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[Illustration: THE PRIMROSE GATHERER.
From the Painting by W. A. MENZIES.]
[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1001.] MARCH 4, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
[Illustration: The Princess of Wales’s Dairy. Sandringham.]
_All rights reserved._]
“OUR HERO.”
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.
CHAPTER XXIII.
LIFE IN A FRENCH DUNGEON.
Eight long long months at Bitche!
No wonder Roy Baron was altered. He had left Verdun a careless and
light-hearted lad; almost a child still; young in many respects for his
age. Eight months at Bitche had snuffed all remnants of childishness
out of him.
Sometimes he caught himself wondering if he really were the same Roy
Baron, who once had lived in a happy London home, with never a care or
a trouble; who had wept salt tears in a Paris bedroom, because Denham
had to leave him behind for a few days; who had carried himself with a
gay heart through more than three years of Verdun captivity.
The weight of the last eight months amounted to far more than all that
had gone before.
Not that the whole of that time had been spent in the great crowded
dungeon below. The gendarmes knew better, when a prisoner possessed a
little money. The very first morning after Roy’s arrival, he had been
conducted above ground, glad enough to go, though grieved to leave
little Will Peirce behind; and it had been intimated to him that, if he
chose to pay for the benefit, he might be put into a room with a few
other prisoners of a better grade. Roy had thankfully availed himself
of the chance, and he had done his best to get Will brought up also,
but there he had failed.
During more than four months he had lived, monotonously enough, in a
barely-furnished room, with half-a-dozen companions—an elderly Naval
officer of the rougher sort, a half-pay Colonel, a musician who solaced
his own imprisonment and made worse that of others by incessant piping
upon a flute, and three well-to-do men in the merchant line. It was a
lonely existence for the boy. The men were kind to him, but utterly
uncongenial, and they spent most of their time in high play. Roy had
no interests, no employments, nothing in common with these men, among
whom his lot was cast. The temptation to be drawn in, to find relief
from his own thoughts in the excitement of gambling, was often terribly
severe; but he remembered always his own reiterated promise to Denham
in the past, and he resisted manfully. He was not conquered; and
through all his after life Roy Baron was the stronger man for that
successful fight in his boyish days. Every victory makes one stronger,
every defeat makes one weaker, for the years to follow.
By the end of about four months and a half his money, though carefully
husbanded, came to an end; and more had not reached him, as he had
confidently expected. He had written repeatedly to his parents and to
Ivor; but no answers arrived, and he could not know whether any of his
letters had reached their destination. It was as likely as not that all
had failed to do so, and that money, sent to him by his father, had
been seized _en route_.
So soon as his means of paying the gendarmes for better prison
accommodation ceased, Roy was remanded to the great dungeon.
He took it more quietly than at the first. He was by this time in a
manner used to close captivity. Will and the other middies welcomed him
warmly; and soon he found that a plan for escape was brewing among them.
No wonder prisoners sought to get away. The life in those
dungeons—there were more than one at Bitche—must have been fearful.
We, in this more humane age, find it difficult to believe that only
ninety years ago imprisonment in noisome dungeons was still in full
swing, even in so civilised a country as France. The close damp
atmosphere, the crowded space, the lack of quiet, the incessant noise,
the absence of subordination among the worse characters of those herded
indiscriminately together—all these things were hard to bear.
From eight at night until eight in the morning the three or four
hundred prisoners were locked up in their dungeon. At eight in the
morning they were turned out—like sheep turned from a pen—into the
“yard,” a place about one hundred and thirty paces in length by some
thirty in breadth. There they remained until noon, getting what air
and exercise they could. At noon once more they were mustered in the
dungeon, and at two o’clock they were again turned out into the yard,
until the evening. And this is no fancy picture of what went on.
The yard was well known to Roy, since, while living upstairs, he had
gone out there daily, meeting many other English prisoners from other
rooms, but always at such times as the dungeon inmates were locked in.
The very idea of possible escape from such an existence was naturally
welcomed, even though every attempt to get away meant danger to life.
Many had escaped; many more were likely enough to do their best for the
same end. When Will Peirce, with the consent of his friends, and under
strictest vows of secrecy, confided to Roy the plan under discussion,
Roy threw himself into it with fervour. Anything to be free!
