CHAPTER XII.
LAWRENCE'S REWARD.
"Walking together o'er the restless earth
With faces set to the eternal hills."
—REV. HORATIUS BONAR.
Lawrence Madison had time given him to recover, for it was November before the funeral cortège left Usk for Wigmore. Earl Roger was found to have died intestate. It was no wonder, for how could he have anticipated that his life would end as or when it had done? This fact left all the details of his burial, usually so carefully provided for in the will of the deceased, to the decision of the survivors. The Countess, when appealed to, replied that her unspeakable affliction could not concern itself with matters of that kind; she would be obliged to Lord Bardolf to see that all was done properly, and to leave her alone with her life-long sorrow. Having said which, she called for a backgammon board, and was soon smilingly interested in a game with my Lord Powys.
Lord Powys, however, perceived that notwithstanding the distraction of backgammon, something was really annoying the lady of his heart: and after a sufficient administration of flattery and coaxing, he succeeded in inducing her to confess what it was. She was seriously distressed at the discovery that her husband had left no will, for what that meant was that her only claim on his property was a third share in the estate. Had he attended properly to his conjugal duties, he ought to have made a much better provision for her. Now, when her eldest son came of age, and his wardship ceased, two-thirds of the estate would go to him, and she would be left in a position which it pleased her to regard as equivalent to destitution. Considering that this lamentable descent from affluence to poverty would leave her Ladyship with a small balance of about a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, according to the value of money at the present day, it may be supposed that there was a slight twinkle in the eyes of Lord Powys while he condoled in a grave voice with the calamitous widow. He thought her still quite sufficiently golden to be worth the trouble of wooing, and she knew it. He was moreover aware that a very large casket of jewels lay at her disposal, and that dexterous management might squeeze a further grant out of the Crown. Alianora was troubled by no fear of losing Lord Powys, and had she been so, would readily have comforted herself with anybody else who possessed good looks, gentlemanly manners, and a flattering tongue. But before this little arrangement with Lord Powys could come to pass, a licence was required from the Crown, and this in Alianora's case would be an awkward and delicate business. The King might not approve—probably would not approve—of the widow of his heir presumptive throwing herself away on an obscure Welsh baron. And Alianora was determined to marry Lord Powys, who suited her taste much better than Roger had done. He was not a handsomer man, but he was good-looking, and he possessed a tongue of that silvery description which, to use the Irishman's expression, "would wile a bird off a tree." His tastes accorded with hers; he knew how to please her—an art in which Roger, with all his desire to do it, had been much less of an adept—he was an exquisite hand at that airy small-talk which Alianora loved better than she loved her children, and his supply of flattery equalled the demand, which implies that it was deep and extensive indeed. Alianora, therefore, set what she called her heart—namely, an obstinate unreasoning will—upon Edward Charlton, and was determined to marry him, obstacles or no obstacles. In order to do this, a licence to marry whom she would must be procured from the Crown,—no hint being given of whom it was to be: and this could not in decency be asked for until some months had elapsed after Roger's death. She obtained it, however, before twelve months were over: and having done so, she instantly gave her hand to Lord Powys in the Castle chapel, to the annoyance of all her own relations, and the decided displeasure of the King. That did not matter to her: once secure of her prize, she could snap her fingers at them all.
She had, in fact, though it may be doubted if King Richard knew it, done the one thing which her licence bound her not to do, and married one of the King's enemies. Lord Powys was an adherent of Henry of Lancaster, and one of the bitterest anti-Lollards in the kingdom.[#] They both knew that they could reasonably expect no extraordinary favours at the hands of the reigning King, and they contrived to bear existence on that poor pittance of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds, until, only four months after the granting of the licence, which was one of the last acts of King Richard, Henry of Lancaster, Earl of Derby, unseated his cousin and occupied his throne. He might be expected to have friendly intentions towards Powys and Alianora. She accordingly, in due time and form, represented to the new King "the charge she was at in maintenance of her two daughters," Anne and Alianora; "the devastation of all her dowry in Wales, and the spoil of her late husband's lands by the Welsh," and prayed for relief from the Crown. Henry answered her characteristically, and in a manner which arouses an idea that his clear cold eyes saw through her dramatic craft. He granted her, to the value of a hundred guineas per annum, all annuities, forfeitures, and reversions which Earl Roger had assigned during his life:—a clever mode of making provision in name, with very little solid advantage to accrue. It was not for long that Alianora survived this episode. She died at the birth of Joyce Charlton, the second child of her second marriage, leaving her elder children in prison, and going to her own place—the place she was fit for, and the place she had chosen.
[#] It is doubtful if he were not also to some extent an adherent of Gloucester, for in the previous November he had suffered eleven days imprisonment in the Tower, evidently on some such suspicion. (Close Roll, 21 Ric. II., Part 1.)
But this is an anticipation, and we must return to that November morning on which the funeral procession quitted Usk for Wigmore.
