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[Illustration: THE KING'S TRAGEDY. [See p. 434. ]
FIFTY-TWO STORIES FOR GIRLS
Edited by ALFRED H. MILES
[Illustration: Inter Folia Fructus]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON & CO.
1912
_Published September, 1905_
Printed in the United States of America
TABLE OF AUTHORS.
EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN
SARAH DOUDNEY
ARMAND CAUMONT
ALICE F. JACKSON
NELLIE HOLDERNESS
MARGARET WATSON
JENNIE CHAPPELL
MARION DICKEN
LUCY HARDY
MARIE DELBRASSINE
HELEN BOURCHIER
NORA RYEMAN
KATE GODKIN
LUCIE E. JACKSON
MAUD HEIGHINGTON
DOROTHY PINHO
GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.
ROBERT OVERTON
CLUCAS JOUGHIN
ALBERT E. HOOPER
CHARLES E. PEARCE
S. LE SOTGILLE
H. G. BELL
THOMAS ARCHER
ALFRED G. SAYERS
ROBERT GUILLEMARD
F. B. FORESTER
ALFRED H. MILES
AND OTHER WRITERS.
INDEX.
SCHOOL AND HOME.
SUBJECT AUTHOR PAGE
GLORIA DENE'S SCHOOLFELLOWS: _Nora Ryeman_
I. NARDA: THE NIGHTINGALE " 11
II. ESTELLA: THE HEIRESS " 16
III. MAURA: THE MUNIFICENT " 22
IV. MARGOT: THE MARTYR " 29
V. IRENE: THE SNOW FLOWER " 35
VI. NADINE: THE PRINCESS " 39
MY YEAR AT SCHOOL _Margaret Watson_ 48
THE SILVER STAR _Nellie Holderness_ 57
UNCLE TONE _Kate Godkin_ 67
A NIGHT ON THE ROAD _Margaret Watson_ 77
THE MISSING LETTER _Jennie Chappell_ 83
"THE COLONEL" _Marion Dicken_ 93
NETTIE _Alfred G. Sayers_ 97
THE MAGIC CABINET _Albert E. Hooper_ 103
GIRLHOOD AND YOUTH.
ONLY TIM _Sarah Doudney_ 121
SMITH'S SISTER _Robert Overton_ 139
THE COLONEL'S BOY _H. Hervey_ 148
'TWIXT LIFE AND DEATH _Clucas Joughin_ 155
ROSE'S BIRTHDAY PRESENT _Marie E. C. Delbrassine_ 164
DOLLY HARDCASTLE'S ROSEBUDS _Charles E. Pearce_ 171
A TALE OF SIMLA _Dr. Helen Bourchier_ 177
THE TREVERN TREASURE _Lucy Hardy_ 189
A MEMORABLE DAY _Sarah Doudney_ 196
DORA _Alfred H. Miles_ 202
LITTLE PEACE _Nora Ryeman_ 211
THE STORY OF WASSILI AND DARIA _Robert Guillemard_ 215
PLUCK, PERIL, AND ADVENTURE.
MARJORIE MAY _Evelyn Everett-Green_ 225
FOURTH COUSINS _Gordon Stables, M.D., R.N._ 238
THE PEDLAR'S PACK _Lucie E. Jackson_ 245
THE UNBIDDEN GUEST _F. B. Forester_ 264
THE WRECK OF THE MAY QUEEN _Alice F. Jackson_ 275
ADRIFT ON THE PACIFIC " 285
A STRANGE VISITOR _Maud Heighington_ 295
THE THIRD PERSON SINGULAR _Lucy Hardy_ 301
"HOW JACK MINDED THE BABY" _Dorothy Pinho_ 307
MY GRANDMOTHER'S ADVENTURE _Alfred H. Miles_ 310
A TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS EVE _Lucie E. Jackson_ 315
A NIGHT OF HORROR _Alfred H. Miles_ 326
AUNT GRIEVES' SILVER _Lucie E. Jackson_ 329
BILLJIM _S. Le Sotgille_ 341
IN THE WORLD OF FAERY.
