“Do you like this part of London?” asked Horace, by-and-by.
Embrance had taken off her bonnet and ulster, and was sitting by the
side of the fire. It was one of her characteristics, owing, perhaps,
to the need of rest after long hours’ work, that she could remain
perfectly still for a considerable length of time. She had no desire to
busy herself with fancy work or to twirl her watch-chain; she did not
throw herself into picturesque attitudes, but sat with clasped hands,
listening to her visitor’s easy flow of conversation. A curl of her
dark hair had escaped from the stiff plait, and her lips were parted
with a smile.
“Not half so alarming as I imagined she would be,” was Horace Meade’s
thought, as he pursued his inquiries as to her liking for Bloomsbury,
“but why, in the name of all that’s wonderful, does she wear such a
frightful garment? It requires beauty to carry off a Cinderella garb
of that kind.”
“I find it convenient to live here,” explained Embrance, while her
visitor’s fancy had soared far away, and was drawing her hair high on
the top of her head, putting pearls in her ears, and a mass of crimson
roses in the lace round her throat. “She would make a good study for
the ‘ugly princess,’” he thought.
“I know that you are one of the busy folk,” he said, “Joan has told me
about you and your hard work. I only hope—” with a certain kindliness
that went straight to her heart—“that you are not overdoing it. Joan
ought to look after you.”
Just for a second, Embrance’s dark eyes looked up at him with a flash
of inquiry: could it be that this polite, soft-voiced man was making
fun of Joan and of her? As if ashamed of her suspicion, she replied
gently—
“It is a great pleasure to me to have Joan’s company; we have been
friends for a great many years, ever since we were little schoolgirls.”
“And you helped her with her sums after hours,” said Horace, twisting
the end of his moustache. “I have heard a great deal about you and
your doings, Miss Clemon, but seriously, I should be glad to talk to
you about my cousin, if you will let me.”
“Please do; she has been so looking forward to your coming; will you
be able to suggest any line for her to take up? She doesn’t much
like teaching; she was not very happy at home, and (with a slight
hesitation) her grandfather makes her no allowance while she is here.”
“Poor girl!” exclaimed Mr. Meade, “I expected how it would be; he is
a regular old miser. As for Joan, with all her talent, she’s had no
proper teaching herself, and hasn’t an idea what real work means. What
has she been doing lately?”
Embrance, conscious that Joan had been spending the last fortnight in
making herself a charming terra-cotta walking dress, looked towards
the window, and said that there had been so many fogs, it was bad
weather for artists. Mr. Meade nodded, then marched up to the easel,
and examined the drawing—a study of roses, white and pink—that Joan had
begun a month ago; but even before the roses (which had cost as much as
a week’s rent) withered, she had got tired of the drawing, and had put
it on one side for a copy of a landscape, intended for the good of her
pupil, and also left unfinished.
For some minutes he stood there in silence, took the drawings nearer to
the light, and carefully replaced them on the easel.
“Well?” asked Embrance, anxiously.
“What do you think of them?”
“I am not a judge; I know so little about it.”
“Very likely, but look here” (she came closer to the easel), “you are
accustomed to observe. Do you see the grouping of the roses is pretty
enough, but there, look, that is quite out of drawing, and the stalk is
an absurdity.”
Embrance could not stay there any longer in mute acquiescence: “But she
is so quick,” she remonstrated, “and has a real love”—for painting, she
was about to say, but her sense of truth turned the sentence into: “for
anything that is beautiful!”
He turned away from the window with a sigh. “As an amateur, it is all
very well, but otherwise, I don’t see what is to be done. Poor little
Joan! It’s a bad business; how is she looking, Miss Clemon?”
“Prettier than ever, I think.”
“I am glad to hear it. She is a charming companion, and I am very glad
that you like her. It is a comfort to know that she has got such a good
friend in you.”
Embrance blushed, feeling very uncomfortable, and half inclined to
resent his remarks. It was rather late in the day for a complete
stranger to interfere in such an old friendship as hers and Joan’s.
“However,” she reflected, “I am sure he is very fond of her; I wish she
would come in.”
“Perhaps,” continued Horace Meade, “you think that I have no business
to say this; but the fact is, that I had expected to find, at least I
had not expected to find—that is to say——”
He stopped abruptly, and Embrance could not refrain from laughing: “You
had imagined that Joan had set up housekeeping with a strong-minded
woman of the most extreme type, who didn’t care what became of her.”
“No, no, indeed!” began Horace, but she would go on.
“Please let me explain to you that I would do anything, anything in the
world to make Joan happy. I have been looking forward to your visit; I
hoped that between us we could find some way of helping her.”
It occurred to Horace that this would be an advantageous moment to say
something complimentary, and get himself out of an awkward predicament,
but he did not avail himself of the opportunity. He was a person who
believed in his own insight of character, and Miss Clemon (who was so
widely different from his preconceived notion of Joan’s learned friend)
interested him very much; he was quite sure that she was open and
honest as the day. Better be straightforward, too.
“Thank you very much,” he said, almost as if she had conferred a favour
on him personally, “I will think over what you have said; we will try
and help her; and may I come again soon?”
Embrance answered that she would be very glad to see him, and when,
after a little more chat, he took his leave, she went singing into the
next room, feeling lighter of heart than she had done for days. She
liked Horace Meade very much, and how pleased Joan would be to hear of
his arrival!
Joan was, indeed, delighted to welcome her cousin; Mrs. Rakely invited
him to the hotel, and there were many happy days spent in his society.
His own rooms and studio were in a distant suburb, but he found time to
make himself very agreeable to the ladies, and to show them the sights
of London. Joan was in her element, but too soon there came a period
of reaction. Mrs. Rakely went back to the country, and Horace began to
work regularly; he was slowly making his way as a portrait painter.
Joan fell into low spirits again, she wrote a great many letters,
and received bulky communications from Mrs. Rakely, about which she
maintained a silence, strangely unlike her usual talkativeness. Now
and then she would turn wistful glances on Embrance, as if longing for
sympathy, but she made no confidences. And Embrance treated her with
great tenderness, believing that some slight squabble with Horace was
the cause of her despondency. “Better not to worry her with too many
questions,” she thought, “she will tell me in her own good time.”
