self-reproach was at times powerful to waste his endeavours in
fruitless action or torpid reverie. He was about to sink into the
latter at the close of dinner, as, left alone with his coffee and
cigar, he sat meditating on the past which he had invoked, when
he was startled by the sound of music and the strains of a melody
which seemed to float to him across the distant years, and reawaken
his heart's sweetest and bitterest memories. Ah! how well he
remembered it. It was one he had written and composed for _her_ of
whom he had been thinking; and when she sang it to him, he could
scarce restrain his tears; but there came a little 'rift within
the lute' one day, that soon 'made all the music mute.' Some
slight alteration that she had asked for, jarred upon his sense of
its perfection--and his own--and he refused half haughtily, which
she resented; words succeeded words, until that was said which
could never be forgiven or undone; and then she asked to have her
freedom back, and he gave it: yes, he gave it! and had never seen
or heard of her after, until now--he hears the echo of the melody;
but the voice--'Can that voice be hers?' he cries passionately.
Starting up in his chair he listens, with every nerve vibrating to
the sound, until it is finished. 'My own song!' he exclaims aloud;
and then he rings the bell nervously and summons the landlady. 'Who
is your new lodger?' he inquires with assumed calmness.
'Mrs Arlington, sir.'
'Arlington? Arlington?' he mutters. 'Never heard of her. What is
she like?'
'A tall sweet-looking lady, sir: I was that taken with I hadn't it
in my heart to turn her from the door the night she come here; so I
gave her your rooms for a couple of days, for her son and herself.'
'Son! did you say? How old?'
'About sixteen, I should reckon: he has come up for his
examinations.'
'No; it is not she,' he thought sadly; 'she could never have had
a son so old. But it may be some friend of hers. How else came
she by that song, I must find out.--Thank you, Mrs Griffiths,' he
said aloud; 'you did quite right to let the rooms; and since she
is such a favourite with you, you are welcome to the newspapers
for her. Perhaps you had better take them to her every day with my
compliments.'
'Thank you, sir; I am sure you are most kind; and I'll tell her
what you say.'
* * * * *
'I never will believe, ma'am, half as these good gentlemen say who
profess so loud against womenkind. Here Mr Meredith down-stairs, as
James says swears against a petticoat even if he sees it hanging in
a shop-window, which is most unfeeling-like, to say the least of
it--here's he been a begging I'll bring you the newspapers every
day, with his compliments!'
'Indeed! That is very thoughtful of him,' said Mrs Arlington,
smiling at her landlady's enthusiastic sense of victory. 'Pray give
him my compliments, and say how very much obliged I feel. What did
you tell me his name was?'
'Meredith, ma'am.'
'Of what family, do you know?'
'That's more than I can say, ma'am. Families, to my mind, is like
flowers--a great lot all alike, but divided into so many branches,
it were always a puzzle I stopped at. I call a pink a pink, and a
carnation a carnation; though the gardener where I lived in service
could tell you they were different branches of one family, with a
long Latin name, as I never could see not the least bit of good to
remember. So I just follow the same plan with families, call them
by the names as they hold at birth and baptism; and I only know my
gentleman by the label on his box: "Mr Firman Meredith." But if you
were pleased to wish to know, I'll ask his man James.'
'Not on any account,' said Mrs Arlington; 'I am not in the least
curious; I merely asked for asking's sake. Give my compliments and
thanks, nothing more.'
The newspapers paid their regular daily visit for a week, during
which time Mrs Arlington never once touched the piano when she knew
that Mr Meredith was at home; although he had purposely remained
indoors, hoping he might again hear the song which so roused his
memory on the evening of his arrival; but after seven nights of
waiting and disappointment, and ineffectual efforts to catch a
glimpse of the lady, who did not go out once during that time, he
grew so restless and impatient, that in desperation he summoned the
landlady once more to his assistance.
'Well, Mrs Griffiths, is your lodger gone or dead? She is a very
silent person.'
'O dear, no, sir,' said the landlady, smiling. 'She took the rooms
for a month, certain; but she's been suffering from a cold; and the
young gentleman has been away most days at his examinations; but
he's that quiet you'd never know he was in the house but for his
boots.'
'Had she any visitors the first evening I arrived?'
