THE STRONG PULL.
Then Lucy Challoner found herself shut into one of those “secret
pavilions,” which God erects so often in the heart of life’s
storms—quiet resting-places into which neither the tempest which is
overpast, nor the after-swells which are to come, can find entrance.
The tossed heart is hushed like that of a little child, and looking
neither before nor after, is content with the peace and the benediction
of the passing hour.
It was cheering to see how the sea-breeze brought healthy tints to
Charlie’s pale face, while every hour found him stronger and more fit
to throw aside the little physical frailties which hang about one after
a great illness.
For the first day of their visit they were content with one little
stroll on the pier, and then they sat at their window discovering
endless interest in the fact that “Lloyd’s” station was in the house
next but one to theirs, so that every ship which hove in sight became
voluble in nautical signs. Then their walks grew longer, extending ever
further down the shingly shore.
“Now, Lucy,” said Mr. Challoner, “was not I right to come here instead
of to any mere invalid resort? Why, it lifts up one’s soul—and one’s
body with it—just to look at these Deal boatmen. They’re so ready
to give their lives for you if need be, that a kind of exhalation of
health comes from them.”
Before they left Deal, Lucy Challoner not only fully approved of her
husband’s choice as for himself, but felt convinced that he had made
his choice for her too, and with equal wisdom and foresight.
As the days passed on, and Charlie and his little boy made friends
with many of the old salts who lounge along the shingle as if life was
nothing but the sea view (which seems reflected in their very eyes),
Lucy sometimes stayed indoors and occupied herself with details of her
husband’s outfit. Her landlady came in and out of the room, generally
silent, but cheerful and ready to respond to advances.
“We can see the Goodwin Sands very plainly to-day,” Lucy said once.
“What a terrible trap they are.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. May answered. “And if those in the other world know
aught about what’s done in this—and why shouldn’t they?—I wonder how
those men feel who neglected to keep down those sands, because they
wanted to build a big steeple instead of doing their duty? On wild
nights here, when we’re almost certain poor souls are going down by the
score, I never can help thinking o’ those others. It must be mighty bad
for them surely. And yet maybe they didn’t know what they were doing
was so bad—or didn’t think! I’d not make them out worse than most of
us, and we all need God our Saviour. Maybe God lets ’em receive the
poor drowned souls, and comfort ’em and care for ’em.”
“But is it true that the sands became dangerous through neglect?” asked
Lucy. “I have heard the story, but I have heard that geology has a
different word to say.”
Mrs. May shook her head slightly.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” she said. “I’m speaking as if the story be true.
And certain it is that men and money have been able to do a good bit to
lessen the risks of the Sands as they are, and it is a pity that they
did not do it sooner. And maybe they might do a great deal more yet. I
wish gentlemen in power would think over such things instead of wanting
to spend money on guns to kill poor folks in far-off countries. It’s
wonderful what has been left for private folk to do before the others
stir. I daresay you’ve never heard of one Powell, of Deal, living nigh
two hundred years ago?”
“No,” answered Lucy reflecting, and unable to recall any Powell of
popular memory, save Mary, the wilful wife of the poet Milton.
“Well, ma’am,” said Mrs. May, with a slight drawing-up of her neat
figure. “That Powell of Deal (my mother was of the family, though, of
course, generations later), he seemed to be one of the first to think
of saving people off the wrecks on the Sands. There were no lifeboats
in his time, you know.”
“I know,” Lucy assented. “There were no lifeboats till nearly a hundred
years after that, and very few until about seventy years ago.”
“Well, that Powell was Mayor of Deal in those days, and pretty well
off for just a shopkeeper in the town—a tailor and outfitter he was.
And there came a great storm one November night—it was such a storm
as never was. It was the night the Eddystone Lighthouse was destroyed
along with the man that built it, and people were killed in their beds,
even in grand houses, and the loss of life and property was tremendous.
We can guess what it was on the Goodwins, ma’am. There were thirteen
men-of-war wrecked, and hundreds of men—more than a thousand—were
drowned. Then the people who were watching from the shore saw that some
had got on the Goodwins, and there they were sure to be washed away.”
Mrs. May paused and looked at Lucy with emphatic eyes.
