[Illustration: THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER
VOL. VIII.--NO. 359. NOVEMBER 13, 1886. PRICE ONE PENNY.]
A DAISY.
BY CLARA THWAITES, Author of "Songs for Labour and Leisure."
Be like the Daisy,
Sweet maid. Behold
How glorious within
Her heart of gold!
Be like the Daisy,
In shine or shade,
In summer or winter,
Courageous maid!
Be like the Daisy,
Simple and true,
Looking straight upward,
Up to the blue.
Lift thy head buoyantly
After the rain,
After adversity
Spring up again!
Seek not pre-eminence,
Look not for praise;
Safe and most blessèd
Are humbler ways.
From lowly sisters
Dwell not apart,
Keep through all splendour
Thy Daisy heart.
When in heaven's garden
Thy leaves unfold,
Thine be white raiment--
A crown of gold!
[Illustration:
"LIFT THY HEAD BUOYANTLY
AFTER THE RAIN."]
MERLE'S CRUSADE.
BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of "Aunt Diana," "For Lilias," etc.
CHAPTER VI.
WHEELER'S FARM.
After all, the difficulties were like Bunyan's chained lions--they
did not touch me. How true it is that "one-half our cares and woes
exist but in our thoughts." I had predicted for myself all manner of
obstacles and troubles, and was astonished to find how smoothly and
easily the days glided by.
From the beginning I had found favour in my mistress's eyes, and Mrs.
Garnett had also expressed herself in warm terms of approbation. "Miss
Fenton was a nice, proper young lady who gave herself no airs, and was
not above her duties; and Master Reggie was already as good as gold
with her." This was Mrs. Garnett's opinion; and as she was a great
authority in the household, I soon experienced the benefit of her
goodwill.
With the exception of Hannah, who generally called me "nurse" or
"miss," I was "Miss Fenton" with the rest of the household; even
the tall housemaid, Rhoda, who had charge of our rooms, invariably
addressed me by that name.
Mrs. Garnett generally prefaced her remarks with "My dear." I found out
afterwards that she was the widow of a merchant captain, and a little
above her position; but Anderson, the butler, and Simon and Charles,
the footmen, and Travers, Mrs. Morton's maid, always accosted me by the
name of Miss Fenton; but I had very little to do with any of them--just
a civil good-morning as I passed through the hall with the children.
The messages to the nursery were always brought by Rhoda; and though
Mrs. Garnett and Travers sometimes came in for a few minutes' gossip,
I never permitted the least familiarity on Travers's part, and to do
her justice she never gave me any cause for offence. She was a superior
person, devoted to her mistress, and as she and Anderson had been
engaged for years, she had almost the staid manners of a married woman.
I soon became used to my new duties, and our daily routine was
perfectly simple; early rising was never a hardship to me--I was too
strong and healthy to mind it in the least. Hannah lighted the fire,
that the room should be warm for the children, and brought me a cup of
tea. At first I protested against such an unusual indulgence, but as
Hannah persisted that nurse always had her cup of tea, I submitted to
the innovation.
Dressing the children was merely play-work to me, with Hannah to assist
in emptying and filling the baths. When breakfast was over, and Joyce
and I had cleaned and fed the canaries, and attended to the flowers,
Hannah got the perambulator ready, and we went into the Park or
Kensington Gardens.
Joyce generally paid a visit to her mother's dressing-room before this,
and on our way out baby was taken in for a few minutes in his little
velvet pelisse and hat. We generally found Mrs. Morton reading her
letters while Travers brushed out her hair and arranged it for the day.
She used to look up so brightly when she saw us, and such a lovely
colour would come into her face at the sight of her boy, but she never
kept him long. "Be quick, Travers," she would say, putting the child
in my arms. "I can hear your master's footsteps on the stairs, and he
will be waiting for me." And then she kissed her hand to the children,
and took up her letters again; but sometimes I caught a stifled sigh as
we went out, as though the day's work was distasteful to her, and she
would willingly have changed places with me.
