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Mary Marston by MacDonald, George, 1824-1905
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A word from our supporters: File extension MP4 | Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks, Juliet Sutherland and the DP Team MARY MARSTON A NOVEL. BY GEORGE MACDONALD AUTHOR OF "ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD," "ROBERT FALCONER," ETC., ETC. CONTENTS. 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 XLVL-REPARATION XLVII.-ANOTHER CHANGE XLVIIL-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. |