THE LEGENDS OF LANGAFFER _Armand Caumont_
I. THE TINY FOLK OF LANGAFFER " 353
II. THE KINGFISHER " 364
III. CASPAR THE COBBLER " 380
IV. DAME DOROTHY'S DOG " 391
V. THE LITTLE LOCKSMITH " 397
ROMANCE IN HISTORY.
HOW CICELY DANCED BEFORE THE KING _Thomas Archer_ 403
A MOTHER OF QUEENS _From "Old Romance"_ 410
THE STORY OF GRIZEL COCHRANE _W. R. C._ 418
A WIFE'S STRATAGEM _Lucy Hardy_ 427
THE KING'S TRAGEDY _Alfred H. Miles_ 434
THE STRANGER _H. G. Bell_ 439
LOVE WILL FIND A WAY _Lady Nithsdale's Records_ 447
SCHOOL AND HOME.
GLORIA DENE'S SCHOOLFELLOWS.
BY NORA RYEMAN.
I.--NARDA: THE NIGHTINGALE.
I.
"Here you are, miss," said the red-faced cabby, putting his head in at
the cab window, "this is Miss Melford's school."
It was a large, many windowed, white house on Hertford Green, in sight
of the famous spires of Silverbridge, and was for some six months to be
both home and school to me, Gloria Dene.
I was late in my arrival, and I was tired, for I had come all the way
from Erlingham in the heart of Norfolk, and moreover, I was hungry, and
just a little homesick, and already wanted to return to the old
homestead and to Uncle Gervase and Aunt Ducie, who had taken the place
of my parents.
The cabman gave a loud rat-a-tat with the lion-headed knocker, and in
due course a rosy-faced servant maid opened the door and ushered me in.
Then she preceded me through a broad flagged hall, lit by crimson
lamps. And as I went I heard a sweet and thrilling voice singing,
"Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home."
The words naturally appealed to me, and I exclaimed:
"How lovely! Who is singing?" only to be told that it was Mamselle
Narda, the music mistress.
I thought of the nightingale which sang in our rose bush on summer
nights at home, and found myself wondering what Mamselle was like.
The next day I saw her--Bernarda Torres; she was a brown beauty, with
dark rippling hair, soft dark eyes, and a richly soft complexion, which
put one in mind of a ripe peach on a southern wall.
She was of Spanish extraction, her father (a fruit merchant) hailing
from Granada, her mother from Seville. Narda's path had been strewn with
roses, until a bank failure interrupted a life of happiness, and then
sorrows had come in battalions. Mamselle had really turned her silver
notes into silver coins for the sake of "Home, Sweet Home."
This love of home it was which united Narda and myself. She told me all
about the house at home, about her brother, Carlos, and his pictures,
and _maman_, who made point lace, and Olla Podrida, and little Nita, who
was _douce et belle_. And I, in my turn, told her of the thatched
homestead near the Broads, of the bay and mulberry trees, of Aunt
Ducie's sweet kind face, and Uncle Gervase's early silvered hair.
And she called me "little sister," and promised to spend her next
vacation where the heron fishes and the robin pipes in fair and fresh
East Anglia.
But one May morning, when the lilacs in our playground were full of
sweet-scented, purple plumes, a bolt fell from the blue. A letter came
to Narda telling her of her mother's failing health, her father's
apathy, her brother's despair.
"It is enough," said Mamselle, "I see my duty! An impresario once told
me that my destiny was to sing in public. I will do it for 'Home, Sweet
Home,' I will be La Narda the singer, instead of Miss Melford's
Mamselle. God who helps the blind bird build its nest will help me to
save mine."
II.
There had been the first fall of the snow, and "ye Antiente Citie"
looked like some town in dreamland, or in fairyland, as Miss Melford's
boarders (myself amongst the number) went through its streets and wynds
to the ballad concert (in aid of Crumblebolme's Charity), at which
Mamselle, then La Narda, the _cantatrice_, was announced to sing. We
were naturally much excited; it seemed, as Ivy Davis remarked, almost as
though we were all going to sing in public.
We had front seats, quite near the tapestried platform from whence we
took note of the audience.
