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_"Laden with Golden Grain"_
* * * * *
THE
ARGOSY.
EDITED BY
CHARLES W. WOOD.
* * * * *
VOLUME LI.
_January to June, 1891._
* * * * *
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON,
8, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, LONDON, W.
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
_All rights reserved._
LONDON:
PRINTED BY OGDEN, SMALE AND CO. LIMITED,
GREAT SAFFRON HILL, E.C.
_CONTENTS._
THE FATE OF THE HARA DIAMOND. Illustrated by M.L. GOW.
Chap. I. My Arrival at Deepley Walls Jan
II. The Mistress of Deepley Walls Jan
III. A Voyage of Discovery Jan
IV. Scarsdale Weir Jan
V. At Rose Cottage Feb
VI. The Growth of a Mystery Feb
VII. Exit Janet Hope Feb
VIII. By the Scotch Express Feb
IX. At "The Golden Griffin" Mar
X. The Stolen Manuscript Mar
XI. Bon Repos Mar
XII. The Amsterdam Edition of 1698 Mar
XIII. M. Platzoff's Secret--Captain Ducie's Translation of
M. Paul Platzoff's MS Mar
XIV. Drashkil-Smoking Apr
XV. The Diamond Apr
XVI. Janet's Return Apr
XVII. Deepley Walls after Seven Years Apr
XVIII. Janet in a New Character May
XIX. The Dawn of Love May
XX. The Narrative of Sergeant Nicholas May
XXI. Counsel taken with Mr. Madgin May
XXII. Mr. Madgin at the Helm Jun
XXIII. Mr. Madgin's Secret Journey Jun
XXIV. Enter Madgin Junior Jun
XXV. Madgin Junior's First Report Jun
* * * * *
THE SILENT CHIMES. By JOHNNY LUDLOW (Mrs. HENRY WOOD).
Putting Them Up Jan
Playing Again Feb
Ringing at Midday Mar
Not Heard Apr
Silent for Ever May
* * * * *
THE BRETONS AT HOME. By CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S. With
35 Illustrations Jan, Feb, Mar, Apr, May, Jun
* * * * *
About the Weather Jun
Across the River. By HELEN M. BURNSIDE Apr
After Twenty Years. By ADA M. TROTTER Feb
A Memory. By GEORGE COTTERELL Feb
A Modern Witch Jan
An April Folly. By GILBERT H. PAGE Apr
A Philanthropist. By ANGUS GREY Jun
Aunt Phoebe's Heirlooms: An Experience in Hypnotism Feb
A Social Debut Mar
A Song. By G.B. STUART Jan
Enlightenment. By E. NESBIT Feb
In a Bernese Valley. By ALEXANDER LAMONT Feb
Legend of an Ancient Minster. By JOHN GRÆME Mar
Longevity. By W.F. AINSWORTH, F.S.A. Apr
Mademoiselle Elise. By EDWARD FRANCIS Jun
Mediums and Mysteries. By NARISSA ROSAVO Feb
Miss Kate Marsden Jan
My May Queen. By JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD, M.A. May
Old China Jun
On Letter-Writing. By A.H. JAPP, LL.D. May
Paul. By the Author of "Adonais, Q.C." May
"Proctorised" Apr
Rondeau. By E. NESBIT Mar
Saint or Satan? By A. BERESFORD Feb
Sappho. By MARY GREY Mar
Serenade. By E. NESBIT Jun
Sonnets. By JULIA KAVANAGH Jan, Feb, Apr, Jun
So Very Unattractive! Jun
Spes. By JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD, M.A. Apr
Sweet Nancy. By JEANIE GWYNNE BETTANY May
The Church Garden. By CHRISTIAN BURKE May
The Only Son of his Mother. By LETITIA MCCLINTOCK Mar
To my Soul. From the French of Victor Hugo Jun
Unexplained. By LETITIA MCCLINTOCK Apr
Who Was the Third Maid? Jan
Winter in Absence Feb
* * * * *
_POETRY._
Sonnets. By JULIA KAVANAGH Jan, Feb, Apr, Jun
A Song. By G.B. STUART Jan
Enlightenment. By E. NESBIT Feb
Winter in Absence Feb
A Memory. By GEORGE COTTERELL Feb
In a Bernese Valley. By ALEXANDER LAMONT Feb
Rondeau. By E. NESBIT Mar
Spes. By JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD, M.A. Apr
Across the River. By HELEN M. BURNSIDE Apr
My May Queen. By JOHN JERVIS BERESFORD, M.A. May
The Church Garden. By CHRISTIAN BURKE May
Serenade. By E. NESBIT Jun
To my Soul. From the French of Victor Hugo Jun
Old China Jun
* * * * *
_ILLUSTRATIONS._
By M.L. Gow.