'None, sir. She hasn't told any of her friends, I imagine, that she
is here; as it is not to be supposed as how such a well-to-do lady
as she seems is without a whole score of friends, as would keep me
busy at the door if they only knew where she was.'
'Do you think she objects to visitors then?'
'How can I say, sir? Were you pleased to wish to call?' she
inquired somewhat slily. 'I'll speak to the lady, and find out if
it would be agreeable, if you like, sir?'
'Please yourself about that,' he returned with feigned
indifference. 'If I can be of any service to her or her son, beyond
the newspapers, I shall be happy to call.'
'You are very good, sir, I am sure, and I'll tell her. She was most
grateful for the newspapers.'
* * * * *
With a glow of triumph on her face, Mrs Griffiths next morning
appeared before Mrs Arlington. It was now her settled conviction
that her theories concerning the unreality of the enmity of certain
men for women was as 'true as gospel,' to use her own phrase;
and as there is nothing dearer to human nature, from the deepest
philosopher even to a speculating landlady, than to feel that they
have hit upon an infallible vein of truth, her rejoicing was very
natural.
She had been planning all the way up the stairs how she might
best introduce such a delicate topic with due acceptance, for Mrs
Arlington was a lady, she felt, who was not to be taken liberties
with; but impulse overruled discretion, and she burst out plumply
with the question: 'Would you please to like the gentleman to call?
I think, ma'am, for all he feigns to hate _us_, he's about dying to
come up.'
Mrs Arlington fairly laughed aloud at the partnership in the
compliment assumed by her good-natured landlady. 'What do you say,
Fred?' she inquired, appealing to her son, as though declining the
matter for herself.
'By all means have him up. We _should_ be Goths to accept his
papers, and say "No, thank you," to himself.'
'You can tell him then, Mrs Griffiths, that we shall be happy to
see him this afternoon.'
'_You_ will, you mean,' said Fred. 'You know I promised Cathcart to
go out with him, at yesterday's exam., and spend the afternoon upon
the Serpentine, after our week's fag.'
'Very well; then I will receive him. _Tant mieux._ I can judge if
he is likely to prove a desirable friend for you, Fred.'
With the afternoon came Mr Meredith's servant with his master's
card, requesting to know if Mrs Arlington could receive him.
Having granted the permission, her face betrayed unwonted
agitation, which it required all her nerve to control before the
door opened and he entered. He had advanced half-way up the room
to where she stood waiting to receive him, when their eyes met,
and flashed one mutual heart-stirring glance of recognition, which
she was the bravest to bear, as he started exclaiming: 'Gertrude
Bancroft!'
'Firman Meredith!' she cried, but with calmness, for she at least
was in a measure the more prepared of the two. They shook hands;
nay more; they met as we meet the loved and mourned, after years
of parting; and then she whispered, as she held his hand: 'I
am Gertrude, but not the proud, soulless, imperious girl whose
portrait you have so faithfully preserved. I am now Gertrude
Arlington, whose life, I hope, has not been altogether spent in
vain. And yet mine was not the whole wrong; was it Firman?'
'No; my poor girl; God knows it was not. To myself alone I take all
blame.'
'Nay; I cannot allow that.'
'But it is the truth all the same,' he sighed. 'Had you yielded to
my will, I might have slain you with my cruel stony heart; when you
resisted, as you must have done, matters might have ended I know
not how. Indeed, I might have destroyed you, as surely as he who
takes weapon of steel or drops of poison to rid himself of her of
whom he has wearied! A merciful God saved you from such a fate, and
me from the worse one of causing it.'
'You judge yourself too harshly, Firman; I have no such thought
about you.'
'Not so, Gertrude, believe me. There are many gone to their rest
who, if they could return, would tell you "he speaks truly:" poor
souls, who have gone to their graves thanking God for their release
from a life which left them nothing to hope for but death!'
'Then, Firman, there is nothing to regret between us; for across
the gulf of precious years, wherein we have each learned so much,
we can clasp hands faithfully as truest friends. May I tell you,
it was for this I remained; for I recognised the sting I had left
in your heart when I saw the pencil sketch of the portrait you had
made; and I thought that if we could meet once more, and leave
happier impressions than those remaining, it would be wise and
right to thus overcome past evil with future good. And now once
more you are my friend; are you not?'
