[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 43.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
DINNER-PARTIES OUT OF DOORS.
Walking one wintery day along the promenade of a well-known Lancashire
watering-place, a large notice-board at the entrance of the pier
attracted our attention. A closer inspection showed that it bore the
announcement: ‘Feeding the sea-gulls from the pier-head every day at
noon.’ Curious to see what manner of performance this might be, we
paid the entrance-money, took a ticket for the tram-carriage which
was just about to start, and speedily found ourselves being whirled
smoothly along towards the end of the ‘first pier,’ as it is called,
which stretches across the sands for something like three-quarters of
a mile towards the deep channel. A short walk was necessary before
reaching the end of the extension pier, and there we found numbers of
visitors congregated, all, like ourselves, evidently waiting for the
performance to begin. Around, lay huge baskets of fish-offal; but where
were the expected guests? On every side, far as the eye could reach,
was a long expanse of flat sand, merging into the sea-line, with not
a vestige of rock to afford foothold or shelter for wild-fowl of any
kind. Yet, stay. By the margin of the waves, where it is now low water,
are what look like huge glistening white boulders, forming a continuous
boundary, whose snowy surface reflects the light, and glitters and
flashes under the rays of a December sun, set in so blue a sky as more
nearly to approach that of Italy than any we have yet seen in our
sombre-tinted British Isles.
Twelve o’clock strikes; a piercing whistle sounds, and even while
we are watching, these granite boulders—as, despite the geological
formation of the place, we persist in fancying them to be—literally
take to themselves wings, and fly towards us, a nearer approach showing
them to be vast aggregations of sea-gulls, which have been waiting till
the appointed signal should summon them to dine. No transformation
scene in a pantomime ever took place with more startling rapidity.
Round the pier-head, where all had been still and quiet, was now the
bustle and whirring noise made by countless gulls, each one intent
upon getting a share of the good things provided. On they come; now
swooping along in graceful flight right down to the surface of the
water, anon darting aloft with the coveted prize; poised momentarily in
mid-air, to see where a descent may most profitably be made, or engaged
in a keen struggle for the possession of some particularly toothsome
morsel. The whirl and commotion and changing beauty of the scene, it
were impossible to describe. Rendered tame by having experimentally
proved that the food scattered is no mere decoy meant to lure them to
destruction, but the outcome of an honest effort for their sustenance
and protection, they come so close as to afford every opportunity for
studying their free and graceful flight and the beauty of their form
and colour.
Something, we know not what, unless it be the fearless confidence with
which these wild-birds respond to the offered kindness, showing no
dread of the many spectators, carries us back in thought to the shores
of sunny Italy, and above all to Venice, that Queen of the Adriatic,
who, dethroned though she be, yet casts the spell of her irresistible
charm over all whose hearts beat responsive to the touch of beauty in
art; and those no less impressionable spirits over whom the hallowing
influence of long-past ages holds a sway so potent, that both alike are
fain to acknowledge her as empress of a far wider realm than any which
can be measured by mere geographical limitations. Let us take our stand
in the Piazza di San Marco, with its glorious many-domed cathedral,
its campanile pointing to the heavens, its ducal palace, clock-tower,
Moorish arcades, and that vastness of proportion, whose impressiveness
is heightened by the stillness so foreign to our modern life in other
cities where horse and vehicular traffic create an incessant, deafening
hum. Two o’clock sounds from the Torre dell’ Orologio. Immediately we
hear the soft swish of multitudinous wings, and down from the turrets
and pinnacles where they have been poised, ever-watchful, though
motionless, come the gentle, fearless doves to be fed. So tame are
they, that to move aside out of your path as you attempt to cross the
piazza, never seems to enter into their minds; and if, in your turn,
you purchase and begin to scatter a little parcel of corn, the pigeons
very soon find it out, and swarm over and upon you with the utmost
confidence in your friendly intentions towards them. Such a picture, we
imagine, is not to be paralleled elsewhere—one, for its suggestiveness,
quite equal in interest to those artistic treasures which lie so close
at hand.
Yet a third scene takes us to the grounds of a country-house in the
north of England. Here, during the intensely cold winter of 1878-9,
when for weeks everything was ice-bound, and all vegetation hidden
under a thick coating of snow, myriads of birds were saved from
perishing miserably of starvation through the thoughtful kindness
of the owner, who for weeks, running into months, provided, twice
daily, huge buckets of ‘stirabout,’ whose contents were emptied on to
a sort of wooden platform placed over the snow on the lawn. (For the
information of those who are not acquainted with the term, we may say
that ‘stirabout’ is nothing but coarse oatmeal mixed with water and
slightly boiled.) Very pretty was the scene witnessed at feeding-time.
Small birds, such as robins, finches, sparrows, tomtits, &c., would
cluster on the neighbouring bushes, which were literally bent down with
their weight, and reminded one of the ropes of onions so often seen in
country places. These birds showed no sort of shyness, but evidently
looked upon the food provided as simply their just recompense for
helping to free the fruit-trees from insect pests. Large birds, too,
used to come of species rarely seen near houses. Perhaps the prettiest
sight of all was to watch the squirrels, which seldom, however, made
their appearance until the birds had finished. Cautiously up the slope
of the lawn they would come, and then very contentedly sat munching
away, their bright eyes restlessly glancing here and there; but at the
very faintest sound, there was a sort of twinkle, and like a flash of
lightning, the squirrels had vanished from sight.
