New Release Books by A M Williamson

Alice Muriel Williamson (1869-1933) was a British novelist. She was Charles Norris Williamson (1859-1920)''s wife. Her former name was Alice Muriel Livingston, and she was introducing herself after her marriage as Mrs. C. N. Williamson. Her mystery A Women in Grey (1898) was translated and adapted into Japanese by Kuroiwa Ruiko by the title Ghost Tower in 1901. Alice and her Husband collaborated in writing too many books including The Princess Passes (1905), The Motor Maid (1910), The Port of Adventure (1913), It Happened in Egypt (1914), The Shop-Girl (1916) and The Second Latchkey (1920).

Alice Muriel Williamson (1869-1933) was a British novelist. She was Charles Norris Williamson (1859-1920)''s wife. Her former name was Alice Muriel Livingston, and she was introducing herself after her marriage as Mrs. C. N. Williamson. Her mystery A Women in Grey (1898) was translated and adapted into Japanese by Kuroiwa Ruiko by the title Ghost Tower in 1901. Alice and her Husband collaborated in writing too many books including The Princess Passes (1905), The Motor Maid (1910), The Port of Adventure (1913), It Happened in Egypt (1914), The Shop-Girl (1916) and The Second Latchkey (1920).

I often feel like that; but there''s nobody to tell, except the trees and the dogs, and my poorpony, who is almost too old and second-childish now to understand. She was my brotherStanforth''s pony first of all, and Stanforth is twenty-eight; then she was Vic''s, and Vic is-but Mother doesn''t like Vic''s age to be mentioned any more, though she is years youngerthan Stan.I took a walk in the park and afterwards went through the rose-garden, to see how theroses were getting on. There were a lot of petals for my pot-pourri, and gathering them upkept me for some time. Then, as the jar stands in Vic''s and my den (she calls it her den, butit has to be part mine, as I have no other), I was going in by one of the long windows, when Iheard Mother''s voice. "The question is," she was saying, "what''s to be done with Betty?"I turned round and ran away on my tiptoes across the lawn, for I didn''t want to be aneavesdropper, and it would be nearly as bad to have Mother know I had heard even thosefew words; she would be so annoyed, and Mother chills me all the way through to my boneswhen she''s annoyed. It is wonderful how she does it, for she never scolds; but thethermometer simply drops to freezing-point, and you feel like a poor little shivering crocusthat has come up too soon, by mistake, to find the world covered with snow, and no hope ofsqueezing back into its own cosy warm bulb again.

Alice Muriel Williamson (1869-1933) was a British novelist. She was Charles Norris Williamson (1859-1920)''s wife. Her former name was Alice Muriel Livingston, and she was introducing herself after her marriage as Mrs. C. N. Williamson. Her mystery A Women in Grey (1898) was translated and adapted into Japanese by Kuroiwa Ruiko by the title Ghost Tower in 1901. Alice and her Husband collaborated in writing too many books including The Princess Passes (1905), The Motor Maid (1910), The Port of Adventure (1913), It Happened in Egypt (1914), The Shop-Girl (1916) and The Second Latchkey (1920).

Alice Muriel Williamson (1869-1933) was a British novelist. She was Charles Norris Williamson (1859-1920)''s wife. Her former name was Alice Muriel Livingston, and she was introducing herself after her marriage as Mrs. C. N. Williamson. Her mystery A Women in Grey (1898) was translated and adapted into Japanese by Kuroiwa Ruiko by the title Ghost Tower in 1901. Alice and her Husband collaborated in writing too many books including The Princess Passes (1905), The Motor Maid (1910), The Port of Adventure (1913), It Happened in Egypt (1914), The Shop-Girl (1916) and The Second Latchkey (1920).

Simone flung out her hands, palm upward. They were beautifully manicured hands, ascarefully tended as her mistress''s. And as she smiled her teeth showed very white. When her facewas grave, she looked somewhat sullen, and might be thirty-five; but the smile was rejuvenating.It put her back to twenty-eight, and made her almost handsome as well as chic. "Miladi hasknown Mademoiselle since her schooldays, is it not?" she hedged. "Miladi will be able to judgeas well as if I told her whether Mademoiselle would have made that answer.""I thought it rang true when I read it!" laughed Lady West. "But Simone, when you say Ihave ''known Mademoiselle since her schooldays'', you make me sound awfully antique. We wereat Madame de Sain''s together. I came over to England the year I left, and married poor Sir Algyonly three months after I was presented." She thought it best to hammer these details intoSimone''s head, in case the woman really was in touch with those back-door, kitchen-stairsreporters. Then, to give an air of carelessness to her words, she turned the subject. "Perhaps youmight let Mademoiselle know I''ve come. Parker told me that she was lying down-that she''dpromised her uncle to rest till tea time. So I wouldn''t have her disturbed. But if her hair is beingwashed, she might let me in.""I will ask Miladi," said Simone. "I came to the salon to see if the curtains were drawn. IfMadame permits!" She tripped with her short, high-heeled step first to one window, then theother, and closed the draperies of old-rose brocade. Having done this, she pattered out of theroom.