The bier was placed on a charette, and covered with a pall of black cloth, surmounted by the waxen image then always carried outside the coffin, the face of which was a mask taken from that of the corpse beneath. Two horses drew the charette until about a mile from Wigmore, when four more were added in order to form a more imposing spectacle. Lord Bardolf rode behind the coffin, on the right hand of the young Earl, who was chief mourner, and whose horse was led, at the leader's special request, by Sir Lawrence Madison. It was usual to depute a squire to this work: and it was paying the highest honour in his power to the dead and the living, that Lawrence should demean himself to do it.
The little Earl, seven years old, behaved extremely well, as was admitted and admired by everybody. He really behaved so well, because he felt so little. The true son of Alianora, it was not in his nature to love any creature but Edmund Mortimer, nor even for his own ultimate benefit was he ready to take much trouble. He took the loss of a father at seven years of age, as he afterwards took the loss of a crown at fourteen, with the most philosophical placidity.
At the door of the Abbey Church of St. James at Wigmore, the Benedictine Abbot and his canons met the coffin of the Lord of the Marches of Wales. Over the coffin was a pall of cloth of gold, edged with blue, the colours of the house of Mortimer. It was borne by six squires on each side, but once more Sir Lawrence Madison stepped forward, and took the place of the foremost squire. His hand should be among those which performed the last offices to the brother of his love,—"More than his brothers were to him."
When the bier was set down before the high altar, twenty-five poor men clad in white, according to the number of the years of the dead, came forward to receive the thick wax tapers which they were to hold during the service, standing about the coffin.
Then came the solemn mass, accompanied as it always is, by that grandest of all funeral hymns which, like the inspired hymnal of King David, seems to be inimitable in translated metre:—
"Recordare, Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa taæ viæ;
Ne me perdas ilia die!
"Quærens me sedisti lassus,
Redemisti crucem passus;
Tantus labor non sit cassus."
When the coffin had been lowered into the vault,—to which again, the last office, Lawrence lent his hand—the mourners slowly filed out of the church, each as he passed the vault receiving the sprinkler from the hand of a priest in attendance, and sprinkling the coffin with holy water. They returned to Usk not as they had come, in ceremonial procession, but in a quiet and orderly group.
Considerable time elapsed, and much investigation was necessary, before Lawrence could discover what had become of the relatives whom he had left in the hut at the foot of the castle, eighteen years before. The parents of Beatrice (his old friends Blumond and Philippa) were dead; and having been an only child, she had no near relatives whose assistance could be lent in the matter. For a long while, all that he could ascertain with any certainty was that the present inhabitants of the hut knew nothing of the late ones, and that an old woman, the only person left of those who had dwelt there in Lawrence's childhood, could tell him that his mother was dead, two of his sisters married and gone, and that his father and his brother Simon had been removed to some other estate of their feudal owner—"down yonder," said she, with a nod of her head towards the north, which might take in a large tract of country. What had befallen the younger brother and sister she appeared to have no idea. All to whom Lawrence applied gave him an answer, half awe-struck, half kindly, excepting those whose brains and hearts seemed dulled by hard usage. Most promised to bear the matter in mind, and to make such inquiries as they had opportunity.
Lawrence had never realised the immensity of the change in himself, until he attempted thus to resume the old familiar relations with that stratum of society into which he was born. Through constant association with educated gentlemen, he had become one of them in thought and feeling; but he was never aware how thoroughly, until he tried to be once more that which he had ceased to be. His first thought was that the people of Usk had changed—they were more cold-hearted, and less homely and pleasant, than they had been in his boyhood. He discovered in time that the alteration was not in them, but in himself, and that all they were guilty of was the unavoidable and intuitive recognition that he belonged to the group of masters, and no more to that of serfs. But the discovery was not perfected until one evening, when a dirty, slatternly woman of about thirty years of age presented herself at the porter's lodge of Usk Castle, and demanded in a whining tone to see one Lawrence Madison.
"'Lawrence Madison,' forsooth!" returned the scandalised porter. "Is it thus thou wouldst speak of one of the most gallant knights in England? Mend thy ways, woman, and say Sir Lawrence, and then maybe I can find the time to answer thee."
"Eh, lo' you now!" exclaimed the woman, resting a dirty hand against the stone wall. "Is't so fine as that, trow? Well, Master Porter, or Sir Porter, or my Lord Porter, as it shall like your Bigness, I would see Sir Lawrence Madison, if it should like you demean you to go and tell him so much, and him to come hither and behold his sister."
"His what?" inquired the porter in an indescribable tone, reviewing the querist in a style which was scarcely flattering.
"His sister," coolly returned the unabashed young woman. "His father's daughter, and his mother's belike, byname Emmot, and wife unto Will Sumpterman, that keepeth my Lord Le Despenser his baggage mules, and hath trapesed many a weary mile to speak with my said worshipful knight. Canst carry so much, thinkest?"