He stood in the prison-yard one cold day in late autumn, leaning
against the wall, with folded arms and abstracted look. A grey sky was
overhead, and some drops of half-frozen rain had fallen. Hundreds of
prisoners were assembled there; some walking about to keep themselves
warm; some leaping or wrestling; some fighting in good earnest; others
absorbed in games of chance; while some lounged listlessly, with
no spirit to exert themselves. A dull inertia, as of semi-despair,
characterised many present.
Yet on the faces of a few, notably on that of Roy Baron, might have
been detected a gleam of something like hope, carefully repressed.
A blue-eyed little middy was at his side, for he and Will had drawn
together, as they seldom failed to do. Will’s high spirits were as
helpful to Roy now, as Roy’s in the past had been to Ivor.
Despite that gleam Roy was changed. He had grown taller, thinner,
older, than eight months earlier; and the spirit of boyish fun seemed
to have passed into almost a man’s gravity.
Some weeks before this, three or four middies had managed to get away,
by digging deep underground, undetected by the gendarmes, till they
lighted on a subterranean passage, leading away from the fortress.
Through this, one day, they had fled to the neighbouring country,
making good their escape. It was known by many there that they were
gone; and it was conjectured that they had not as yet been re-taken,
since, had they been, the whole body of prisoners would certainly have
been informed of the fact.
The present scheme was different in kind. About a dozen middies,
besides one young lieutenant in the Royal Navy and Roy Baron, were in
the plot—all sworn to secrecy. None but active and agile young fellows
could have hoped to succeed in what was proposed. They had made a stout
rope out of such materials as they could contrive to get together; and
with this their intention was to descend from the high outer wall,
which wall would first have to be scaled from within. One or two at
least would have to reach the top with no help from above, though when
they were up the rope could be lowered for the others to use. On the
other side of the wall would lie fresh difficulties—watchful sentries,
perils of starvation, dangers of being overtaken and of worse treatment
than before to follow. Those who failed to get away might expect to
be despatched to the fortress of Sédan, for solitary imprisonment.
But with the hope of liberty to cheer them on, not one of the number
hesitated.
“Two days more of this! Only two days more!” Roy was saying to
himself. He hardly dared to look up, when anybody not in the secret
came near, so much he feared to suggest by even a cheerful glance that
hope had dawned.
“I know what you’re thinking, Roy,” Will muttered, under cover of a
noisy fight twenty paces off of a couple of imprisoned professional
boxers.
“I’m thinking that this is an awful place!”
“It was a lot worse when you weren’t here. I say!”—lowering his
voice—“Just listen. Don’t look as if we were saying anything
particular. I say, Roy, mind we keep together. And if—you know what I
mean—_if_——”
Roy made a hasty comprehending gesture.
“Yes—if—” he said, taking up Will’s words—“then you tell my people
all about it. And if—if it’s the other way—then I tell your people.
Eh?”
“Tell ’em I tried to do my duty, all along,” Will said, as manly a
note breathing through his hushed tones as if he had measured six feet
in length. “And Roy—mind you tell my mother”—the blue eyes showed a
sudden moisture—“mind you tell her—I’d never funk anything, if it
wasn’t doing what’s wrong. And I haven’t forgot what she said to me
when I was leaving home. Tell her that. And I’ve got the little Bible
she gave me, and I’ve said my prayers too. I don’t mind telling this to
you, because you’re not the sort to jeer at a fellow. Mind, Roy, don’t
you forget.”
“And, Will, if it’s the other way—you’ll tell my people—tell ’em I’ve
tried too——”
Roy’s voice broke.
“Yes, I know. I’ll tell ’em. I’ll say you’re as brave a chap as any
officer in his Majesty’s Navy. Couldn’t say more than that, could I?”
“Only that I’ve tried—that too, you know. And my mother and
father—and Molly—and Denham——”
Somebody came nearer, and they dashed into careless talk about nothing
in particular.
As it grew dark they were ordered in—all of them—to the dank damp
oppressive dungeon, which for several weeks had been Roy’s habitation.
He looked round that night, with a strange moved gaze, when the bulk of
the prisoners were asleep, sitting up and clasping his hands round his
knees. One more night beside this—only one!—only one!—and then away
and away for dear old England, for the land of freedom!
It was worth while making the attempt, even though in that attempt he
should die instead of getting away. He was so sick and weary of this
long close captivity. He had the craving of a caged bird for light
and air, for exercise and active life. At the bare notion of liberty
once more, his heart danced and sang. Then he bowed his head on his
knees, and he prayed passionately that—if only it might be—he should
succeed, and should find his way home—home to Molly, to the dear old
country! O the rapture of it!