“So Powell, he could not bear it, and he ordered out the custom-house
boats, and offered a reward of five shillings for every sailor that
should be saved. It was not much, for he hadn’t much. They say he
went out himself. And two hundred men were saved that otherwise must
have been drowned. And he took them all into his care, and fed them
and clothed them. And though they were Royal Navy men, he had a deal
of bother and loss of time before the Government made up the money he
was out of pocket, which he could not afford to lose. He seemed to be
the very first to show that it was anybody’s bounden duty to save the
drowning. But he’s never been much talked of. The stories of fighting
and killing are the stories that are told. He was only a tailor and
outfitter, you see, ma’am, and most folks give such but a sneer. But my
mother brought all her children up to remember him and to learn from
him to look out to see what their hands can do. She used to say people
laugh at a tailor as the ninth part of a man; but I say nine good men
were rolled into one in my great-great-uncle Powell.”
“Then you have always lived in Deal, I suppose?” asked Lucy, interested
in the sudden frankness of the hitherto reserved woman.
“Yes, ma’am; but I’ve been in London,” she said.
“When your husband was living?” Lucy inquired gently.
“No, ma’am,” replied Mrs. May. “I married a Kingsdown man, a pilot.
His father’s still living in Kingsdown, old and frail, but he’s saved
people’s lives by scores and scores. He has been a great man in the
lifeboat.”
“Did your husband ever go out in the boat?” asked Lucy.
“He met his death in it,” said Mrs. May quite calmly. “We hadn’t been
married a year, and it was the first time he had ever gone out. It was
the Lord’s will that his father should go again and again and do great
things and come home safe and sound, and be living at eighty-five.
But my Jarvist was knocked over and washed away before he could do
anything. But the Lord knew what Jarvist’s will was, and the Lord took
it for the deed.”
Mrs. May stood gazing out towards the fateful line on the horizon.
Lucy’s eyes were full of tears.
“Oh, Mrs. May,” she said, “how hard it was for you! How could you bear
to go on living beside this cruel sea in sight of that terrible place!”
Mrs. May turned towards her with a wistful smile.
“Ah,” she said, “how many ladies have said that to me! (Not that I tell
everyone who comes, for some would not care to hear. There are folks
who go out to picnic and dance on the Goodwins!) But look here, dear,”
she went on eagerly, her last reserve melted in Lucy’s tears, “we all
see houses, and yet somebody has died in every house; we all see our
beds, and yet we’ve seen dear ones die on them, and we look to die
there ourselves some day. It’s all hard just at first. After a while,
the thought of death settles into a bit of life. It’s the Lord’s will
that it comes in one way to one and in another to another. But it’s all
right if it means going to Him, and all we’ve got to do is to keep on
following.”
“And you had your husband such a little time!” cried Lucy, thinking to
herself that she and Charlie had already had more than seven years of
happy life together.
“Yes,” said Mrs. May; “I was a widow at twenty-five. I’m just fifty
now, and my people live long, so likely I’ve got a good bit to go yet.
I had my Jarvist just for one year. But I reckon that one year was
quite enough to soak through all the rest, back and fore, just as a
fine perfume does.
“I took it very hard at first,” she went on. “I took it rebellious.
But Jarvist’s father he came to me, and says he, ‘Joan’—and he put
his hand on my shoulder, and it had a kind of feeling as if it pulled
me up like—‘Joan,’ says he, ‘Jarvist has done his part. Now you’ve
got to do yours. You married a sailor, Joan; he’s died at his place,
you’ve got to live at yours. Don’t make no fuss about it, lass,’ says
he (he speaks old-fashioned and homely), ‘you won’t see Jarvist a day
the sooner. You wouldn’t have liked Jarvist to stay at home to please
you, would you?’ says he. ‘And if he’d have done such a mean thing, and
yet his time were come, then he’d have broke his neck a-trippin’ over
a doormat,’ says the old man. ‘I’ll tell you something, Joan. Before
Jarvist went out he said to me, “Father, if aught took me, you’d be
good to Joan.” We all thinks that to each other,’ father-in-law says,
‘but the young men—specially the new-married—they generally says it
once or twice before they feel it’s taken for granted. Said I back to
Jarvist, “Joan’s a lass with grit in her, and she’ll be good to herself
and to others, too, I reckon.” And that was my promise to Jarvist for
you, Joan, and you’ve got to make it good,’ says he. So I’ve tried to
do. That’s five-and-twenty years ago, and time is passing on. It’s not
so long for any of us after all.”
“I beg pardon for speaking so freely to you, ma’am,” she went on after
a short pause, while Lucy’s tears dropped; “but there’s a look in your
face that if you’d been a man would have sent you out to the Goodwins.
