The fate of Fenella

The publishers claim with no little satisfaction that in this book they offer the reading public a genuine novelty. The idea of a novel written by twenty-four popular writers is certainly an original one. The ladies and gentlemen who have written “The Fate of Fenella” have done their work quite independently of each other. There has been collaboration but not consultation. As each one wrote a chapter it was passed on to the next, and so on until it reached the hands of Mr. F. Anstey, whose peculiar and delightful humor made him a fitting choice for bringing the story to a satisfactory close.

THE FATE OF FENELLA.

CHAPTER I.

BY HELEN MATHERS.

“FENELLA.”

And dinna ye mind, love Gregory, As we twa sate at dine, How we changed the rings frae our fingers, And I can show thee thine?

Her hair, gloves, and shoes were tan-color, and closely allied to tan, too, was the tawny, true tiger tint of her hazel eyes. For the rest, she was entirely white save for her dark lashes and brows, the faint tint of rose in her small cheeks, and a deeper red in her lips that were parted just then in a spasm of silent, delighted mirth. She stood on the top steps of the Prospect Hotel, Harrogate, waiting for the coach to come round, and looking across the hotel gardens to the picturesque Stray beyond, upon which a unique game of cricket was just then going forward, to the intense diversion of all beholders. Two little boys had evidently started it on their own hook, and a variety of casuals had dropped in to bear a hand, the most distinguished of these being a nigger minstrel, who, in full war-paint, and with deep lace ruffles falling over his sooty hands, was showing all his white teeth, and batting with a prowess that kept the whole field in action.

“I hope Ronny won’t get his pate cracked,” said the girl, half aloud, as the four grays drew up with a flourish, and the usual bustle on the steps began. “Good-morning, George!” and she nodded brightly to the good-looking driver, who beamed all over, and touched his hat, for the girl had clambered to many a pleasant drive beside him during the past fortnight.

“Box-seat again!” snapped a spiteful female voice behind her. “I wonder she is allowed to monopolize the best seat as she does, day after day!”

The girl laughed, as, giving a brief glimpse of a soft mass of whiteness above silken hose, she swung lightly up to the perch that was indeed wide enough to accommodate three persons, though the privilege of occupying the third lay entirely within George’s jurisdiction, and was never, save to an old favorite, accorded.

“Where are we going to-day?” she said, as she settled herself comfortably, and unfurled a big tan-color sunshade. “Not to any of those tiresome show-places, I hope? I’m so tired of them!”

“No, miss,” said George, who refused, even in the teeth of Ronny, to recognize her as anything but a slip of a girl, “we’re going for a drive of my own; just dawdling about a bit like, and nowhere in particular.”

“Jolly!” she said, sniffing up the pure air as if she loved it, and with that delightful quality of enjoyment in her voice which acts like an elixir on surrounding company. “Do you know, I mean to come up here every year to drink the waters, for I’ve got to love the place!”

George looked delighted as he glanced round to see if all his cargo was aboard, but as usual everyone was waiting for the inevitable person who is always late, and who will probably be late for his own funeral if he can possibly manage it.

“Most people who come here once, come again, miss,” said George, twisting the lash of his whip into a knot. “There’s one gentleman who never misses a season, and I was going to ask you, as a favor, if you’d mind his coming on the box-seat this morning? He ’most always had it last year. I told him I must ask a lady’s consent, so we’re to pick him up outside the Pump-room if you’re quite agreeable.”