Horace came to the little second floor parlour, generally timing his
visits so as to arrive about seven o’clock. He had dined at his club.
If he might be allowed, it suited him best to drop in at this time. He
hoped he wasn’t in the way. Embrance bade him heartily welcome, while
Joan would forget her melancholy, and brighten into fresh beauty under
the influence of her cousin’s pleasant talk. More than once Embrance,
busy as she was, had attempted to leave the cousins to themselves,
while she laboured at a side table; but Horace had a knack of coaxing
her back to the fireside, asking her opinion on some interesting
topic, or referring to her laughingly as a competent authority. And
she had been enticed away to listen to his account of his travels, or
description of his housekeeping failures in his own rooms. He set Joan
hard at work painting menu cards and photograph frames, saying that he
knew a man who would dispose of them at a fair price, and now and then
he brought a drawing for her to copy, but he showed no sign of being
impressed with the progress that she made.
“Do you expect your cousin this evening?” asked Embrance, one
afternoon, about a month after Christmas; “he has not been to see you
for some time.”
“No,” said Joan, wearily. She was lying full length on the hearthrug,
with her head on a pillow, while Embrance arranged the ornaments on the
mantelpiece to her better satisfaction; “but I have heard from him.”
“What did he say?” asked Embrance, fancying that in Joan’s manner she
could trace a desire to be further questioned; “is it a secret, Joan,
or may I know all about it?”
Joan fixed her great eyes upon Embrance, and raised herself from the
ground with one arm: “I have got a secret, but I am not to tell you.
Did you guess that I had?”
Embrance nodded. She had finished putting the ornaments to rights, and
now came and sat on a low chair by the fire. “You would rather not tell
me about it just yet, Joan?”
“Not yet,” said Joan, excitedly. “You will know soon. Mrs. Rakely
knows. But, but”—she hesitated, “I don’t know when Horace will come
here again; he is very inconsiderate sometimes. What do you think he
proposed I should do? I met him one day and asked his advice—you are
so busy, Embrance, there seems to be no time to talk to you. He says
that I had better go back to Doveton!”
“He wants to take her away from me,” thought Embrance, with a pang;
“perhaps he is right, and I ought never to have kept her.” She took
Joan’s hand and patted it softly. “There is no occasion to fret about
it,” she said. “Would you like to go back, Joan?”
“I don’t know,” said Joan, half crying. “I’m sorry I quarrelled with
Horace. I was very disagreeable to him. He doesn’t think I ought to
stay with you much longer.”
“I am sorry,” began Embrance, humbly; but Joan was too much taken up
with her own grievance to listen. She went on: “He offered to speak to
the head of a firm he knows where they make furniture and employ people
(artists, Horace calls them) to decorate rooms and paint panels. He
said I should have to be taught to do it; and, oh! Embrance, I should
hate to be shut up all day; I should feel as if I were in a prison; so
I said I wouldn’t go and see his friend—that I would rather go on the
stage. And then he advised me to go back to Doveton.” Joan was sitting
bolt upright now, and her eyes were sparkling. “Do you think I behaved
badly?”
“It was very hard for you, my poor dear; but I dare say you were not so
disagreeable as you imagine. He would make allowance for your not being
accustomed to keep such regular hours.”
“It’s you who make allowance,” cried Joan. “You are very good,
Embrance; and I am keeping so much back from you. But don’t think
hardly of me; promise me you won’t. Have patience with me, whatever I
do.”
A sharp east wind was blowing across the park; the chestnut-trees
stretched their bare branches grimly towards the sky. Embrance Clemon
was walking home after her day’s work; the dead leaves swept rustling
and dancing towards her. A party of noisy children were racing after
their hoops a few yards in front of her. She had just been told by the
mother of a pupil, with many expressions of regret, that her services
would not be required any more after Easter. Her head was full of
plans, by which she could contrive to manage her slender resources, so
that Joan should not be made to feel that she was in any way increasing
the household difficulties. In truth, she could ill afford to lose a
lesson just now. She had heard no more of Joan’s quarrel with Horace
Meade; she imagined that that was made up long ago; the two had met
more than once, she knew, at a friend’s house, but he had left off
coming to call. Embrance missed his visits; it was clear to her now,
looking back to the last few months, that Horace Meade had brought a
great deal of happiness into their quiet lives—hers as well as Joan’s.
And yet, try as she would, she could not but feel hurt that he should
be so anxious to remove Joan from her influence. “It doesn’t matter,
after all,” she reflected, walking faster and faster in the grey
twilight, “what he thinks of me.” Nevertheless, it mattered so much,
that Embrance grew sad at heart; there came over her a great longing to
throw up the present occupation and go away, anywhere, and begin again;
to shut up her past life tight and firm and to start afresh. And Joan?
She almost smiled at her own folly, as she recollected how impossible
it would be to leave Joan in such an unceremonious fashion.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
A PASTORALE.
BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.
[Illustration: CHAP X—A FALSE STEP.]
If it had not been for his anxiety about Fairy, this would have been
an excursion quite after Jack’s own heart. He delighted in anything
unusual which varied the monotony of his daily life, and if it partook
of the nature of an adventure he was all the better pleased. As he and
his father tramped along the Oatham-road, one walking on the extreme
right, the other on the left hand side, it was natural that John should
beguile the way with reminiscences of other fogs.
“The worst fog I ever remember was when I was courting your mother,
Jack. It was just after Lewes sheep fair, and a Saturday night, and it
came on quite suddenly, so that I saw it was impossible to attempt to
get the sheep home that night, for I was on Mount Caburn, and I did not
know the mount so well then as I do now. But I always spent Saturday
evening and the best part of Sunday with your mother, and I did not
feel inclined to be done out of my weekly treat by the fog, so, though
I could not get the sheep into fold, I thought I would leave them to
take their chance till the fog lifted, and then come after them; I knew
I should soon find them by the help of the bell-wethers and Rover, so
I left the sheep, and set off to try and find my way home through the
fog. I knew there were one or two nasty places where I might fall and
break my neck, so I went pretty carefully, you may be sure. I had no
lantern with me, and it was a darker night than to-night, and I think
I must have wandered round and round the top of Mount Caburn for three
or four hours before I even began to descend. At last I found I was
actually on a downward track, though I had not the least idea which
side of the hill I was, and I think if I had not been in love I should
have remained where I was till the morning, or at least till the fog
cleared. As it was, I determined, at all hazards, to go on, though I
guessed I should get a scolding from your mother for my pains; so on
I went, on my hands and knees, feeling my way before me, for I was
afraid to walk upright lest I should step over a precipice, and at last
I reached the bottom in safety. Then I had no idea where I was till,
luckily for me, I met a man with a lantern, and he put me in the road,
but it was too late to go to your mother’s that night, and the greater
part of Sunday was spent in looking after the sheep, who had wandered
for miles. But this fog won’t last much longer, Jack; the wind is
rising,” said the shepherd.