“For Christ’s sake—for Christ’s sake—O God, let me go; do not let
them take me!” he implored.
But prayer, though heard, is not always instantly answered in the
manner wished; and sometimes one has to wait a little to know the
reason.
Morning dawned, and half of another slow day passed. How slow
those unoccupied and dreary days were! Roy could do nothing but
hang listlessly about. He could think of nothing but the coming
nightfall, when, after dark but before they were ordered back into the
_souterrain_ for the night, he and his companions would steal softly
away to that high outer wall, and would scale it. All details of the
plan thus far had been carefully thought out and arranged. Beyond that
most of them were trusting largely to what is called “the chapter of
accidents.”
To be free again! O to be free!—free under the blue sky, free to
breathe heaven’s breezes, free to sun himself in heaven’s smile, free
to stretch his limbs, free to be a light-hearted English boy once more,
instead of a careworn man before his time. Roy flung his arms out and
clutched the prison wall, in that craving to be away.
Mid-day came, and the crowd of prisoners were ordered in. A hand
touched Roy, and a rough voice ordered him to follow.
Roy faced the gendarme. “Where?” he demanded blankly, in a moment
realising what this might mean.
No answer was vouchsafed. These gendarmes were for the most part
surly fellows, though even among them gleams of kindness towards the
prisoners were not wholly unknown.
Roy had no choice but to obey. Resistence would have done himself no
good, and might have drawn suspicion upon his comrades. The man laid a
grip upon his arm, and led him, not down but up, past the ground floor,
ascending to the floor above. At the end of a long passage he paused at
a door, opened it, and thrust Roy in. The door was shut, and the lock
snapped.
Roy found himself alone in a small prison-like cell, with stone floor,
stone ceiling, stone walls, one little iron-barred window, deeply
embrasured, and a single wooden bench. On the bench lay a folded
blanket. Beside the bench were a jug of water and a hunch of bread,
with cheese.
Was he now to be condemned to solitary imprisonment—perhaps for weeks,
perhaps for months, perhaps for years? And for what? What had he done
to bring this upon himself?
Roy’s head seemed to be bursting. But for the planned escape, so near
at hand, he might have welcomed almost any change from the dungeon and
its horrors. Now, however, now, with freedom in sight, to be carried
off, to be placed where he was debarred from every hope of liberty,
this was heart-breaking.
He flung himself upon the ground, hid his face on his crossed arms, and
gave himself over to despair.
Would he _never_ leave this awful place? Was _this_ the way in which
his prayers and his mother’s prayers were to be answered? If so, what
was the use of praying? He would give it all up. He would never pray
again. It was no use. Nothing was of any use.
Hours passed in one long agony. All that day he was left alone. At
nightfall a gendarme brought him his allowance of coarse food, and left
him again. Roy drank the water, and pushed the rest aside, too sick
with misery to care to eat. The boys would now be escaping. He followed
every step of theirs in imagination, envying them bitterly. That they
should be on their way to dear old England, and that he should be cut
off! It was too terrible—too awful—too cruel.
He had no sleep that night; and he could not see the pitying angels who
hovered over him. He could not know what was going on in another part
of the fortress, or guess how some of his comrades won their freedom.
All the next morning he lay on the ground, listless, hopeless, careless
of what might happen next.
At mid-day he was ordered to go down into the yard. That was the hour
when the subterranean prisoners retired into their dungeon, and when
the better class of prisoners might take their turn of fresh air—if
any air could be fresh, which had just been breathed by hundreds of
men. Roy wondered languidly at being treated thus. He had expected to
remain in his cell. It mattered little either way, he said to himself,
as he found his way thither. All hope for the present was at an end.
On reaching the yard, his first impression was of an unusual gravity,
among even the gravest of the prisoners there before him. One or two
of them half spoke to Roy, and stopped, thinking from his look that he
already knew, that he would not be taken by surprise; and so he was
allowed to pass on, unhindered. He saw the expression in their faces,
and he wondered a little, indifferently.
Then indifference fled, and a dazed bewilderment took possession of
him. His brain swam, and he staggered to the wall, clutching it for
support, staring and shuddering.
His eyes had fallen on something unexpected, on—what was it? What
could it mean?
