Meanwhile, Mrs. Shelley had washed and dressed her own three boys, and
had introduced the little stranger to the two elder, Charlie, the baby,
being already on intimate terms with his foster sister, for whose sake
he had to submit to much less attention than had hitherto fallen to his
share, for which reason he was unusually cross this morning. Willie, the
second boy, the living image of his father, was barely three years old,
and too young to pay much attention to the baby, or to understand that
it had arrived in an unusual way; but Jack, the eldest boy, quite took
it in, and stood lost in admiration of the wonderful baby with its
beautiful clothes, so unlike Charlie's, and the lovely coral and bells,
as his mother showed them all to him. Jack was five years old, a tall,
strong child for his age, and very like his mother in face; he had her
quick temper, too, though Mrs. Shelley had hers pretty well under
control, while little Jack often got into trouble by giving way to his.
Nothing ever escaped Jack's notice; he was always all ears and eyes, and
he took in every detail of the strange baby's belongings as
intelligently as his mother could have done, and, to her joy, for she
was by no means sure what kind of a welcome Jack, who resented the
arrival of little Charlie, saying, "Mother didn't want anyone else to
love her when she had him," would give to the strange baby, he was
enchanted with it, and was as anxious as Mrs. Shelley herself to keep
it.
"It is the fairies' baby; they brought it, didn't they, mother? We will
always, always keep it, won't we?"
"I don't quite know yet, Jack; father says perhaps we shall have to send
it away," said Mrs. Shelley.
"It shan't go away. How dare father say so? He is a wicked man to want
to send it away," cried the boy, with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks.
"Jack, I am ashamed of you; you must not speak of your father in that
way; if he says it is to go away it must go, whether we like it or no."
Jack hung his head and hid his face on his mother's shoulder, while she,
remembering how indignant she had been with the shepherd for hinting at
sending it away the night before, stooped and kissed her boy's curly
head, and Jack raised his head again and renewed his attentions to the
baby.
"What a pretty little thing it is; see how it holds my finger. I think
it will love me, mother, though it is not my real sister. Oh! do make
father keep it, will you?"
For the first time since Mrs. Shelley had had the baby, she now
hesitated about keeping it; the boy had unconsciously struck a wrong
chord, and his mother, with a prophetic instinct, coupled with a quick
imagination, for a moment saw that it was possible this little stranger
who, as Jack had already grasped, was not his real sister, might, in
future years, destroy the harmony and peace of the home circle. But it
was only a momentary hesitation; the thought flashed across her mind and
vanished again, almost as quickly as it had come. Could she have known
how true that prophetic instinct was, would she not have gone counter to
all her own inclinations, and disregarded all Jack's wishes and prayers,
rather than have run the risk of introducing strife into her peaceful
household? As it was, the motherly pity she felt for the baby was
stronger at the moment than the foreboding light which had flashed
across the distant future, and she answered hurriedly--
"I must go and see Mr. Leslie first, dear, and hear what he says; do you
think you could take care of Charlie while I am gone with the baby? I
shall take Willie with me, or he will be getting into mischief."
Jack, proud to be of use to his mother, professed his ability to look
after Charlie, privately regretting it was not the beautiful strange
fairies' baby which was to be left under his charge.
"Jack, I can't be back before the clock has struck twelve; it is now
half-past ten, so it will strike twice before I come back, do you
understand; and both the hands will have to be on the twelve at the top,
do you see? So now, if it seems a long time, do not be frightened, I
shall be back soon after twelve. If baby cries, rock the cradle, but
don't try to take him out; if he sleeps you may wash the potatoes for
dinner. Now, good-bye," and Mrs. Shelley, with the infant in her arms
and Willie running by her side, set off to the Rectory, while Jack stood
at the door watching her out of sight.
The first half-hour passed quickly enough. The baby slept, and Jack
washed the potatoes, and was delighted when the clock struck eleven. But
the next hour was interminably long, and little Jack got very tired of
rocking Charlie, who was awake now, and would scream every time his
brother stopped rocking. Every few minutes Jack ran to the door to see
if his mother was coming, and then ran back and rocked violently at the
cradle. At last he thought he heard footsteps, and, running to look,
saw, not his mother, but Dame Hursey, making her way towards the house.
Now, Jack did not care about Dame Hursey's visits even when his mother
was at home. He was half afraid of the witch-like old woman, and to have
a visit from her while he was alone was the last thing he desired, so he
came in quickly and banged the door, hoping she would think they were
all out and go away, if only he could keep Charlie quiet. But Dame
Hursey had seen and heard the door shut, and so, after knocking two or
three times without any result, she quietly lifted the latch and walked
in, while Jack, who was kneeling by the cradle, looked up, half
defiantly, half frightened.