'And nothing more! Ah, Gertrude, have you no dearer name to promise
me, after all these years of sorrow and loneliness without you?' he
pleaded.
'Yes; my whole life shall be yours, if you think I can make you
happy,' she murmured; 'but not unless--have no misgivings, Firman.'
'Happy! That is a poor word to express the intensity of my
gratitude for this meeting, and your promise that we shall never
part again. Oh! I too have a past to repair, of which I hope your
future life may be the witness! You _are_ my Gertrude; and yet, now
I look well at you, you are not mine, for your face has altered,
and wears a softened look, different from the old Gertrude.
'Let us forget her altogether, and paint me afresh as I am--a
woman, who for years has prayed for nought else but what is born
of a humble, tender, loving heart. If you find I possess it, then,
Firman, our long parting has not been in vain. But now we have much
to tell each other of our past lives.'
'I shall feel more interested in planning our future,' he remarked,
smiling.
'Ah, well, whatever we may arrange about that, I shall consider it
a point of honour not to rob Mrs Griffiths of her pet lodger! It
would be base of me to requite the good Samaritan by running off
with the ass!' she added merrily; 'so we must keep her rooms for
the present.'
'I'll take the whole house, if that is all, and then you will be
obliged to stay altogether; for where I am, there you must be also.'
'And I leave it to you to tell Fred, my boy,' she added with a
pretty blush, 'for I feel a guilty cheat towards him; he has looked
upon me as his mother, I may say, for so many years, I shall seem
like a deserter.'
'Say rather you _have_ been one, and are now returning to your
colours.'
'Strange to say, Fred was struck with the portrait, but found no
resemblance to the original.'
'Because you are no longer the same woman; the original has gone.'
And thus were happily reunited for life two who, though severed for
a while, had been all along intended for each other--this was the
Romance of the lodging.
ROUGHING IT.
The explorer traversing a hitherto unknown country, the soldier
engaged in a campaign, the hunter, the trader, and the settler
in the borderlands of civilisation, have every day and sometimes
every hour to supply by their own ingenuity needs which for us are
satisfied by the simple expedient of sending to a well-stocked shop
for what we require, or calling in a skilled workman to do a job
for us. Accustomed as we have been all our lives to procuring our
bread and meat from the baker and butcher, sleeping every night in
comfortable bedrooms, trusting for protection to 'Policeman X' and
his brethren of the blue coat and helmet, and making our journey by
rail at fifty miles an hour--we can hardly realise the position of
a man who is thrown on his own resources for food and shelter in a
wild country, where perhaps his road lies over scorched plains or
through dense forests. Yet if he only knows how to set about it,
such a man can live and travel or do his work in comparative safety
and comfort. Even on his own ground the uncivilised is inferior to
the civilised man, for the latter has learned or can learn from the
savage all that is most useful in a wild country, and can add this
local knowledge to the resources which civilisation has placed at
his command. His natural physical powers are generally superior
to those of an uncultured people, and he can supplement them by
aids derived from art. What is the piercing sight of an Indian or
an Arab scout to the power of a good field-glass or telescope? And
in the chase or the fight the assegai or the flint-lock musket
stand but a poor chance against the rifle. Moreover the savage
knows only a few shifts or 'dodges' peculiar to his own people; but
the explorer has at his command at once the arts of civilisation
and those of hundreds of uncivilised tribes. He learns from the
Eskimo to traverse the snow on snow-shoes, or make long journeys
with the dog-sledge; he takes the canoe of the Indian, and the
Malayan outrigger; he can build a half-buried hut like a Tartar,
or a palm-leaf cottage like a negro; he learns from the Guacho to
stop a wild-horse with the lasso; and in the pursuit of game, the
traditional lore of the trappers and hunters of every land is at
his service. If he is strong, active, and hardy, and can use a few
tools, he can learn in this way a hundred 'shifts and expedients,'
either from oral instruction, or from books such as that which
lies before us: _Shifts and Expedients of Camp Life, Travel, and
Exploration_. By W. B. Lord, R.A., and T. Baines, F.R.G.S. _Field_
Office. (30s.)
