Lovers Saint Ruths

This work presents a collection of four classic tales by American poet, essayist, and editor Louise Imogen Guiney. These stories revolve around the theme of love and sacrifice. Each story in the book is beautifully crafted with vivid characters and rich imagery that transport readers to a different time and place. Guiney's writing style is eloquent and captivating, making this book an ideal choice for readers looking for romantic literature with a touch of classic charm.

Though his curate was away, the incumbent of Orrinleigh, my kind Cyril Nasmith, had thrown aside his everlasting scrolls and folios, and spent the whole morning out-of-doors with me. We had been over the castle park and gallery, and even into the dairy, and thence up the path by a trout-stream to the site of a Saxon city; and Nasmith had been enthusiastically educating me all the way. I knew that there was little enough for him to do meanwhile. His village sheep were very tame and white; and his other sheep, at the manor, all wild and black: theology seemed to fall rather flat between them. So, by the dispensation of Providence, in his work-day leisure he had relapsed into the one intellectual passion of his life, archæology: a wise, worshipping sort of man, and the prince of Anglican antiquaries. As for me, he loved me better than ever when he found what genuine interest I took in his quiet hidden corner of --shire, whither I came from London to pass a memorable night and day with him, after a sixteen years' separation; for his boyhood had been spent in my own Maryland, his mother's family being Americans. It was a little sober, pastoral place, this Orrinleigh, with its straw-browed cottages bosomed in roses, sitting all in a row upon the overshaded lane, and, from the height where we stood, looking like so many sepia-tinted mushrooms in the broad green world. Just beyond us, in the near neighborhood of Orrinleigh House, the gray sham-Grecian porch of his ritualistic Tudor church skulked in the faint May sun. "What do you call that?" I said. "It is the one ugly thing hereabouts."

Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.

This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it. This work was reproduced from the original artifact, and remains as true to the original work as possible. Therefore, you will see the original copyright references, library stamps (as most of these works have been housed in our most important libraries around the world), and other notations in the work. This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work. As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.

Excerpt from Lovers' Saint Ruth's: And Three Other Tales It was a little sober, pastoral place, this Orrinleigh, with its straw-browed cottages bosomed in roses, sitting all in a row upon the overshaded lane, and, from the height where we stood, looking like so many sepia-tinted mush rooms in the broad green world. Just beyond us, in the near neighborhood of Orrinleigh House, the gray sham-Grecian porch of his ritualistic Tudor church skulked in the faint May sun. "What do you call that?" I said. "It is the one ugly thing hereabouts." He smiled. "Of course it is ugly, structurally," he answered in an apologetic tone; "Saint Ruth's was built in King James the Firsts time; I do not pride myself on that. But you should see the ruin, Holden! a darling bit of Early Decorated. Walk over there now with me. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it. This work was reproduced from the original artifact, and remains as true to the original work as possible. Therefore, you will see the original copyright references, library stamps (as most of these works have been housed in our most important libraries around the world), and other notations in the work. This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work. As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.

This collection of literature attempts to compile many of the classic works that have stood the test of time and offer them at a reduced, affordable price, in an attractive volume so that everyone can enjoy them.

The contents of this book have, hitherto, never been printed nor published. One chapter among them, The Provider, is based very literally on a tragic thing which happened, some years ago, in Dublin, and which, figuring as a cable despatch of some ten lines in a Boston daily newspaper, fell under my eye, to be remembered, and afterwards cast into its present form. In the September (1895) number of Harpers' Magazine, little Father Time and his adopted brother, in Hearts Insurgent, end their innocent lives from Hughey's strange motive, though not in his manner. It is perhaps worth while to state that my story was finished and laid by, prior to the appearance of the novel in its serial form, lest I should seem fain to melt my waxen wings in the fire of the Wessex sun. It is possible that the actual incident had come to Mr. Hardy's notice also, and with a keen and pitiful interest for so expert a student of human nature. A curious circumstance in his relation of it is that the elder child, in order that there may be more room in a hard world for the persons he loves, disposes not only of himself, but presumably of the younger child as well; and in the original version of my story Hughey jumped into the river with his sister Nora in his arms. But a friend of mine, who read the manuscript in 1894, a writer of great insight whose opinion I value in the extreme, so wrought with me to change the cruel ending, that I did so then and there, after some argument, and sent the boy of "long, long thoughts" uncompanied to his fate. The point of all this is, of course, that I now perceive my small invention had dared, unconsciously, to keep yet closer pace than would appear with Mr. Hardy's; for the suicide of real life was the suicide of one child alone. The other three sketches here are more imaginative; and the first of them, which bears the earliest date, was, from end to end, a dream, and is somewhat reluctantly included. They stand for apprentice-work in fiction, and are my only attempts of that kind. L. I. G.