"Look, look!" whispered Milly Reed eagerly. "The Countess of Jesmond,
and the house-party at Coss have come to hear _our_ Mamselle. That dark,
handsome man next the countess is Count Mirloff, the Russian poet. Just
think I----"
What more Milly would have said I really cannot say, for just then there
was a soft clapping of hands, and La Narda came down the crimson steps
of the Justice Room, and advanced to the footlights.
"She's like a fairy queen! She's just too lovely!" said the
irrepressible Ivy. And though Miss Melford shook her head, I am sure she
also was of the same opinion, and was proud of my dear brown
nightingale.
The _petite_ figure was robed in white silk, trimmed with frosted leaves
and pink roses, and wore a garland of the same on her dark bright head.
"Tell me, thou bonnie bird,
When shall I marry me?
When three braw gentlemen
Churchward shall carry ye,"
sang the sweet full voice, and we listened entranced. The next song was
"Robin Adair."
Then came an encore, and as Narda acknowledged it, an accident occurred
which (as the newspapers say) might have had a fatal termination.
A flounce of the singer's dress touched the footlights, and the flame
began to creep upwards like a snake of fire.
Narda glanced downward, drew back, and was about to try to crush it out
with her hands, when in less time than it takes to tell it, the Russian
gentleman sprang forward, wrapped his fur-lined coat about her, and
extinguished the flame.
The poet had saved the nightingale, and Miss Melford's romantic girls
unanimously resolved "that he ought to marry her."
III.
And he did shortly after. Our some time music-teacher who was good
enough for any position became a _grande dame_ with a mansion in St.
Petersburg, and a country house in Livania. She went to balls at the
Winter Palace, and was present at all the court ceremonies.
Yet was she still our Narda, she sent us girls presents of Viennese
bonbons and French fruit, bought brother Carlo's paintings, sent
_petite_ Nita as a boarder to Miss Melford's, and studied under a great
_maestro_.
When a wee birdie came into the Russian nest she named it Endora Gloria,
and her happiness and my pride were complete.
Then came a great--a terrible blow. The count, whose opinions were
liberal, was accused of being implicated in a revolutionary rising. He
was cast into prison, and sent to the silver mines to work in the long
underground passages for twenty years.
Ivy Davis, who was very romantic, was grievously disappointed because
the countess returned to her profession instead of sharing her husband's
exile. But there came a day and an hour when she honoured as well as
loved the _cantatrice_; for she with Heaven's help freed the count, and
obtained his pardon from the Czar--she herself shall tell you how she
gained it.
Read the letter she sent to me:--
"Gloria, Alexis is free; he is nursing Endora as I write.
"When the officers took him from me I felt half mad, and knew
not where to go.
"One morning as I knelt by my little one's white bed an
inspiration came; over the mantel was a picture of 'The Good
Shepherd,' and I clasped my hands, and cried aloud:
"'O bon Pasteur, help me to free Thy sheep.'
"And lo, a voice seemed to answer: 'Daughter, use the talent
that you have.'
"I rose from my knees knowing what course to pursue. I sought
new opportunities for the display of my one talent, I was more
than successful, I became Narda the prima donna, and won golden
guineas and opinions.
"At last came my opportunity. I was to sing at Bayreuth in
Wagner's glorious opera, I was to sing the Swan Song, and the
Czar was to be present.
"The house was crowded, there was row upon row, tier after tier
of faces, but I saw one only--that of the Czar in his box.
"I stood there before the footlights in shining white, and sang
my song.
"The heavenly music rose and fell, died away and rose again, and
I sang as I had never done before. I sang for home, love, and
child.
"When the curtain fell the Czar sent for me and complimented me
graciously, offering me a diamond ring which I gratefully
refused.
"'Sire,' I said, 'I ask for a gift more costly still.'
"'Is it,' he asked, 'a necklace?'
"'No, sire, it is my husband's pardon. Give my little daughter
her father back.'
"He frowned, hesitated, then said that he would inquire into the
matter.