We have seen other works of the same kind, but none so complete
as this. To the explorer, the soldier, the settler, and the
missionary, it will be invaluable; and even stay-at-home people
who lead an active life in the country, will gather many valuable
hints from it. To all it will be of interest, on account of its
numberless anecdotes of successful struggle with difficulties of
every kind, sketches of the arts and customs of uncivilised man,
and notes on the topography of many lands and the natural history
of their winged and four-footed inhabitants. Here we are told
how to set about building a boat of wood or skin; how to make a
birch-bark canoe; how to repair a broken axle or wagon-wheel; how
to cross a bridgeless river; how to build a hut or pitch a tent;
to picket horses and secure camels; to trap wild beasts or snare
birds; to find a dinner where there are no shops, and to cook it
without a kitchen. These are a few of the many subjects treated by
our authors, who are themselves veteran travellers and explorers,
and have learned in the field much of the knowledge which they here
communicate to others.
It would seem that one of the chief difficulties in organising an
exploring expedition is to decide upon the stores and provisions
to be carried. If there is not enough of these, the party may be
crippled far from its base of operations; if there is too much, its
movements will be seriously impeded by the necessity of transport.
Much depends upon the nature of the country. One of the Australian
expeditions which had to traverse districts where food of all
kinds was scarce, had to carry an enormous amount of stores, the
first item in the list being seventeen thousand pounds of flour;
but then the party consisted of twenty-one men. Generally an
explorer is in the best position who can start off with only one
or two white followers, the rest of his party being hired natives,
well used to the ways of the country; and we believe the most
successful explorers have been those who, as far as white men
are concerned, have worked alone or almost alone. Livingstone's
success is a good proof of this. Mr Lord suggests that in countries
where riding is practicable, explorers should make up their minds
to eat horse-flesh occasionally, and start with a good train of
pack-horses, each horse being shot and eaten as soon as its burden
is disposed of. He does not appear to have ever tried the plan
himself; and we fear that at the end of a long march the flesh
of a hard-worked pack-horse would be a very poor substitute for
roast-beef. It is a pity that oxen cannot be used as pack-animals.
They are turned to a stranger purpose in South Africa, where the
Hottentots and Kaffirs saddle and ride them; and one of the authors
of this book of travel tells us that he has more than once had a
very comfortable ride on one of these horned steeds.
The Tartars use dogs to carry packs; in the far north they do the
chief work in pulling the sledges, though the Laplanders chiefly
use the reindeer for this purpose. The Eskimo sledge-dogs are
fine strong animals, nearly allied to the wolf; and Messrs Lord
and Baines give some amusing hints about their management. The
sledge-driver must never leave his sledge without securing it
to a spear driven into the snow, or the dogs will perhaps start
off of their own accord and distance all pursuit. They are very
quarrelsome; but generally in every team there is one master-dog,
with a very determined will and strong sharp teeth; and when
he sees the others fighting, he will dash in amongst them, and
vigorously assist his master in restoring order. When rough ice
is to be traversed, the dogs' paws are protected by little bags
or moccasins of hide. They are not fed till the day's work is
over; and great care has to be taken that each gets his proper
share, for 'some are so desperately artful and cunning that they
do all in their power to delude their master into a belief that
instead of having had their full allowance, it is yet to come.'
The Lapland sled or _kerres_ is different from the low flat Eskimo
dog-sledge. It is shaped something like a big shoe, and is drawn
by the reindeer, which is used in the same way in Siberia, and
also for riding and carrying packs. In many countries summer sleds
are used. One of the easiest to make is formed of a forked branch,
with pieces of wood nailed across the fork, the horse or mule being
harnessed to the pointed end. This is often used by the settler for
dragging loads of all kinds over level ground.
These forked branches and sticks can be turned to an endless number
of uses. Grindstones are mounted between them; they form yokes for
hanging weights over the shoulders; hooks for suspending small
objects in the hut or tent; racks for arms and harness. In many
countries the native plough is formed of two forked branches tied
together and dragged by one man, while another holds it down, and
thus scratches a furrow in the ground. The frontier settler has
sometimes to be content with a similar contrivance, made on a
larger scale, of bigger branches, and drawn by a couple of his oxen.