“Yes,” said Jack. “I wish it would blow those children home safely. I
do hope nothing has happened to them; but Charlie is so careless, he
leads Fairy into danger without thinking.”
“She does not want much leading into danger; she is apt enough at
running into that, I am thinking, Jack. But what is become of Rover?”
said the shepherd, stopping and whistling.
“Bow-wow-wow,” replied Rover, in an excited tone, from the depths of
the fog.
“Where are you, sir? Come here,” cried the shepherd.
“Bow-wow-wow-wow,” answered Rover, in a still sharper key.
“Come here, sir; what are you at?” cried John Shelley.
“I hope he has not found the children in that chalk-pit. See, we are
near the first one,” said Jack, crossing over to his father, and moving
with him to the chalk-pit, which was at the side of the road.
“I trust not, Jack. Here is Rover; he has found something, that is
clear. All right, I am coming, good dog,” said the shepherd, as Rover
now emerged from the fog, and, by dint of many barks and wagging of his
tail, gave his master to understand that he had discovered something.
The shepherd throwing the light of the lantern in the direction the dog
indicated, followed him, while Jack, with his heart in his throat,
dreading at every step that the next would bring him face to face with
Fairy stretched lifeless at his feet—a picture his quick imagination
had but little difficulty in conjuring up—brought up the rear.
They were at the mouth of a large chalk-pit, but, owing to the density
of the fog, the lantern did not enable them to see more than a yard
before them; moreover, they were obliged to go very carefully, as huge
pieces of chalk were scattered over the centre of the pit. Suddenly
Jack kicked against something, and stooping, picked up a large gingham
umbrella, which, to his joy, he saw at a glance did not belong to Fairy.
“See, father, an umbrella; can this be what Rover is making all this
fuss about?” asked Jack, handing the huge thing to his father to
examine.
“I doubt not; I am afraid we shall find the owner of the umbrella next,
Jack, by Rover’s ways. But look, there is a name cut on the handle,
and it looks as if it had been cut quite recently, too. See if you can
make it out, I can’t; seems a foreign name to me,” said John Shelley,
holding the umbrella close to his lantern for Jack to read.
“D-e-t—No, it is a capital t; De Thorens, that is the name, plain
enough. A foreign one, too, as you said. It must belong to some
stranger, then; perhaps someone has lost his or her way and taken
shelter in this pit. Let us shout, father, they may hear us,” and Jack
shouted, but in vain.
Rover now became more excited than ever, and seizing John Shelley by
the skirts of his smock-frock, dragged him forward, until suddenly
he came to a standstill, and loosing his hold of his master, sniffed
round and round something which was lying a step or two further on.
John Shelley stooped, and, lowering his lantern, turned the light on
the object, and saw to his horror the apparently lifeless body of an
old woman, which was lying huddled together in a shapeless mass. Gently
and reverently the shepherd straightened the limbs, which were already
getting cold and stiff, and then looking at the face, which was not
disfigured by the fall, the old woman having fallen on her back, he
recognised his old acquaintance Dame Hursey.
“Is she dead, father?” asked Jack, in an awe-stricken voice, as he
clutched his father’s arm, for it was a ghastly sight these two were
gazing on in the cold, dark, foggy night, by the weird gleams of their
lanterns.
“Yes, Jack, yes; do you see who it is? Poor old Dame Hursey, the last
person I ever thought to find here, for if anyone knew the Downs it was
she. She is dressed in her best, too; she was not out wool-gathering,
that is clear,” said the shepherd, slowly.
“But what are we to do, father? We can’t leave her here, and we have
not found Fairy and Charlie yet.”
“We must leave her here for the present, Jack; she is dead, and must
have been killed on the spot; I expect Rover will watch by her till we
come back. We must separate; you go back to the police station for a
stretcher and some men, while I go on and look for these children. I
hope and trust they won’t come across this sight; it would give Fairy
a terrible fright. Be as quick as you can, Jack, for if the children
are not on the Race Hill we shall have to go in another direction. I’ll
meet you at the police-station; I shall be back there by the time you
have got the poor old dame carried there. Rover, stay here till Jack
comes back.”
No need to tell Rover twice; he laid down by the body at once, and
there he would have remained till doomsday if Jack or his master had
not returned before; and Jack, though he by no means liked his task,
and would far rather have gone on to look for Fairy, obeyed as promptly
as Rover.
And where were Fairy and Charlie on this cold, dark November evening
in this thick fog? They had not gone to Mount Harry after all, though
they had set out with that intention, for as soon as they reached the
Brighton-road Fairy had suggested they should go to Brighton instead,
and though Charlie, who was rather lazily disposed, hesitated and
raised objections, Fairy overthrew them all, and finally succeeded in
persuading him to take her.
The object of their walk was to pay a visit to a bird-stuffer in
Brighton, and find out the price of an eared-grebe which had lately
been shot in the neighbourhood, and which this man, as Jack, who had
been over two or three times to look at the bird, had told Fairy, was
stuffing and mounting. If only the price were reasonable, a better
Christmas present for Jack could not be thought of. He would be wild
with joy at possessing this bird, which Fairy described to Charlie from
a picture Mr. Leslie had of it. Charlie did not care much what the
price was, but he was curious to see this wonderful grebe with the ruff
round its neck, so he consented to take Fairy.
“How much do you think it will be, Charlie?” asked Fairy, as they
trudged along the muddy road in the mist.
“I don’t know; Gibbons will let us have it ever so much cheaper than
anyone else, because Jack so often gives him birds and eggs, and all
manner of curiosities. How much can you afford, that is the question?”
“Well, mother will give me something, and John and Mr. Leslie will give
me five or ten shillings, and I have got seven myself; I think I can
afford a sovereign altogether. You must give something, too, Charlie,
you know.”