Fresh from recollections such as these, which the feeding of the
sea-gulls had brought vividly to memory, upon returning slowly down the
pier, we were unpleasantly roused by seeing that five out of every six
ladies we met were found to wear either wings or whole birds as the
so-called decoration of hats and bonnets. To say nothing respecting
the very questionable taste of wearing things which bear the semblance
of death, the wholesale slaughter of small birds which goes on to
satisfy the requirements of recurring fashion, cannot be too strongly
deprecated. On economic and utilitarian grounds, it is no less bad,
than from the more humanitarian standpoint, which makes us unwilling
needlessly to destroy creatures so full of life and joyousness as are
these winged denizens of earth and sky. In view of the threatened
injury to agriculture, an American periodical recently drew attention
to the great destruction of swallows which resulted from the demand for
their breasts and wings to ornament ladies’ bonnets, and called for
the enforcement of those laws which our cousins on ‘the other side’
have been wise enough to pass forbidding the killing of insectivorous
birds. Turning to an English fashion-book, we read the description
of a fancy-ball dress where swallows formed the staple adornment.
Bouquets of whole birds were to be placed upon the skirt and bodice;
birds in the hair, even wings upon the shoes! Unhappily, the plumage of
doves and swallows happens to harmonise with the shades of gray which
were worn, just as some years since did the breast of our poor friend
cock-robin suit with the deeper-toned hues which were then affected by
our _élégantes_. The result was that, around London at anyrate, robins
were for some time quite a rarity.
Surely any one who has witnessed such scenes as those we have so
imperfectly tried to describe, would hardly again order her milliner
to use birds as a decoration for dresses and bonnets. This special
form of cruelty, like so many other of our mistaken dealings with the
animal creation, probably springs more from ‘want of thought’ than from
‘want of heart.’ Its effects, however, are no less baneful than if
they were the deliberate outcome of a desire for wholesale slaughter.
The question is confessedly a difficult one, for it would be absurd to
say that there is anything wrong _per se_ in wearing the plumage of
pheasants, partridges, pigeons, cocks, and other birds which are killed
for purposes of food. The misfortune is, that when birds and wings are
once recognised as ‘the thing’ to wear, all birds, songsters as well,
will of a certainty be pressed into the service.
In the ‘Ladies’ Column’ of a French journal we have read: ‘Perhaps
fashion has never before laid the whole animal world to such an extent
under contribution. Not only are all sorts of insects, lizards,
spiders, bees, &c., imitated with marvellous fidelity to nature, but
the dead bodies of the creatures themselves are fastened on hats and
in the hair by means of golden pins. Nor is this all—upon hats, and
sometimes dresses, are seen stuffed birds, cats, mice, squirrels, and
even monkeys.’ The article went on to say: ‘We must acknowledge that
such innovations are more startling than graceful. On some bonnets, one
sees the heads of cats nestling amidst the folds of lace; others have
quite a family of mice, poking their little pink noses into knots and
loops of ribbon. It is a good thing that the animals are only stuffed
ones; else, if two bonnets thus adorned were placed in juxtaposition,
there would assuredly be a battle-royal.’
Lately, in England, we have ourselves seen bonnets and muffs which had
tiny kittens cosily reposing amidst the folds of silk and velvet. Such
gross violations of every canon of good taste and right feeling lead
us to ask, with something like a sigh of despair, what will the end be?
In the name of Humanity, we would entreat our lady friends to spare, at
anyrate, our Birds.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER LIII.—PANSY.
Pansy and her grandfather, Eben Morris, were the persons whose arrival
at the _Masons’ Arms_ had interrupted Tuppit and his brother. Even had
Wrentham’s attention been disengaged, the light in the room was too dim
for him to recognise the girl before he was dragged out to the balcony.
Pansy had left home in a woeful state of mental perplexity; ashamed of
her conduct to Caleb, anxious to hide from every one and to suppress
in herself the silly fancies which had induced it. On alighting from
the train at Liverpool Street, she was as much frightened by suddenly
encountering Coutts Hadleigh as if he had been the Evil One himself.
‘Whither away, my forest nymph?’ he said with a smile in which there
was nothing more than the careless freedom he would have taken with any
pretty maid of the servant rank. ‘What brings you to Babylon?’
‘I am going to visit a sick friend,’ she answered, turning away her
face.
‘And when will you be back? We cannot afford to lose you from
Ringsford.’
‘I do not know—but I am in a hurry, sir;’ and she attempted to pass.
‘Stop a minute; you don’t know your way about the city. Where does your
friend live?’
‘I know the way quite well, thank you, sir,’ she replied nervously,
without giving the address.
‘Oh, that’s all right, then. I thought I might save you some time and
trouble by putting you on the right track.’
That was the whole of their conversation, and without looking at him,
she hastened to Gracechurch Street, where she obtained an omnibus
which carried her to the Green. Making her way through a narrow lane
of small houses in various stages of dilapidation, and through crowds
of ragged, gamboling children whose ages ranged from two to ten years,
she came to a comparatively open space. There was a wheelwright’s yard
with samples of his trade—fragments of wheels, whole wheels, three or
four broken-down carts of tradesmen—strewn about. The wheelwright had
some idea of beautifying this oasis in the crowded district; for on the
window-sills of his wooden house there were chrysanthemums in bloom,
and the bare twigs of a rose-tree trained against the wall, suggested
that in summer there might be pleasing perfumes and sights even in the
midst of squalor.