But the women have to do their part at home—keeping ready dry clothes
and hot gruel sometimes,” she added with a quiet laugh, “as we did one
day this spring, when one poor soul was left wrecked on the Goodwins
after all his shipmates were drowned. It was said the lifeboat couldn’t
go out; but then our men they couldn’t stay in! Never shall I forget
that night at the little mariners’ service where I often go. The
gentleman that was praying and reading the Scriptures saw the men’s
faces, and he broke short off to say, ‘Can we go? Can we do something?’
Why not? It was all in the service of God. And they went, and they
brought off the man safely—a poor Norwegian.”
Lucy had learned to fear contact with strangers since her husband’s
illness. Their misjudged “sympathy,” their well-meant comments, had so
often been as the rubbing of salt into the ever-open wound of anxiety,
and the almost tenderer spot of hope. She had learned the lesson that
if the greatest consolation for sorrow is to have beside us one who
understands it and shares it, then the next greatest blessing is to be
able to bear one’s burden alone, apart from those to whom one’s agony
is but a spectacle or a dumping ground for commonplaces.
But she found there was no need to shrink from Mrs. May. When she
confided to the landlady the plans that were in preparation, and the
long separation which was impending, Mrs. May was full of encouraging
hope. She could narrate cases in which the sea, despite its terrible
side, had acted as a beneficent healer and life restorer. She could
tell, too, of many who had suffered in the same way as Mr. Challoner,
and were still alive—elderly people, with long useful years behind
them. To Lucy Challoner this sort of cheer was the more acceptable
because it came to her surrounded by an atmosphere, and supported by a
foundation, in which neither life nor death were held to be the main
things—but only “the will of the Lord,” which could make either death
or life blessed both to those who were left and to those who were taken.
Very different was the tone of the notes which came from Lucy’s sister
Florence. Mrs. Brand wrote a large hand, so that a very few words
covered four sides of a sheet of note-paper; also she wrote, as it
were, breathlessly, dropping pronouns and punctuation. She was very
forcible in bewailing her sister’s departure to Deal—“So sudden—and
such a place—and didn’t Charlie feel the journey—and it mightn’t be
amiss if it turned him aside from the bigger scheme—couldn’t bear to
think of it—poor dear Lucy all alone—well, the child, of course—and
if for Charlie’s good, but it seemed a great risk—wasn’t beginning to
look for a successor for Pollie yet; no good being in hurry—better not
hire anyone till a day or two before wanted—and Lucy not coming back
to London till the very night before Charlie sailed for the North—who
was Captain Grant?—hoped he was a decent man—master mariners not
always up to much; but if Charlie kept pretty well, perhaps he would
not mind about trifles. Must get word as soon as they were sure of
dates—must get last look of Charlie—and had good many evening
engagements on. Poor dear Lucy, Florence really pitied—things had
looked so different at Lucy’s marriage, but might turn out better, even
yet.”
As Lucy read those notes, her pulse used to quicken with a sense of
revolt. Charlie’s wife was no person to be pitied! Come what might, she
was not to be pitied! Her anxieties, her possible sorrows, were not to
be regarded as so much ill-luck, to be secretly contrasted by Florence
with her own splendid fortune in stalwart, prosperous Jem, and her
showy house, and large “visiting circle.”
After these rebellious sensations, Lucy always turned penitent—said to
herself that she was silly and even wicked, and resolved to allow no
such feelings to arise again. But Florence’s next note always stirred
them anew. The east wind will ruffle us; we can but turn our backs to
it, or veil our faces, and afterwards soothe the irritated skin with
emollients. So there are natures which thus rush rudely on our souls.
And we cannot change those natures, or their effect upon us; we can
only avert the worst results by tact, hide our soreness in silence,
and heal damages by patience and forbearance. Let us put our conscious
misery to a good use by its keeping us humbly aware that any sweetness
or amiability that we may seem to possess belongs, after all, almost as
much to our environment as to ourselves!
The peaceful resting-time wore to an end. Charlie Challoner and his
little boy had made friends with nearly all the Deal “hovellers,”
lounging so easily on the shingly shore, watching the sea and the sky,
as if there were nothing else to do in life, yet with the strength of
scores of conquered storms wrought into their fine old faces. They had
heard many stories grave and gay, and little Hugh had gathered up some
queer treasures in the way of uncommon shells and stones, and even a
little carved boat.