"I advanced slowly up the room, stopped, and curtsied."
"I saw and recognised the mysterious midnight visitor."
"He came back in a few minutes, but so transformed in outward
appearance that Ducie scarcely knew him."
"Behold!"
"Sister Agnes knelt for a few moments and bent her head in silent
prayer."
"He put his hand to his side, and motioned Mirpah to open the letter."
* * * * *
Illustrations to "The Bretons at Home."
[Illustration: I SAW AND RECOGNIZED THE MYSTERIOUS MIDNIGHT VISITOR.]
THE ARGOSY.
_FEBRUARY, 1891._
THE FATE OF THE HARA DIAMOND.
CHAPTER V.
AT ROSE COTTAGE.
On regaining my senses I found myself in a cozy little bed in a cozy
little room, with an old gentleman sitting by my side gently chafing one
of my hands--a gentleman with white hair and a white moustache, with a
ruddy face and a smile that made me all in love with him at first sight.
"Did I not say that she would do famously in a little while?" he cried,
in a cheery voice that it did one good to listen to. "I believe the
Poppetina has only been hoaxing us all this time: pretending to be
half-drowned just to find out whether anyone would make a fuss about
her. Is not that the truth, little one?"
"If you please, sir, where am I? And are you a doctor?" I asked,
faintly.
"I am not a doctor, either of medicine or law," answered the
white-haired gentleman. "I am Major Strickland, and this place is Rose
Cottage--the magnificent mansion which I call my own. But you had better
not talk, my dear--at least not just yet: not till the doctor himself
has seen you."
"But how did I get here?" I pleaded. "Do tell me that, please."
"Simply thus. My nephew Geordie was out mooning on the bridge when he
heard a cry for help. Next minute he saw you and your boat go over the
weir. He rushed down to the quiet water at the foot of the falls,
plunged in, and fished you out before you had time to get more than
half-drowned. My housekeeper, Deborah, put you to bed, and here you are.
But I am afraid that you have hurt yourself among those ugly stones that
line the weir; so Geordie has gone off for the doctor, and we shall soon
know how you really are. One question I must ask you, in order that I
may send word to your friends. What is your name? and where do you
live?"
Before I could reply, the village doctor came bounding up the stairs
three at a time. Five minutes sufficed him for my case. A good night's
rest and a bottle of his mixture were all that was required. A few hours
would see me as well as ever. Then he went.
"And now for the name and address, Poppetina," said the smiling Major.
"We must send word to papa and mamma without a moment's delay."
"I have neither papa nor mamma," I answered. "My name is Janet Hope, and
I come from Deepley Walls."
"From Deepley Walls!" exclaimed the Major. "I thought I knew everybody
under Lady Chillington's roof, but I never heard of you before to-night,
my dear."
Then I told him that I had been only two days with Lady Chillington, and
that all of my previous life that I could remember had been spent at
Park Hill Seminary.
The Major was evidently puzzled by what I had told him. He mused for
several moments without speaking. Hitherto my face had been in
half-shadow, the candle having been placed behind the curtain that fell
round the head of the bed, so as not to dazzle my eyes. This candle the
Major now took, and held it about a yard above my head, so that its full
light fell on my upturned face. I was swathed in a blanket, and while
addressing the Major had raised myself on my elbow in bed. My long black
hair, still damp, fell wildly round my shoulders.
The moment Major Strickland's eyes rested on my face, on which the full
light of the candle was now shining, his ruddy cheek paled; he started
back in amazement, and was obliged to replace the candlestick on the
table.
"Great Heavens! what a marvellous resemblance!" he exclaimed. "It cannot
arise from accident merely. There must be a hidden link somewhere."
Then taking the candle for the second time, he scanned my face again
with eyes that seemed to pierce me through and through. "It is as if one
had come to me suddenly from the dead," I heard him say in a low voice.
Then with down-bent head and folded arms he took several turns across
the room.
"Sir, of whom do I remind you?" I timidly asked.
"Of someone, child, whom I knew when I was young--of someone who died
long years before you were born." There was a ring of pathos in his
voice that seemed like the echo of some sorrowful story.
"Are you sure that you have no other name than Janet Hope?" he asked,
presently.