"Why, Duffer, dear, it can''t possibly be you!"I gave a jump, for I hadn''t heard that voice for many a year, and between the ages of fourand fourteen I had been in love with it."Brigit O''Brien!" said I. Then I grabbed her two hands and shook them as if her arms hadbeen branches of a young cherry tree, dropping fruit."Why not Biddy?" she asked. "Or are ye wanting me to call ye Lord Ernest?""Good heavens, no! Once a Duffer, always a Duffer," I assured her. "And I''ve been thinkingof you as Biddy from then till now. Only-""''Twas as clever a thing as a boy ever did," she broke in, with one of her smiles that no manever forgets, "to begin duffing at an early age, in order to escape all the professions andbusinesses your pastors and masters proposed, and go your own way. Are ye at it still?""Rather! But you? I want to talk to you.""Then don''t do it in a loud voice, if you please, because, as you must have realized, if you''vetaken time to think, I''m Mrs. Jones at present.""Why Jones?""Because Smith is engaged beforehand by too many people. Honestly, without joking, I''m indanger here and everywhere, and it''s a wicked, selfish thing for me to come the way I have;but Rosamond Gilder is the hardest girl to resist you ever saw, so I''m with her; and it''s along history.""Rosamond Gilder? What-the Cannon Princess, the Bertha Krupp of America?""Yes, the ''Gilded Babe'' that used to be wheeled about in a caged perambulator guarded bydetectives: the ''Gilded Bud'' whose coming out in society was called the Million DollarDébut: now she''s just had her twenty-first birthday, and the Sunday Supplements havepromoted her to be the Golden Girl, alternating with the Gilded Rose, although she''s thesimplest creature, really, with a tremendous sense of the responsibility of her riches. Poorchild! There she is, walking toward us now, with those two young men.

Now, I''ll begin and tell you everything exactly as it happened. Many a "confession-letter"I''ve begun in just these words, but never one like this. I don''t deserve that it should bringme the heartease which used to come. But the thought of you is my star in darkness. Brianis the last person to whom I can speak, because above all things I want him to be happy. Onearth there is no one else. Beyond the earth there is-you.When Brian was wounded, they expected him to die, and he was asking for me. Thetelegram came one day when we had all been rather overworked in the hospital, and I wasfeeling ready to drop. I must only have imagined my tiredness though, for when I heardabout Brian I grew suddenly strong as steel. I was given leave, and disinfected, and purifiedas thoroughly as Esther when she was being made worthy of Ahasuerus. Then I dashed offto catch the first train going north.St. Raphael was our railway station, but I hadn''t seen the place since I took up work in theHôpital des Épidémies. That was many months before; and meanwhile a training-school forAmerican aviators had been started at St. Raphael. News of its progress had drifted to ourears, but of course the men weren''t allowed to come within a mile of us: we were toocontagious. They had sent presents, though-presents of money, and one grand gift hadburst upon us from a young millionaire whose father''s name is known everywhere. He senta cheque for a sum so big that we nurses were nearly knocked down by the size of it. Withit was enclosed a request that the money should be used to put wire-nettings in allwindows and doors, and to build a roofed loggia for convalescents. If there were anythingleft over, we might buy deck-chairs and air-pillows. Of course it was easy for any one toknow that we needed all these things. Our lack was notorious. We sent a much disinfected, carbolic-smelling round robin of thanks to "James W. Beckett, Junior," son of the westernrailway king.