Lucy herself did not talk much to the old boatmen. Her happy relations
with Mrs. May had not overcome all her shrinking from strangers, and
she preferred to hear of them from Charlie, and to let him tell over
their yarns to her. But when she went out with her husband they all
gave her kindly greeting. It was Lucy’s delighted pride that whoever
knew Charlie first seemed always ready to welcome and approve of her.
She revelled in being regarded kindly for his sake. Yet it was as often
something of her which had originally commended him. He or she who is
wrapped round by a true and tender love carries its grace everywhere.
After Charlie had had his pleasant chats to some of those old men, the
one of them had said to the other—
“Reckon that gentleman’s got a good woman belonging to him. Ye sort o’
feel it on him, like ye smell the spicy breezes before ye touch a port
o’ the land where spices grow.”
“Course he has,” said the other; “haven’t ye seen her? A winsome
lass—one of the little craft that can go through a great deal of
rough weather—the sort that’s generally made for that purpose, to my
thinking.”
Then came the last day before the returning day.
“We will go for a long walk inland,” said Charlie. “It will be my last
sight of English trees for a long while; and if autumn has carried off
some of their beauty, it has added more of its own.”
That afternoon Mrs. May announced that she was going for a walk up to
Walmer Castle, and asked if the little master might go with her. Hugh
was delighted—the sea was a perennial joy to him—to whom country
lanes did not seem marvellously different from London squares and
parks. Lucy gratefully assented. She never knew whether it was an
accident, or whether the kind woman realised that she and Charlie would
be thankful for a quiet ramble and an undisturbed conversation.
Perhaps they did not talk much during that walk. Hearts were too
full and tears too near the surface. But each uttered solemnly those
expressions of mutual love and faith which must generally lie half
hidden under the little commonplaces of daily life. Each, as it were,
rendered back the mutual charge of the other,—Charles promising
faithfully to take care of himself, and to remember all the precautions
Lucy would insist on, if she were with him,—Lucy pledging herself to
keep as free as possible from worrying, to remember that, under all the
circumstances, the coming of letters must be more or less uncertain and
far between, adding a voluntary clause that she would do her very best
to be brave and wise under any unforeseen conditions which might arise,
and under which she could not seek Charlie’s counsel and support. That
voluntary clause was due to Lucy’s tender self-reproach against the
household secret that she was keeping, even for her husband’s own sake.
Charlie received it, with assurances that he knew she would keep her
word. Little did either of them then think how that little pledge was
to return to their minds, to their common soothing and upholding!
Lucy felt that this quiet hour of spiritual nearness was their
true farewell. With its thrilling emotions would be blent for ever
the memory of the solemn November afternoon sky—sunless, but with
suggestions of sunlight in its delicate opal hues—and the square
tower of Munceam church, lifting its grey head from a mass of foliage,
glorious with vivid autumn tints.
After that came the bustle of final packing, the farewell to Mrs.
May—to whom Lucy felt she owed something which was not included in
her modest bill—the railway journey, the return home. The house was
in apple-pie order, and at this critical juncture Charlie ceased to
wonder at Pollie’s unrestrained, fast-flowing tears. The Brands “looked
in” late that night in evening dress on their way from a dinner-party.
Jem Brand talked loud and fast to Charlie, while Florence patted her
sister’s hands and whispered that she had not secured her a servant
yet—they would go about that business together—the interest and
excitement would be cheering to Lucy’s loneliness—there were still
three or four days to pass before Pollie left—plenty of time.
“Plenty of time!” Lucy echoed absently. “What did it really matter?
Charlie was going away!”
Then it was over. Lucy came back from seeing her husband on board the
Scotch steamer for Aberdeen. She felt as if she had died, and had
come to life again in an emptied earth. How strange the street noises
sounded! How strange the familiar house looked! Even little Hugh seemed
somehow different!
Lucy had not experienced enough to know that the worst was not yet.
She had still to expect her husband’s telegram of his safe arrival
in the north. She could look forward to one or two letters from him
written from Peterhead. And when these came, full of cheer, of pleasant
descriptions of scenery, fellow-passengers, and friendly welcome,
together with good accounts of the dear wanderer’s own progress towards
strength, poor Lucy began to feel as if she had passed the sharpest
corner of her woe, and almost to congratulate herself on her own
bravery.
Alas, beyond “the strong pull” on one’s courage and submission, there
comes “the long pull.”
(_To be continued._)
THINGS IN SEASON, IN MARKET AND KITCHEN.
BY LA MÉNAGÈRE.
