on board ship to-morrow, and to pay her passage back to the port from
which she sailed. I have an idea that I ought to thank Sir Frederick
Pinkerton for the anonymous letter which served to unmask her.’ He drew
his chair a little closer. ‘Laura! you have not forgotten yesterday
morning?’ he said as he bent forward and tried to gaze into her eyes.
‘No; I have not forgotten.’ The reply was so low that he could scarcely
hear it, and the eyes were kept persistently cast down.
‘You know how we were interrupted,’ went on Oscar. ‘A black cloud came
between us, and we thought our happiness was wrecked for ever. But
the cloud has vanished, and the sun shines out as brightly as before,
and’——
‘Oscar, we must—both of us—try to think of yesterday morning as if it
had never been.’
He drew himself upright in his chair with a great gasp; for a moment or
two he was too stupefied to speak. ‘Try to think of yesterday morning
as if it had never been! Impossible! But why try to do so?’
‘Because something has happened since then which makes it imperative
that we should do so.’
‘Something happened! I don’t understand. I only know that you agreed to
become my wife. What can have happened to alter that?’
‘You must not ask me, and I cannot tell you.’
‘And you ask me to agree to this without a word of explanation?’
‘Yes, without a word of explanation.’ There was a quaver in her voice
as she said these words which he did not fail to detect.
He sat like a man stunned—like one who has heard some tidings of
import greater than his mind is able to grasp. ‘Laura! you torture me,’
he said at length.
At this she raised her dark, grief-laden eyes, and gazed at him for a
moment or two with a sort of dumb, pathetic tenderness, while at the
same time the fingers of one hand wandered caressingly over his sleeve.
He was profoundly moved. He rose from his chair, and took a turn or
two in silence, and then resumed his seat. ‘Send for the nurse to take
away that child,’ he said, ‘and then come with me for a walk in the
shrubbery.’
‘Oscar, I dare not.’
‘You dare not! Why?’
‘I dare not. We had better say farewell here and now, than later on and
before others.’
‘Farewell!’
‘I leave here by the afternoon express. Oscar, after to-day, you and I
must never meet again.’
He started to his feet. ‘Never meet again! But—— Why—— Can you who
say this to me be the same woman whom I kissed but yesterday?’
‘I am that woman; how happy then, how unhappy now, no one but myself
can ever know!’
‘Then why this change? What strange mystery is here?’
‘I cannot tell you. My lips are sealed. Believe me, Oscar, we had
better say farewell here and now.’
‘I cannot and I will not say farewell!’ he passionately exclaimed.
‘You belong to me, and I belong to you; that kiss was the seal and
consecration of our union. No earthly power shall keep us asunder.
There is some strange mystery at work here. If you will not give me
the key to it, I must try to find it for myself.’ He lifted his hat,
stooped and pressed his lips to her hair, and then, without another
word, he plunged into the shrubbery.
Laura gazed after his retreating figure through a mist of tears. ‘The
key to the mystery!’ she murmured. ‘You may try your best to find it,
my poor Oscar, but Merlin’s enchantments will prove too strong for you
to overcome.’
A PEEP AT THE FALKLAND ISLANDS.
Except to mariners who have rounded Cape Horn, this solitary
group of islands is a veritable _terra incognita_. Seldom
visited, however, as the Falkland Islands have been in the past,
their isolation promises to be yet more complete in the future, as
soon as an inter-oceanic canal diverts commerce from the old to a
new route. Up to the present time, they have served as a half-way
house for sailing-vessels on their voyage round Cape Horn in need
of provisioning, or for refitting such as have been disabled by the
tempestuous weather which for a great part of the year prevails in
those latitudes. It appears probable, however, that their usefulness
for even these purposes is nearly at an end, and that their lonely
inhabitants are doomed, like the surviving innkeepers of coaching-days,
to pass the remainder of their lives in mourning over the memories of
the past.