Opposite was a blacksmith’s shop, and nestling underneath the side of
it, a cobbler’s stall, where the occupant was busy singing a music-hall
song as he stitched and hammered. Passing between the wheelwright’s and
the smith’s places, she came to a square plot of ground—about an acre
in extent—which was divided into patches for the use of the dwellers
in the surrounding cottages. These were of one story, red-tiled,
with whitewashed walls, and with many indications of attempts to
cultivate flowers. It was like dropping out of the town into an old
country village; and indeed this was a relic of the ancient village of
Camberwell.
Pansy found that her grandfather’s illness had been much exaggerated
by the neighbour who had reported it, or that he had made a sudden
recovery, for when she arrived he was dressed and shuffling about
his little room, making preparations to start on what he called his
‘business round,’ whilst in a squeaky voice he kept on mumbling his
favourite phrase: ‘Oh, I am so happy!’ This agreeable announcement he
made on all occasions whether well or sick, and at times it formed as
grim a satire on the common lot as if a death’s-head sang a comic song.
He was a little man, and his shoulders being bent and contracted, his
stature was not much more than that of a dwarf. Although his body was
thin, his face was ruddy, set in a horseshoe of ragged gray hair. His
features were large—the chin particularly prominent—the brow such as
would have suggested intellect, but the dull faded eyes had little
speculation in them. Neither features nor eyes had the least expression
of laughter, whilst he was proclaiming himself in the highest glee. The
absurd phrase sounded more like a whine than a cry of exultation.
He had been a greengrocer for over forty years, and in that capacity
had daily made the round of the district to supply customers; but his
wife had been the real manager of the business. This good woman, with
shrewd foresight, insured their joint lives for the modest annuity
of thirty pounds, to be paid to the survivor. On her demise the old
man, then unfitted for hard work, was thus provided for. But he could
not get over the habit of going his daily ‘business round;’ the only
houses at which he now called, however, were the various taverns and
ale-houses on his route, and he always found in several of them some
cruel wags who were ready to give him ‘two pen’orth’ of beer or gin
in return for the sad exhibition of an old man in his dotage talking
nonsense and squeaking out snatches of ballads.
No persuasion could induce him to change his mode of life; and it
was probably as an obstinate protest against the persuasion that he
adopted his grotesque refrain of ‘Oh, I am so happy!’ Even on the
first day of Pansy’s arrival he insisted on going out as usual, and
she was obliged to be content with the promise that he would return
early. He was later than usual, however, and Pansy, resolute to rescue
him from this pitiable course, decided that she would in future meet
him before he had completed his round and entice him home. The first
attempt was successful; the second landed her with him in the _Masons’
Arms_—and she did not regret it after the discovery she made through
the conversation between Wrentham and his brother of what mischief had
been at work against Philip and Madge.
She was glad to be able to do something to show her gratitude and
affection; Madge had been always a good friend and adviser—especially
in her own present trouble. So, having seen her grandfather safely
housed, she travelled down to Willowmere.
The gravity with which Dame Crawshay received her, and the sad look
in Madge’s eyes, caused the visitor to fear for an instant that they
were offended with her; but she quickly understood that it was their
own sorrow which had made the change in their manner. There was another
reason, however, for the expression in Madge’s eyes—sympathy for the
pain which the girl must feel when she learned that Caleb Kersey had
been arrested on suspicion of having set fire to the Manor, and that
the evidence was strong against him. For the present, Pansy was only
told about the fire, and her immediate exclamation was:
‘Is father hurt?’
‘No, he is quite well, and poor Mr Hadleigh is lying in his cottage.
As soon as he can be moved, he is to be brought here, and we are
turning this room into a bedroom, so that he may not have to be carried
up-stairs.’
‘And the young ladies?’
‘Miss Hadleigh is still with her father; Miss Caroline and Bertha are
here.’
‘And thou’lt have to stay here to-night, too,’ broke in the dame as she
continued her rearrangement of the lighter pieces of furniture; ‘there
cannot be a corner for thee in the cottage.’
Pansy gave thanks to the dame, and went on to say that it was her
intention to return to her grandfather in the morning, but she would
‘see father before starting.’
‘I did not intend to be back so soon,’ she went on, with an awkward
glance first at Madge, next at Aunt Hessy. She did not know how to
convey her information with the least offence. ‘But there was something
I heard about Missy and Master Philip this afternoon that I thought she
ought to know—that you all ought to know.’
‘About Philip and me!’ exclaimed Madge, the colour heightening in
her cheeks as she wondered if it could be possible that the broken
engagement had already become the subject of common gossip.
‘Sit thee down, Pansy,’ said Aunt Hessy, ceasing to work, ‘and tell us
plainly what thou hast heard.’
Thus encouraged, the girl repeated with considerable accuracy the
substance of the conversation she had overheard.
‘And as I fancied,’ Pansy concluded, ‘that though you knew of the
mischief, you might not know how it was being put right—I came straight
to tell you.’