The disgusted porter turned away without deigning a reply; but his wife, who had overheard the colloquy, came forward and in politic wise invited Emmot to enter the lodge. There Lawrence found her when the porter returned with him. His first idea had been one of great pleasure. But when he saw the dirty, untidy, miserable-looking creature who called him Brother, a mixed feeling of compassion and disgust took its place.
To him she was another woman, and was very far from braving him as she had done the porter.
"Give you good den, Sir Lawrence," said she, louting low: "Metrusteth you shall not have forgat your sister Emmot, that is your own flesh and blood, and right ill off, with eight childre that have scarce a rag to their backs, nor an handful of meal to put in their mouths, I do ensure you. We have heard you be come back a knight, worshipful Sir, with a fortune in broad gold pieces, and sure you would never forget your own flesh and blood. Mariot hath but five childre, and her man was better off than mine; and Joan hath but two. So you shall see, sweet Sir, I cast no doubt, that 'tis I have the most need of your bountifulness, good Sir Lawrence."
Lawrence's awakened pity was rapidly passing into unspeakable disgust. He had come home prepared to divide his savings among these relatives, as being his own flesh and blood: but he was not prepared to find them throwing themselves upon him like a pack of wolves, intent upon nothing but the horrible emulation which of them could bite the largest piece out of him, and each utterly unconcerned whether the rest got any thing at all. It cost him something to say "Sister" to this wretched creature—not because she was poor,—Lawrence would never have felt that—but because she was vulgar and slovenly, disgusting alike in mind and body. He controlled himself, however, and passing by the too evident spirit of her speech, asked what she could tell him of the other members of the family. Emmot's communicativeness cooled manifestly. She professed that she knew nothing of the others, and Lawrence had to remind her what she had just said. After a little fencing she admitted that she knew where nearly all of them were. Mariot was living about two miles from Usk, and her husband had been a miner; he was dead, and she made a living by plaiting straw. One of her sons was quite old enough to work—a fact on which Emmot laid great stress; her husband had been a freeman, and none of the family were serfs except herself, which was an enormous advantage: and Joan's husband was a serf, so that she and her family were kept at their master's cost, and needed nothing whatever,—another enormous advantage; and she had only two children. And once more the eight children of the illogical Emmot were paraded rhetorically before Lawrence.
He gave her a handsome donation, over which she grumbled sorely, and he turned away sick at heart.
Lawrence's next work was to visit his father, who lived a day's journey away, with his son Simon and his family. Nicholas showed some interest in his youngest son, and some slight affection for him; and he did not ask for money—an omission fully made up by Simon's wife. Simon himself proved the least changed of any of the family. Grim and surly as far back as Lawrence could recollect him, he was grim and surly still. Lawrence left another donation here, and coming back, went a little out of his way to call upon his sister Joan.
If this lady had fewer children than her sister, she supplied the gap by a larger quantity of grumbling. When he left her—having had hard work to get away—Lawrence really wondered if she could have been more abusive had he refused her a penny. It was with a sensation of utter disgust with the whole concern that he went to pay his last visit, to his sister Mariot.
He found a trim, neat little cottage by the roadside, where a clean, smiling lad was cutting up a log of wood, and a tidy, pleasant-looking girl was sewing in the little porch. And when Lawrence had made known his wishes, and the girl had called "Mother!" to someone in the inner room—the cottage only held two—the woman who came forward in answer had a clean rosy face, and smooth black hair neatly braided.
"Mariot, dost thou mind thy youngest brother?"
"Lolly! Eh, my little lad, is it thou?"
She laid both hands on his shoulders and turned him round to the light.
"My dear lad! My own little Lolly! Mind thee? aye, that do I, forsooth. And thou art come back to Usk?—is it to 'bide there? And how goes it with thee, lad? art wed? and hast done well? Tell me all about thee, Lolly."
It was an entirely different welcome from any of the rest. The news that Lawrence was a knight, and had returned possessed of a sum which in her eyes was great riches, did not seem to strike Mariot in any light but that of being glad for him. And when he offered her the same sum which he had given to the rest, and they had received so murmuringly, to his surprise she refused it.
"Nay, lad, I'll not take thy gold," said Mariot. "I want for nought, God be thanked, and my childre be good childre; and Jack hath so much as he can do, and Alice yonder can make a pretty penny in the straw plaiting, and Maud comes on well with her sewing. Surely it were ill done, even had I need, that thy brethren and sisters should strip thee of every penny! Little Lolly, I guess I was pretty nigh the only one that loved thee as a babe, and now, thanks be to God, since I knew how He loved me I have learned to love better. Go thy ways, lad, and see to thine own well-doing, and keep thy bits of savings in thy pocket. I am every whit as much beholden to thee as if thou hadst given me a thousand marks. But bethink thee somewhat of thine own future: for when folk think not of their own selves—of the which sort there be main few, by my troth—other folk must think for them. Thou shalt wish to wed one of these days, an' thou dost not now: and how shall that be compassed with never a plack in thy pocket? Go thy ways, and get thee a good wife and a pleasant home—the which shall do me a much more pleasure than to have the spending of thy gold. Choose her by a true heart, and not by a fair face, and ask our Lord to help thee in the choosing, and then thou shalt do well. And now and anon, when thou hast an hour or twain to spare, come down hither and drink thy four-hours with us, and give me to wit of thy welfare—that shall pleasure me full greatly. My Lady Madison, trow, shall be too fine to sup her four-hours with a miner's widow; but I would like to see thee by nows and thens."