On our return the children had their noonday sleep, and Hannah and
I busied ourselves with our sewing until they woke up, and then the
nursery dinner was brought up by Rhoda. Hannah always waited upon us
before she would consent to take her place.
In the afternoon I sat at my work and watched the children at their
play, or played with them. When Reggie was tired I nursed him, and in
the twilight I sang to them or told them stories.
I never got quite used to Mr. Morton's visits--they always caused me
embarrassment. His duties at the House occupied him so much that he had
rarely time to do more than kiss his children. Sometimes Reggie refused
to be friendly, and struck at his father with his baby hand, but Mr.
Morton only laughed.
"Baby thinks fardie is only a man," Joyce observed once, on one of
these occasions, "but him is fardie."
Mr. Morton looked a little grave over this speech.
"Never mind, my little girl; Reggie is only a baby, and will know his
father soon." But I think he was grieved a little when baby hid his
naughty little face on my shoulder, and refused to make friends. "Go,
go," was all he condescended to observe, in answer to his father's
blandishments.
Mrs. Morton seldom came up into the nursery until I was putting the
children to bed, but even then she never stayed for more than ten
minutes. There were always visitors below, or it was time to dress
for dinner, or there were letters to write. It was evident that Mr.
Morton's wife had no sinecure's post. I think no hard-worked sempstress
worked harder than Mrs. Morton in those days.
Now and then, when the children were sleeping sweetly in their little
cots, and I was reading by the fire, or writing to Aunt Agatha, or
busy about some work of my own, I would hear the soft swish of a silk
dress in the corridor outside, and there would be Mrs. Morton, looking
lovelier than ever, in evening dress.
"I have just come to kiss my darlings, Merle," she would say. "Dinner
is over, and I am going to the theatre with some friends; they are
waiting for me now, but I had such a longing to see them that I could
not resist it."
"It is a bad night for you to go out," I observed once. "Rhoda says it
is snowing, and you have a little cough, Travers tell me----"
"Oh, it is nothing," she replied, quickly; "I take cold very easily."
But I noticed she shivered a little, and drew her furred mantle closer
round her. "How warm and cosy you look here!" glancing round the room,
which certainly looked the picture of comfort, with the lamp on the
big, round table, and Hannah working beside it; and then she took up
my book and looked at it. It was a copy of Tennyson's poems that Aunt
Agatha had given me on my last birthday.
"If you want books, Merle," she said, kindly, "Mr. Morton has a large
library, and I know he would lend you any if you will only be careful
of them. Charles, the under footman, has charge of the room. If you go
in early in the morning, and write out a list of what you wish, and
give it to Travers, I will see you are supplied."
"Thank you; oh, thank you, Mrs. Morton!" I exclaimed, gratefully, for
I was fond of reading, and the winter evenings were long, and a book
was better company than Hannah, though she was a nice girl, and I never
found her in my way. I used to talk to her as we sat at work together.
She was a little shy with me at first, but after a time her reserve
thawed. She was a farmer's daughter, the youngest but one of twelve
children, and her mother was dead. She told me she had five sisters in
service, and all doing well; but the eldest, Molly, stayed at home to
take care of her father and brothers.
I grew interested at last in Hannah's simple narrative. It was a new
experience of life for me, for I had never taken much notice of any
servant but Patience before. I liked hearing about Wheeler's Farm,
as it was called, and the old black-timbered house, with the great
pear-tree in the courtyard and the mossy trough out of which the little
black pigs drank, and round which strutted the big turkey-cock Gobbler,
with his train of wives.
"The courtyard is a pretty sight of a summer's morning," Hannah said
once, growing quite rosy with animation, "when Molly comes out with her
apron full of corn for the chicks. I do love to see them, all coming
round her, turkeys, and geese, and chicks, and fowls, and the little
bantam cock always in the middle. And there are the pigeons, too, miss;
some of them will fly on Molly's shoulder, and eat out of her hand. You
should see Luke throw up the tumblers high in the air, and watch them
flutter down again on his arms and hands, not minding him more than if
he were a branch of the pear-tree itself."