A row of boys, lying on the ground, peacefully asleep. Ah, so
peacefully! so awfully white and still, in their brave blue uniforms;
some of them spattered with blood. But they did not seem to mind. A
smile was on one quiet face: and another had a look of high repose;
and one or two carried a defiant frown, as if at the last moment they
had known what was come to them; and another was a little grieved, but
not much. And all were free. They had won their liberty, though not
the liberty for which they had craved and striven, but, it might well
be, a better freedom. Only, the poor mothers of those lads, away at
home—what would they have thought to see their boys lying here?[1]
Roy dragged himself nearer, his heart beating in heavy strokes, while
his head again seemed to be bursting open. Yes, these were the boys
with whom he was to have made his escape—some of them, at least. And
here was little Will Peirce, with blue eyes fast shut, lying in the
placidest sleep, smiling to himself, in a calm waxen whiteness. He had
tried to do his duty to the last. Brave little Will!
Roy caught his breath in one hard moan of bitter pain.
“Come away,” a voice said; and somebody drew him, unresisting,
to the further side of the yard. Roy vaguely knew that it was an
elderly English officer, one of the quietest and most retiring of the
prisoners, seldom heard to speak. He made Roy sit down; and as the boy
hid his face, a kind hand was on his arm.
“I know! You were with them, I believe. Don’t look any more. No good.
It’s over for them.”
A sound asked the question which Roy could not put into words.
“It was last night. They tried to escape over the wall. It seems to
have been planned for some time. But they were overheard and betrayed
by a fellow-prisoner—the scoundrel! They got away safely to the top
of the wall, and let down the rope. Their plan had been to descend one
by one, I believe; but they found that too slow, and time was short.
So when they had fastened the rope, they got upon it all together.
A French officer was watching, and he seized that moment to cut it
above.[2] The miscreant!—the hound!—he’ll have his deserts some day!
They all fell. Several were killed instantly—as we see. Some with
broken limbs are in hospital. This is not the first time that an escape
has ended thus. The bodies are always exposed next day.”
Roy shuddered.
“You may be thankful that you were not among them.”
Another shudder.
The grey-haired Colonel bent gravely towards him.
“If any friend of yours is there, do not grieve too much, my boy. Some
of us might well be disposed to envy them. They are in God’s Hands now;
and that is well. God is kinder far than man.”
He might indeed say so, looking across the yard. Roy lifted his face,
as if in bitter protest. Was man kind? if man could do such deeds as
this! And then he thought of Ivor—of his father—of Sir John Moore.
There may be very demons in human form upon earth; yet man was made in
the Image of God; and all the kindliness that is seen in the best of
men is a glimmer of that Image.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] True.
[2] True.
THE PRINCESS OF WALES’S DAIRY AT SANDRINGHAM.
[Illustration: The Princess of Wales’s Tea Room at Sandringham Dairy]
Let us start from the pretty little “Feathers Inn” at Dersingham,
which, by the way, is the only house of entertainment for strangers
allowed on the Prince’s estate, for the reason that H.R.H. very wisely
objects to colonies of observation being posted on the confines of his
beautiful country home.
We first turn to the right, past some trim allotment gardens, then a
sharp bend to the left brings us to the grand, wide, straight road
which leads to the Norwich gates of Sandringham. Here on either side
are grouped the fine old trees and leafy coverts, where the guns are
usually placed for the last drive in the Prince’s big “shoots.” This,
too, is the road down which, day after day, without state or ceremony,
her only escort a smart young groom (or phaeton boy, as he is called
in the stables), her usual equipage a tiny pony and cart, this latter
familiarly known as the “Blues” cart, drives the sweet Princess with
the noble face on her errands of grace and charity. Possibly the time
may be about five o’clock, when the little dots of children are toiling
along the sandy roads from school. Up pulls the little cart, down
drops the smart groom, into the tiny vehicle are crammed as many of
the lucky youngsters as can be compressed into so small a space. On go
the happy load, each item to be duly delivered at its parents’ door
with a pleasant smile and a pretty word of farewell from our gracious
Princess. Or it may be that the call comes from age or sickness or
sorrow. ’Tis all the same. At the door of the stricken cottage stands
the same little cart, while within is the noble mistress administering
with ungrudging hand the remedies, whether mental or physical, which
she knows so well how to dispense. In sickness nothing is left to the
underlings’ care. That which is adjudged best for the sufferer goes
with the royal lady, and is dispensed by her own fair hands. So might
it be with all our poor!
