Cobwebs and Cables

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Cobwebs and Cables, by Hesba Stretton

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Title: Cobwebs and Cables
Author: Hesba Stretton
Release Date: November 13, 2006 [EBook #19802]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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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. His boy, Felix, had knelt in one of them a few hours ago, looking out with grave childish eyes on the sunset. The broad, shallow steps of the oaken staircase, trodden so many years by the feet of all who were dearest to him; the quiet chambers above where his mother, his wife, and his children were at this moment sleeping peacefully. How unutterably and painfully sweet all his home was to him!
Very prosperous his life had been; hardly overshadowed by a single cloud. His father, who had been the third partner in the oldest bank in Riversborough, had lived until he was old enough to