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    Three Volume Novel & Other Stories
    Three Volume Novel & Other Stories
    Three Volume Novel & Other Stories
    Ebook56 pages58 minutes

    Three Volume Novel & Other Stories

    By Anthony Hope

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    Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, better known as Anthony Hope was born on February 9th 1863. He was a prolific writer, especially of adventure novels and although he wrote 32 volumes of fiction our memory of him rests almost entirely on two: The Prisoner of Zenda (1894) and Rupert of Hentzau (1898). After the success of the former he gave up his legal career to concentrate on writing but was never able to scale again the heights. On a publicity tour of the United States he was described as “a well-dressed Englishman with a hearty laugh, a soldierly attitude, a dry sense of humour, quiet, easy manners and an air of shrewdness.” He died in July 8th 1933.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopyright Group
    Release dateOct 11, 2013
    ISBN9781780007977
    Three Volume Novel & Other Stories
    Author

    Anthony Hope

    Anthony Hope (Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins) was an English writer and playwright. Best known for his classic adventure tales The Prisoner of Zenda and Rupert of Hentzau, Hope is credited with creating the Ruritanian romance genre. Although he originally published short pieces in popular periodicals, Hope started his own publishing press because of a lack of interest in publishing his longer works. The success of The Prisoner of Zenda allowed him to give up his career in law in favour of writing full time, but his later works never achieved the same popularity as Zenda. Hope was knighted in 1918 in recognition of his work with wartime propaganda, and he continued to write steadily until his death from cancer in 1933.

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      Book preview

      Three Volume Novel & Other Stories - Anthony Hope

      Three Volume Novel & Other Short Stories by Anthony Hope

      Index of Stories

      Curate of Poltons

      Decree of Duke Deodonato

      Philosopher of The Apple Orchard

      Three Volume Novel

      Curate of Poltons

      I must confess at once that at first, at least, I very much admired the curate. I am not referring to my admiration of his fine figure, six feet high and straight as an arrow, nor of his handsome, open, ingenuous countenance, or his candid blue eye, or his thick curly hair. No; what won my heart from an early period of my visit to my cousins, the Poltons of Poltons Park, was the fervent, undisguised, unashamed, confident, and altogether matter-of-course manner in which he made love to Miss Beatrice Queenborough, only daughter and heiress of the wealthy shipowner Sir Wagstaff Queenborough, Bart., and Eleanor his wife. It was purely the manner of the curate's advances that took my fancy: in the mere fact of them there was nothing remarkable. For all the men in the house (and a good many outside) made covert. stealthy, and indirect steps in the same direction; for Trix (as her friends called her) was, if not wise, at least pretty and witty, displaying to the material eye a charming figure, and to the mental a delicate heartlessness both attributes which challenge a self-respecting mans best efforts. But then came the fatal obstacle. From heiresses in reason a gentleman need neither shrink nor let himself be driven; but when it comes to something like twenty thousand a year, the reported amount of Trix's dot, he distrusts his own motives almost as much as the lady's relatives distrust them for him. We all felt this; Stanton, Rippleby, and I; and, although I will not swear that we spoke no tender words and gave no meaning glances, yet we reduced such concessions to natural weakness to a minimum, not only when Lady Queenborough was by, but at all times. To say truth, we had no desire to see our scalps affixed to Miss Trix's pretty belt, nor to have our hearts broken (like that of the young man in the poem) before she went to Homburg in the autumn. With the curate it was otherwise. He, Jack Ives, by the way, was his name, appeared to rush, not only upon his fate, but in the face of all possibility and of Lady Queenborough. My cousin and hostess, Dora Polton, was very much distressed about him. She said that he was such a nice young fellow, and that it was a great pity to see him preparing such unhappiness for himself. Nay, I happen to know that she spoke very seriously to Trix, pointing out the wickedness of trifling with him; whereupon Trix, who maintained a bowing acquaintance with her conscience, avoided him for a whole afternoon and endangered all Algy Stanton's prudent resolutions by taking him out in the Canadian canoe. This demonstration in no way perturbed the curate. He observed that, as there was nothing better to do, we might as well play billiards, and proceeded to defeat me in three games of a hundred up (no, it is quite immaterial whether we played for anything or not), after which he told Dora that the vicar was taking the evening service, it happened to be the day when there was one at the parish church, a piece of information only relevant in so far as it suggested that Mr. Ives could accept an invitation to dinner if one were proffered to him. Dora, very weakly, rose to the bait; Jack Ives, airily remarking that there was no use in ceremony among friends, seized the place next to Trix at dinner (her mother was just opposite) and walked on the terrace after dinner with her in the moonlight. When the ladies retired he came into the smoking-room, drank a whiskey-and-soda, said that Miss Queenborough was really a very charming companion, and apologized for leaving us early on the ground that his sermon was still unwritten. My good cousin, the squire, suggested rather grimly that a discourse on the vanity of human wishes might be appropriate.

      I shall preach. said Mr. Ives thoughtfully, on the opportunities of wealth.

      This resolution he carried out on the next day but one, that being a Sunday. I had the pleasure of sitting next to Miss Trix, and I watched her with some interest as Mr. Ives developed his theme. I will not try to reproduce the sermon, which would have seemed by no means a bad one, had any of our party been able to ignore the personal application which we read into it: for its main burden was no other than

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