"Mother is out; there is no one at home but me," said Jack, sharply.
"Oh, is she? Well, I'll sit and rest a bit till she comes in. Who have
you got there in that cradle?"
"Charlie, my new brother," said Jack.
"And where is the fairies' baby? Ah! you see, I know all about it. I
know everything; there is no keeping secrets from me. That is the shawl
it was brought in, isn't it, now?" said Dame Hursey, rising and
examining minutely the Indian shawl in which the baron had wrapped his
daughter, and which was lying on a chair.
Jack, more convinced than ever that Dame Hursey was a witch, thought
perhaps she might be able to tell him where the fairies had brought the
baby from if he were civil to her, so he answered all her questions and
described minutely all the baby's belongings.
"Ah! well, it is the Pharisees you have to thank for bringing her here.
Mind you all take care of her, and one of these fine days she'll turn
into a beautiful princess and make you all very rich; but if you talk
much about her the fairies will be angry and take her away. You tell
your mother I said so; I can't wait any longer."
And Dame Hursey, who had been prying about the kitchen to see if she
could find any other belongings of this mysterious baby, took her
departure, much to Jack's joy.
Shortly after she left Mrs. Shelley came home, and Jack was so full of
Dame Hursey's visit and her account of the fairies' child that he forgot
to ask the result of his mother's interview with the rector, while Mrs.
Shelley, on the other hand, was not at all pleased to find Dame Hursey
had been prying about her cottage in her absence, and congratulated
herself on not having left any of the baby's little garments about, for
she might never have found them again if she had.
The next day the rector called and had a long talk with the shepherd and
his wife about the baby, though he could throw but little light upon it,
except, of course, to utterly discredit the ridiculous notion that the
fairies had brought it. That it belonged to rich people was clear from
its clothes; and to foreigners, from the coronet, which was certainly
not English. More the rector could not say, except that its parents
evidently wanted to get rid of it, and had connived at placing it on the
shepherd's doorstep.
As to keeping it, that was a point entirely for the shepherd and his
wife to decide. If they chose to send it to the workhouse, no one could
blame them for doing so. He doubted exceedingly anyone ever claiming it,
but he advised Mrs. Shelley to lock up all its clothes and things in
case of their being needed for identification at any future period. He
also counselled them, if they thought of keeping the child, to weigh the
matter well before they decided, as it would be cruel kindness to take
it in for a time and then tire of it and send it to the union.
But John Shelley was not a man to do this, as his wife well knew. If he
decided to keep the child he would do his duty by it, and go to the
workhouse himself before he suffered that to do so. All that day John
was very thoughtful, but when he came in to supper that night he told
Mrs. Shelley he had made up his mind, and they would keep the baby and
bring it up as their own daughter. Here, however, Mrs. Shelley raised an
objection.
"We will keep it, by all means, John, but we can't bring a delicate
little thing like this up as we shall our own strong boys, who must work
for their living. This child may be claimed any day by its parents, so
we must try and have it educated like a lady when it gets old enough."
John was inclined to dispute the wisdom of this; but as its education
was a thing of the far future, he very wisely thought it was useless to
discuss it, and resolved to let matters shape themselves, feeling sure
the baby would take its own place as it grew older. One matter puzzled
the good shepherd sorely. He was most particular in having his own
children baptised when they were a month old, and they could not tell
whether this baby had been baptised or no, though the rector thought its
parents were most likely Roman Catholics, in which case it would be sure
to have been christened, as it was two or three months old.
The next question was, what was it to be called? For, if baptised, they
had no means of discovering its name. But here Jack came to the rescue.
"Let's call her Fairy, mother. Dame Hursey says she is a fairy, and it
is a pretty name."
"So it is, my son; and though she is no fairy, but a real child like
you, we will call her Fairy. It is a very good name for her, and when
she is old enough we will tell her why," said the shepherd.
And so Fairy was the little stranger called as long as she lived in the
shepherd's family.
(_To be continued._)
A PRINCESS WHO LIVED TWO LIVES.
A ROMANCE OF HISTORY.
There was no lovelier woman in all the Russias than Carolina, the wife
of Alexis, eldest son and presumptive heir to Peter the Great. Her
beauty was not only that of the body, for her sweet temper and gentle
disposition made her beloved by all who were brought in contact with
her. The only being who did not yield to the charms of her surpassing
beauty and amiability was the one who ought to have prized her above all
others--her husband. His nature was far too coarse and brutal to
appreciate the treasure that he possessed, and the more he saw how
universally beloved his wife was, the more did she become an object of
aversion to him. For some time he treated her with cold neglect, but by
degrees he became more brutal in his behaviour, until one day, when she
offended him in some trifling respect, he dealt her an inhuman blow
which stretched her, apparently lifeless, at his feet. Well pleased at
being delivered so easily from what he only regarded as a hateful
burden, he gave orders that she should be buried with all due pomp, and
hastened away to another part of the kingdom.