“That’s all the money I have,” said Charlie, putting his hands into
his pockets and producing twopence halfpenny. “That won’t go far,” he
added, ruefully.
“Never mind, it will help. I do hope Gibbons will let us have it for a
pound,” answered Fairy; and buoyed up with this hope, she walked into
Brighton, a good eight miles, without once complaining of being tired.
The bird-stuffer, who knew Charlie well, showed them the grebe with
pride; but, alas! Fairy soon learnt that the price was far beyond her
means, and feeling very much disappointed, for Jack’s sake, she half
repented having taken such a long walk, especially as by the time they
left the shop the fog had come on very thick, and the short November
day was coming to a close. In spite of this, Charlie insisted on going
to the beach to look at the sea for a few minutes, though it was quite
out of their way, and Fairy, tired as she was, could not refuse to
oblige him when he had come so far to oblige her. Happily a very brief
peep at the dull, grey sea in this deepening fog satisfied Charlie,
but, nevertheless, it was five o’clock before they started on their
eight miles walk back to Lewes, and by the time they were quite clear
of the town, which in those days was very much smaller than at present,
and on the Lewes-road it was so dark they could not see the road before
them, and were obliged to walk slowly in consequence; moreover, Fairy
was so tired she hardly knew how to drag one leg before the other.
“There is one comfort,” said Charlie, “it is a straight road; we can’t
lose our way, and perhaps we shall meet someone who will give us a
lift.”
“I wish we could. How dark it is, Charlie. Are we half way yet, do you
think?” asked poor Fairy, whose little feet were so sore she could not
keep up with Charlie.
“Half-way? No, not a quarter yet. You are tired, I know, though you
won’t own it. I told you it was too far for you; here, take hold of my
arm, and I’ll help you along,” said Charlie.
Thus encouraged, Fairy plodded on for another mile or so, during which
time one or two carts passed them, but either could not or would not
hear their requests for a lift, and one so nearly ran over them in the
darkness that they ceased to wish for any more to pass. But before they
were half-way home Fairy declared she must stop and rest a little, and
Charlie, who knew if anything happened to her he would get all the
blame, began to get frightened lest she should faint or be taken ill on
the road, far away as they were from any village.
“Will you let me try and carry you, Fairy?” he asked.
“You?” laughed Fairy, in spite of her fatigue; “you carry me? Why, I
doubt if Jack could, even. No, thank you; let me rest a little on this
tree I nearly fell over, and then I’ll go on again.”
“Very well, but you must not rest long, or you’ll catch cold; besides,
we shan’t get home to-night at this rate. Now, when I have counted up
to a hundred, I shall haul you up,” said Charlie, beginning to assert a
little gentle authority under the circumstances.
Thus they went on, Fairy walking about half-a-mile at first, and then
stopping to rest, but each rest grew longer and each walk shorter, and
Charlie, who had never had a very high opinion of girls in general,
much as he admired Fairy in particular, came to the conclusion that
they were all pretty much alike, and that there was not much to choose
between them. Poor, weak things, they got tired directly, and could
not even walk sixteen miles without making a fuss!
At last, when they were about a mile and a half from the shepherd’s
house, and Fairy now could only walk if Charlie supported and led her,
they saw a lantern coming towards them, and to their joy found it was
John Shelley.
“Oh, John, I am so glad,” cried Fairy, as the shepherd turned the
lantern full on her.
“Fairy! Why, my pretty one, where have you been?” cried John.
“To Brighton; and, oh! John, I am so tired; I shall never get home.”
“To Brighton? Charlie, what do you mean by taking her to Brighton?
But we will get home first, and talk about that afterwards. Take the
lantern, Charlie, and lead the way. The child is dead beat; I must
carry her.” And without another word the shepherd took Fairy up in his
strong arms and carried her home, stopping now and then to rest, but
declaring he was not tired, as she was so light, and he was used to
carrying lambs; and was not she his pet lamb?
This was one of his names for Fairy, and finding he did not seem to
mind carrying her, she submitted gratefully, for she was so tired she
did not care how she got home, as long as she got there somehow.
Mrs. Shelley was at the gate wrapped up in a shawl, and feeling
dreadfully nervous about them, although John had not told her of Dame
Hursey’s terrible end when he came in an hour ago to say, just as Jack
had started off to Mount Caburn to look for the children, he had heard
they had been seen in Brighton that afternoon.
“Here they are, Polly, quite safe, only Fairy is tired out,” said John,
as he carried Fairy into the house, and placed her in his own chair
before the fire.
“Thank God! Children, children, where have you been? But I must tell
Jack first; he has just come in, and was going to have some supper and
then start off after you, John. Jack, where are you? They are safe,”
cried Mrs. Shelley to Jack, who was upstairs.
Down rushed Jack to see for himself that it was true. He looked pale
and anxious, for besides the shock of Dame Hursey’s death, he was tired
out with his search for Fairy after his day’s work on the downs.
“Well, a pretty chase you have given father and me, Mr. Charlie,
dragging Fairy to Brighton in this cheerful weather. If you are not
ashamed of yourself, you ought to be.”
“I did not drag her there; I dragged her home, and a pretty tough job
it was, I can tell you,” said Charlie.
“It was my fault, Jack, not Charlie’s; I won’t have him scolded; and we
had all our walk for nothing, and as John is not angry, I don’t mean to
be scolded either,” said Fairy.
“No, John never is angry with you; if he were sometimes you would not
be half so much trouble; but come, it is no use making a fuss about
it; they are home safely, thank God, so let us have supper,” said Mrs.
Shelley.
But somehow, in spite of their fatigue and long fast, no one was hungry
except Charlie, whose appetite seldom failed him. Fairy was much too
tired to eat, and Mrs. Shelley too glad and thankful to have them all
safe around her, while the shepherd and Jack could not forget poor Dame
Hursey’s fate, which they were only waiting till Fairy and Charlie were
gone to bed to discuss with Mrs. Shelley.
Fairy soon asked to be excused, as she was so tired, and Charlie,
having been sent off with a huge piece of bread and cheese to consume
at his leisure, John and Jack told Mrs. Shelley of the accident.