There was a pause. The treachery of Wrentham to Philip and the
villainous insinuations with which he had endeavoured to poison his
mind regarding Madge in order to distract him and prevent him from
looking too closely into business details—the whole wicked scheme
was made clear to Aunt Hessy. Madge saw at once how grossly Philip’s
generous confidence had been abused, but at the moment she did not
quite understand why Wrentham in carrying out his plot should be so
foolish as to try to slander her to Philip—she knew he could only _try_
to do it, for not one word against her would be credited for an instant
by her lover. And yet!... He had been so strange of late in many ways:
he had shown so much displeasure with her for maintaining Beecham’s
secret—what may he not have suffered from brief doubt, although he did
not believe in anything ill that was suggested to him.
‘Thou art a good girl, Pansy,’ said Aunt Hessy, kindly, but without any
sign of agitation, ‘and we thank thee for coming to us with what is
really good news—that the man is found out.’
‘Ay, mistress, I thought that would be good news for you—and his own
brother is against him!’
‘I am sorry for the poor brother.—Now go into the kitchen and get
supper with the maidens: make friends with Jenny Wodrow, for she will
be thy bedfellow to-night.’
Pansy obeyed, although she would have intensely liked to have had some
sign from Madge to show how the news had affected her.
‘I will see you before bedtime,’ said Madge in answer to the look; ‘I
have something to tell you.’
But Madge’s friendly intention to break the news to her of Caleb’s
position was frustrated. Jenny Wodrow, the maiden to whose graces
Pansy had been directed to recommend herself, although good-natured in
the main, had been ready to give more of her favour to the stalwart
Agitator than to any of the other lads about. That all the shafts
levelled at him with her bright eyes and soft tongue fell pointless,
she attributed rightly to the charms of the gardener’s daughter. In
church, in field, or at the harvest-home, Caleb had no vision for any
one but Pansy. The maidens saw, understood, and discreetly turned their
thoughts elsewhere.
Jenny was ready enough to follow their example, but she felt aggrieved
and a little spiteful, especially as Pansy, not being precisely ‘in
service,’ seemed to take a place above those who were ‘quite as good as
her any day, and maybe her betters.’ Jenny continued to think of Caleb
Kersey, and at present her head was full of his misfortunes. So, in the
bright kitchen where the huge fire was reflected on rows of shining
dish-covers and platters, and the supper of bread and cheese and beer
was being served on a massive white deal table, the chatter of the
maidens was all about the latest wonder, the burning of the Manor, and
the parlous state of Mr Hadleigh.
‘Ay, and who d’ye think they’ve taken up and put in prison for burning
the big house?’ said Jenny shrewishly, as she looked full in her
rival’s face. ‘Who but Caleb Kersey; and if the master dies, hanging
will be the end on’t.’
Pansy was frightened. She became red and then so white that young
Jerry Mogridge, who was not given to close observation of anybody when
engaged with his meals, growled at Jenny.
‘It’s darned spite that. Can’t you let the wench take supper in peace.’
‘She didn’t mean no harm,’ retorted a young ploughman who had his own
reasons for acting as Jenny’s champion. ‘How was she to know that
hearing the news was to spoil Miss Pansy’s supper. Ain’t she like the
rest ov us?’
‘You keep your tongue in your jaw—it ought to be big enough for it, I
believe,’ snorted Jerry, his mouth full of bread and cheese, his mug of
beer raised to his lips.
‘I’ll teach you, young man, to speak without splutter,’ cried Jenny,
administering a smart slap to poor Jerry’s back with a result fatal to
the contents of his mouth and mug.
The roar of laughter elicited by the coarse jest might have provoked
Jerry—half choked though he was—to further argument, had he not been
too well aware of the more immediate importance of securing the huge
brown jug in order to replenish his cup.
Pansy had slipped out of the kitchen during this passage-at-arms. She
was full of self-reproaches. Caleb arrested—in jail—in danger maybe of
hanging! And all through her fault! If Caleb had emigrated, she might
have consoled herself with the idea that in rejecting him she had
done him a great kindness—for every strong man made a fortune in the
colonies, she understood. But to think that she, however innocently,
had some share in driving him to this terrible crime—that was a thought
which made the poor girl’s heart and brain ache.
(_To be concluded._)
QUEEN MARGERIE.
When I look back on my schoolboy days, there is one scene that always
stands out before me with peculiar force and vividness; there is one
occurrence that happened then more deeply graven than any other upon my
memory; and that is no small thing to say, for I can call to mind any
number of exciting things that took place when I was at Greychester.
I could tell of many a victory that we gained, against heavy odds, by
land or water; for there was scarcely a Greychester lad who could not
pull an oar, as well as handle a bat, with more or less dexterity;
and both on the cricket-field and on the river our opponents always
found us pretty stubborn antagonists. I could tell many a story of our
adventures and hairbreadth escapes, and of those little exploits and
mischances of my own in which I figured as the hero or culprit, as the
case might be, from the day on which I received my first ‘swishing’
until I left as top of the Sixth. There is a grim sort of interest, I
always fancy, about one’s first sound thrashing, that makes it, in a
fashion, a landmark in a schoolboy’s career. Even now I remember how I
came by mine. It was soon after I entered the school, and I was in the
third form—Tunder’s. Old Tunder, we called him, not that he really was
old, for he was not much over forty, but to a schoolboy with the best
of life before him, forty seems a patriarchal age. Tunder was anything
but a profound scholar, and he was, moreover, very near-sighted, so
that there was perhaps some reason for the boys of his form being much
more distinguished for their proficiency in the art of practical joking
than for their attainments in any branch of knowledge. Anyway, the
third-form room was a very hotbed of mischief.