But when her ladies of honour came to raise the unhappy princess, they
found that she still breathed. Under the devoted attention of the
Countess of Konigsmark, who had always been her confidential attendant,
she slowly won her way back to life, and this while her funeral
obsequies were being celebrated with the greatest pomp throughout the
length and breadth of Russia, while the principal courts of Europe were
mourning her premature decease, and while her unnatural husband was
drowning the remembrance of his horrible crime in revelries and
excesses of all kinds. None knew that she was still alive but the
Countess of Konigsmark and one or two other of her most devoted
adherents. They kept her concealed from everyone; for well they knew
that Alexis, should he hear of her recovery, would take measures to rid
himself of her effectually. Acting under their advice, the princess
collected all the valuables she was able to lay her hands on, and, in
company with an old domestic, who assumed the character of her father,
set out for Paris. Here, however, she felt still within reach of Alexis,
and so, with her supposed father, she set sail for Louisiana, where the
French had lately formed extensive colonies. They settled down in New
Orleans, and Carolina began to rapidly recover her health and beauty.
A young man, by name Moldask, who held a Government appointment in New
Orleans and who had spent many years in Russia thought that he
recognised in the beautiful stranger the princess who had been the
brightest star of the Muscovite Court. However, he could not believe
that the highborn lady of whose death he had heard and the daughter of
the feeble old man who had lately arrived from France were the same
person, wonderful though the resemblance between them might be. He kept
his ideas secret, but made himself so useful and agreeable to the
strangers, that finally they settled to cast in their lot with his, and
live under the same roof. Before the lapse of many months the news of
Alexis' death reached New Orleans. Moldask noticed the agitation with
which his friends received it, and told them that their secret was his.
They did not attempt a denial; so he offered to sacrifice his private
fortune, throw up his position in New Orleans, and take Carolina back to
Moscow. This offer she would hear nothing of. She thanked Moldask again
and again for his noble generosity, but expressed her fixed
determination not to revisit the scene of all that had been most
unpleasant in her life. She begged him not to betray her secret, and he
readily promised to keep it inviolate. The truth was that he had lost
his heart to the widow of Czar Peter's son. Respect, however, controlled
his feelings. He knew how exalted was her real station compared to his,
and resolved to conceal his love.
Time passed on, and one autumn evening a pararalytic stroke carried off
Carolina's pseudo-father. After this it was, of course, impossible that
she and Moldask should continue to inhabit the same house. He came to
her on the morning after her faithful old friend's funeral, and
explained that he must seek a new abode unless she would so far cast
away all thoughts of her former station as to consent to call him
husband. The princess, who had long regarded him with feelings warmer
than those of mere friendship, agreed to link her fate with his, and
from now began the happiest period of her so far troubled life. Their
union was blessed by the advent of a little girl; nothing seemed wanting
to render her happiness complete.
Years rolled by, and Moldask was attacked by a disease which baffled the
skill of the New Orleans doctors. His wife was determined that he should
have the best medical advice, and so persuaded him to sell all his
possessions and embark for Paris. Their journey was not in vain; the
skill of the Parisian physicians restored Moldask to good health, and he
obtained employment in a department of the French Government.
One day, as Carolina was walking in the public gardens with her little
girl, she met the son of her faithful friend, the Countess of
Konigsmark. She recognised him instantly, and, fearing that he might
know her, tried to brush past him with averted head. The Marshal,
however, was struck with her appearance, and, turning round, followed
her until she sat down beneath some trees. The instant that he caught a
fair sight of her he recognised his former mistress, and quickly
approaching, bent his knee and carried her hand to his lips. She
implored him not to divulge her secret, but to come with her to her
home, and hear how she had fared since Alexis had, as he thought, killed
her. The Marshal consented to accompany her; he listened with interest
to her tale, and when he had heard it to the end announced his intention
of informing the King of France, that her highness might be restored to
her proper position and honours. Carolina, however, was quite
determined that this should not be. She begged the Marshal to keep her
secret for one week, as her husband had certain negotiations, which
would be ruined if her identity were disclosed. This he consented to do,
and Carolina dismissed him, with the assurance that on that day week he
should be definitely informed of her wishes in the matter.
On the appointed day the Marshal found that the princess and her husband
had left their home. However, he succeeded in tracing them, and told the
king of the noble lady who was then in his dominions. His Majesty
entered into negotiations with the Empress Maria Theresa, with a view to
deciding upon the manner in which her august aunt should be treated. The
upshot of these negotiations was a most tender letter from the Empress
to Carolina, asking her to make the Austrian court her home, and
promising to load her husband and herself with honours and distinctions.