"None, sir, that I know of. I have been called Janet Hope ever since I
can remember."
"But about your parents? What were they called, and where did they
live?"
"I know nothing whatever about them except what Sister Agnes told me
yesterday."
"And she said--what?"
"That my father was drowned abroad several years ago, and that my mother
died a year later."
"Poverina! But it is strange that Sister Agnes should have known your
parents. Perhaps she can supply the missing link. The mention of her
name reminds me that I have not yet sent word to Deepley Walls that you
are safe and sound at Rose Cottage. Geordie must start without a
moment's delay. I am an old friend of Lady Chillington, my dear, so that
she will be quite satisfied when she learns that you are under my roof."
"But, sir, when shall I see the gentleman who got me out of the water?"
I asked.
"What, Geordie? Oh, you'll see Geordie in the morning, never fear! A
good boy! a fine boy! though it's his old uncle who says it."
Then he rang the bell, and when Deborah, his only servant, came up, he
committed me with many injunctions into her charge. Then taking my head
gently between his hands, he kissed me tenderly on the forehead, and
wished me "Good-night, and happy dreams."
Deborah was very kind. She brought me up a delicious little supper, and
decided that there was no need for me to take the doctor's nauseous
mixture. She took it herself instead, but merely as a sop to her
conscience and my own; "for, after all, you know, there's very little
difference in physic--it's all nasty; and I daresay this mixture will do
my lumbago no harm."
The effects of the accident had almost entirely passed away by next
morning, and I was dressed and downstairs by seven o'clock. I found the
Major hard at work digging up the garden for his winter crops. "Ah,
Poppetina, down so early!" he cried. "And how do we feel this morning,
eh? None the worse for our ducking, I hope."
I assured him that I was quite well, and that I had never felt better in
my life.
"That will be good news for her ladyship," he replied, "and will prove
to her that Miss Hope has not fallen among Philistines. In any case, she
cannot be more pleased than I am to find that you have sustained no harm
from your accident. There is something, Poverina, in that face of yours
that brings back the past to me strangely. But here comes Master
Geordie."
I turned and saw a young man sauntering slowly down the pathway. He was
very fair, and, to me, seemed very handsome. He had blue eyes, and his
hair was a mass of short, crisp flaxen curls. From the way in which the
Major regarded him as he came lounging up, I could see that the old
soldier was very proud of his young Adonis of a nephew. The latter
lifted his hat as he opened the wicket, and bade his uncle good-morning.
Me he did not for the moment see.
"Miss Hope is not up yet, I suppose?" he said. "I trust she is none the
worse for her tumble over the weir."
"Our little water-nymph is here to answer for herself," said the Major.
"The roses in her cheeks seem all the brighter for their wetting."
George Strickland turned smilingly towards me, and held out his hand. "I
am very glad to find that you have suffered so little from your
accident," he said. "When I fished you out of the river last night you
looked so death-like that I was afraid we should not be able to bring
you round without difficulty."
Tears stood in my eyes as I took his hand. "Oh, sir, how brave, how
noble it was of you to act as you did! You saved my life at the risk of
your own; and how can I ever thank you enough?"
A bright colour came into his cheek as I spoke. "My dear child, you must
not speak in that way," he said. "What I did was a very ordinary thing.
Anyone else in my place would have done precisely the same. I must not
claim more merit than is due for an action so simple."
"To you it may seem a simple thing to do, but I cannot forget that it
was my life that you saved."
"What an old-fashioned princess it is!" said the Major. "Why, it must
have been born a hundred years ago, and have had a fairy for its
godmother. But here comes Deborah to tell us that breakfast is ready.
Toasted bacon is better than pretty speeches; so come along with you,
and make believe that you have known each other for a twelvemonth at
least."
Rose Cottage was a tiny place, and there were not wanting proofs that
the Major's income was commensurate with the scale of his establishment.
A wise economy had to be a guiding rule in Major Strickland's life,
otherwise Mr. George's college expenses would never have been met, and
that young gentleman would not have had a proper start in life. Deborah
was the only servant that the little household could afford; but then
the Major himself was gardener, butler, valet and page in one. Thus--he
cleaned the knives in a machine of his own invention; he brushed his own
clothes; he lacquered his own boots, and at a pinch could mend them. He
dug and planted his own garden, and grew enough potatoes and greenstuff
to serve his little family the year round. In a little paddock behind
his garden the Major kept a cow; in the garden itself he had
half-a-dozen hives; while not far away was a fowl-house that supplied
him with more eggs than he could dispose of, except by sale. The Major's
maxim was, that the humblest offices of labour could be dignified by a
gentleman, and by his own example he proved the rule. What few leisure
hours he allowed himself were chiefly spent with rod and line on the
banks of the Adair.
