MARY MARSTON
A NOVEL.
BY
GEORGE MACDONALD
AUTHOR OF "ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD," "ROBERT FALCONER," ETC., ETC.
CONTENTS.
| [I.] | —THE SHOP |
| [II.] | —CUSTOMERS |
| [III.] | —THE ARBOR AT THORNWICK |
| [IV.] | —GODFREY WARDOUR |
| [V.] | —GODFREY AND LETTY |
| [VI.] | —TOM HELMER |
| [VII.] | —DURNMELLING |
| [VIII.] | —THE OAK |
| [IX.] | —CONFUSION |
| [X.] | —THE HEATH AND THE HUT |
| [XI.] | —WILLIAM MARSTON |
| [XII.] | —MARY'S DREAM |
| [XIII.] | —THE HUMAN SACRIFICE |
| [XIV.] | —UNGENEROUS BENEVOLENCE |
| [XV.] | —THE MOONLIGHT |
| [XVI.] | —THE MORNING |
| [XVII.] | —THE RESULT |
| [XVIII.] | —MARY AND GODFREY |
| [XIX.] | —MARY IN THE SHOP |
| [XX.] | —THE WEDDING-DRESS |
| [XXI.] | —MR. REDMAIN |
| [XXII.] | —MRS. REDMAIN |
| [XXIII.] | —THE MENIAL |
| [XXIV.] | —MRS. REDMAIN'S DRAWING-ROOM |
| [XXV.] | —MARY'S RECEPTION |
| [XXVI.] | —HER POSITION |
| [XXVII.] | —MR. AND MRS. HELMER |
| [XXVIII.] | —MARY AND LETTY |
| [XXIX.] | —THE EVENING STAR |
| [XXX.] | —A SCOLDING |
| [XXXI.] | —SEPIA |
| [XXXII.] | —HONOR |
| [XXXIII.] | —TUB INVITATION |
| [XXXIV.] | —A STRAY SOUND |
| [XXXV.] | —THE MUSICIAN |
| [XXXVI.] | —A CHANGE |
| [XXXVII.] | —LYDGATE STREET |
| [XXXVIII.] | —GODFREY AND LETTY |
| [XXXIX.] | —RELIEF |
| [XL.] | —GODFREY AND SEPIA |
| [XLI.] | —THE HELPER |
| [XLII.] | —THE LEPER |
| [XLIII.] | —MARY AND MR. REDMAIN |
| [XLIV.] | —JOSEPH JASPER |
| [XLV.] | —THE SAPPHIRE |
| [XLVI.] | —REPARATION |
| [XLVII.] | —ANOTHER CHANGE |
| [XLVIII.] | —DISSOLUTION |
| [XLIX.] | —THORNWICK |
| [L.] | —WILLIAM AND MARY MARSTON |
| [LI.] | —A HARD TASK |
| [LII.] | —A SUMMONS |
| [LIII.] | —A FRIEND IN NEED |
| [LIV.] | —THE NEXT NIGHT |
| [LV.] | —DISAPPEARANCE |
| [LVI.] | —A CATASTROPHE |
| [LVII.] | —THE END OF THE BEGINNING |
CHAPTER I
THE SHOP
It was an evening early in May. The sun was low, and the street was mottled with the shadows of its paving-stones—smooth enough, but far from evenly set. The sky was clear, except for a few clouds in the west, hardly visible in the dazzle of the huge light, which lay among them like a liquid that had broken its vessel, and was pouring over the fragments. The street was almost empty, and the air was chill. The spring was busy, and the summer was at hand; but the wind was blowing from the north.
The street was not a common one; there was interest, that is feature, in the shadowy front of almost each of its old houses. Not a few of them wore, indeed, something like a human expression, the look of having both known and suffered. From many a porch, and many a latticed oriel, a long shadow stretched eastward, like a death flag streaming in a wind unfelt of the body—or a fluttering leaf, ready to yield, and flit away, and add one more to the mound of blackness gathering on the horizon's edge. It was the main street of an old country town, dwindled by the rise of larger and more prosperous places, but holding and exercising a charm none of them would ever gain.