Past the Norwich gates, almost the only emblem of royalty at
Sandringham, we turn to the left by the East Lodge, a lovely little
vision of living greenery, the pillars of its rustic porch being
entirely composed of living box, and the building entirely hidden by
ivies and Virginian creepers.
Pretty as the picture is, we must turn away from it again to the
left, and cross the road to get to our object, the dairy. Through the
fruit and flower gardens, up the centre walk all ablaze with light
and colour, with a great curious fountain in its centre, we go, past
the long ranges of glass-houses with their luscious contents, the
apple-trees trained to a tall cone shape on iron hoops, and their
cousins the plums representing immense fans on a background of rich
red-brick wall, until we arrive at a little secluded garden encircling
the rustic dairy.
The dairy, which was built some time in the eighties, is, or rather
was, of Swiss design, but mother Nature has of late so bedecked it with
climbing plants that it is difficult to detect the handiwork of man
under its dainty mantle of greenery. Entering first the dairy proper,
one sees a beautifully cool, lofty room some twenty odd feet square,
with a plain tiled floor, and a handsome high dado of rare old blue and
white Indian tiles, which were specially sent from India to occupy
their present position. A row of tables surrounds the room, and a most
welcome sight after the walk in the blazing sun these are, at present
occupied by some thirty or forty flat pans of such milk as we London
folk only dream of.
After a somewhat critical discussion on the quality of the milk, we
turn to notice its surroundings. Over the triple window which faces the
door as one enters there hangs on a shield the handsome head of “Jewess
the Fourth,” who won the champion prize at the Cattle Show in 1874 for
her owner, H.R.H the Prince of Wales; beneath this stands a present
from H.R.H. in the shape of a finely modelled bronze statuette of a
Jersey champion bull. In front of the bull is a replica of Focardi’s
ever welcome statuette “You Dirty Boy.”
In the centre of the dairy is a two-tier white marble and iron table,
bearing some handsome coloured German drinking-glasses, a few small
china ornaments, some silver cream ewers and spoons, and the Princess’s
own dainty little strawberry dish. This last is made of white glazed
porcelain, with a strawberry plant in its proper colours entwined about
the dish and handle.
[Illustration: The Princess of Wales’s Dairy. Interior.]
One may mention here for the encouragement of lesser lights that both
the Princess and her daughters have a thorough technical knowledge
of dairy work, and it is no uncommon occurrence for H.R.H. to notice
any defects in the produce of her dairy, and also to suggest methods
for their remedy. In their younger days the royal princesses and
their brothers were constant patrons of the dairy produce, and many a
pleasant tale has the dairywoman to tell of the kindness and courtesy
of the late Duke of Clarence, with her, as with all on the estate, a
prime favourite. The young princesses also, in days of yore, as they
skimmed the cream from the dishes of milk for their own consumption,
would laughingly remark on the superior advantages of helping oneself.
“We can have as much as we want here, at home we get so little.”
[Illustration: JERSEY COWS BELONGING TO THE PRINCESS OF WALES.]
Passing by the pretty little fountain supported by a china stork
standing amid rushes, which so pleasantly cools the dairy, we next come
to the “butter-room,” the walls of which are entirely covered with
plain blue glazed tiles, and the floor with Indian matting. Along the
window end of the room runs a broad shelf, which literally bends with
the weight of a perfect menagerie of china animals; cats, dogs, hares,
bulls, etc., are mixed up in bewildering profusion with every kind of
jug, the Brown Toby in all its varieties being conspicuous in this
latter class. The place of honour is held by a group of cats, in which
sentimental Tommy, with one paw round the waist of Tibbs, is delicately
trimming with the other the whiskers on her half-averted but not too
shy face.
On the right-hand wall are to be seen four Jersey creamers with which
is made the “Devonshire” cream for winter use. In addition to the
“Devonshire,” butter and cream cheese are made here in sufficient
quantities for the use of the Royal Family, whether residing at
Sandringham or Marlborough House. To the latter the dairy produce is
regularly forwarded by an afternoon train in special receptacles duly
marked with the Prince’s crest.
[Illustration: “CUSH,” A PEDIGREE BULL AT SANDRINGHAM.]
The dairy in former days was frequently visited by H.M. the Queen,
who, in comparing it with her own magnificent dairy at Windsor, which
was designed by the late Prince Consort, has always remarked on the
completeness of its arrangements and management.