It happened that about this time we had hit upon a novel and pleasant
form of amusement with which to beguile the monotony of our studies,
Tunder’s defective vision giving us ample opportunity for the
recreation. There were to be had at the Greychester toyshops little
wooden frogs made to jump with a spring. It was a matter of intense
and absorbing delight to us to range our frogs in line and test their
powers by seeing which would take the longest jump. The excitement on
these occasions was great. Tunder’s cane was constantly being brought
into use, but until one ill-fated day I managed to escape it. One hot
summer afternoon, Smithson Minor, who sat next to me, brought out of
his pocket a couple of new spring-frogs, and making me a present of
one, proposed that we should have a match between them, just to see
what they were like. Now, if I had had my wits about me, I should have
suspected that some snare lay hidden under this unusual generosity
on the part of Smithson Minor, for, as a rule, he was not of a
giving sort, and rarely parted with anything but for full and ample
consideration. But I suspected nothing; the day was warm; a little
relaxation from our struggles in decimal fractions seemed desirable,
and old Tunder was safely moored at his desk just in front of us,
correcting exercises, so that Smithson’s proposal appeared both kind
and opportune, and met with a ready acceptance on my part.
But Smithson Minor, though I knew it not, was a traitor, and compassed
my ruin; for the frog which he had given me was equipped with a spring
of some fourfold strength. Somewhere in the course of his researches
at the toyshops he had come across it, and his keen scent for mischief
had quickly detected a rare opportunity for fun. He got his fun—at my
expense. The frogs were carefully stationed at the lower edge of the
desk, Smithson Minor giving them a last touch, just to see, he said,
that it was a fair start, but in reality to point mine in a particular
direction. The course would be the upward slope of the desk; ample
space, we thought—at least I thought—for the most actively disposed
jumper; and if by chance one of them did overshoot the mark and
tumble on the floor, then we should have the additional excitement of
recovering it at the risk of drawing on to us Tunder’s attention and
Tunder’s cane. Everything was ready; the critical moment came. The
frogs jumped, and mine won—won easily, beating all previous records,
for it soared majestically into the air and swooped down full on to
old Tunder’s nose! He regarded it quietly for a moment or two, and
then taking it into his hands, said slowly and sarcastically: ‘The
proprietor of this ingenious toy has evidently more leisure on his
hands than he knows how to dispose of; if he will kindly step this way,
I will give him something that will engage his attention for a time.’
I stepped that way, and found him as good as his word. I went back to
my place sadder, if not wiser, than when I left it; and for that day
and for several days to come, I found that a sitting posture was not
altogether free from discomfort.
Poor old Tunder! he was not a bad sort of fellow after all. He left the
school not very long afterwards, and then we found out how many kindly
and generous things he had done in a quiet unobtrusive sort of way. I
don’t suppose his salary as an under-master was a very large one, and
I know from what he said himself that he had no private income, so
that he must have practised considerable economy and self-denial to
have been able to indulge in those unsuspected acts of charity in the
poorer parts of Greychester which came to light after he had gone. I
have lost sight of him for some time; but if he should still be living,
and should chance to read these lines, he will see that in spite of the
spring-frog episode, I can still speak of him with respect, and even
affection.
But I am wasting time in gossiping about so paltry an affair as my
first flogging, and almost forgetting that I have a story of a very
different kind to tell—a story so tinged to a certain extent with
sadness, that even now it costs me something to relate it. Indeed, I
should not do so, did I not think that—apart from the passing interest
it may have—it may serve in some cases to point a moral and give a
warning.
Two of my particular chums at school were Frank and Charlie Stewart,
popularly known as the two young Hotspurs. Why, I will tell you. They
were fellows of the real good sort, as we used to say, good run-getters
in a cricket-match, and pulling a first-rate oar. Not that they were
dunces either, for they were never very low down in their forms, and
they had a quickness and readiness that carried them above fellows of
more plodding industry. They had one fault—I suppose every schoolboy
has one, many more than one—and it was this failing that gained them
their nickname. Kindly and good-natured enough as a general rule, each
of them had a quick and impetuous disposition, which was liable, under
no very great provocation, to blaze out into hot passion. They resented
anything like dictation or unfair treatment so much, that their high
spirit could at times scarcely brook even a fair and proper opposition
to their ideas and opinions, and instead of trying to gain their
argument, they would lose their temper. But, to do them justice, there
was nothing sullen, or mean, or vindictive about them; and their fits
of temper were shortlived. They tried earnestly to guard against their
besetting weakness, sometimes succeeding, and always bitterly lamenting
afterwards if they failed. Occasionally, they came to words between
themselves; but in a moment or two they would be as friendly as ever
again, pulling a pair together, or tossing for sides at cricket. Once,
however, they came to blows, and it is that scene which is so vividly
painted on my memory.