“Oh dear! oh dear! and to think it might have been that child, Fairy,
or Charlie, instead of poor old Dame Hursey! I shall tell them both
to-morrow, and I hope it will be a lesson to them to be more careful
in the future. Poor old woman! there will have to be an inquest, of
course,” said Mrs. Shelley.
“Yes, the inquest is to-morrow, but there is no one to give evidence
except father and me,” said Jack.
However, when Fairy was told the next morning what had happened, it
was found she was able to throw a little light on the matter, knowing,
as she did, that Dame Hursey had gone to meet her son George the day
her death occurred. She had evidently lost her way in the fog after
leaving him, and the coroner’s jury brought in a verdict of accidental
death without any hesitation. Some little discussion was raised as
to the umbrella with the name De Thorens cut on the handle, but as
it was remembered the last time George Hursey was heard of in Lewes
he was living in France, the coroner suggested the umbrella was his,
and that he had perhaps given it to his mother to help her home. This
theory satisfied everyone but Jack, and he, for reasons of his own,
kept his ideas on the subject to himself. He always had thought Dame
Hursey knew more about Fairy than anyone, and somehow he could not help
thinking this word De Thorens had something to do with the child. He
was certain the coroner’s theory was untrue, because he had seen Dame
Hursey with this identical umbrella over and over again; moreover, the
name was recently cut, and as he knew the old woman could not have
done it herself, he guessed her son George did, but why or wherefore
he could not determine; only he suspected it had something to do with
Fairy. But though he turned the subject over in his own mind again
and again as he followed his sheep on the lonely downs, he could make
nothing of it, though he felt sure he held the key to the solution of
the mystery of Fairy’s origin in his hand, if he only knew how to use
it. On the whole, curious as he was about it, he was not sorry to be
unable to solve the puzzle since he feared its solution would lead to
his separation from Fairy.
If he could have known how that one false step of poor old Dame
Hursey’s prevented Fairy from being restored to her parents, shocked
as he had been at her terrible death, it is doubtful if he could have
regretted her sad end as sincerely as he did.
(_To be continued._)
VARIETIES.
A WORD TO PRIDE.
Say to thy pride, “’Tis all but ashes for the urn;
Come, let us own our dust, before to dust we turn.”
THE SILENT LOVER.
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne’er so witty;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
—_Raleigh._
MUSICAL CRITICISM.—There are two kinds of people who ought to give
their opinions about music; those who know enough about it to give an
opinion which is really valuable, and those who simply say what they
like and what they don’t like, and no more.
A STRENGTHENING MEDICINE.
A Parisian chemist recently advertised his strengthening medicine for
delicate people in the following terms:—
“Madame S. was so weak at the time of her marriage that she could
hardly stand upright at the altar. Now, after using several bottles
of my medicine, she is capable of throwing the smoothing iron at her
husband without missing him once.”
A GENEROUS NATURE.—Generosity is in nothing more seen than in a candid
estimation of other men’s virtues and good qualities.—_Barrow._
SAVING HABITS.—Take care to be an economist in prosperity; there is no
fear of not being one in adversity.
THE MIND’S SWEETNESS.
Let thy mind’s sweetness have his operation
Upon thy body, clothes, and habitation.
—_George Herbert._
BY FITS AND STARTS.
The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise,
And even the best by fits what they despise.
—_Pope._
WHAT IS WIT?
True wit is nature to advantage dressed,
What oft was thought but ne’er so expressed.
—_Pope._
SELF-KNOWLEDGE.—It is not until we have passed through the furnace that
we are made to know how much dross is in our composition.
FLUENT SPEECH.—The common fluency of speech in most men and most women,
says Dean Swift, is owing to a scarcity of matter and scarcity of
words; for whoever is a master of language, and hath a mind full of
ideas, will be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both;
whereas common speakers have only one set of ideas and one set of words
to clothe them in, and these are always ready at the mouth. So people
come faster out of church when it is almost empty than when a crowd is
at the door.
AN OBJECTION TO HATRED.—Plutarch says, very finely, that a man should
not allow himself to hate even his enemies; for if you indulge this
passion on some occasions it will rise of itself on others.—_Addison._
AMUSEMENT FOR THE WISE.
Amusement is not an end, but a means—a means of refreshing the mind
and replenishing the strength of the body; when it begins to be the
principal thing for which one lives, or when, in pursuing it, the
mental powers are enfeebled, and the bodily health impaired, it falls
under just condemnation.
Amusements that consume the hours which ought to be sacred to sleep,
are, therefore, censurable.
Amusements that call us away from work which we are bound to do are
pernicious, just to the extent to which they cause us to be neglectful
or unfaithful.
Amusements that rouse or stimulate morbid appetites or unlawful
passions, or that cause us to be restless or discontented, are always
to be avoided.
Any indulgence in amusement which has a tendency to weaken our respect
for the great interests of character, or to loosen our hold on the
eternal verities of the spiritual realm, is so far an injury to us.
FISH AGAINST FRY.
The following _jeu d’esprit_ was suggested by an action at law some
years ago, in which the parties were a Mr. Fry and a Mr. Fish:—
“The Queen’s Bench Reports have cooked up an odd dish,
In action for damages _Fry_ versus _Fish_;
But sure, if for damages action could lie,
It certainly must have been _Fish_ against _Fry_.”
WISE WORDS ON READING.
One of the common errors of the day is indulgence in indiscriminate
reading. The greater the number of books the more careful readers ought
to be in the choice of them, and as a guide to their value nothing
could be better than the following wise words of Southey:—
“Young readers, you whose hearts are open, whose understandings are not
yet hardened, and whose feelings are neither exhausted nor encrusted
with the world, take from me a better rule than any professors of
criticism will teach you.
“Would you know whether the tendency of a book is good or evil, examine
in what state of mind you lay it down. Has it induced you to suspect
that what you have been accustomed to think unlawful may after all be
innocent, and that that may be harmless which you have hitherto been
taught to think dangerous? Has it tended to make you dissatisfied and
impatient under the control of others, and disposed you to relax in
that self-government without which both the laws of God and man tell us
there can be no virtue, and consequently no happiness? Has it attempted
to abate your admiration and reverence for what is great and good, and
to diminish in you a love of your country and of your fellow creatures?
