Books with author Margaret Wilson Oliphant

Miss Marjoribanks lost her mother when she was only fifteen, and when, to add to the misfortune, she was absent at school, and could not have it in her power to soothe her dear mamma's last moments, as she herself said. Words are sometimes very poor exponents of such an event: but it happens now and then, on the other hand, that a plain intimation expresses too much, and suggests emotion and suffering which, in reality, have but little, if any, existence. Mrs Marjoribanks, poor lady, had been an invalid for many years; she had grown a little peevish in her loneliness, not feeling herself of much account in this world. There are some rare natures that are content to acquiesce in the general neglect, and forget themselves when they find themselves forgotten; but it is unfortunately much more usual to take the plan adopted by Mrs Marjoribanks, who devoted all her powers, during the last ten years of her life, to the solacement and care of that poor self which other people neglected. The consequence was, that when she disappeared from her sofa—except for the mere physical fact that she was no longer there—no one, except her maid, whose occupation was gone, could have found out much difference. Her husband, it is true, who had, somewhere, hidden deep in some secret corner of his physical organisation, the remains of a heart, experienced a certain sentiment of sadness when he re-entered the house from which she had gone away for ever. But Dr Marjoribanks was too busy a man to waste his feelings on a mere sentiment. His daughter, however, was only fifteen, and had floods of tears at her command, as was natural at that age. All the way home she revolved the situation in her mind, which was considerably enlightened by novels and popular philosophy—for the lady at the head of Miss Marjoribanks school was a devoted admirer of Friends in Council, and was fond of bestowing that work as a prize, with pencil-marks on the margin—so that Lucilla's mind had been cultivated, and was brimful of the best of sentiments. She made up her mind on her journey to a great many virtuous resolutions; for, in such a case as hers, it was evidently the duty of an only child to devote herself to her father's comfort, and become the sunshine of his life, as so many young persons of her age have been known to become in literature. Miss Marjoribanks had a lively mind, and was capable of grasping all the circumstances of the situation at a glance. Thus, between the outbreaks of her tears for her mother, it became apparent to her that she must sacrifice her own feelings, and make a cheerful home for papa, and that a great many changes would be necessary in the household—changes which went so far as even to extend to the furniture. Miss Marjoribanks sketched to herself, as she lay back in the corner of the railway carriage, with her veil down, how she would wind herself up to the duty of presiding at her papa's dinner-parties, and charming everybody by her good humour, and brightness, and devotion to his comfort; and how, when it was all over, she would withdraw and cry her eyes out in her own room, and be found in the morning languid and worn-out, but always heroical, ready to go downstairs and assist at dear papa's breakfast, and keep up her smiles for him till he had gone out to his patients. Altogether the picture was a very pretty one; and, considering that a great many young ladies in deep mourning put force upon their feelings in novels, and maintain a smile for the benefit of the unobservant male creatures of whom they have the charge, the idea was not at all extravagant, considering that Miss Marjoribanks was but fifteen. She was not, however, exactly the kind of figure for this mise en scène. When her schoolfellows talked of her to their friends—for Lucilla was already an important personage at Mount Pleasant—the most common description they gave her was, that she was "a large girl"; and there was great truth in the adjective.

15-year-old Colin Campbell has grown up on his parents' farm, Ramore, on the beautiful Holy Loch; and soon he will be attending Glasgow University to study for the ministry. By chance, he saves the life of a young man, Harry, the son of Sir Thomas Frankland. The two boys do not like each other, but the result is that Colin is occasionally invited to the Castle and falls in love with a witty, flirtatious girl, Matty, whose place in the social order is far above his. We follow him through his adventures at University, and as a summer tutor at a great house, where once again he is thrown into Matty's company. Throughout this novel are long, metaphysical discussions between Colin and his even more serious friend Lauderdale regarding Christianity and the Kirk of Scotland. Later he makes a foolish decision in the hope of being near Matty. Volume 2 changes both locale and characters when Colin must travel to Italy for his health, accompanied by Lauderdale. The second volume is almost a separate novel, a sequel to the first. While traveling, Colin and his friend find themselves emotionally caught up with a dying man and his sister, the Merediths, and set up house with them at Frascati near Rome. Again Colin will make a hasty decision which may affect his whole life.