George Strickland was an orphan, and had been adopted and brought up by
his uncle since he was six years old. So far, the uncle had been able
to supply the means for having him educated in accordance with his
wishes. For the last three years George had been at one of the public
schools, and now he was at home for a few weeks' holiday previously to
going to Cambridge.
It will of course be understood that but a very small portion of what is
here set down respecting Rose Cottage and its inmates was patent to me
at that first visit; much of it, indeed, did not come within my
cognizance till several years afterwards.
When breakfast was over, the Major lighted an immense meerschaum, and
then invited me to accompany him over his little demesne. To a girl
whose life had been spent within the four bare walls of a school-room,
everything was fresh and everything was delightful. First to the
fowl-house, then to the hives, and after that to see the brindled calf
in the paddock, whose gambols and general mode of conducting himself
were so utterly absurd that I laughed more in ten minutes after seeing
him than I had done in ten years previously.
When we got back to the cottage, George was ready to take me on the
river. The Major went down with us and saw us safely on board the _Water
Lily_, bade us good-bye for an hour, and then went about his morning's
business. I was rather frightened at first, the _Water Lily_ was such a
tiny craft, so long and narrow that it seemed to me as if the least
movement on one side must upset it. But George showed me exactly where
to sit, and gave me the tiller-ropes, with instructions how to manage
them, and was himself so full of quiet confidence that my fears quickly
died a natural death, and a sweet sense of enjoyment took their place.
We were on that part of the river which was below the weir, and as we
put out from shore the scene of my last night's adventure was clearly
visible. There, spanning the river just above the weir, was the
open-work timber bridge on which George was standing when my cry for
help struck his ears. There was the weir itself, a sheet of foaming,
frothing water, that as it fell dashed itself in white-lipped passion
against the rounded boulders that seemed striving in vain to turn it
from its course. And here, a little way from the bottom of the weir, was
the pool of quiet water over which our little boat was now cleaving its
way, and out of which the handsome young man now sitting opposite to me
had plucked me, bruised and senseless, only a few short hours ago. I
shuddered and could feel myself turn pale as I looked. George seemed to
read my thoughts; he smiled, but said nothing. Then bending all his
strength to the oars, he sent the _Water Lily_ spinning on her course.
All my skill and attention were needed for the proper management of the
tiller, and for a little while all morbid musings were banished from my
mind.
Scarcely a word passed between us during the next half-hour, but I was
too happy to care much for conversation. When we had gone a couple of
miles or more, George pointed out a ruinous old house that stood on a
dreary flat about a quarter of a mile from the river. Many years ago, he
told me, that house had been the scene of a terrible murder, and was
said to have been haunted ever since. Nobody would live in it; it was
shunned as a place accursed, and was now falling slowly into decay and
ruin. I listened to the story with breathless interest, and the telling
of it seemed to make us quite old friends. After this there seemed no
lack of subjects for conversation. George shipped his oars, and the boat
was allowed to float lazily down the stream. He told about his
schooldays, and I told about mine. The height of his ambition, he said,
was to go into the army, and become a soldier like his dear old uncle.
But Major Strickland wanted him to become a lawyer; and, owing
everything to his uncle as he did, it was impossible for him not to
accede to his wishes. "Besides which," added George, with a sigh, "a
commission is an expensive thing to buy, and dear old uncle is anything
but rich."
When we first set out that morning I think that George, from the summit
of his eighteen years, had been inclined to look down upon me as a
little school miss, whom he might patronise in a kindly sort of way, but
whose conversation could not possibly interest a man of his sense and
knowledge of the world. But whether it arose from that "old-fashioned"
quality of which Major Strickland had made mention, which caused me to
seem so much older than my years; or whether it arose from the genuine
interest I showed in all he had to say; certain it is that long before
we got back to Rose Cottage we were talking as equals in years and
understanding; but that by no means prevented me from looking up to him
in my own mind as to a being superior, not only to myself, but to the
common run of humanity. I was sorry when we got back in sight of the
weir, and as I stepped ashore I thought that this morning and the one I
had spent with Sister Agnes in Charke Forest were the two happiest of my
life. I had no prevision that the fair-haired young man with whom I had
passed three such pleasant hours would, in after years, influence my
life in a way that just now I was far too much a child even to dream of.