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Updated: June 27, 2025
It is as the poet musing upon the fleet passage of beauty rather than as the satirist mocking at the vanity of human wishes that Mr. Hergesheimer traces the career of Linda Condon; but both poet and satirist meet in his masterpiece. A woman as lovely as a lyric, she is almost as insensible as a steel blade or a bright star. The true marvel is that beauty so cold can provoke such conflagrations.
The maids never do up your dresses right; and you'd be so lonely in the mornings you would nearly die." "That's true," Mrs. Condon admitted wearily. "I would expire; but I was thinking of you you're only beginning life; and the start you'll get with me is all wrong. Or, anyway, most people think so." "They are only jealous."
After a distressing sickness she had gone to sleep fully dressed, and Linda, unable to move or wake her, had sat long beyond dinner into the night, fearful of the entrance of the chambermaid. The next day Mrs. Condon had been humble with remorse. Men, she said, were too beastly for description. This was not an unusual opinion.
Condon now sat there was a circle in the ceiling like the base of a chandelier and hanging down from it on twisted green wires were a great number of the strangest things imaginable: they were as thick as her wrist, but round, longer and hollow, white china inside and covered with brown wrapping.
H. H. Isham, one of the owners of the store, aided by M. A. Anderson and Charles K. Smith, joined in the firing. Grattan Dalton and Bill Powers were shot mortally before they had gone more than a few steps from the door of the Condon bank.
On the side of artifice, certainly, lie several of the shorter stories in Gold and Iron and The Happy End, for which, he declares, his grocer is as responsible as any one; and on the side of art, no less certainly, lie at least Java Head, in which artifice, though apparent now and then, repeatedly surrenders the field to an art which is admirably authentic, and Linda Condon, nearly the most beautiful American novel since Hawthorne and Henry James.
Her mother's room resembled one of the sales of obvious and expensive attire conducted in the lower salons of pleasure hotels. There were airy piles of chiffon and satin, inappropriate hats and the inevitable confections of silk and lace. "It's not necessary to ask if you were right at home with your father's family," Mrs. Condon observed with an assumed casual inattention.
The street being somewhat torn up, they turned aside into an alley about a hundred yards from the main street, and, dismounting, tied their horses, which were thus left some distance from the banks, the First National and the bank of C. M. Condon & Co., which were the objects of their design.
No one noted Witherspoon and Doctor Atwater seated in two different carriages drawn up under the shades of lonely buildings on the side street near the Dry Dock Bank. The window-curtains were down in each of these waiting vehicles, and the drivers nodded upon their boxes. In all the guilty bosoms on the bedlam-like street no hearts beat as wildly as those in the breasts of McNerney and Condon.
While Maguire's impressive words were still ringing in the ears of his conscience-stricken accusers, Edward O'Meagher Condon commenced to speak. He was evidently more of an orator than either of those who had preceded him, and he spoke with remarkable fluency, grace, and vigour. The subjoined is a correct report of his spirited and able address:
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