Imagine to yourselves such a young family, all in the very heyday of life, parents and children alike. It is true that Mrs. Kingsward was something of an invalid, but nobody believed that her illness was anything very serious, only a reason why she should be taken abroad, to one place after another, to the great enjoyment of the girls, who were never so happy as when they were travelling and gaining, as they said, experience of life. She was not yet forty, while Charlie was twenty-one and Bee nineteen, so that virtually they were all of the same age, so to speak, and enjoyed everything together—mamma by no means put aside into the ranks of the dowagers, but going everywhere and doing everything just like the rest, and as much admired as anyone. To be sure she had not been able to walk about so much this time, and had not danced once, except a single turn with Charlie, which brought on a palpitation, so that she declared with a laugh that her dancing days were over. Her dancing days over! Considering how fond she had always been of dancing, the three young people laughed over this, and did not take the least alarm. Mamma had always been the ringleader in everything, even in the romps with the little ones at home. For you must not think that these three were all of the family by any means. Bee and Betty were the eldest of I can’t at this moment tell how many, who were safe in the big nursery at Kingswarden under the charge (very partial) of papa, and the strict and steady rule of nurse, who was a personage of high authority in the house. Papa had but lately left “the elder ones,” as he called them, including his pretty wife—and had gone back to his work, which was that of an official at the Horse Guards, in some military department of which I don’t even know the name, for I doubt whether the Intelligence Department, which satisfies all the necessities of description, had been invented in those days. Colonel Kingsward was a distinguished officer, and the occasion of great éclat to the little group when he showed himself at their head, drawing round him a sort of cloud of foreign officers wherever he went, which Bee and Betty appreciated largely, and to which Mrs. Kingsward herself did not object; for they all liked the clank of spurs, as was natural, and the endless ranks of partners, attendants in the gardens, and general escort and retinue thus provided. It was not, however, among these officers, red, blue, green, and white—of all the colours in the rainbow—that Bee had found her fate. For I need scarcely say it was a proposal which had turned everything upside down and filled the little party with excitement.

Written concurrently with her autobiography, Kirsteen follows, in allegorical details, the life of its author, Margaret Oliphant.It shows the struggles and tribulations of an artist (in the book, the main character is a dressmaker), amidst changing fashions and tastes.An engrossing novel full of interesting characters and fascinating descriptions, Kirtseen is a lost novel that deserves more attention for its power and truth.This edition has been optimized for Kindle with a functioning table of contents.

These nine beginner-level scarves by Margret Willson are quick and easy to make using the Knook. This specialized crochet hook creates true knitted fabric, while the attached cord completely prevents dropped stitches! It's great for beginners or anyone who would like to learn to knit the easy way. Clear instructions on the basic technique are provided for both right-hand and left-hand stitching, while photos illustrate each step. All the scarves feature medium weight yarn worked with the Knook in classic rib knit patterns: 2 x 2 Rib Scarf, Beaded Rib Scarf, Cartridge Rib Scarf, Mistake Rib Scarf, Textured Rib Scarf, Twin Rib Scarf, Wavy Rib Scarf, Waffle Stitch Scarf, and Knit and Rib Scarf.

She had been talking of dying only the evening before, with a friend, and had described her own sensations after a long illness when she had been at the point of death. "I suppose," she said, "that I was as nearly gone as anyone ever was to come back again. There was no pain in it, only a sense of sinking down, down -- through the bed as if nothing could hold me or give me support enough -- but no pain." And then they had spoken of another friend in the same circumstances, who also had come back from the very verge, and who described her sensations as those of one floating upon a summer sea without pain or suffering, in a lovely nook of the Mediterranean, blue as the sky. These soft and soothing images of the passage which all men dread had been talked over with low voices, yet with smiles and a grateful sense that "the warm precincts of the cheerful day" were once more familiar to both. And very cheerfully she went to rest that night, talking of what was to be done on the morrow, and fell asleep sweetly in her little room, with its shaded light and curtained window, and little pictures on the dim walls.

Nothing could be more unlike than the two families who bore the same name, and lived within sight of each other. The one all gravity and importance and severe splendor; the other poor, irregular, noisy, full of shifts and devices, full of tumult and young life. Mrs. Fenton, Sir Walter's daughter (for her husband, who was nobody in particular, had taken her name), went from time to time with the housekeeper through the ranges of vacant rooms, ail furnished with a sort of somber magnificence, to see that they w^ere aired and kept in order; while her namesake at the Hook (as it was called) schemed how to fit a bed into a new corner, as the boys and girls grew bigger, to make room for their lengthening limbs and the decorum which advancing years demanded. It was difficult to kill time in the one house, and almost impossible to find one day long enough for all the work that had to be done in it, in the other. In the one the question of ways and means was a subject unnecessary to be discussed. The exchequer was full, there were no calls upon it which could not be amply met at any moment, nor any occasion to think whether or not a new expense should be incurred. Mr. Eussell Fenton,, perhaps, the husband of Mrs. Fenton, had not always been in this happy condition. It was possible that in his experience a less comfortable state of affairs might have existed,, or even might still, by moments, exist; but so far as the knowledge of Sir Walter and his daughter went, it was only mismanagement, extravagance, or want of financial capacity which made anybody poor; they could not understand why their relations at the Hook should be needy and embarrassed.