Has it addressed itself to your pride, your vanity, your selfishness,
or any of your evil propensities? Has it defiled the imagination with
what is loathsome, and shocked the heart with what is monstrous? Has it
distracted the sense of right and wrong which the Creator has implanted
in the human soul?
“If so—if you have felt that such were the effects it was intended to
produce—throw the book into the fire, whatever name it may bear upon
the title-page. Throw it into the fire, young man, though it should
have been the gift of a friend; young lady, away with the whole set,
though it should be the prominent furniture in the rosewood bookcase.”
TAUGHT BY A ROBIN.—I am sent to the ant to learn industry, to the dove
to learn innocence, to the serpent to learn wisdom, and why not to the
robin redbreast, who chants as delightfully in winter as in summer, to
learn equanimity and patience?
HANDS AND FEET.
Hands are no more beautiful for being small than eyes are for being
big; but many a modern girl would ask her fairy godmother, if she had
one, to give her eyes as big as saucers and hands as small as those
of a doll, believing that the first cannot be too large nor the last
too small. Tiny hands and feet are terms constantly used by poets and
novelists in a most misleading manner. It cannot be possible that
they are intended by the writers to express anything but general
delicacy and refinement; but a notion is encouraged that results in the
destruction of one of the most beautiful of natural objects—the human
foot.
This unfortunate notion, that the beauty of the foot depends upon
its smallness, leads to the crippling of it, till it becomes in many
cases a bunch of deformity. It is a most reprehensible practice, alike
revolting to good taste and good sense, to put the foot of a growing
girl into a shoe that is not only too short, crumpling the toes into
a bunch, but, being pointed, turns the great toe inwards, producing
deformity of general shape, and, in course of time, inevitable bunions,
the only wonder being that steadiness in standing or any grace of
movement at all is left.
GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHERS.—A writer in a contemporary calls attention to
the very objectionable sharpness with which some girls speak to their
mothers. “In a railway carriage on our journey north,” she says, “the
window seats at one end were occupied by two ladies, evidently mother
and daughter. The latter appeared to be out of temper. The former
mildly remarked, ‘Do you not think we had better have the window up?’
the reply was, ‘Most certainly not,’ delivered in F sharp key. If I
were a modern Cœlebs in search of a wife, I should very carefully
observe the young lady’s manner to her mother before asking the
momentous question, for a girl must be vixenish at heart and unamiable
indeed, when she can address her own mother with such careless rudeness
as one too often hears.”
MODESTY.—Modesty is the appendage of sobriety, and is to chastity, to
temperance, and to humility, as the fringes are to a garment.—_Jeremy
Taylor._
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
EDUCATIONAL.
MACACO and F. S. D.—“Macaco” recommends a correspondence class,
conducted by a Miss Macarthur, 4, Buckingham-street, Hillhead,
Glasgow. We have before drawn attention to a little useful shilling
manual called “A Directory of Girls’ Clubs,” chiefly educational, and
including religious studies and unions for prayer (Messrs. Griffith and
Farran, St. Paul’s-churchyard, E.C.). By procuring this a choice can be
made, as the rules and terms of most of them are given. “F. S. D.” had
better try again, by all means, when we give another competition. It
will be found, as you say, to do good, even to those who do not prove
winners.
ELLA.—You might find the first instruction books in history, geography,
and grammar at a secondhand bookstall for a mere trifle. Later on, you
may have the means to obtain the more advanced.
ALTA.—See our answers under the above heading, so continually repeated
in reference to your questions. You are too young to be received as a
nurse. See our reply to “L. N.,” page 31, vol. vi. (part for October,
1884).
ICIPLE.—We do not recommend teachers and Board-school mistresses to
look for engagements in the colonies, however well supplied with
certificates. Nevertheless, to render the matter more certain you had
better obtain information and advice at the Women’s Emigration office,
in Dorset-street, Portman-square, W.
JEMIMA.—1. We can only say to you what we have had to say to many—you
must accept what terms you can get as a governess, your youth being
against you: a “fault that will mend.” The trainer and caretaker,
morally and physically, of children and young people under age is paid
for her experience and extensive knowledge of many kinds, not merely
for her acquirements in science and art. 2. “The Flowers of the Field,”
by the Rev. C. A. Johns, is a nice book of the kind you require (43,
Piccadilly, W.).
S. B. O. F. W.—We think your writing would pass for the examination
you name; but if rounded a little it would be prettier. If you wish to
know how you may serve Christ, read His own words (in the four gospels)
and those of His apostles. Be much in prayer for the aid of the Holy
Spirit, and try to perform the daily duties of life as in His sight.
Deny yourself for others, control your temper, and set a good example.
MUSIC.
DINAH begs us to give her “a great ‘hunch’ of advice” as to the kind of
instrument she may purchase for ten shillings, because, having rather
limited means, amounting to “tenpence per week,” she “could not give a
high price.” She thinks “a bango would suit her, because much like a
nigger,” etc. We advise her to go to a musical instrument shop and see
what she can get for the price she names.
ROB ROY.—One of the largest organs in the world is, we believe, that
which you may see in the Royal Albert Hall, South Kensington. It is by
Willis. It contains 111 sounding stops, and nearly 8,000 pipes. Next
to it is the organ in St. George’s Hall, Liverpool, which has 5,739
pipes; and the Crystal Palace organ has 4,568 pipes. The organ may be
splendidly played by a woman, but, on account of the foot pedals, it is
by no means suitable for her. The strain upon the back and lower part
of the frame is very apt to result in physical injury.
MARY BIRD.—There is no reason why you should not play the flute, if
you have one, excepting that it distorts the shape of the mouth—at
least, for the time—and it is, we suppose, on this account unusual as
an instrument for female culture. The clarionette would be equally
objectionable for some faces, yet it is not unfrequently adopted by
women. The oldest tune or piece of music in existence is of Hebrew
origin—_i.e._, the “Blessing of the Priests,” which is used in the
Spanish and Portuguese synagogues, and was sung in the Temple at
Jerusalem from very remote times.
MISCELLANEOUS.
SISTER TO “CAGED BEAUTY.”—Your request will be considered. We have a
special interest in our girls and other readers scattered over our
far-off colonies. Your letter is well expressed, and your handwriting
is legible and fairly good.