The dairy herd consists of some twelve cows of the Prince’s own
breeding. Needless to say, they are models of their species. They are
accommodated, when not out at pasture, in the very completely filled
range of cow-houses which surrounds a square courtyard in the immediate
neighbourhood of the dairy. Here one may usually see in addition one
or two fine specimens of bulls, and also, in the proper season, some
lovely calves, which delight to frisk about in the knee-deep straw with
which the courtyard is bestrewn.
Last of all, if furnished with the proper credentials, one may see the
sanctum sanctorum of the dairy; this is the Princess’s own tea-room.
It is a small sunny room of about sixteen feet square, with a large
bay window overlooking a pretty little garden. The floor is covered
with a plain felt carpet of a dull bluish colour, on which are strewn
some of the Prince’s Indian trophies in the shape of tiger, leopard,
and other skins. The walls are divided into panels by black-edged
mouldings of unpolished oak, the interior of each panel being painted
with blue-green flatted paint to match the floor. This forms a perfect
background for the specimens of china with which the walls are almost
covered. Apropos of this china, it may be mentioned that it nearly all
consists of presents from personal friends of the Princess, and also
that the greater number of the pieces were painted for the purpose by
some of the greatest ladies in England.
One particularly notices, at the top of the low dado surrounding
the room, a row of china tiles framed in oak, with some capital
reproductions from Caldecott, Kate Greenaway and others, each tile
being painted and presented by a different lady. A circular china
plaque, with a portrait of the Princess as Queen Elizabeth hangs above
one of the doors, and is faced by one of the Prince as Henry VIII.
over the other entrance. These same oaken doors, with their handsome
old wrought-iron hinges and fittings must also be noticed for their
beautiful panels made of slate and covered with designs of Cupids
sporting amid flowers, which were painted and presented by the Duchess
of Devonshire. The plain white marble chimney-piece, draped with olive
velvet, is surmounted by a mirror in a massive ebony frame, which is
surrounded by some very rich blue plates and vases. The centre of the
mantel-shelf is appropriately occupied by a bust of H.M. the Queen. Any
artificial light required in the tea-room is supplied by candles only,
in connection with which we notice the handsome brass candelabrum,
brought by the Princess from Denmark, which hangs from the ceiling.
The furniture of the pretty little room is of the plainest. It is
framed in light oak, and is covered in a small pattern damask. Here and
there in the room and the adjoining corridor are some small cabinets
containing very fine specimens of old and modern china: Sèvres,
Worcester, Chelsea, and Derby, with many others, being represented.
In one corner cabinet stands a quaint old tea service, the cups being
made without handles. This is watched over by a most eccentric-looking
cow, which has flowers painted all over her body. On a small whatnot
is the afternoon tea-service presented by the Queen, a fine specimen
of modern work, printed with orchids enclosing views of Balmoral and
Windsor.
The large round table is covered by a piece of Indian embroidery, and
bears yet more china, an album of dried New Zealand ferns, and another
of orchids. The ebony-framed screen, which encloses the table was
another present, and is painted with a design of birds and flowers. The
curtains and hangings of the room are of similar material to that with
which the furniture is covered. A cuckoo clock hangs by the side of the
fireplace.
A narrow corridor leads from the tea-room to the garden, and its
entrance is known as the Princess’s door. This corridor has for
ornament some fine Indian blue-and-white china, and some old Chinese
vases. The rustic seats under the verandah front of the dairy are the
favourite resting-places of the Princess and her daughters in the
summer weather.
The tea-room and the dairy are in constant use when the family are in
residence at Sandringham. About four o’clock (all Sandringham clocks
are kept thirty minutes in advance of London time) the Princess and her
guests make their way on foot or by pony carriage usually along the
pleasant road through the fruit gardens to the rendezvous. Should the
Prince arrive before the Princess, he invariably awaits her arrival
before entering.
[Illustration: A BULL CALF AT SANDRINGHAM.]
Of whatever number the party may be composed the services of one
attendant (a footman) only are utilised.
