 'Do you mean you are willing to be my Berengaria? Oh, Ethel, my own love, this is too much. Can you really care for me enough?' 'I have cared for you ever since you were so good to me in my trouble,' she said, turning her glowing countenance, that he might read the truth of her words; 'but you have made me very unhappy lately, Richard.' 'What could I do?' he answered, almost incoherent with joy. 'I thought you were treating me like a brother, and I feared to break in upon your grief. Oh, if you knew what I have suffered.' 'I understood, and that only made me love you all the more,' she replied, softly. 'You have been winning my heart slowly ever since that evening—you remember it?—in the kitchen garden.' 'When you almost broke my heart, was I likely to forget it, do you think?' 'You startled me. I had only a little love, but it has been growing ever since. Richard!' with her old archness, 'you will not refuse to see the lawyers now?' He coloured slightly, and his bright look clouded; but this time Ethel did not misunderstand him. 'Dear Richard, you cannot hate the riches more than I do, but they must never be mentioned again between us; they must be sacred to us as my father's gift. I know you will help me to do what is right and good with them,' she continued, in her winning way; 'they are talents we must use, and not abuse.' 'You have rebuked me, my dearest,' returned Richard, tenderly; 'it is I who have been faithless and a coward. I will accept the charge you have given me; and thank God at the same time for your noble heart.' So the long-desired gift had come into Richard Lambert's keeping, and the woman he had loved from boyhood had consented to be his wife. The young master of Kirkleatham ruled well and wisely, and Ethel proved a noble helpmeet. When some years later his father died, and he became vicar of Kirkby Stephen, the parish had reason to bless the strong heart and head, and the munificent hands that were never weary of giving. And 'our vicar' rivalled even the good doctor's popularity. And what of Olive and Hugh Marsden? Mildred's words had come true. There were long lonely years before Hugh Marsden—years of incessant toil and Herculean labour, which should stoop his broad shoulders and streak his dark hair with gray, when men should speak of the noble missionary, Hugh Marsden, and of the incredible work carried forward by him beyond the pale of civilisation. There was no limit to his endurance, no lack of cheerfulness in his efforts, they said; no labour was too great, no scheme too impracticable, no possibility too remote, for the energies of that arduous soul. Hugh Marsden only smiled at their praise; he was free and unfettered; he had no wife or child; danger would touch him alone. What should hinder him from undertaking any enterprise in his Master's service? But wherever he went in his lonely hours, or in his long sunshiny converse with others, he ever remained faithful to his memory of Olive; she was still to him the purest ideal of womanhood. At times her face, with its cloudy dark hair and fathomless eyes, would haunt him with strange persistence. Whole lines and passages of her poetry would return to his memory, stirring him with subtle sweetness and vague longings for home. And Olive, how was it with her during those years of home duty, so patiently, so unselfishly performed? While she achieved her modest fame, and carried it so meekly, had she any remembrance of Hugh Marsden? 'I remember all the more that I try to forget,' she said once when Mildred had put this question to her. 'Now I shall try no more, for I know I cannot forget him.' And again there had been that sadness in her voice. But she never spoke of him voluntarily even to Mildred, but hid in her quiet soul many a secret yearning. They were separated thousands of miles, yet his honest face and voice were often present with her, and never nearer than when she whispered prayers for the friend who had once loved her. And neither of them knew that the years would bring them together again; that one day, Hugh Marsden, broken in health, and craving for a sight of his native land, should be sent home on an important mission, to find Olive free and unfettered, and waiting for him in her brother's home. <h3>THE END</h3> <hr style="width: 45%;" /> <div class="footnote">[1] H. M. B. </div> <div class="footnote">[2] H. M. B. </div> <div class="footnote">[3] Taken from fact. </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>THE NOVELS OF ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.</h2> <h3>NELLIE'S MEMORIES.</h3> STANDARD.—"Miss Carey has the gift of writing naturally and simply, her pathos is true and unforced, and her conversations are sprightly and sharp." <h3>WEE WIFIE.</h3> LADY.—"Miss Carey's novels are always welcome; they are out of the common run, immaculately pure, and very high in tone." <h3>BARBARA HEATHCOTE'S TRIAL.</h3> DAILY TELEGRAPH.—"A novel of a sort which it would be a real loss to miss." <h3>ROBERT ORD'S ATONEMENT.</h3> STANDARD.—"Robert Ord's Atonement is a delightful book, very quiet as to its story, but very strong in character, and instinctive with that delicate pathos which is the salient point of all the writings of this author." <h3>WOOED AND MARRIED.</h3> STANDARD.—"There is plenty of romance in the heroine's life. But it would not be fair to tell our readers wherein that romance consists or how it ends. Let them read the book for themselves. We will undertake to promise that they will like it." <h3>HERIOT'S CHOICE.</h3> MORNING POST.—"Deserves to be extensively known and read.... Will doubtless find as many admirers as readers." <h3>QUEENIE'S WHIM.</h3> GUARDIAN.—"A thoroughly good and wholesome story." <h3>NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS.</h3> PALL MALL GAZETTE.—"Like all the other stories we have had from the same gifted pen, this volume, Not Like Other Girls, takes a sane and healthy view of life and its concerns.... It is an excellent story to put in the hands of girls." NEW YORK HOME JOURNAL.—"One of the sweetest, daintiest, and most interesting of the season's publications." <h3>MARY ST. JOHN.</h3> JOHN BULL.—"The story is a simple one, but told with much grace and unaffected pathos." <h3>FOR LILIAS.</h3> VANITY FAIR.—"A simple, earnest, and withal very interesting story; well conceived, carefully worked out, and sympathetically told." <h3>UNCLE MAX.</h3> LADY.—"So intrinsically good that the world of novel-readers ought to be genuinely grateful." <h3>ONLY THE GOVERNESS.</h3> PALL MALL GAZETTE.—"This novel is for those who like stories with something of Jane Austen's power, but with more intensity of feeling than Jane Austen displayed, who are not inclined to call pathos twaddle, and who care to see life and human nature in their most beautiful form." <h3>LOVER OR FRIEND?</h3> GUARDIAN.—"The refinement of style and delicacy of thought will make Lover or Friend? popular with all readers who are not too deeply bitten with a desire for things improbable in their lighter literature." <h3>BASIL LYNDHURST.</h3> PALL MALL GAZETTE.—"We doubt whether anything has been written of late years so fresh, so pretty, so thoroughly natural and bright. The novel as a whole is charming." <h3>SIR GODFREY'S GRANDDAUGHTERS.</h3> OBSERVER.—"A capital story. The interest steadily grows, and by the time one reaches the third volume the story has become enthralling." <h3>THE OLD, OLD STORY.</h3> DAILY NEWS.—"Miss Carey's fluent pen has not lost its power of writing fresh and wholesome fiction." <h3>THE MISTRESS OF BRAE FARM.</h3> PALL MALL GAZETTE.—"Miss Carey's untiring pen loses none of its power, and her latest work is as gracefully written, as full of quiet home charm, as fresh and wholesome, so to speak, as its many predecessors." <h3>MRS. ROMNEY and "BUT MEN MUST WORK."</h3> PALL MALL GAZETTE.—"By no means the least attractive of the works of this charming writer." <h3>OTHER PEOPLE'S LIVES.</h3> <h3>RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE.</h3> BOOKMAN.—"Fresh and charming.... A piece of distinctly good work." ATHENÆUM.—"A pretty love story." <h3>HERB OF GRACE.</h3> GLOBE.—"Told in the writer's best and most popular manner." WORLD.—"The story is well conceived and well sustained." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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