There are several new additions to our list. We have grass-lamb,
mackerel, the first salmon, salads, salad-herbs, cucumbers, spinach,
spring onions, turnip and nettle-tops, but as yet no additional fruits.
However, whilst we have such an abundance of good rhubarb and green
salads, we have nothing to complain of, for what can be better for
health than these, or more refreshing?—so welcome, too, after the
winter. Fresh mint, sorrel, chervil, and water-cress add flavour to the
bowl, and spring onions give it piquancy.
People who suffer from sleeplessness should try the effect of a
sandwich of spring onions—bread and butter with finely-minced onion
spread between—before retiring to rest. It is said to be most soothing
and sleep-inviting.
I would specially recommend these “green” sandwiches to all who find
a difficulty in eating salad-herbs in any other form—for instance,
chopped mustard and cress, thinly-shaved cucumber and onion, chopped
parsley, mint and sorrel—all are excellent when spread between thin
slices of buttered bread, and very dainty, too, are they.
This is the month when we may begin one of our favourite dishes of
spinach and eggs—one of our physic dishes, I might say, for on very
good authority we learn that spinach contains more iron than almost
anything else that can be mentioned, and when combined with the sulphur
of the egg becomes a capital tonic medicine. So by all means let us eat
plenty of it.
I have mentioned mackerel as belonging to the month of April. From now
until the end of June they will be prime, and are a good fish to eat;
but out of their proper season they are not wholesome. Perhaps they are
nicest when carefully boiled and served with parsley sauce; but if
baked with butter and accompanied by gooseberry sauce, or split open
and broiled, with herb sauce, they are very nearly as good. Also they
are excellent for breakfast when pickled and eaten cold.
It is hardly possible this month to lay too much stress on the virtues
of salads; and to prepare these well, to make as many varieties of
them as possible, and to mix the dressing with due art, is well worth
careful study on the part of every housewife.
A perfectly plain dressing of salt, pepper, vinegar and oil, if well
beaten together, and then a spoonful of good cream added, becomes
almost equal to a mayonnaise, and is not so expensive or troublesome to
make ready.
The following would be found a suitable little dinner for this month,
and it is easy to vary at will:—
MENU.
Cream of Spinach Soup.
Boiled Mackerel. Parsley Sauce.
Roast Lamb. Boiled Cucumber. Mint Sauce.
Spring Salad.
Rhubarb Fool. Sponge Custard Pudding.
Cheese Aigrettes.
_Cream of Spinach Soup._—Pick and wash a quart of spinach, set it on
to boil with enough water to cover it, and a spoonful of salt; stew a
couple of young onions and a few herbs in a separate vessel, and then
rub all together through a sieve until a green _purée_ is obtained. To
this add a pint of hot milk, a spoonful of cornflour wet with milk and
an ounce of butter, also seasoning to taste. Boil up once and serve.
_Boiled Cucumber_ is an agreeable change amongst vegetables, and is
very easy to do. Pare the cucumber and cut it down lengthwise, then
across into inch-lengths; throw into salted boiling water and cook ten
minutes. Drain well and serve with a little parsley sprinkled over, or
in melted butter sauce.
_Rhubarb Fool._—Cut up two or three bundles of fresh rhubarb into
short lengths, and stew quickly with sugar until quite soft, then rub
through a sieve. Whip about a quarter of a pint of thick cream and the
whites of two eggs together, with one or two tablespoonfuls of castor
sugar, and lightly whisk these up with the fruit. Heap all in a bright
glass dish.
_Sponge Custard Pudding._—Make a boiled custard with the yolks of the
two eggs, a pint of milk, two ounces of castor sugar, grated lemon
rind for flavouring, and an ounce of dissolved gelatine stirred in at
the last. Half fill a plain mould with sponge biscuits and pour this
custard on them whilst hot. Set aside in a cold place until it is
solid. The rhubarb fool would also be improved by being set on ice.
Serve both together.
_Cheese Aigrettes._—Dissolve an ounce of butter and stir into it a
tablespoonful of flour; add half a pint of warm milk, and stir over the
fire until a smooth paste is obtained. Add whilst hot salt, cayenne
pepper, and grated cheese enough to give a strong flavour. When getting
cool mix in carefully the yolk of a large fresh egg. Bring half a pound
of lard up to boiling point, and then drop into it small pieces of the
paste, and boil rapidly. They should puff out and be a beautiful golden
brown. Roll each aigrette in grated cheese when it has drained, and
serve on a paper doyley whilst hot. They are not good cold.
SHEILA.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.