"She will not be my wife an' she so be," said Lawrence: "but truly, Mariot, I look for no such, and it should better serve that thou wouldst leave me help thee."
"Go to!" said Mariot with a knowing smile. "How many a time, thinkest, have I heard that saying from folks at whose wedding I have danced within the next twelvemonth? Thine eyes be tell-tales, Lolly. An' thou be heart-free, mine eyes be no true men."
"Thou sayest sooth," was Lawrence's answer, in rather a sorrowful tone. "But one heart is not enough for a wedding, my sister. More than one swallow goeth to make a summer."
"Dear heart, two swallows were plenty for that summer," replied Mariot, laughing. "Hast asked her, lad?" she added somewhat drily.
Lawrence confessed the negative.
"Art awaiting till she ask thee?" demanded Mariot with an amused look.
"Scarce that, methinks. Nay, Mariot, she hath thought of the veil. Who am I, that I should set me in rivalry with God?"
"Go to!" returned Mariot, with a strong good sense which was not common in her era. "Veils be for broken hearts and worn-down widows, and unchilded mothers—for women which have smoothed down the green turf over their hearts' best love. They be not for young maids, fresh and bright, with life opening afore them. Never think it!"
"Yet we should give God the best," said Lawrence sadly.
"Give Him what He asketh of thee, Lolly. Methinks that is not often the making a man's life desolate. But is the cloister the only way to give to God? Didst learn that from the Word, or out of thine own heart? He that trusteth his own heart is a fool."
"Why, Mariot, art not giving me counsel to trust mine own heart in this matter?"
"Never a whit. I counsel thee to trust God's providence, and let Him choose for thee. If He have not meant this maid for thee, have no fear she shall say yea to thine asking. Do the thing that did King Ezekias, my dear lad—spread it before the Lord, and ask Him to lead her in accordance with His will. Then speak, and fear not. How wist thou that in her mind the choice lieth not betwixt the cloister and thee,—and if thy tongue be dumb, she must needs choose the other. She'll not ask thee, I reckon."
"She loveth me not at all," said Lawrence.
"I'd make sure," was Mariot's quiet conclusion. "There be some nuts be all o'er prickles o' the outside, which be good enough when thou hast stripped off the bur."
"Mistress Wenteline," said Lawrence, the next morning, "will you do me so much favour as tell me if Mistress Beatrice hath yet purpose to be a nun?"
"I believe," answered Guenllian, "she hath purpose to be veiled with the White Ladies of Limbroke, if it may be, this next month." But as Lawrence passed on, she said to herself, "Unless you can persuade her out of it!"
A few hours later, when the dusk had come, as Lawrence crossed the ante-chamber, into which the moon was shining brightly, he saw a dark figure standing in the recess of the window, and went up to it. His heart, rather than his eyes, told him who it was.
"Is it you, Mistress Beatrice?"
"It is I, Sir Lawrence."
The old playmates had become excessively ceremonious to each other. The brotherly sort of intercourse, resumed on their meeting at Trim, had been quite dropped, and they were as distantly civil as if they had made acquaintance only a few days before.
"You can scarce see much hence, methinketh."
"It is fair enough," said Beatrice, absently; adding after a moment, "fair enough for one who shall soon behold nought beyond convent walls."
"Are you well avised thereabout, Mistress Beatrice?"
"I think so much," she answered, gravely.
"Thus said Father Robesart. Yet he seemed, something doubtful if you have well judged therein, as methought. It were grave matter to blunder over, Mistress Beatrice. There is no coming forth, howsoe'er one may desire it."
"No," she said—and said no more.
Lawrence took another step, and dropped a little of his ceremoniousness to do it.
"Beatrice, dear old friend, is this for your happiness? Not one other word will I speak if you ensure me thereof."
"Happiness is not the only thing," she said in a constrained voice.
"Not so, maybe, for you to think on: yet methinks you might allow for your friends to concern them touching the same."
Beatrice made no reply.
"Are you well assured that our Lord calls you to that life, dear Beatrice? Might it not be better for you, no less than for other, that you should make happy some home and heart, rather than bury yourself in the cloister? Think well of it, ere you cast die that can never be recalled."
"I have thought of it," said Beatrice in rather a hard tone. "I am not wanted otherwhere. Why should I not be a nun?"
"Because you were never meant for one. Because it is not the right life for you, for whom life is but just opening. Because——"
Beatrice interrupted him. "Life opening! Your pardon, Sir Lawrence. Life has closed for me."
