The Misses Mallett

E. H. Young

Description

“The Misses Mallett - A Bridge Dividing” is a 1922 novel by E. H. Young. Set in Bristol, England, the story revolves around Rose Mallett and her half sisters Sophia and Caroline, who live ostensibly unremarkable lives in Upper Radstowe. However, Rose is engaged in a secret love affair with an unavailable man, and the unexpected entrance of an orphaned niece into their lives threatens to upset the balance she has so deftly tried to maintain. Emily Hilda Daniell (1880–1949) was an English children's writer, novelist, mountaineer, and advocate for female suffrage who wrote under the pen name E. H. Young. Despite being almost completely unheard of now, Daniell was a celebrated author who produced numerous best sellers during her time. Other works by this author include: “Corn of Wheat” (1910) and “Moor Fires” (1916). Read & Co. Books is republishing this classic novel now in a new edition complete with a new specially-commissioned biography of the author.

Informations

• Publié par: Read Books Ltd.
• Date de parution: 05 mars 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9781447488132
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

THE MISSES MALLETT
A BRIDGE DIVIDING
By
E. H. YOUNG

First published in 1922



Copyright © 2020 Read & Co. Books
This edition is published by Read & Co. Books, an imprint of Read & Co.
This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or copied in any way without the express permission of the publisher in writing.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd. For more information visit www.readandcobooks.co.uk


Contents
E. H. Young
BOOK I
ROSE
§ 1
§ 2
§ 3
§ 4
§ 5
BOOK II
HENRIETTA
§ 1
§ 2
§ 3
§ 4
§ 5
§ 6
BOOK III
ROSE AND HENRIETTA
§ 1
§ 2
§ 3
§ 4
§ 5
§ 6
§ 7
§ 8
§ 9
§ 10
§ 11
§ 12




"A Novel of the hidden fires in lives that seem as quiet as the old house where they are spent"
— Hugh Walpole


"The virtue of this quiet and accomplished piece of writing lies in its quality and in its character-drawing; to summarize it would be to give no idea of its charm. Neither realism nor romance, it is a book by a writer of insight and sensibility."
— The Travell ers' Library


E. H. Young
Emily Hilda Young was born in born in Whitley (now known as Whitley Bay), Northumberland, England, on 21st March, 1880. She attended Gateshead Secondary School and Penrhos College, in Colwyn Bay, Wales. As a young woman, Young developed a keen interest in classical and modern philosophy. She became a supporter of the suffragette movement, and started publishing novels. Her first two works were A Corn of Wheat (1910) and Yon der (1912).
When World War I broke out in 1914, Young worked first as a stables groom and then in a munitions factory. Her husband was sadly killed at the Third Battle of Ypres in 1917. The following year she moved to Sydenham Hill, London to join her lover, now the headmaster of the public school Alleyn's, and his wife in a ménage à trois. Young occupied a separate flat in their house and was addressed as 'Mrs Daniell'; this concealed the unconventional arrangement. This drastic change in circumstances seems to have been a creative catalyst. Through the twenties and thirties, Young published seven novels: A Bridge Dividing (1922), William (1925), The Vicar's Daughter (1927), Miss Mole (1930), Jenny Wren (1932), Celia (1937) and The Curate's Wife (1934).
In the mid-thirties, Young and her lover (Mr Henderson) moved to Bradford-on-Avon in Wiltshire. During the Second World War, Young worked actively in air raid precautions. She lived in Wiltshire with Henderson until her death on 8th August, 1949, aged 69. Although popular in her time, Young's work has nearly vanished today. In 1980 however, a four-part series based on her novels was shown on BBC television as Hannah. Around this time, the feminist publishing house Virago also reprinted several of her books.