"I can''t think properly while it seems as if you were waiting to turn me out," she said.Sands sat down."I hardly know how to tell you what I mean. I hardly dare," the voice went on, while hewondered. "It''s a tremendous thing to ask. I can''t explain ... and if I hesitate it will be toolate. I don''t know your name, or your character, except what I judge from your face. Theway to save me is to keep me in this stateroom with the door shut, as far as Chicago.""Good heavens! That''s...." Sands was going to end his sentence with "absolutelyimpossible!" But he stopped in the midst. Her eyes made him stop. It was as if he werepronouncing a death sentence. He was silent for a few seconds."I''d have to say ... no, I could not say you were my wife, because everyone knows I''ve notgot a wife. I''ll say you are my cousin: say you''ve come late. I want you to have thisstateroom, and I''ll take another ... or a section. I-I could do that.""Will you?" she breathed."Yes. I will."He said this almost sullenly. He was thinking: "Pretty smart new dodge! Neat way to get astateroom all the way from Albuquerque to Chicago.""I''ll go out now and fix things up with the conductor," he promised. "We must settle on astory. You came on board at Albuquerque just now?""Yes. The last minute before the train started. I have a berth in this car. I thought I was safe, that everything was right for me. Then I saw the man ... not the one I expected; worse. Hewasn''t in this car, but the next. I saw him standing there. He was looking at some ladiespassing through. One had on deep mourning, and a crepe veil. Perhaps he believed it was I.I turned and rushed this way. Your door was open, and you ... you looked like a real man.That''s all.

Mrs. Muir''s motive for visiting the garret out of season was a simple one, but it was wellthat Barrie did not know this, for it was not at all interesting, and would have broken themusic, thrown cold water on the thrill. Moths, no respecters of persons or judges of highreligious reputations, had dared to nest in Mrs. MacDonald''s best black cashmere dress, which had not been worn and would not be worn, except on great occasions, until nextseason, and had mechanically reduced it to the rate of second best. Moth-powder andmoth-balls were exhausted in downstairs regions, but there was a store of both in thegarret; and in her annoyance at having to ascend at an unprecedented time, and hervexation at an accident such as must happen in the best regulated families, Mrs. Muir hadhurriedly returned with the wanted box, forgetting to lock the door.Barrie could not be sure that the housekeeper was not even now in the garret; but she hadto find out: and the awful thrill of uncertainty made her next step a high adventure, theadventure of her life. It was a step onto the garret stairs, and though it meant dangers of allsorts, she risked them every one, and closed the door behind her. You see, if she had notdone this, any person passing along the landing-a person such as Grandma, or JanetHepburn-would at once have seen the streak of gold, a mere yellow crack to them, andthen and there would have arisen a clamour for the key

"Hullo, old chap! Who would ever have thought of seeing you here to-night? What''s broughtyou back to civilisation again?"I turned suddenly, surprised by the sound of a familiar voice in my ear. It was the night ofChristmas Eve, and I was just entering the lobby of the St. James''s, the first time, as ithappened, I had seen the inside of a theatre for two years.For the fraction of a moment I could not remember where I had known the man whoaddressed me so jovially. My way of knocking about the world brought me into contactwith so many people that it was difficult to sort my gallery of faces, and keep each onementally ticketed. But after a second or two of staring through that convenient medium, my monocle, I was able to place the man who had accosted me. He was a rich mining kingfrom Colorado, by the name of Harvey Farnham, whom I had met in Denver, when I hadbeen dawdling through America three or four years ago.I pronounced his name with a certain self-satisfaction in having so readily recalled it, andwe shook each other by the hand."What''s brought me back to civilisation?" I echoed, lazily. "I really don''t know-unless it wasbecause I''d got tired of the other thing. Adventure-change-that''s what I am in search of, mydear Farnham.""And you come back here from service as war correspondent in Egypt (where I last read ofyou in the papers as having been carried down a cataract for twenty-six miles before alaunch ran out and saved you) in the hope of finding ''adventure'' in this workaday close ofthe nineteenth century? That''s too good."I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. "Yes; why not? Why should there not be as great apossibility of obtaining new sensations, or at least old ones in different form, in London asanywhere else?"It did not occur to me, as I idly spoke the words, that I was uttering a prophecy."How is it," I went on rather curiously, "that you remembered me, ''honouring my draft onsight, '' so to speak? It must be four years since that very jolly supper you gave me in Denverone night, and I fancy I have changed considerably since then

Not that I needed a nurse; and, above all things, I needed no more letters or flowers. The waste-paper basket was full. The room smelt like a perfume factory. The mantelpiece and all other receptacles having an army of occupation, vases and bowls were mobilising on the floor. This would, of course, not be tolerated in hospital; but I was off the sick list, recovering in a private convalescent home. I was fed up with being a wounded hero; the fragrance of too many flowers, and the kindness of too many ladies, was sapping and mining my brain power; consequently, I could invent no excuse for escape.