“A BOTHERING GIRL.”—The books of Esdras are in the collection called
the “Apocrypha,” and this may be had from any library. These books are
not inspired, though much that is good is to be found in them, together
with curious fables and traditions. The books of the Maccabees are
much thought of as historical works of great antiquity. A list of the
canonical books of both the Old and the New Testaments is to be found
in all Bibles, and that of the Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah is
included amongst them.
EMMA.—The reason that some words are printed in italics in the Bible
is simply this: that there are no corresponding words in the original
language from which the translation was made; but the English words
supplied were necessary to give the meaning, which could not be
understood without them. Perhaps when we give the following example you
will understand what we mean. We all know what is meant when people
say, “How do you do?” but translate it into French, word for word, and
the meaning would be lost.
DEARIE should learn to spell better. She speaks of the word “desert,”
which denotes a barren, uncultivated waste of arid sandy land, but by
which she says she means the last course at dinner, that of fruit,
ice, and sweetmeats. Now this course is called “dessert,” and the
emphasis in its pronunciation is placed on the second syllable, and as
if spelt with a “z” (“de-zert”), whereas in the word “desert” it is on
the first, as “dez-ert.” “Bivouac” is pronounced as “biv-oo-ak.” Her
writing is very pretty, and we thank her for her kind letter.
ANGLICAN CATHOLIC.—We do not give private addresses. St. Augustine was
sent over to this country by Pope Gregory the Great as a missionary,
Christianity having been nearly exterminated by the invasions with
which it was so terribly harassed. He found a Christian church at
Canterbury (St. Martin’s), where Queen Bertha worshipped, having
Luithard as her priest and director. She was a French princess, and
brought him over with her. At that early time the Roman Church had not
evolved nor promulgated many of her modern dogmas.
MARY M.—It is not essential that you should send your address in
writing to the Editor, as in many cases it might hinder the expression,
feelings, and difficulties with the full freedom necessary to ensure
satisfactory advice.
EDMUNDA YORKE.—You had better write and tell him that, having so
forgotten himself and taken undue advantage of the intimacy involved
in the relations between a doctor and his patient on the occasion of
your last visit, your self-respect compelled you, with much regret, to
forego the benefit of his treatment, and you would be obliged if he
would return your book and send in his account.
E. M. TRILL.—You will receive what you require by attending to the
directions given at the end of every article by the “Lady Dressmaker.”
The Editor cannot attend to that department.
ONE SEEKING LIGHT.—1. We recommend you to join the Odd Minutes Society,
of which the secretary is Miss Powell, of Luctons, Buckhurst-hill,
Essex. She will send you all particulars about it, and we think it is
exactly the useful work that you require. 2. Read Isaiah i. 16, 17, 18,
lv. 7, and Ezekiel xxxiii. compared with St. John vi. 37, and Hebrews
vii. 25.
VIOLET.—1. Place the steel ornaments in oil, and leave them there
for some time to soak off the rust, and then rub well with a soft
toothbrush and chamois-leather. 2. Your handwriting is not formed.
Spell “truly” without the “e.” Final “e’s” in adjectives are dropped
when they are formed into adverbs.
ALLEGRO, MAB, GIPSY.—There is Miss Mason’s Home of Rest for Christian
Workers, 7 and 8, Cambridge-gardens, Kilburn, N.W.; seaside branch,
Burlington-place, Eastbourne. Terms, from 7s. to £1 per week. There is
also The Cottage Home of Rest, 2, Tilsey Villas, King’s-road, Norbiton
(close to Richmond Park). Apply for form of admission to Mrs. J. M.
Pearson, The Grange, Kingston-hill. Also see our answer to “Daisy.” We
think that Cobham, Surrey, would suit you.
IDALIA (Demerara).—We read your nice letter with interest, and tried to
realise the sketch you give of your surroundings. How we wish we could
see the “pink and red morning glory,” the “Hushfalia,” “Waxplant,”
and Stephanotis “running all up to the banisters on both sides,” etc.
Accept our thanks for the kind wish expressed to send us some of them.
We do “take the will for the deed.” By some means your silver bracelet
has become oxidised, and your only plan will be to send it to a
silversmith. Your writing, if sloped a little from right to left, would
be excellent.
OMNIA VINCIT AMOR.—The form of speech, in such common use, to which you
refer, is perfectly understood (in the real meaning assigned to it) by
the visitors to whom it is addressed. Thus it is not a deception. There
are “at home days,” and “not at home days.” On the former your mistress
will be found in her reception-room; on the latter, she will not be
found awaiting visitors there. If persons in society agree together
to adopt a certain phrase to signify a certain thing, and not as a
deception, you may use that phrase, at the orders of your mistress, in
the sense in which she meant, and her visitors will receive it. Your
letter and the verses, though incorrect in composition, do you credit,
and we wish you God-speed!
HOPE.—We recommend you to get a small sixpenny manual on canaries and
their treatment. Your bird has probably been in a draught. See our
article at page 775, vol. iii. Our correspondents are as numerous as
ever, and the difficulty is to find space for all the answers written.
Your handwriting is not formed.
MARIAN.—The Jewish year begins with Tisri, which month follows
immediately after the new moon following the autumnal equinox; but the
ecclesiastical year begins with the seventh month—viz., Nizan or Abib.
The following is the entire list:—Tisri, Marchesvan, Chislev, Thebet,
Sebat, Adar, Nisan, Tjar, Givan, Thammuz, Ab, and Elal.
MISCEL.—When reading or reciting to a public audience, it is usual to
stand, unless the piece to be read be very long. You should (or might)
hold the letter. “If you were to see So-and-so painted by so poor a
painter, and bad _at that_” (bad event for a bad attempt). This is the
meaning of the Americanism.
INQUIRER.—Chemists have signs of their trade like other tradesmen.
The hairdresser has a striped pole, the publican chequers, or a bush,
etc. Divide your ancient from your modern coins, and let each of these
be sub-divided according to size and age. Have little trays with a
succession of shallow circular cells lined with coloured paper to
receive them, deep enough to preserve them from any touch of the tray
that lies on it.
IGNORAMUS.—You could clean the large white skin hearthrug by means of
powdered plaster of Paris. There is no difficulty in making a small
copy of a large picture; the difficulty would be in enlarging.