These islands have at various times belonged to France and to Spain;
but since 1833, when they were annexed by the English government for
the protection of the whale-fishery, they have formed part of the
British possessions. The group consists of the islands of East and
West Falkland, and upwards of a hundred others—mostly mere islets or
sandbanks—which have a united area of nearly five million acres. The
only settlement or town—if it may be dignified with that name—is
Stanley, which is situated on a gentle slope of moorland bordering upon
a narrow and nearly land-locked harbour in the island of East Falkland;
but few of the houses in Stanley are well constructed, and these are
occupied by the governor and colonial officers and a few successful
traders. The remainder are rough-and-ready specimens of architecture,
in the construction of which the timber of many an old shipwrecked hulk
has been utilised. The climate, though generally damp, is extremely
healthy, but very changeable. To-day, perhaps the sun may be shining,
the air clear and exhilarating; but to-morrow you rise at daybreak,
look out at the same landscape, and behold what a change is there! A
thick driving mist has rolled in from the ocean, and enveloped all
nature in its moist and chilly embrace. The soil is more adapted to
pasturage than to cultivation, being similar in its character to the
unreclaimed wild lands of northern Scotland and the Orkney and Shetland
Islands. Large herds of wild cattle roam at will over the country, but
are worth little except for their hides, there being no market for
the beef. The greater portion of these cattle belong to the Falkland
Islands’ Company, who own a marine store and general outfitting
establishment at Stanley. This Company, a few years ago, embarked in
sheep-raising, by way of an experiment, importing some common stock
from Patagonia, and crossing them with cheviots. The experiment has
proved a great success, and sheep-raising now forms the principal
industry of the later settlers; several young Englishmen, with a few
hundred pounds capital, having within the last few years settled on
the islands for this purpose, their ‘stations’ ranging from twenty to
one hundred and fifty thousand acres, the aggregate value of the wool
annually exported to England amounting to nearly fifty thousand pounds
sterling.
There being no roads or vehicles for internal traffic, as most of
the country round Stanley is a huge morass, the owners of these
sheep-stations are obliged to keep small sailing-vessels in which to
visit Stanley for provisions, or send their wool there for shipment to
England.
In respect of scenery, it cannot be said that nature has bestowed gifts
on the Falklands with a too lavish hand. There is but one tree in the
entire islands, and that solitary exception attempts to grow in the
governor’s garden at Stanley, where it is protected by a wall from the
cutting south wind, which ruthlessly nips off any ambitious shoot which
presumes to peep over its restricted limits.
The population of the Falklands in 1877 was a little over thirteen
hundred, nearly three-fourths of that number being males. Most of
the inhabitants are English; but there are also a few Americans and
Spaniards, the latter being the surviving descendants of the former
masters of the islands. The government is vested in a Governor, aided
by an Executive Council and a Legislative Council, both appointed by
the Crown. The majority of the working inhabitants are fishermen, whose
chief sources of profit are derived from annual visits to the New
Shetland Islands, about six hundred miles south from Cape Horn, and to
other breeding-grounds in the Falkland Islands, to hunt for seals and
penguins, which are slaughtered in large numbers for their skins and
oil.
The breeding-grounds or ‘rookeries’ of the penguins are generally
situated in the shelter of some land-locked bay or break in the line
of steep and rugged cliffs; and often occupy several acres, which
are laid out, levelled, and divided into squares, with intervening
streets, the whole as if done at the dictation of a surveyor. Along
these streets, the penguins gravely waddle on their way to and from
the water, presenting the appearance of squads of awkward recruits,
or a still more striking likeness, as has been often remarked, to
troops of little children toddling along in their white pinafores.
They build no nests; but lay a single egg in some selected spot, the
incubation being equally shared by male and female. Although so closely
allied to the feathered kind, they are unable to fly, nature having
only furnished them with short stumpy apologies for wings, resembling
the flippers of a turtle, by means of which they are enabled to
attain prodigious speed, when diving under water in pursuit of fish
for food. Penguins, as well as seals, are doubly provided against
the cold of the high latitudes which they frequent, by a layer of
fat immediately inside the skin, which is also the depository of the
oil extracted by the fishermen. In landing to attack and slaughter
them in their rookeries with clubs and boat-stretchers, stealthy
precautions are quite unnecessary, the poor dumb creatures looking on
in a state of indifferent stupidity, without making any attempt to
escape, whilst their companions are being knocked on the head all
around them. Seal-hunting, or ‘fishing’ as it is usually termed, on
the contrary, requires great skill and patience. Seals are gregarious
as well as polygamous, and when they forsake the open seas for their
breeding-places on shore, are very shy of intrusion, and take great
care to insure the safety of their retirement, particularly in
localities which have been previously visited by human beings. They
invariably post sentinels on every commanding point, so that it is only
by patient waiting and under cover of night the hunters are enabled to
elude their vigilance and surprise them.
The hunting or fishing season being over, the fishermen return to
Stanley with their harvest of skins and oil, which they sell to
the traders, who, as may be imagined, buy at their own price, and
eventually get the lion’s share of the profits. Not that this appears
to bother the minds of the fishermen, who are a happy-go-lucky set of
men, and by no means provident in their habits. When I was serving in
the English squadron on the south-east coast of America, we visited
the Falkland Islands as a rule once a year, and the admiral usually
timed our departure from Monte Video so as to arrive there somewhere
about Christmas. As soon as we were sighted by the lookouts, all was
flutter and excitement in the settlement. The married ladies were soon
elbow-deep in pie-crust and confectionery; while the only single lady
in the colony commenced practising her most sentimental songs, and
hunting up old bits of finery to set off her mature charms, with a grim
determination to capture the maiden affections of some susceptible
young naval officer.