"You think so much now," he answered, gently. "This time next year, will you so think? Not wanted! Would you come where you were? I could tell you of one who wanteth you more than words can tell,—to whom the world will be black gloom if you go forth of it. But let that pass. I meant not to speak—Beattie, old friend, old playmate, sister if I may call you so, leave me plead with you this once, ere you bury your youth and hope where neither hope nor gladness can enter more. I know you too well, Beattie! You would be miserable in the cloister. Why not make some other life happy, and your own joined thereto?"
He listened earnestly for her answer. One more negative, and he would let her alone, to go her own way, though his way would be darkness and loneliness thenceforward. Lawrence's love was very unselfish. If Beatrice had loved some one who was not himself, he would have given her every penny he possessed for her fortune, had he thought that the want of fortune barred her from happiness. But he did not think that she loved any one, and himself least of all. Only he could not bear the thought of the cloister for Blumond's Beattie, and he thought he knew her well enough to be sure that it would be misery in the latter end.
"I will," said Beatrice in a low voice, keeping her face in shadow. "I will, if——"
"If what, dear Beattie?"
"If it may be yours, Lawrence."
HISTORICAL APPENDIX.
MORTIMER OF MARCH.
Roger Mortimer, third Earl of March, eldest and only surviving son of Edmund second Earl and Elizabeth de Badlesmere was born in 1328, and stood eighth on the list of original Knights of the Garter: died at Rouvray, in Burgundy, Feb. 26th, 1360; buried at Wigmore. Married
PHILIPPA, daughter of William de Montacute, first Earl of Salisbury, and Katherine Grandison; for whom Earl Roger's marriage was granted to her father, 1336: died Jan. 5th, 1382; buried at Bisham.
Issue:—
1. Roger, died young.
2. Alice, affianced in 1354 to Edmund, son of Richard Earl of Arundel, and then under thirteen years of age; died before marriage.
3. EDMUND, 4th Earl, born at Langenith, Feb. 1st, 1352; affianced 1354 to Alice, daughter of Richard Earl of Arundel (marriage broken off); received into fraternity, Canterbury Cathedral, July 7th, 1379; died at Cork, from cold taken in fording the Lee, Dec. 27th, 1381; buried at Bisham. Married
PHILIPPA, only child of Lionel Duke of Clarence (son of Edward III.) and his first wife Elizabeth de Burgh: born at Eltham Palace, Aug. 16th, 1355; married in the Queen's Chapel, probably at Reading, 1359, apparently before Feb. 15th, and certainly before July 16th: died shortly before Jan. 7th, 1378; buried at Wigmore.
4. John, died young.
Issue of Edmund 4th Earl:—
1. Elizabeth, born at Usk, Feb. 12th, 1371; married (1) before May 1st, 1380, Henry Lord Percy, surnamed Hotspur (2) after Oct. 8th, 1403, Thomas Lord Camoys; living 1417; Inq. Post Mortem, 5 Hen. V.: buried at Trotton with second husband. Left issue by both marriages.
2. ROGER, 5th Earl; born at Usk, Sept. 1st, 1373; affianced 1385 to (probably Alice) daughter of Richard 12th Earl of Arundel (marriage broken off at the request of Princess of Wales): Viceroy of Ireland 20 to 22 Ric. II.: killed in skirmish, Kenles, Ireland, "adventuring himself before his army in an Irish habit," July 20th, 1398; buried at Wigmore. Declared heir of the Crown in Parliament, 9 Ric. II. Married
ALIANORA, eldest daughter of Thomas de Holand, Earl of Kent, and Alesia de Arundel: born 1370-2, married after Oct. 7th, 1388, when Earl Roger's marriage was granted to her father (re-married, licence dat. June 19th, 1399, Edward de Charlton, Lord Powys): died Oct. 23rd, 1405; buried at Wigmore.
3. Philippa, born at Ludlow, Nov. 21st, 1375: married (1) John Hastings, 3rd and last Earl of Pembroke, after Sept. 24th, 1383 (2) pardon dat. Nov. 10, 1391, for fine of 500 marks, Richard, 12th Earl of Arundel, (3) after Sept. 1397, John, Lord St. John of Basing: died Sept. 24th, 1401 (Inq. P. Mort.), Sept. 26th, 1400 (Registry of Lewes): buried at Boxgrove. Left issue by last marriage only.
Edmund, born at Ludlow, Nov. 1377: fled into Wales after battle of Shrewsbury, 1403; Inq. 16 Hen. VI. 24. Married
Katherine, daughter of Owain Glyndwr and Margaret Hanmer, married 1402; died prisoner, London, about Nov. 1413; buried there in St. Swithin's Church. Issue doubtful, but comprising a son and two daughters at least.