Like myself, the Stewarts were town-boys, and as our homes were not
very far apart, we generally went to and from school together, the
intimacy thus formed being gradually ripened by congenial tastes and
pursuits into a warm and lasting friendship, which made them almost
like brothers, and their house quite a second home to me. Their father,
who had been a retired naval officer, possessed of ample independent
means, had died a year or two before, and they lived with their widowed
mother and a sister—a child, when first I knew her, of about six or
seven. Margerie her name was—Queen Margerie, in a playful way, they
always called her; and well she deserved her title, for she held
absolute and sovereign sway over every heart in the household, and
indeed over all who knew her.
I wish I were a word-painter, so that I could portray Queen Margerie
as I see her in my mind’s eye now. I wish a more skilful hand
than mine could place the portrait before you—the portrait of a
child—somewhat small for her age, you might say, and perhaps somewhat
fragile-looking—with clustering soft brown hair, brightened here and
there by a gleam of gold; hazel eyes, always lit up with mirth and
happiness, except when the story of some one’s troubles filled them
with tears; and soft cheeks, where the shadow of ill-humour seemed
never to find a resting-place. And then, what pretty ways she had;
talking in such a demure, old-world fashion, with a voice deep for
a child, and yet with such music in it, and doing everything so
pleasantly and lovingly, that no wonder those about her made her their
idol.
Chief among the idolaters were her two brothers. If I had not seen
it, I should never have thought that two school-lads could have been
so tender and loving to a child. No trouble and no self-sacrifice did
they grudge her, gratifying her wishes, as far as lay in their power,
as soon as they were uttered; often, indeed, anticipating them before
they were spoken. It was curious, and yet pleasant, to see how they
would come to her with the story of their feats and adventures, like
knights of old, who valued most their victories in the jousts in that
they gained them the smile of the queen of the tournament. If either of
them had won a prize, or made the top score in a match, or done some
other redoubtable thing, his chief pleasure was in the thought of Queen
Margerie’s delight at the news. ‘Tell me all about it,’ she would say,
nestling eagerly close to him, ‘tell me every word—every word from
beginning to end.’ Then would he give her a full and graphic account,
she listening with growing interest the while, and gazing at him with
a look of pride, until the tale was ended; and then her joy at the
history of his success was to him his crowning reward.
Queen Margerie, how mother, brother, servants adored thee! I believe if
the sacrifice of their own lives had been necessary to preserve thine,
not one of them would have hesitated a moment to pay the price.
‘They overdid it,’ do you say? Nay, believe me, they did not, for a
child in the home may be among the very richest gifts for which heaven
claims our gratitude. A child’s presence may fill with sunlight the
house which else would be wrapt in gloom; a child’s influence may
preserve purity in the mind which but for it might become stained and
corrupted; a child’s love may serve to keep warm the heart which the
cares and worries of life might otherwise make cold and selfish.
‘I wonder,’ said Frank Stewart once to me, in an abstracted sort of
way, as if he had been pondering over some weighty matter—‘I wonder
what we should do if anything were to happen to Margerie; if she were
to—to go away.’
‘Go away!’ I replied in wonderment. ‘How can a child like that go away?
What do you mean?’
He made no answer, but went on, as if in continuance of his own
remarks: ‘It would kill my mother, and I think it would me, if Margerie
were to’—— Then he stopped short.
I began to understand his meaning; but I said no more, for this was
a sort of mood I had never seen Frank Stewart in before, and I did
not know how to meet it. So the conversation ceased, and for a time I
forgot all about it.
It was one afternoon some time after this that the Stewarts, one
or two other fellows, and myself, were going home from school, not
quite in our usual spirits, for a cricket-match we had played the
day before had ended—rather unusually for us—in our suffering a
disastrous defeat. True to human nature, instead of taking kindly to
our reverse of fortune, we tried to find a pair of shoulders on which
we might conveniently put the whole load of blame, and the owner of the
shoulders happened to be Frank Stewart, who had been the captain of our
Eleven, and who, we thought, had not managed matters very discreetly.
In the course of our discussion on the subject, the two brothers
irritated each other to such an extent that they came to blows. We
tried to pacify them; but in vain. I am afraid that, like every British
schoolboy, we had just a sort of lurking fondness for a good fair
fight, which made the fray not without interest for us. Anyway, we
watched it so intently that we did not see a childish figure come to
the garden-gate leading to the Stewarts’ house, and pausing a little
to take in what was passing, run quickly down the road towards us. We
saw and heard nothing until Queen Margerie was close to the struggling
lads, calling on them piteously to stop; but in a moment—blinded
and deafened with excitement—one of them stumbled against her, and
fell—dragging the other with him—heavily over her to the ground.
The boys quickly rose unhurt, but the child never stirred. There she
lay, the poor little face deadly pale, except where there were a
few stains of blood from a bruise on the temple; and one arm seemed
to have suffered some injury. There was for a moment a faint look
of recognition, just a feeble attempt to smile, and then there was
unconsciousness.