Who was this Luke who was always coming into Hannah's talk? I knew he
was not one of the five brothers, for I was acquainted with all their
names. I knew quite well that Matthew and Thomas worked on the farm,
and that Mark had gone to the village smithy; the twins, Dan and Bob,
were still at school, and Dan was lame. Perhaps Luke was engaged to
Molly. I hazarded the question once. How Hannah blushed as she answered
me!
"Luke is Luke Armstrong, a neighbour's son, but his father is a hard,
miserly sort of a man; for all he has Scroggins' Mill, and they do say
has many stockings full of guineas. His wife is no better than himself,
and his brother Martin bids fair to be the same. It is a wretched home
for Luke, and ever since he was a lad he has taken kindly to our place.
You see, father is hearty, miss, and so is Molly; they like to offer
the bit and sup to those as need it, though it is only a bit of bread
and cheese or a drop of porridge. Father hates a near man, and he hates
old Armstrong like poison."
"Is Luke your sister Molly's sweetheart?" I hazarded after this. Hannah
covered her face and began to laugh.
"Please excuse me," she said at last, when her amusement had a little
subsided, "but it does sound so droll, Molly having a sweetheart! I am
sure she would never think of such a thing. What would father and the
boys do without her?"
"Bless me, Hannah," I returned, a little impatiently, "you have five
other sisters, you tell me; surely one of them could help Molly, if she
needed it; why, you might go home yourself!"
"Oh, but none of us understand the cows and the poultry and the bees
like Molly, unless it is Lydia, and she is dairymaid up at the Red
Farm. They do say Martin Armstrong wants Lyddy; but I hope, in spite of
his father's guineas, she will have nothing to say to Scroggins' Mill
or Martin. You see, miss," went on Hannah, waxing more confidential
as my interest became apparent, "Wheeler's Farm is not a big place,
and a lot of children soon crowded it out. Mother was a fine manager,
and taught Molly all her ways, but they could not make the attics
bigger, and there was not air enough to be healthy for four girls,
with a sloping roof and a window not much bigger than your two hands.
And then the creeper grew right to the chimneys; and though folk, and
especially the squire, Lyddy's master, said how pretty it was, and
called Wheeler's Farm an ornament to the whole parish, it choked up the
air somehow; and when Annie took a low fever, Dr. Price lectured mother
dreadfully about it. But father would not have the creeper taken down,
so mother said there were too many of us at home, and some of us girls
ought to go to service. Squire Hawtry always wanted Lydia, and Mrs.
Morrison, the vicar's wife, took Emma into the nursery; and Dorcas,
she went as maid-of-all-work to old Miss Powell; and Jennie and Lizzie
found places down Dorcote way; but Mrs. Garnett, who knew my father,
coaxed him to let me come to London."
"And you are happy here?" I hazarded; but as I looked up from the
cambric frill I was hemming, I noticed the girl's head droop a little.
"Oh, yes, I am happy and comfortable here, miss," she returned, after a
moment's hesitation, "for I am fond of children, and it is a pleasant
thought that I am saving father my keep, and putting aside a bit of
money for a rainy day; but there's no denying that I miss the farm, and
Molly, and all the dumb creatures. Why, Jess, the brindled cow, would
follow me all down the field, and thrust her wet mouth into my hand if
I called her; and as to Rover, Luke's dog----" But here I interrupted
her.
"Ah, to be sure! How about your old playfellow, Luke! I suppose you
miss him, too."
Hannah coloured, but somehow managed to evade my question, but after
a week or two her reserve thawed, and I soon learnt how matters stood
between her and Luke Armstrong.