Issue of Roger 5th Earl:—ANNE, born Dec. 27th, 1388 (Dugdale, doubtless a mistake for 1389): married after Jan. 9th, 1407, Richard of York, Earl of Cambridge; died about Sept. 1410; buried probably in Abbey Church, King's Langley.
2. Edmund, 6th and last Earl, born in New Forest, Nov. 6th, 1391; died at Trim Castle, Jan. 19th, 1425; buried at Stoke Clare. Married (but left no issue),
Anne, daughter of Edmund Earl of Stafford and Princess Anne of Gloucester: married about 1413-1415; (remarried, 1429, John de Holand, Duke of Exeter); died Sept. 20th or 24th, 1432; buried in Church of St. Katherine, Tower, with second husband.
3. Roger, born at Nethewode, Mar. 24th, 1393; died prisoner in Windsor Castle, after Aug. 26th, 1404, and probably after 1405; buried at Stoke Priory.
* * * * * * * *
Stories of English Life.
BY EMILY S. HOLT.
A.D. 597
I. Imogen:
A TALE OF THE EARLY BRITISH CHURCH.
A.D. 1066
II. Behind the Veil:
A STORY OF THE NORMAN CONQUEST.
A.D. 1159
III. One Snowy Night;
OR, LONG AGO AT OXFORD.
A.D. 1189
IV. Lady Sybil's Choice:
A TALE OF THE CRUSADES.
A.D. 1214
V. Earl Hubert's Daughter;
OR, THE POLISHING OF THE PEARL.
A.D. 1325
VI. In all Time of our Tribulation:
THE STORY OF PIERS GAVESTONE.
A.D. 1350
VII. The White Lady of Hazelwood:
THE WARRIOR COUNTESS OF MONTFORT.
A.D. 1352
VIII. Countess Maud;
OR, THE CHANGES OF THE WORLD.
A.D. 1360
IX. In Convent Walls:
THE STORY OF THE DESPENSERS.
A.D. 1377
X. John De Wycliffe,
AND WHAT HE DID FOR ENGLAND.
A.D. 1384
XI. The Lord Mayor:
A TALK OF LONDON IN 1384.
A.D. 1390
XII. Under One Sceptre:
THE STORY OF THE LORD OF THE MARCHES
A.D. 1400
XIII. The White Rose of Langley;
OR, THE STORY OF CONSTANCE LE DESPENSER.
A.D. 1400
XIV. Mistress Margery:
A TALE OF THE LOLLARDS.
A.D. 1400
XV. Margery's Son;
OR, UNTIL HE FIND IT.
A.D. 1470
XVI. Red and White;
OR, THE WARS OF THE ROSES.
A.D. 1480
XVII. The Tangled Web:
A TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.
A.D. 1515
XVIII. The Harvest of Yesterday:
A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
A.D. 1530
XIX. Lettice Eden;
OR, THE LAMPS OF EARTH AND THE LIGHTS OF HEAVEN.
A.D. 1535
XX. Isoult Barry of Wynscote:
A TALE OF TUDOR TIMES.
A.D. 1544
XXI. Through the Storm;
OR, THE LORD'S PRISONERS.
A.D. 1555
XXII. Robin Tremayne:
A TALE OF THE MARIAN PERSECUTION.
A.D. 1556
XXIII. All's Well;
OR, ALICE'S VICTORY.
A.D. 1556
XXIV. The King's Daughters.
HOW TWO GIRLS KEPT THE FAITH.
A.D. 1569
XXV. Sister Rose;
OR, THE EVE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW.
A.D. 1579
XXVI. Joyce Morrell's Harvest:
A STORY OF THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH.
A.D. 1588
XXVII. Clare Avery:
A STORY OF THE SPANISH ARMADA.
A.D. 1605
XXVIII. It Might Have Been:
THE STORY OF GUNPOWDER PLOT.
A.D. 1635
XXIX. Minster Lovel:
A STORY OF THE DAYS OF LAUD.
A.D. 1662
XXX. Wearyholme;
A STORY OF THE RESTORATION.
A.D. 1712
XXXI. The Maiden's Lodge;
OR, THE DAYS OF QUEEN ANNE.
A.D. 1745
XXXII. Out in the Forty-five;
OR, DUNCAN KEITH'S VOW.
A.D. 1750
XXXIII. Ashcliffe Hall:
A TALE OF THE LAST CENTURY.
XXXIV. A.D. 1556
For the Master's Sake;
OR, THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.
A.D. 1345
The Well in the Desert.
AN OLD LEGEND.
XXXV. A.D. 1559
All for the Best;
OR, BERNARD GILPIN'S MOTTO.
A.D. 1560
At the Grene Griffin:
A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
XXXVI. A.D. 1270
Our Little Lady;
OR, SIX HUNDRED YEARS AGO
A.D. 1652
Gold that Glitters;
OR, THE MISTAKES OF JENNY LAVENDER.
XXXVII. A.D. 1290
A Forgotten Hero:
THE STORY OF ROGER DE MORTIMER.