THE RAILWAY MAN AND HIS CHILDREN CHAPTER I The news that Miss Ferrars was going to marry Mr. Rowland the engineer, ran through the station like wild-tire, producing a commotion and excitement which had rarely been equalled since the time of the Mutiny. Miss Ferrars ! and Mr. Rowland ! — it was repeated in every tone of wonder and astonishment, with as many audible notes of admiration and interrogation as would till a whole page. " Impossible ! '"' people said, " I don't believe it for a moment." — " You don't mean to say ", But when Mrs. Stanhope, who was Miss Ferrars' friend, with whom she had been living, answered calmly that this was indeed what she meant to say, and that she was not very sure whether she was most sorry or glad — most pleased to think that her friend was thus comfortably established in life, or sorry that she was perhaps stepping a little out of her sphere — there remained nothing for her visitors but a universal gape of amaze- ment, a murmur of deprecation or regret — " Oh, poor Miss Ferrars ! '"' the ladies cried. *' A lady, of such a good family, and marrying a man who was certainly not a gentleman.'"' " But he is a very good fellow," the gentlemen said ; and one or two of the mothers who were conscious in their hearts, though they did not say anything of the fact, that had he proposed for Edie or Ethel, they would have pushed his claims as far as legitimate pressure could go, held their tongues or said little, with a feel- ing that they had themselves escaped the criticism which was now so freely poured forth. They were aware indeed that it would have come upon them more hotly, for it was they who would have been blamed in the case of Ethel or Edie, whereas Miss Ferrars was responsible for herself. But the one of them who would have been most guilty, and who indeed had thought a good deal about Mr. Rowland, and considered the question very closely whether she ought not as a matter of duty to MZ93llV> .<w 2 THE RAILWAY MAN endeavour to interest him in her Ethel, whose name was Dorothy, took up the matter most hotly, and declared that she could not imagine how a lady could make up her mind to such a descent. "Not a gentleman: why, he does not even pretend to be a gentleman," said the lady, as if the pretention would have been something in his favour. " He is not a man even of any educa- tion. Oh I know he can read and write and do figures — all those surveyor men can. Yes, I call him a surveyor — I don't call him an engineer. What was he to begin with ? Why he came out in charge of some machinery or something ! None of them have any right to call themselves engineers. I call them all surveyors — working men — that sort of thing ! and to think that a woman who really is a lady — " " Oh come, Maria, come ! " cried her husband, " you are glad enough of the P.W.D. when you have no bigger fish on hand." " I don't understand what you mean by bigger fish, Colonel Mitchell," said the lady indignantly ; but if she did not know, all the rest of the audience did. Match-making mothers are very common in fiction, but more rare in actual life, and when one exists she is speedily seen through, and her wiles are generally the amusement of her circle, though the woman remains uncon- scious of this. And indeed poor Mrs. Mitchell was not so bad as she was supposed to be. She was a great entertainer, getting up parties of all kinds, which was the natural impulse of a fussy but not unkindly personality, delighting to be in the midst of everything ; and it is certain that picnics and even dinner parties, much less dances, cannot be managed unless you keep up your supply of young men. There were times when her,,,,

Excerpt: "The Bamptons were expecting a visitor that very afternoon: which made it all the more indiscreet that young Fitzroy should stay so long practising those duets with May. It was a summer afternoon, warm and bright, and the drawing-room was one of those pretty rooms which are as English as the landscape surrounding them—carefully carpeted, curtained, and cushioned against all the eccentricities of an English winter, yet with all the windows open, all the curtains put back, the soft air streaming in, the sunshine not too carefully shut out, the green lawn outside forming a sort of velvety extension of the mossy soft carpet in which the foot sank within. This combination is not common in other countries, where the sun is so hot that it has to be shut out in summer, and coolness is procured by the partial dismantling of the house. From the large open windows the trees on the lawn appeared like members of the party, only a little withdrawn from those more mobile figures which were presently coming to seat themselves round the pretty table shining with silver and china which was arranged under the acacia. Miss Bampton, who had been watching its arrangement, cast now and then an impatient glance at the piano where May sat, with Mr Fitzroy standing over her. He was not one of the county neighbours, but a young man from town, a visitor, who had somehow fallen into habits of intimacy it could scarcely be told why."