Fruit having been sent from the neighbouring garden, tea is served
at half-past five o’clock, the party rarely separating until it is
time to dress for dinner at seven-thirty. But not to Royalty and its
guests alone go all the niceties produced at the dairy. When one hears
that some hundreds of persons are employed on the estate, that there
are workmen’s clubs, schools, almshouses, and cottage hospitals,
all erected and cared for by the Royal owners, that there are no
unemployed, work being found for everyone, that the fortnightly bill
for wages alone is some six hundred pounds, it is easy to see that in
a colony of this size there must always be a proportion of ailing and
delicate. And with such a Princess as ours, having the able assistance
of Miss Knollys and Sir Dighton Probyn, it is equally certain that no
call is neglected and no want left unsatisfied.
ERNEST M. JESSOP.
HIS GREAT REWARD.
CHAPTER I.
A sharp ring at the door-bell made Mrs. Duncan start from her seat,
with the exclamation, “I really believe I was nodding!” Slipping out
of the room she said in a whisper to the maid who passed on her way to
the hall door, “The doctor is out if it is anyone to see him, Janet,
and Mr. Magnus will not be in for half an hour yet;” then quietly and
quickly returned to her seat by the fire, and picked up her knitting,
over which she had so nearly dozed off to sleep.
A cheery voice asking if Mrs. Duncan was at home made her look up with
a pleased smile of expectation on her sweet face, and in another moment
the door opened to admit a silver-haired old gentleman, with kindly
blue eyes and a most benevolent expression.
“Mr. Mellis!” announced Janet, and withdrew.
“How good of you to come and see me, dear friend!” exclaimed Mrs.
Duncan, as she shook hands with her visitor; “and on such a day too! I
declare it makes me shiver to look out of the window even.”
“I suppose that is why you draw your curtains so early, then,” replied
the Rector of St. Jude’s, as he settled himself in the comfortable
chair his hostess pushed towards him. “Well, I must say you look cosy
enough in here,” surveying the pretty lamp-lit room with its ‘homey’
look (if I may coin a word).
It was a most inviting room, pretty enough for anything, yet totally
devoid of that stiff starchy look one so often sees in drawing-rooms
which are scrupulously kept spotless, but not used.
Now Mrs. Duncan’s drawing-room was in daily use, and perhaps that was
one reason why it always looked so comfortable. Her husband and big son
Magnus, both doctors and now partners, used to say they found it more
refreshing than anything after a long hard round of visits to drop into
a chair beside “little mother” in the drawing-room, and just listen to
the click of her knitting-needles as she chatted away until tea was
brought in. And no tea, Dr. Duncan was wont to declare, ever tasted
half so good as that brewed by his wife’s fair hands, for Mrs. Duncan
would always have a small copper kettle brought in, so that she could
make the tea herself.
I do not believe there is one man in a thousand who does not like the
sight of a kettle steaming and hissing merrily on the fire, but whether
this had anything to do with the flavour of the tea or not I leave my
readers to decide for themselves.
“A charming picture,” was Mr. Mellis’s thought, as his gaze fell upon
the pale-tinted walls with their choice engravings, the overmantel
with its old china, the soft-hued furniture and draperies lit up by a
pink-shaded standard lamp, and finally upon the little slight fair
woman who rose to ring the bell for tea.
“And how are my medical friends?” asked Mr. Mellis.
“Very well, I am glad to say,” responded Mrs. Duncan, while a tender
smile played round her lips. It was easy to see what a wealth of love
was centred in the absent husband and son.
“It is not every household that can boast of two doctors,” went on Mr.
Mellis, smiling. “You ought to be doubly secure against illness.”
“And yet the skill of all the medical men in the world could not save
my Muriel for me,” sighed Mrs. Duncan; and her eyes grew dim as she
thought of the dear sixteen-year-old daughter who had been laid to rest
in the lovely “God’s Acre” a few miles outside the great city, just two
years before.
“No, true. I forgot for the moment,” observed the Rector
sympathetically, and a short pause ensued, which was broken by the
entrance of Janet with the tea-things.
Outside the rain fell heavily in the dirty streets, which were,
however, brilliantly lighted, for if there was one thing above another
on which the great city of Manningham prided itself, and justly, it was
upon its lighting arrangements in general.
Inside comfort reigned, but not even the shutters and closely-drawn
curtains and the fact that Dr. Duncan’s house stood some yards back
from the road could altogether drown the noise of the traffic in the
street without, which was one of the principal thoroughfares of the
city. As she handed him his tea, Mr. Mellis suddenly remembered what
had been his special reason for calling on Mrs. Duncan that Friday
afternoon.