A.D. 1266
Princess Adelaide:
A STORY OF THE SIEGE OF KENILWORTH.
XXXVIII. 1ST CENTURY.
The Slave Girl of Pompeii.
2ND CENTURY.
The Way of the Cross.
TALES OF THE EARLY CHURCH
A.D. 870 to 1580
XXXIX. Lights in the Darkness:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.
A.D. 1873
XL. Verena.
SAFE PATHS AND SLIPPERY BYE-WAYS.
A Story of To-day.
* * * * *
SPLENDID BOOKS FOR BOYS.
By DR. GORDON STABLES.
'TWIXT DAYDAWN AND LIGHT. A Tale of the Times of Alfred the Great.
FOR HONOUR NOT HONOURS. The Story of Gordon of Khartoum.
FOR CROSS OR CRESCENT. A Tale of Richard the Lion-hearted.
ON TO THE RESCUE. A Tale of the Indian Mutiny.
HEARTS OF OAK. A Story of Nelson and the Navy,
SHOULDER TO SHOULDER. A Story of the Stirring Times of Old.
EXILES OF FORTUNE. The Story of a Far North Land.
TWO SAILOR LADS. Their Stirring Adventures on Sea and Land.
FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY. A Tale of Battle and the Breeze.
IN SEARCH OF FORTUNE. A Tale of the Old Land and the New.
FACING FEARFUL ODDS. A Tale of Flood and Field.
IN THE DASHING DAYS OF OLD; or, The World-wide Adventures of Willie Grant.
* * * * *
STORIES BY E. EVERETT-GREEN.
ARNOLD INGLEHURST. A Story of the Fen Country.
EUSTACE MARCHMONT. A Friend of the People.
HER HUSBAND'S HOME; or, The Durleys of Linley Castle.
THE YOUNG RECRUIT; or, A Soldier's Son.
PAT, THE LIGHTHOUSE BOY.
MARJORIE AND MURIEL; or, Two London Homes.
HIS MOTHER'S BOOK.
LITTLE FREDDIE; or, Friends in Need.
BERTIE CLIFTON; or, Paul's Little Schoolfellow.
FRIENDS OR FOES? A Story for Boys and Girls.
RUTH'S LITTLE LADY.
OUR WINNIE; or, When the Swallows Go.
SHADOWLAND; or, What Lindis Accomplished.
* * * * *
GIFT BOOKS BY POPULAR AUTHORS.
HALF A DOZEN BOYS. | HALF A DOZEN GIRLS.
Memoirs of a Happy Naughty Childhood.
A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE; or, The Cruise of the good ship "Boreas." By Dr. GORDON STABLES, R.N.
EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS. A Story by AGNES GIBERNE.
FROGGY'S LITTLE BROTHER. A Story of the East End. By BRENDA. New Illustrated Edition. Square.
LITTLE COUSINS; or, Georgia's Visit to Lotty. By BRENDA. With Illustrations by T. PYM. Square.
VICTORIA BESS; or, The Ups and Downs of a Doll's Life. By BRENDA. With Illustrations by T. PYM. Square.
LITTLE QUEENIE. A Story of Child-life Sixty Years Ago. By Mrs. MARSHALL.
DEAN'S COURT; or, Lady-bird and her Friends. By Mrs. MARSHALL.
BLUEBELL. A Story of Child-life Nowadays. By Mrs. MARSHALL.
LILIAN'S HOPE. A Story for Girls. By CATHARINE SHAW.
* * * * *
GIFT BOOKS BY POPULAR AUTHORS.
THE ECHO-MAID, AND OTHER STORIES. By ALICIA ASPINWALL.
SHORT STORIES FOR SHORT PEOPLE. By ALICIA ASPINWALL.
SAHIB AND SEPOY; or, Saving an Empire. By LUCY TAYLOR, Author of "Our Fritz," etc.
'TWIXT DAYDAWN AND LIGHT. A Tale of the Times of Alfred the Great. By Dr. GORDON STABLES.
BRITAIN'S QUEEN. The Story of her Reign. By THOMAS PAUL.
ONE SNOWY NIGHT; or, Long Ago at Oxford. By E. S. HOLT.
ARNOLD INGLEHURST. A Story of the Fen Country. By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN.
* * * * *
STORIES BY EMMA MARSHALL.
A TRUE GENTLEWOMAN. The Story of Dame Margaret Hoby.
THE END CROWNS ALL. A Story of Life.
BISHOP'S CRANWORTH; or, Rosamond's Lamp.
LITTLE QUEENIE. A Story of Child-life Sixty Years Ago.
DEAN'S COURT; or, Lady-bird and her Friends.
BLUEBELL. A Story of Child-life Nowadays.
LITTLE MISS JOY.
HURLY-BURLY; or, After a Storm comes a Calm.
CURLEY'S CRYSTAL; or, A Light Heart Lives Long.
ROBERT'S RACE; or, More Haste Less Speed.
PETER'S PROMISES; or, Look before you Leap.