The whole thing took place so suddenly that none of us at first could
realise it. For an instant or two the Stewarts seemed perfectly dazed,
kneeling by the child, and calling her by name, as if she were only
making a pretence of being hurt, and would spring into their arms
presently. Then the truth seemed to burst upon them, restoring their
self-possession; for, taking the little form gently to his breast,
Frank Stewart strode hurriedly homewards, entreating us, as he went,
to bring a doctor. We lost no time on our errand, and medical help was
soon at hand. Shortly afterwards, we heard that the arm was fractured,
but that that was not so serious as the injury to the head, from which
the gravest results might be feared.
We did not see the Stewarts again at school during that term, of which
a few days only remained. For three days they watched with their mother
by the child’s bedside, scarcely ever taking food or sleep. At times
she was conscious, and gave them one of her old looks, or feebly held
out her hand to touch theirs. Once or twice she rallied enough to speak
a little, but not a word passed her lips about her injuries or the
cause of them. She only asked them not to forget her when she had gone,
for she seemed to think that the shadows would soon be falling about
her.
Once, I remember, when I called to make inquiries, Frank Stewart came
down to see me. I scarcely knew him, he looked so altered. ‘It is bad
enough to see her dying,’ he said, sobbing: ‘but to think of its being
my fault!’—and he broke down utterly.
What words of comfort could a schoolboy utter in the presence of such
grief? What could I say, when I feared they were only waiting for the
King’s messenger to take Queen Margerie where pain and weariness are
not known? For though the doctor said there _was_ a chance, that chance
seemed but a slender one.
* * * * *
Fifteen years since then, is it? Why, it scarcely seems as many months.
How well I remember it, and yet my schoolboy days ended long ago, and
now I am a staid married man. My wife, to tell the truth, is sitting
near me as I write, and now and then she comes and looks over my
shoulder at what I have written, saying with a smile that she wonders
how I can exaggerate as I have done once or twice. I turn the tables on
her by replying that instead of being a help to me, she is my greatest
hindrance, for as long as she is in the room I am always neglecting my
work to look at her. And that is the truth. I am continually looking at
her, because, to my mind, she is the prettiest picture one can look at.
She has soft brown hair, with here and there a gleam of gold, bright
hazel eyes, and a gentle face without a trace of ill-humour. It is true
you may see on her forehead the faintest traces of a scar, but then, I
say, it is a beauty-mark. Sometimes she says, in a make-believe solemn
way, that she wonders how I could have married any one with one arm
stiff and good for nothing. But I know she is only joking, for I don’t
think her arm is a whit worse now than any one else’s.
But I am not the only one who worships her. There are her two brothers,
for instance, who are quite as foolish as I am. The elder of them is
a lieutenant in the navy, and he misses no opportunity of sending her
wonderful treasures and curiosities, which he collects for her on his
travels. Before long, our modest-sized dwelling will be a storehouse
of marvels. The other, a young lawyer, who lives with his widowed
mother, is a perfectly infatuated brother, and under one pretext or
another is always coming to see that all is going well with his idol.
I tell him sometimes, laughingly, that I shall become jealous if this
sort of thing goes on; that I shall forbid him the house, and bar the
doors against him! But my threats are of little use; for he says that
neither husband nor bolts nor bars shall prevent his coming, like a
loyal subject, to pay allegiance to Queen Margerie. For the one slender
chance did prevail, and my story ends happily after all.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.
CHAPTER IV.
The day was an hour older. The heat of the afternoon sun was tempered
by a fresh breeze from the hills, which had sprung up a little while
ago. The windows of Madame De Vigne’s sitting-room stood wide open, and
the curtains waved to and fro in the breeze, but the room itself was
empty.
In a little while a sound of knocking was heard; but there being no
response, the door was presently opened, and Jules, followed by Lady
Renshaw and Miss Wynter, entered the room.
‘Pardon, milady, but Madame De Vigne is not here,’ said Jules.
At this moment Nanette, madame’s maid, entered the room, seeing which,
Jules made his exit. ‘You wish to see madame?’ inquired Nanette.
‘When she is at liberty,’ said her ladyship graciously.
‘What name shall I give madame?’
‘I am Lady Renshaw; and this is my niece, Miss Wynter.’
Nanette courtesied and went.
Lady Renshaw proceeded to make herself at home, appraising the
ornaments on the chimney-piece, peering into a photograph album,
turning over a book of engravings, trying a drawer or two in the
cabinet, and so on.
‘Really a charming room; quite the best in the hotel, I have been given
to understand,’ she remarked. ‘To think of the audacity of this Madame
De Vigne in engaging such a room for herself and party! But these
adventuresses are nothing if not audacious. Yes, a charming room; and
it will suit us admirably. And then the view—oh! the view’—going to the
window and peering out through her glasses. ‘It is _magnifique—très
magnifique_.’
Miss Wynter was sitting languidly in an easy-chair: she had a knack of
picking out the cosiest and softest chair in a room.
‘But you have not yet told me your reason, aunt’——
‘For wishing to make the acquaintance of this Madame De Vigne. I will
enlighten you.’
At this juncture Nanette re-entered the room. ‘Madame will be down in
the course of a few minutes, if your ladyship will please to wait.’
‘A French maid, too!’ burst forth Lady Renshaw the moment the girl
had left the room. ‘One would like to know how this woman came by her
money. Most probably at the gaming-table.’
‘O aunt!’