[Illustration: SHE STRETCHETH OUT HER HAND TO THE POOR;
YEA, SHE REACHETH FORTH HER HANDS TO THE NEEDY.
PROV. XXXI, 20.]
M. W. A.—On a liberal computation, the cost of keeping a pony varies
from £10 to £20 per annum. The grazing will cost less than that of a
cow, and £4 or £5 would cover it. You may give him turnips and carrots,
and scraps from the house of vegetables and bread. Oats would cost
about 10s. a month; but they are really quite unnecessary. A cartload
of hay at a corn-merchant’s price would be about £5, more or less,
and this should last one pony from the end of a summer’s grass (about
the end of October) till the beginning of May next year, when grass
would be resumed. But unless the animal were groomed and harnessed by
yourself, you must also take the expense of a groom into your account,
and the cost and repair of a trap.
KATHLEEN.—Rest your foot for a couple of days, and if inflamed poultice
it a few times; then cut the nail quite straight at the top, and scrape
(with a penknife or scrap of glass) down the centre to thin the nail
in the middle, and so dispose the sides to rise up instead of bending
downwards and inwards, from the convex (or rounded) shape of the nail.
It might be best at first to cut the nail rather in a “u” or “v”
shape in the middle, instead of quite straight across, as you may do
afterwards.
PERPLEXED ONE.—The only wrong we see about the whole matter is that you
did not confide all to your mother. A girl should keep no secret of her
own from her. She is the adviser and the protector of her daughter, and
if desirable that you should renew your acquaintance with him, she will
know best what steps to take. Never let her find out by chance what
concerns you so seriously, more especially when anyone else has been
made a confidant.
GUINEVERE.—1. The term “furniture” is too vague to enable us to give
you advice. You do not even say whether it be wood, stuff, or leather.
It is very hard to remove inkstains, but if you refer to our indexes
you will find more than one recipe for removing them. The probability
is that in taking them out you extract the dye of the material
likewise. 2. Break up a small stick of chocolate into a cup, and pour
the least drop of boiling water upon it. When dissolved, pour boiling
milk upon it, stirring all the time.
LANGE.—Sponge the oil-cloths with milk and water, and rub them dry;
then rub over with beeswax, dissolved in a little linseed oil. We
“thing” your handwriting is not formed, but promises well. We think
little girls ought to be “shy.” It will wear off quite as much and as
soon as it will be desirable for you to get rid of it.
CHRISTABEL.—Probably the letter may be returned to your friend through
the Dead Letter Office. You write a curious hand, but it is very
legible, which is the great object to be gained.
SHARP does not always merit her nickname. She says: “A gentleman said I
have dreamy Southern eyes. I am as a rule treated kindly. Perhaps it is
because I have such pure blue orbs.” Now, little lady, you have made a
blunder—sharp as you may be—for Southern eyes are black, not blue. 2.
Weymouth is a very nice place, and while there we advise you to write
copies and learn the correct spelling of what you call “Wensday.” For
all particulars respecting clerkships in the Telegraph Department, you
must apply to the Civil Service Commissioners, in Cannon-row, W.C.
A. M. H.—Gainsborough’s “Duchess” was at Agnew’s when it disappeared.
R. S. V. P.—Clean your white wool shawl with flour, or rinse it in a
lather of soft tepid water and curd-soap, or in bran and water. We are
glad that you found our recipe for apple pickle so satisfactory. We
congratulate you on your writing.
T. C. S.—Have you consulted your mother’s wishes respecting your
leaving home to be a missionary? Remember that however excellent a
profession may be, your first duty is to your parents. You are only
in your teens, and, even were you of age, God’s providence might have
other work for you to do. Your prayer should be “Lord, what wouldst
Thou have me to do?” and He will probably answer you through the voice
of your parents. “Requite” them; and if they approve of your desire,
write to Miss Lloyd, 143, Clapham-road, S.W., secretary of the Mission
Training House for Ladies, The Poplars, Addlestone, Surrey.
CLARRIE.—The author of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” is Mrs. Craik, _née_
Muloch.
DEEPLY ANXIOUS.—Be at peace. You have confessed to God and a sister,
and have truly repented and made restitution. There is no occasion for
your telling anyone else, nor of doing more than making the little
present you propose to give. Sin under all these circumstances is sin
forgiven.
POSSIE.—The edelweiss is an Alpine flower. It resembles a star, with
irregular rays, cut out of frosted velvet, of a cream colour, and
there is a pretty centre to it. So many travellers have carried away
the roots of this plant, that the Swiss Government has issued an order
prohibiting it under a penalty.
STAR.—We have many times warned inquirers that those who advertise
for used English postage stamps do so for nefarious purposes—that is
to say, they obliterate the postmarks and defraud the Government by
selling them for use a second time. For felony like this the severest
punishment is due. Do not lend yourself to such evil doings.
GWEN.—The little roll or piece of bread used at dinner is generally
placed within the folds of the napkin or at the right of the plate.
VENTNOR LASSIE.—You should take the prescription to a good chemist.
He will understand all about it, and give further directions; but our
advice is, leave nature alone, and do not mind the quizzing. If they
saw you were quite indifferent to it they would desist.
MARGARET.—There is a swimming club held in the Queen’s-road, Bayswater,
just beyond Whiteley’s, besides at 309, Regent-street, W., and
elsewhere.
MAYFLY.—There is a Home of Rest at Malvern, where girls in business,
ladies of small means, and servants may be received at from 7s. to
£1 per week. Members of the Girls’ Friendly Society are taken at the
lowest rate named, and any respectable girls recommended by two members
or two associates of that society will be eligible and received, room
permitting.
GRANDPAPA’S WORRY.—1. We must refer you to advice already given in
our pages respecting the constitutionally damp condition of either
hands or feet. There is no such thing as “fate.” 2. There is a Divine
Providence, and we are told that evils threatened, and even prophesied
by God’s command, may be averted through repentance and prayer. Nothing
happens by chance, and not only this world, but the whole universe, is
ruled and sustained with a regularity and method like that of the most
perfect clockwork.
SMIKE.—The 29th of February, 1865, was a Wednesday.
SCOTCH NELL.—We should prefer the Shetland pony, if well trained and
sure-footed, for our own use.
LUCY must take the pebbles to a lapidary and have them drilled.
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 176: Dittograph “not” corrected—“does not always merit”.]