CLEMENT AND GEORGIE; or, Manners makyth Man.
A LITTLE CURIOSITY. With Illustrations.
* * * * *
STORIES BY AGNES GIBERNE,
Author of "Sun, Moon, and Stars," &c.
NIGEL BROWNING, our Father's Ward.
EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS. A Tale.
OLD COMRADES
LIFE-TANGLES; or, The Journal of Rhoda Frith.
LIFE IN A NUTSHELL: A Story.
IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale.
WON AT LAST; or, Mrs. Briscoe's Nephews.
THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE.
THE OLD HOUSE IN THE CITY; or, Not Forsaken.
FLOSS SILVERTHORN; or, The Master's Little Handmaid.
MADGE HARDWICKE; or, The Mists of the Valley.
WILL FOSTER OF THE FERRY.
TOO DEARLY BOUGHT.
MISS PRIMROSE.
* * * * *
STORIES BY CATHARINE SHAW,
AT LAST; or, Cuthbert Wins.
ALICK'S HERO.
ONLY A COUSIN.
THE GABLED FARM; or, Young Workers for the King.
IN THE SUNLIGHT AND OUT OF IT. A Year of my Life-story.
NELLIE ARUNDEL. A Tale of Home-life.
"MOTHER MEG"; or, The Story of Dickie's Attic.
* * * * *
SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY.
SELECTED BY CATHARINE SHAW.
1st. OUTLINE TEXTS FOR PAINTING.
2nd. HAPPY HOURS WITH THE BIBLE.
3rd. ECHOES FROM THE BIBLE.
4th. ALPHABET TEXTS for PRICKING or PAINTING.
5th. MESSAGES FROM HEAVEN.
6th. GLEAMS OF GLORY FROM THE GOSPELS.
7th. A LARGE THOUGHT IN A LARGE WORD.
8th. SCRIPTURE FEAR NOTS.
9th. "ALL THINGS ARE YOURS."
10th. TEXTS FOR THE CHILDREN.
llth. CONSIDER THE LILIES.
* * * * *
STORIES BY L. T. MEADE,
Author of "Scamp and I," &c.
DOROTHY'S STORY; or, Great St. Benedict's.
A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY. A Tale.
BEL-MARJORY. A Tale.
SCAMP AND I. A Story of City Byeways.
THE CHILDREN'S KINGDOM; or, The Story of a Great Endeavour.
WATER GIPSIES. A Tale.
DAVID'S LITTLE LAD.
DOT AND HER TREASURES. With Illustrations.
OUTCAST ROBIN; or, Your Brother and Mine.
WHITE LILIES, AND OTHER TALES.
LETTIE'S LAST HOME.
THOSE BOYS. A Story for all Little Fellows.
* * * * *
STORIES BY GRACE STEBBING.
NEVER GIVE IN. The Story of Gustavus Adolphus.
A REAL HERO. A Story of the Conquest of Mexico.
IN ALL OUR DOINGS. A Story for Boys.
GRAHAM'S VICTORY. A Tale of the Covenanters.
WINNING AN EMPIRE; or, The Story of Clive.
SILVERDALE RECTORY; or, The Golden Links.
BRAVE GEORDIE. The Story of an English Boy.
BEATING THE RECORD. A Story of the Life and Times of George Stephenson.
* * * * *
Picture Stories for Young People
DEEDS OF DARING. STORIES OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE.
CONFLICT AND CONQUEST, AND OTHER STORIES BY SYDNEY WATSON.
PRETTY PICTURES FOR LITTLE PETS.
OUR DARLINGS STORY BOOK.
ALL PLAY. By ISMAY THORN.
ANIMAL LAND. STORIES AND ANECDOTES.
BIRDS AND BEASTS.
FULL OF FUN.
STARLIGHT STORIES.
PETS AND PLAYMATES.
FUN AND FROLIC.
* * * * *
REV. W. HAY AITKEN'S NEW VOLUME.
THE ROMANCE OF CHRISTIAN WORK AND EXPERIENCE.
By REV. W. HAY M. H. AITKEN, M.A.
WITH PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT OF AUTHOR.
Contents.
1.—Spiritual Facts Stranger than Fiction.
2.—Great Results from Small Causes.
3.—Strange Calls and Prompt Answers.
4.—Spontaneous Confession and Restitution.
5.—The Surrender of the Affections.
6.—The Bringing Down of the Mountains.
7.—Remarkable Conversions.
8.—A Great Salvation for Great Sinners.
9.—Deliverance for the Captives.
10.—Just In Time.
11.—The Last Call Unheeded.
12.—Standing up for Jesus.
13.—"Wisdom in the Scorn of Consequence."
14.—God's Messengers.
15.—The Bow Drawn at a Venture.
16.—"After Many Days."
17.—Noteworthy Answers to Prayer.
18.—Special Providences.
19.—The Last Enemy.
LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDER ONE SCEPTRE ***
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