Fiction Books

I A BLIGHTED BEING The Honorable Percival Hascombe came aboard the Pacific liner about to sail from San Francisco, preceded by a fur coat, a gun-case, two pigskin bags, a hat-box, and a valet. He was tall and slender, and moved with an air of fastidious distinction. He wore a small mustache, a monocle, and an expression of unutterable ennui. His costume consisted of a smart tweed traveling-suit, with... more...

THE INNER LIFE THE AGENCY OF EVIL. From the Supernaturalism of New England, in the Democratic Review for 1843. IN this life of ours, so full of mystery, so hung about with wonders, so written over with dark riddles, where even the lights held by prophets and inspired ones only serve to disclose the solemn portals of a future state of being, leaving all beyond in shadow, perhaps the darkest and most... more...

A morality tale—1960 style. Legend had it, that many thousands of years ago, right after the Great Horror, the whole continent of the west had slowly sunk beneath the West Water, and that once every century it arose during a full moon. Still, Captain Hinrik clung to the hope that the legend would not be borne out by truth. Perhaps the west continent still existed; perhaps, dare he hope, with... more...

PART I LATE SPRINGThe mottled moth at eventideBeats glimmering wings against the pane;The slow, sweet lily opens wide,White in the dusk like some dim stain;The garden dreams on every sideAnd breathes faint scents of rain.Among the flowering stocks they stand:A crimson rose is in his hand. 1 Outside her garden. He waits musing.Herein the dearness of her is;The thirty perfect days of JuneMade one, in... more...

IRENE "I suppose I am old-fashioned"—there was a murmur of polite dissent from all the ladies present, except the one addressed—"Oh, I take it as a compliment nowadays, I assure you; but when I was a girl a young lady would have no more thought of flying than of"—she paused almost on a note of pained surprise at finding the familiar comparison of a lifetime cut... more...

BOUND FOR THE FORT. "How many miles have we still to ride, Benson?" "About fifty, Joe. But the last half is pretty much uphill, lad." "Can we make the fort by to-morrow night?" "Well, we can try," answered the old scout, who sat astride of a coal-black horse and rode slightly in advance of his two youthful companions. "It will depend somewhat on what the weather... more...

CHAPTER I THE END OF THEIR LIFE "It is finished," said the woman, speaking very quietly to herself. "Not another day, nor a night, if I can be ready before morning!" She stood alone in her own room, with none to mark the white-hot pallor of the oval face, the scornful curve of quivering nostrils, the dry lustre of flashing eyes. But while she stood a heavy step went blustering down two... more...

CHAPTER I When the accident happened, Cordova was singing the mad scene in Lucia for the last time in that season, and she had never sung it better. The Bride of Lammermoor is the greatest love-story ever written, and it was nothing short of desecration to make a libretto of it; but so far as the last act is concerned the opera certainly conveys the impression that the heroine is a raving lunatic. Only... more...

CHAPTER I A JUG OF WATER It was certainly not Caesar's fault. Caesar was as well-meaning a Dalmatian as ever scampered in the wake of a cantering horse. And if Mike in his headlong Irish fashion chose to regard the scamper as a gross personal insult, that was surely not a matter for which he could reasonably be held responsible. And yet it was upon the luckless Caesar that the wrath of the gods... more...

CHAPTER I. A CHANCE MEETING AT GENEVA. "By Jove! I may as well make an end of the thing right here to-night!" was the dejected conclusion of a long council of war over which Major Alan Hawke had presided, with the one straggling comfort of being its only member. All this long September afternoon he had dawdled away in feeding certain rapacious swans navigating gracefully around Rousseau's... more...