Some of the architectural 'shifts' are very interesting, for there
is a wide field for ingenuity in the construction of hut and boat.
In the tropics, huts are very easily constructed by building up
a framework of poles, branches, or bamboos, the sticks being not
nailed but lashed together where they cross; this rough outline
of walls and roof is then filled in with mats, bundles of rushes,
or the broad leaves of the fan-palm. Another method is to build
the hut of slabs ingeniously formed out of a very unpromising
material--long reeds. A few sticks are cut and laid parallel to
each other on the ground; then across these a thick bed of reeds
is carefully arranged; another stick is laid on this bed, exactly
over each of the sticks below; the projecting ends of each pair
of rods are then tied together; and the solid mass of reeds
thus secured can be raised on its lower edge and supported by
props or by other slabs meeting it at an angle, much as children
build houses of cards. In this way very serviceable stables and
outhouses are often made in India. Having erected his light hut
or pitched his tent, the traveller, if he is making a prolonged
halt, proceeds to furnish it. Planks and boxes supply seats; and
if there is a pole in the centre, a serviceable table can be made
by fixing a wagon-wheel on it about two and a half feet from the
ground, the pole passing through the centre of the wheel, and the
spokes being covered with a few small boards. A comfortable bed
is easily improvised. Livingstone had a new one made every night
under his own supervision. This was his plan. First, he had two
straight poles cut, two or three inches in diameter, which were
laid parallel to each other at a distance of two feet apart; across
these poles were placed short sticks, saplings three feet long;
and over these was laid a thick pile of long grass; then came the
usual waterproof ground sheet and the blankets. 'Thus,' writes
Stanley, 'was improvised a bed fit for a king.' The wagon used by
the colonists at the Cape is very like a long hut on wheels, and
forms a very comfortable sleeping-place; while a large tent can
be made by halting the wagon, driving in a few poles near it, and
stretching the tent canvas from these to the wagon-roof. It has
been proposed too that this roof should be an inverted boat of
waterproof canvas, which could be removed at pleasure and used in
crossing rivers. The wagon is so large that this seems to be quite
a practicable idea.
Every explorer and traveller must carry some kind of a boat or
canoe with him. If he is without one, the natives will often make
most extortionate demands for the hire of their own to him; but if
he has one, no matter how small, he can bargain on much more equal
terms. But even if no boats can be procured, the mere crossing of a
river can always be effected by means of rafts. These can be made
of almost anything; casks, boxes, planks, reeds, bamboos, all can
be pressed into the service; but we are told, it must be borne in
mind 'that the cargo a raft can carry above water is always small,
and not at all like the mountain of treasure invariably represented
on that of Robinson Crusoe.' These rafts are often constructed of
very strange materials. On the Nile they are made of jars, which
are thus brought down the river to be sold at Cairo. On many of
the African rivers they are made of bundles of sedge-grass; and
lying down on these, the hippopotamus hunters approach the huge
beast; the raft looking so like a natural accumulation that he does
not attempt to get out of the way till it is too late. On such a
raft, made on a larger scale, the Swedish naturalist Lindholm and
his assistant successfully descended one of the rivers that feed
Lake Ngami. The voyage was a strange one. The raft was built in a
quiet nook by throwing hundreds of bundles of sedge across each
other, without any other fastening than their natural cohesion and
entanglement. On this huge floating mass a hut was built, and the
two adventurers then poled it out into the stream, and it went
down the current at the rate of about forty or fifty miles a day.
Occasionally it took the ground at the bottom, but when a little
of the grass tore off, it floated clear again. As the lower layers
became sodden and pressed together, fresh grass had to be cut every
day and laid on top, till at last there was six feet of the raft
under water. Occasionally overhanging branches tore off some of the
grass, and once a large projecting trunk lay so close to the water
that it 'swept the decks fore and aft.' The hut was destroyed, and
with much of its contents was carried away into the river; but the
travellers saved themselves by climbing over the bough, and then
repaired the damage and resumed their voyage. Sir Samuel Baker
constructed a much more singular raft to cross the Atbara River in
Equatorial Africa. A bedstead supported by eight inflated hides
formed the basis of the structure; and on this was secured a large
sponging bath three feet eight inches in diameter, which formed a
dry receptacle for the ammunition and other baggage.