For those of our number to whom shooting and fishing offered more
attractions than did the allurements of female society, the Falkland
Islands afforded a fine field. The tyro whose sole ambition is
a pot-shot at a standing object, may revel there in unequalled
opportunities of distinguishing himself, for, except in the vicinity of
the settlement, the upland geese are so little, if at all, accustomed
to the sight of man, that they show no signs of fear or flight at his
approach, and consequently fall an easy prey to the young sportsman.
But there are other kinds of game which give excellent sport to older
hands. Several species of duck and teal, abundance of snipe, and an
occasional swan, will give the hunter who can hold his gun straight
a satisfactory bag—and a weighty one too, if he has to carry it.
Moreover, if he be ambitious, and has at times indulged in wild dreams
of slaying the king of beasts in his forest lair, he may console
himself for not having done so, by killing that animal’s degenerate
marine cousin, the sea-lion. I myself once very nearly did; that is
to say, I came as near to doing so, as a sea-lion did to making an
end of me. It happened in this way. A party of us had pulled in a
boat up a small river in West Falkland, which, at some distance from
its mouth, opened into a lake with an islet in the centre, upon the
shelving shore of which we beached our boat, for lunch. This islet
was covered with patches of tall tussac grass—a favourite haunt of
sea-lions—but appeared to be perfectly desolate and devoid of animal
life. While sauntering idly along, smoking my pipe, I was suddenly
roused from a reverie by the most horrible roar, proceeding as it
seemed to me from the very ground under my feet; and lo! from a bunch
of tussac grass through which I was forcing my way, there arose an
immense, savage-looking animal, with a row of most formidable tusks,
and confronted me. I was so taken aback at my close and unexpected
proximity to such a monster, that I confess my first thoughts were
in favour of an ignominious flight, had not my enemy anticipated me
by turning tail himself. Gnashing his teeth with a parting roar, he
half-waddled and half-rolled down the bank and into the water, while
I was desperately pulling at the trigger of my gun, forgetting in my
agitation that it was only at half-cock.
Having nearly exhausted all that the Falklands present in the way of
interest or pleasure, we now say our adieus, weigh anchor and put to
sea.
MISCHIEF DONE BY GOOD-NATURED PEOPLE.
No doubt there is a vast amount of misery in the world occasioned by
deliberate unkindness; revenge for real or fancied injuries, or the
terrible pleasure some evil natures feel in the exercise of arbitrary
power. Still more suffering is probably occasioned by that callous
indifferentism to the feelings of others which we call thoughtlessness,
but which is really very nearly allied to selfishness. Yet possibly
we should find, were we able to make the reckoning, that as much harm
is done by the unwise concessions of what are called ‘good-natured
people,’ as by either of the other classes.
It is often said of a good-natured man that he is no one’s enemy but
his own; but families and friends are so linked together in this world,
that it is exceedingly difficult for any one to injure himself without
hurt to another. Far be it from us to limit philanthropy or any sort of
generosity. He who goes through life conferring benefits is the noblest
of mortals; but unless on occasion he is able to say ‘No’ to eager
entreaties, he will never be able to carry out his best intentions.
One of the most mischievous forms of what is called good-nature is
recommending an incompetent person to some responsible situation. Not
that patronage, properly considered, is anything but a good and lawful
thing; only we may be very sure that the just, enlightened, and really
powerful patron is by no means what is understood by ‘a good-natured
man.’ We imagine him to have legitimate influence, which he would very
soon lose were he to abuse it.
We once knew an authoress, now no more, who, besides having a great
deal of talent as well as good-nature, had one of the kindest hearts
in the world. Her successful books had secured her a certain literary
position; and had she used sparingly and discreetly the influence
which naturally resulted from it, she might have been of immense use
to young aspirants of genius. Perhaps her own vivid imagination lent a
charm to the manuscripts she was asked to forward for unknown authors
to eminent publishers, for it is a fact that men and women of real
genius are often the most lenient of critics to inferior writers. But
however this may have been, her good-nature was so often imposed on,
she so often sent poor compositions with words of recommendation to
her friendly publishers, that at last they smiled, or sighed, at her
importunities, and though willing enough to take anything from her own
practised pen, ceased to regard her good word as of any weight, when
applied to the productions of another. In fact, it came to pass that it
was rather an injury than otherwise to be introduced by Mrs E——. She
sacrificed what might have been a very useful and powerful influence to
her good-nature. If Dr Johnson had thus sacrificed his great influence
by offering poor novels to the booksellers, he would have been little
likely to have been able to promptly dispose of the immortal _Vicar
of Wakefield_, and so aid poor Oliver Goldsmith in the hour of his
sorest need.