‘Happily for you, my dear, you know little of the world. You have never
been to Monaco, for instance. I have.—But to explain to you my reasons
for wishing to make the acquaintance of this—this person.’ Her ladyship
sat down and opened her fan. ‘On glancing through the Visitors’ Book
this afternoon—a thing which I always do as soon as I arrive at a
strange hotel—I found there the name of Mr Archibald Ridsdale.’
‘Aunt!’
‘I was not greatly surprised, after the note I received from Mrs
Delorme, Mr Ridsdale’s aunt, a few days before leaving town. She wrote
something to this effect: “I am given to understand that that foolish
nephew of mine is philandering somewhere among the Lakes in company
with those two adventuresses who have got him in their toils. Should
you come across the party in your travels, write me all particulars you
can pick up concerning them; and should any opportunity offer itself, I
hope you will do all that lies in your power to extricate Archie from
this dreadful entanglement.”—Well, my dear, as good fortune would have
it, here they all are—Mr Archie and the two adventuresses—in this very
hotel.’ And Lady Renshaw fanned herself complacently.
‘But under what pretext do you propose to introduce yourself to Madame
De Vigne?’
‘You will learn when the time comes,’ answered her ladyship with a
diplomatic smile. ‘Meanwhile, I have something very serious to say to
you.’
‘Yes, aunt.’
‘The season before last, Mr Ridsdale paid you very marked
attention—very marked indeed. He really seemed quite taken with you;
and it must have been entirely your own fault that you let him slip
through your fingers in the way you did. I was never more annoyed in my
life. But there is just a possibility that it may not be too late even
now to repair your wretched blunder.’
‘But Mr Ridsdale is engaged, is he not?’
‘O my dear, engagements nowadays are lightly made and as lightly
broken. It is quite possible that by this time the foolish young
fellow may be thoroughly cured of his infatuation for this young
woman, whom nobody seems to know anything about, and may be longing
for some friendly hand to snap the thread that binds him to her. It is
quite possible that when he sees you again he may’—— Here her ladyship
nodded meaningly at her niece. ‘You know what I mean. Now, if the
slightest chance is given you, I beg that you will play your cards
differently this time! Think! the only son of one of our richest and
oldest baronets! What a position would be yours! What a’—— Suddenly her
ladyship caught sight of something outside the window. She rose and
crossed the room and peered out through her glasses. ‘Why, I declare
there’s that young curate again, sitting under a tree all alone with
his book!’
Miss Wynter’s languor vanished in a moment. She started to her feet.
‘Where, aunt?’ she asked eagerly.—‘Yes, poor fellow; he does look
rather lonely, doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t suppose you have the slightest notion who the young man really
is?’ said her ladyship, with the air of a person who has made a grand
discovery.
Bella threw a startled look at her aunt. ‘No—no—of course not. How
should I?’ Then coaxingly: ‘But who is he, aunty dear?’
‘The son of a bishop, my dear.—What do you think of that?’
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the young girl with a gasp, as well she
might. ‘But how did you find that out, aunt?’
‘You remember that he told us his name was Mr Golightly?’
Bella nodded assent.
‘Well, on reaching the hotel I asked to see the Clergy List, where
I found that the only Golightly mentioned there is the Bishop of
Melminster. It’s by no means a common name, and this young man must be
the bishop’s son. I’ve not a doubt of it in my own mind.’
Lady Renshaw had evidently a fine faculty for leaping to conclusions
from very insufficient data.
‘O aunt, how clever you are!’ was the comment of the wicked Bella.
‘That’s as it may be, my dear,’ was the complacent answer. ‘What are
our brains given us for but to make proper use of them.’
‘Don’t you think Mr Golightly very nice-looking?’ asked Miss Wynter
with the most innocent air imaginable.
‘Intellectual-looking, no doubt. He has the air of a man who habitually
burns the midnight oil. I have no doubt that the dear bishop has
inculcated him with studious habits.’
It will be observed that her ladyship’s English was occasionally
a little slipshod, especially when she lugged long words into her
sentences with which she had only a bowing acquaintance.
Miss Wynter turned away to hide a smile. ‘What fun it will be to tell
all this to Dick, by-and-by!’ she said to herself.
‘We must cultivate him, my dear,’ resumed her ladyship, who evidently
deemed two strings better than one, to her niece’s bow. ‘In these
days, a bishop’s son is not by any means to be sneered at. Who knows
but that he may take a fancy to you! You must endeavour to sit next
him at dinner, and draw him gently on to talk of the subjects that
interest him, and then of course you will discover that you are deeply
interested in the same subjects yourself.’
‘I will do my best, aunt,’ responded Bella softly.
At this moment the door opened, and Madame De Vigne entered the room.
The two ladies rose simultaneously to their feet.
‘Lady Renshaw?’ said madame inquiringly, with a slight but stately
inclination of the head.
Her ladyship bowed in some confusion. ‘Madame De Vigne, I presume?’ she
contrived to stammer out. For once in a way her self-confidence had
deserted her.
‘Yes,’ was the simple answer, but still with the same look of inquiry
in the large, lustrous, melancholy eyes.
Never in her life had Lady Renshaw felt herself so much like an
intruder. She recovered herself somewhat behind the shelter of a little
cough. Then she said: ‘Before explaining my intrusion, allow me to
introduce my niece, Miss Wynter.’