They were not engaged--she would not allow that for a moment. Why, what
would father and Molly say if she were to promise herself to a young
fellow who only earned enough for his own keep? for Miller Armstrong
was that close that he only allowed his youngest son enough to buy his
clothes, and took all his hard work in exchange for food and shelter;
while Martin could help himself to as much money as he chose, only he
was pretty nearly as miserly as his father. Molly was always going on
at Luke to leave Scroggins' Mill and better himself among strangers,
and there was some talk of his coming nearer London, only he was so
loath to leave the place where he was born. Well, if she must own it,
Luke and she had broken a sixpence between them, and she had promised
Luke that she would not listen to any other young man; and she had kept
her word, and she was saving her money, because, if Luke ever made a
little home for her, she would not like to go to it empty-handed. All
the girls were saving money. Lydia had quite a tidy little sum in the
savings bank, and that is what made Martin want her for a wife; for
though Lydia had saving qualities, she was even plainer than Molly, and
no one expected her to have a sweetheart.
I am not ashamed to confess that Hannah's artless talk interested me
greatly. True, she was only a servant, but the simplicity and reality
of her narrative appealed to my sympathy; the very homeliness of her
speech seemed to stamp it more forcibly on my mind. I seemed to picture
it all; the low-ceiled attic crowded with girls; the honest farmer and
his strapping sons; hard-featured Molly milking her cows and feeding
her poultry; young Luke Armstrong and his dog Rover, strolling down to
Wheeler's Farm for a peep at his rosy-faced sweetheart. Many an evening
I banished the insidious advances of homesickness by talking to Hannah
of her home, and there were times when I almost envied the girl her
wealth of home affection.
It seems to me that we lose a great deal in life by closing our
ears and hearts to other people's interests; the more we widen our
sympathies, and live in folk's lives, the deeper will be our own
growth. Some girls simply exist: they never appear to be otherwise than
poor, sickly plants, and fail to thrust out new feelers in the sunshine.
In those quiet evening hours when I had work to do for my children,
and dare not indulge myself in writing to Aunt Agatha, or reading some
deeply interesting book that Travers had procured for me that morning,
Hannah's innocent rustic talk seemed to open a new door to my inner
consciousness, to admit me into a fresh phase of existence. A sentence
I had read to Aunt Agatha that Sunday afternoon often haunted me as I
listened. "Behold, how green this valley is, also how beautiful with
lilies. I have known many labouring men that have got good estates
in this Valley of Humiliation," and I almost held my breath as I
remembered that our Lord had been a labouring man.
Hannah never encroached in any way; she always tacitly acknowledged the
difference in our stations, and never presumed on these conversations,
but she let me see that she was fond of me by rendering me all sorts of
little services, and on my side I tried to be useful to her.
She was very clever at work, and I taught her embroidery. Her
handwriting and reading were defective--she had been rather a dunce at
school, she told me; and I helped her to improve herself on both these
points; farther than this I could not go.
I shall never forget my shame one evening when she came into the
nursery and found me writing a letter to Aunt Agatha with a dictionary
beside me, for there was no trouble to which I would not put myself if
I could only avoid paining those loving eyes.
"Why, miss," she exclaimed in an astonished voice, "that is what I am
obliged to do when I write to father or Molly! Molly is a fine scholar,
and so is Lydia; the hardest words never puzzle them."
I must confess that my face grew hot as I stammered out my explanation
to Hannah. I felt that from that night I should lose caste in her eyes,
for only an enlightened mind could solve such an enigma; but I need not
have been afraid, truth is sometimes revealed to babes.
"I would not fret about it if I were you, miss," observed Hannah,
pleasantly; "it seems to me it is only like St. Paul's thorn in the
flesh. Molly says sometimes, when father worries about the cattle or
the bad harvest, 'that most people have a messenger of Satan to buffet
them;' that is a favourite speech of Molly's. We should not like to be
born crooked or lame, as she often tells us, but it might be our lot
for all that, and we should get into heaven just as fast. It is not how
we do it, but how we feel when doing it--that is Molly's proverb, and
the most of us have our burthen to carry some part of the way."
"True, Hannah, and I will carry mine;" but as I spoke the tears were in
my eyes, for though her words were true, the thorn was very piercing,
and one had to get used to the smart.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: THE PARTHENON.]
GREEK AND ROMAN ART AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM.
BY E. F. BRIDELL-FOX.