Critics who, from a spurious good-nature, unduly praise a work of
art or literature, really do a cruel injury to deserving authors and
artists, by bringing their merits into an unworthy comparison with
inferior powers. Evil of this sort, however, is apt to bring about
its own penalty. Directly a professional writer is even suspected of
unfairness, the spell of his influence is broken; and often enough,
to be a warning to the ready writer, has it happened that one of the
staff of a popular journal has lost his situation on account of his too
‘good-natured’ reviews.
It is rather remarkable that what are called good-natured people rarely
undertake unpleasant duties, if they can possibly avoid them. They do
not like telling disagreeable truths, however urgent the necessity for
so doing, but transfer the mission to a sterner friend with some such
phrase as, ‘I should not like to say it,’ or, ‘I should not like to
do it,’ just as if the habit of their lives was only to do what they
‘liked.’ Indeed, the good-natured people we are describing are rarely
generous in a grand way; they are seldom capable of self-sacrifice. If
they are rich, they give money rather than take trouble. If they are
people of leisure, they probably give time, which perhaps is not very
precious to them; but doing something they greatly dislike, in order to
benefit another, is a virtue too rare to be found among them.
There is a form of deception, too often considered very venial, with
which so-called good-natured people, if they are good letter-writers,
are not seldom associated. This is ‘drawing up’ letters for their less
gifted acquaintances to copy and send out as their own. A really good
letter often makes a very favourable impression; but it is something
like a false coin if it be not the composition of the signer. No
doubt, there are cases when it is necessary some statement should be
made in language more clear and precise than the person concerned can
command; but in these instances, the ready penman should write in his
own person for his friend. We are afraid many situations of trust
and responsibility have been obtained on the strength of admirable
letters dictated by another. But incompetence is sure to be discovered
sooner or later, as is a deception which is less forgivable than
want of ability. Long, long ago, we knew of a case far more sad
than the engaging of an incompetent clerk or governess. A girl of
good family and large fortune was won over to accept for a husband a
young gentleman of small means and not much principle, mainly by the
eloquent, poetical, very charming letters he addressed to her; nearly
if not quite all of which were composed by a clever brilliant friend
who had never even seen her. When the marriage proved very far from a
happy one—and the real scribe had a wife and children of his own—we
have reason to believe that he deeply regretted the part he had played
in deluding a confiding girl.
Very much on a par with the laxity of principle which permits false
letter-writing is the wearing of borrowed finery, especially jewellery,
things which we have known good-natured women very willing to lend.
Valuable jewellery is a sign of a certain amount of wealth, which is
generally on fit occasions displayed; but to exhibit the sign where the
reality does not exist is a mean sort of deception, which must often be
followed by humiliation.
A person out of what is called good-nature becoming security for
another, and suffering, or causing others to suffer in consequence, is
so sad and frequent an event in real life, that it has become quite a
common incident in novels, and need not be treated of here. Kindness
of heart is a deeper and finer quality than the surface readiness to
oblige which we have endeavoured to depict. Kindness of heart has
always the capacity for real sympathy, and this great alleviator of
suffering is generally too clear-seeing to always approve of ‘Yes’ when
‘No’ should be said. Real sympathy feels with, and assists, the friend
in trouble. When actions prompted by thoughtless good-nature are most
mischievous, they proceed from one who probably neither feels deeply
nor sees clearly the relations of cause and effect. That Justice—to a
stranger no less than to our associates—is a rarer and more sublime
virtue than generosity, is a truth that good-natured people are
somewhat apt to forget.
SIX LITTLE WORDS.
Six little words arrest me every day:
I _ought_, _must_, _can_—I _will_, I _dare_, I _may_.
I OUGHT—’tis conscience’ law, divinely writ
Within my heart—the goal I strive to hit.
I MUST—this warns me that my way is barred,
Either by Nature’s law or custom hard.
I CAN—in this is summed up all my might,
Whether to do, or know, or judge aright.
I WILL—my diadem, by the soul imprest
With freedom’s seal—the ruler in my breast.
I DARE—at once a motto for the seal,
And, dare I? barrier ’gainst unlicensed zeal.
I MAY—is final, and at once makes clear
The way which else might vague and dim appear.
I _ought_, _must_, _can_—I _will_, I _dare_, I _may_:
These six words claim attention every day.
Only, through Thee, know I what, every day,
I ought, I must, I can, I will, I dare, I may.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row,
LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._