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Cobwebs and Cables   By: (1832-1911)

Book cover

First Page:

COBWEBS

AND

CABLES.

BY

HESBA STRETTON,

AUTHOR OF "THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE," "IN PRISON AND OUT," "BEDE'S CHARITY," ETC.

NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.

AUTHOR'S CARD.

It is my wish that Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company alone should publish this story in the United States, and I appeal to the generosity and courtesy of other Publishers, to allow me to gain some benefit from my work on the American as well as English side of the Atlantic.

HESBA STRETTON.

CONTENTS.

PART I.

CHAPTER

I. ABSCONDED

II. PHEBE MARLOWE

III. FELICITA

IV. UPFOLD FARM

V. A CONFESSION

VI. THE OLD BANK

VII. AN INTERRUPTED DAY DREAM

VIII. THE SENIOR PARTNER

IX. FAST BOUND

X. LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH

XI. OLD MARLOWE

XII. RECKLESS OF LIFE

XIII. SUSPENSE

XIV. ON THE ALTAR STEPS

XV. A SECOND FRAUD

XVI. PARTING WORDS

XVII. WAITING FOR THE NEWS

XVIII. THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN

XIX. AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER

XX. A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF

XXI. PLATO AND PAUL

XXII. A REJECTED SUITOR

XXIII. ANOTHER OFFER

XXIV. AT HOME IN LONDON

XXV. DEAD TO THE WORLD

PART II.

CHAPTER

I. AFTER MANY YEARS

II. CANON PASCAL

III. FELICITA'S REFUSAL

IV. TAKING ORDERS

V. A LONDON CURACY

VI. OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS

VII. AN OLD MAN'S PARDON

VIII. THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG

IX. THE LOWEST DEEPS

X. ALICE PASCAL

XI. COMING TO HIMSELF

XII. A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE

XIII. A LONDON GARRET

XIV. HIS FATHER'S SIN

XV. HAUNTING MEMORIES

XVI. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD

XVII. NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE

XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT

XIX. IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE

XX. AS A HIRED SERVANT

XXI. PHEBE'S SECRET

XXII. NEAR THE END

XXIII. THE MOST MISERABLE

XXIV. FOR ONE MOMENT

XXV. THE FINAL RESOLVE

XXVI. IN LUCERNE

XXVII. HIS OWN CHILDREN

XXVIII. AN EMIGRATION SCHEME

XXIX. FAREWELL

XXX. QUITE ALONE

XXXI. LAST WORDS

COBWEBS AND CABLES

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

ABSCONDED.

Late as it was, though the handsome office clock on the chimney piece had already struck eleven, Roland Sefton did not move. He had not stirred hand or foot for a long while now; no more than if he had been bound fast by many strong cords, which no effort could break or untie. His confidential clerk had left him two hours ago, and the undisturbed stillness of night had surrounded him ever since he had listened to his retreating footsteps. "Poor Acton!" he had said half aloud, and with a heavy sigh.

As he sat there, his clasped hands resting on his desk and his face hidden on them, all his life seemed to unfold itself before him; not in painful memories of the past only, but in terrified prevision of the black future.

How dear his native town was to him! He had always loved it from his very babyhood. The wide old streets, with ancient houses still standing here and there, rising or falling in gentle slopes, and called by quaint old names such as he never heard elsewhere; the fine old churches crowning the hills, and lifting up delicate tall spires, visible a score of miles away; the grammar school where he had spent the happiest days of his boyhood; the rapid river, brown and swirling, which swept past the town, and came back again as if it could not leave it; the ancient bridges spanning it, and the sharp cornered recesses on them where he had spent many an idle hour, watching the boats row in and out under the arches; he saw every familiar nook and corner of his native town vividly and suddenly, as if he caught glimpses of them by the capricious play of lightning.

And this pleasant home of his; these walls which inclosed his birth place, and the birth place of his children! He could not imagine himself finding true rest and a peaceful shelter elsewhere. The spacious old rooms, with brown wainscoted walls and carved ceilings; the tall and narrow windows, with deep window sills, where as a child he had so often knelt, gazing out on the wide green landscape and the far distant, almost level line of the horizon... Continue reading book >>




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