“By the way,” he began, “I hope I shall see you at church on Sunday
evening. I know the damp weather prevents your attendance at times, but
come if you possibly can.”
“So far as I know,” answered Mrs. Duncan brightly, “I shall be there.
But why specially next Sunday? Is there anything out of the common
going to take place?”
“Only this,” replied the Rector, stirring his tea, “that a newly-come
member of our congregation has promised to sing for us. She, for it is
a lady, is a professional vocalist, and when I called on her mother
some weeks ago, Miss Heritage told me that if ever she could help me
by singing in the church at any time, she would most gladly do so. I
thought it so kind of her, for indeed I should not have liked to ask
such a thing. It seems like imposing on people’s good nature.”
“I agree with you there, Mr. Mellis, and it was a graceful thing in
this lady to place herself at your disposal. What did you say her name
was?”
“Heritage—Marielle Heritage.”
“What a pretty name!” exclaimed Mrs. Duncan.
“Yes, and a pretty girl too, you will say when you see her,” added the
Rector.
“Hallo, little mother, and who is this pretty girl you are discussing?”
said someone who had quietly entered the room.
“Dear me, Magnus, what a start you gave me!” said his mother, stooping
to pick up a tea-spoon which, in her fright, she had let fall.
“Here, let me do that for you, dear. There it is. How d’ye do, Mr.
Mellis? Wet day, isn’t it?”
Magnus shook hands with the old man, then turning to his mother, gave
her a bear-like hug and hearty kiss, making her face flush with
pleasure and her sweet eyes shine brighter than ever as she surveyed
the tall, handsome figure of her son. Clean-shaven, with crisp, curly,
dark hair, cut very short, and with steady deep blue eyes, Magnus
Duncan, though not exactly good-looking, had a face that inspired
confidence at once. He was more like his father than his mother, yet he
had the latter’s sweet expression and smile, which lit up his otherwise
rather sombre features, giving a rare charm to his clever face.
“Now for some tea, little mother, please, and then tell me what all the
talk was about when I came in and interrupted you.”
Just then entered Dr. Duncan, senior, and it was some few minutes
before Magnus gained the desired information.
“Oh! I see. How nice of her! And what is she going to sing?” asked
Magnus, who was passionately fond of music.
“I really did not ask her. She said she would sing some solo in place
of the anthem, and I left it to her to choose what, and to arrange for
a rehearsal with the organist,” replied Mr. Mellis.
“Oh! well, we’ll go, won’t we, dad?” said Magnus, turning to his father.
“Yes, my boy, if only we are not called off to see a patient, which is
our usual luck if ever we specially want to go anywhere,” laughed Dr.
Duncan.
“Before I take my leave,” said Mr. Mellis, rising and addressing his
hostess, “I want to say that it would be a kindness if you would call
upon the Heritages. They have not been long in this neighbourhood,
and are rather lonely. Their old friends live a good way off, and
they themselves used to have a big place out near Huntsford; but six
months ago Mr. Heritage died suddenly, a great deal poorer than was
anticipated; in fact, it became evident that he had been living beyond
his income for some years past, so that instead of being well off, his
widow and daughter have only a tiny income on which to subsist. So Miss
Marielle Heritage decided to make a practical use of the fine vocal
training she had received. She has already appeared at the ‘Thursday
Classical Concerts,’ and her appearance was followed, fortunately, by
a fair number of pupils. She meets them at Forman’s, she tells me”
(naming a large music-shop in the city), “and it is in order to be
handy for the trams to town that they have taken up their abode in
York Road. Number twenty-seven is the house. There now, I really must
go!” wound up the Rector, and a few minutes later the hall door closed
behind his retreating footsteps.
When all the paraphernalia of afternoon tea had been removed, Magnus
recounted to his mother any little incidents in the day’s work which he
thought would interest her. Dr. Duncan, senior, had been called away
into the surgery to see an old friend and patient, so mother and son
were alone.
Time passed quickly away, and it was a surprise to both when the clock
chimed the half-hour after six. Mrs. Duncan bustled away to change her
toilet, leaving Magnus still lying back in his easy-chair, gazing into
the fire with his hands clasped behind his head.
The subject of his meditations might have been guessed from the
following words, had anyone been there to hear them.
“Marielle Heritage! What a pretty name!” said he softly to himself.
Then rousing himself with an impatient shake, he rose out of his chair,
and in his turn went upstairs to get ready for dinner.
(_To be continued._)
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.