BOOK I
ROSE


§ 1
On the high land overlooking the distant channel and the hills beyond it, the spring day, set in azure, was laced with gold and green. Gorse bushes flaunted their colour, larch trees hung out their tassels and celandines starred the bright green grass in an air which seemed palpably blue. It made a mist among the trees and poured itself into the ground as though to dye the earth from which hyacinths would soon spring. Far away, the channel might have been a still, blue lake, the hills wore soft blue veils and, like a giant reservoir, the deeper blue of the sky promised unlimited supplies. There were sheep and lambs bleating in the fields, birds sang with a piercing sweetness, and no human being was in sight until, up on the broad grassy track which branched off from the main road and had the larch wood on one side and, on the other, rough descending fields, there appeared a woman on a horse. The bit jingled gaily, the leather creaked, the horse, smelling the turf, gave a snort of delight, but his rider restrained him lightly. On her right hand was the open country sloping slowly to the water; on her left was the stealthiness of the larch wood; over and about everything was the blue day. Straight ahead of her the track dipped to a lane, and beyond that the ground rose again in fields sprinkled with the drab and white of sheep and lambs and backed by the elm trees of Sales Hall. She could see the chimneys of the house and the rooks' nests in the elm tops and, as though the sight reminded her of something mildly amusing, the smoothness of her face was ruffled by a smile, the stillness of her pose by a quick glance about her, but if she looked for anyone she did not find him. There were small sounds from the larch wood, little creakings and rustlings, but there was no human footstep, and the only visible movements were made by the breeze in the trees and in the grass, the flight of a bird and the distant gambolli ng of lambs.
She rode on down the steep, stony slope into the lane, and after hesitating for a moment she turned to the right where the lane was broadened by a border of rich grass and a hedge-topped bank. Here primroses lay snugly in their clumps of crinkled leaves and, wishing to feel the coolness of their slim, pale stalks between her fingers, Rose Mallett dismounted, slipped the reins over her arm and allowed her horse to feed while she stooped to the flowers. Then, in the full sunshine, with the soft breeze trying to loosen her hair, with the flowers in her bare hand, she straightened herself, consciously happy in the beauty of the day, in the freedom and strength of her body, in the smell of the earth and the sight of the country she had known and loved all her life. It was long since she had ridden here without encountering Francis Sales, who was bound up with her knowledge of the country, and who, quite evidently, wished to annex some of the love she lavished on it. This was a ridiculous desire which made her smile again, yet, while she was glad to be alone, she missed the attention of his presence. He had developed a capacity, which was like another sense, for finding her when she rode on his domains or in their neighbourhood, and she was surprised to feel a slight annoyance at his absence, an annoyance which, illogically, was increased by the sight of his black spaniel, the sure forerunner of his master, making his way through the hedge. A moment later the tall figure of Sales himself appeared above the bu dding twigs.
He greeted her in the somewhat sulky manner to which she was accustomed. He was a young man with a grievance, and he looked at her as though to-day it were personi fied in her.
She answered him cheerfully: 'What a won derful day!'
'The day's all righ t,' he said.
Holding the primroses to her nose, she looked round. Catkins were swaying lightly on the willows, somewhere out of sight a tiny runnel of water gurgled, the horse ate noisily, the grass had a vividness of green like the concentrated though t of spring.
'I don't see how anything can be wrong this morning ,' she said.
'Ah, you're lucky to think so,' he answered, gazing at her clear, p ale profile.
'Well,' she turned to ask patiently, 'what is the matte r with you?'
'I 'm worried.'
'Has a cow died?' And ignoring his angry gesture, she went on: 'I don't think you take enough care of your property. Whenever I ride here I find you strolling about miserably, with a dog.'
'That's your fault.'
'I don't quite see why,' she said pleasantly; 'but no doubt you are right. But has a cow died?'
'Of course not. Why should it?'
'They do, I suppose?'
'It's the old man. He isn't well, and he's badgering me to go away, to Canada, and learn more abo ut farming.'
'So you should.'
'Of course yo u'd say so.'
'Or do you think you can't?'
He missed, or ignored, her point. 'He's ill. I don't want to leave him'; and in a louder voice he added, almost shouted, 'I don't want to leave you!'
Her grey eyes were watching the swinging catkins, her hand, lifting the primroses, hid a smile. Again he had the benefit of her profile, the knot of her dark, thick hair and the shadowy line of her eyelashes, but she made no comment on his remark and after a moment of sombre staring he uttered the one w ord, 'Well?'
'Yes?'
'Well, I'v e told you.'
'Oh, I think you o ught to go.'
'Then you don 't love me?'
From under her raised eyebrows she looked at him steadily. 'No, I don't love you,' she said slowly. There was no need to consider her answer: she was sure of it. She was fond of him, but she could not romantically love some one who looked and behaved like a spoilt boy. She glanced from his handsome, frowning face in which the mouth was opening for protest to a scene perfectly set for a love affair. There was not so much as a sheep in sight: there was only the horse who, careless of these human beings, still ate eagerly, chopping the good grass with his teeth, and the spaniel who panted self-consciously and with a great affectation of exhaustion. The place was beautiful and the sunlight ha