But the happy wife and mother felt that the life she had been leading
for the last few years was preferable in every way to the artificial
existence of a court, and refused her niece's generous offer. It was
renewed again and again; but nothing could shake her determination.
For many years she led a life of the utmost happiness, and then death
deprived her of both husband and daughter. Maria Theresa renewed her
offers; but Carolina preferred to pass the rest of her days in solitude.
She accepted a small pension from the Empress, and retired to a small
cottage at Vitry, near Paris. After a quiet existence here for some few
years more she passed away, without ever having regretted her refusal to
rejoin the brilliant circle of a court.
VARIETIES.
CURIOUS FRESCO.
In the Carthusian Monastery of Garignano, a few miles from Milan, are
some frescoes by Daniel Crespi, of Busto, which are said to be marvels
of art and imagination. One of them is grim enough, at any rate, and
awful. It represents a dead person rising from his bier, to announce to
all whom it might concern that, although they were burying him in the
abode of holiness, and were now adoring him as a saint, he was, as a
fact, condemned to hell.
Perhaps one of our own famous modern divines was thinking of this fresco
when he declared that one great source of surprise, to those who went to
heaven, would be to find so many there they had not expected to see, and
to _miss_ so many they had thought to meet.
"NO' THE DAY, HONEST WOMAN!"
Dr. John Erskine, a well-known Scottish divine, was remarkable for his
simplicity of manner and gentle temper. He returned so often from the
pulpit minus his pockethandkerchief that Mrs. Erskine at last began to
suspect that the handkerchiefs were stolen by some of the old women who
lined the pulpit stairs. So both to baulk and detect the culprit she
sewed a corner of the handkerchief to one of the pockets of his coat
tails. Half way up the pulpit stairs the good doctor felt a tug,
whereupon he turned round to the old woman whose was the guilty hand, to
say, with great gentleness and simplicity:--
"No' the day, honest woman, no' the day. Mrs. Erskine has sewed it in!"
A BRAVE WIFE.
In 1872 a storm overtook a Boston ship on the banks of Newfoundland. The
captain--Captain Wilson--had his shoulder-blade broken by the fall of a
mast, and the first mate and part of the crew were at the same time
disabled.
No sooner, however, had the captain been carried to his cabin than his
wife, a woman of one-and-twenty, hurried on deck, told the men to work
with a will, and she would take them into port. The wreckage was
cleared, the pumps manned, and the gale was weathered. Then a jury-mast
was rigged, the ship put before the wind, and in twenty-one days she
reached St. Thomas. After repairing damages there, finding her husband
still helpless, the indomitable woman navigated the ship to Liverpool.
Captain Wilson was never able to resume work, and for seven years his
brave wife supported him and their only child by working as clerk in a
dry goods store. Then he died, and Mrs. Wilson was deservedly appointed
to a custom-house inspectorship by the American Government.
OLD FRIENDS.--The world has few greater pleasures than that which two
friends enjoy in tracing back, at some distant time, those transactions
and events through which they have passed together.--_Dr. Johnson._
A RARE COMPANION.--She whom you can treat with unreserved familiarity,
at the same time preserving your dignity and her respect, is a rare
companion, and her acquaintance should be cultivated.
THINGS OF VALUE.
What shines and glitters has its birth
But for the present hour alone;
The real--the thing of truth and worth--
To all posterity goes down.
_--Goethe._
BEETHOVEN IN GERMANY.--When the German talks of symphonies he means
Beethoven; the two names are to him one and indivisible; his joy, his
pride. As Italy has its Naples, France its Revolution, England its
Navigation, so Germany has its Beethoven symphonies. The German forgets
in his Beethoven that he has no school of painting; with Beethoven he
imagines that he has again won the battles that he lost under Napoleon;
he even dares to place him on a level with Shakespeare.--_Robert
Schumann._
A NEW USE FOR A DOG.--A farmer's daughter in the West of England
received a hairy poodle dog from a friend in town. The unsophisticated
damsel wrote back thanking her friend for the present, and saying that
she found it very handy, when tied to a stick, to clean windows with.
THE WORST OF SUCCESS.--She that has never known adversity is but half
acquainted with others or with herself. Constant success shows us but
one side of the world, for, as it surrounds us with friends who will
tell us only our merits, so it silences those enemies from whom alone we
can learn our defects.
RIGHTS AND DUTIES.--There is no right without its duties, and no duty
without its rights.
MERLE'S CRUSADE.
BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of "Aunt Diana," "For Lilias," etc.