"Gloria, he did, God be praised! The evidence was sifted, much
of it was found to be false. The pardon was made out. Your
nightingale had sung with her breast against a thorn, 'her song
had been a prayer which Heaven itself had heard.'"
II--ESTELLA: THE HEIRESS.
Her Christian name Estella Marie, her starry eyes and pale, earnest
face, and her tall, lissom figure were the only beautiful things about
Estella Keed. Everything else, dress, home, appointments, were exceeding
plain. For her grandfather in whose house she lived was, though
reputedly wealthy, a miserly man.
He lived in a large and antique house, with hooded windows, in Mercer's
Lane, and was a dealer in antiques and curios. And his popular sobriquet
was Simon the Saver (Anglice, miser).
Stella was the only child of his only son, a clever musician, who had
allied himself with a troupe of wandering minstrels, and married a
Spaniard attached to the company, and who, when he followed his wife
into the silent land, bequeathed his little girl to his father,
beseeching him to overlook the estrangement of years, and befriend the
orphan child. She inherited her name Estella from her Spanish mother,
but they called her Molly in her new home--it was part of her
discipline.
Simon Keed had accepted, and fulfilled the trust in his own peculiar
way. That is to say, he had sheltered, fed, and clothed Estella, and
after some years' primary instruction in a elementary school, had sent
her to Miss Melford's to complete her studies.
Farther than this he had not gone, for she was totally without a proper
outfit. In summer her patched and faded print frocks presented a
pathetic contrast to the pink and blue cambrics, and floral muslins, of
the other girls; and in winter, when velvets and furs were in evidence,
the contrast made by her coarse plain serge, and untrimmed cape of Irish
frieze, was quite as strong; indeed, her plainness was more than
Quakerish, it was Spartan, she was totally destitute of the knicknacks
so dear to the girlish heart, and though she had grown used to looking
at grapes like Reynard in the fable, I am sure she often felt the sting
of her grandfather's needless, almost cruel, economy. This was evidenced
by what was ever after spoken of by us girls as the garden-party
episode.
Near the old city was a quaint and pretty village, one famed in local
history as having in "teacup," Georgian, times been honoured by a visit
by Mrs. Hannah More, who described it as Arcadian.
It had a fine, well-timbered park, full of green hollows in which grew
the "'rath primrose," and which harboured a large, Jacobean mansion,
occupied, at the period of this story, by Dr. Tempest as a Boys'
Preparatory School, and as Mrs. Tempest was an old friend of Miss
Melford's, the senior pupils (both boarders and day scholars) were
always invited to their annual garden- or breaking-up party, which was
held in the lovely park.
Stella, as one of the senior girls, was duly invited; but no one deemed
that she would accept the invitation, because her grandfather had been
heard to say that education was one thing, and frivolity another.
"I suppose _you_ won't go to the party," said impulsive Ivy Davis, and
Estella had answered with a darkened face:
"I cannot say. When I'm not here I have to stay in that gloomy old
house, like a mouse in its hole. But if I can go anyhow, Ivy, I shall,
you may depend upon _that_."
Then we heard no more about the matter until the eventful day, when, to
our surprise, Estella presented herself with the other day scholars, in
readiness to go.
"Look, Gloria, look," said Ivy, in a loud whisper, as we filed through
the hall, "Stella's actually managed to come, and to make herself
presentable. _However_ did she do it?"
"Hush," I whispered back, but, all the same, I also marvelled at the
girl's appearance.
Her heliotrope and white muslin skirt was somewhat faded, it was true,
but still, it was good material, and was pretty. The same could be said
of her cream blouse. The marvel and the mystery lay in hat, necklet, and
shoes.
The hat was of burnt straw, broad brimmed, low crowned, and of the
previous summer's fashion. It was simply trimmed with a garland or band
of dull black silk, and large choux of the same, all of which might have
been fresher; but in front was an antique brooch, or buckle, of pale
pink coral and gold, which was at once beautiful and curiously
inconsistent with the rest of the costume. Round Estella's throat was a
lovely gold and coral necklace, and her small, worn shoes boasted coral
and gold buckles. She had got a coral set from somewhere, where and how
we all wondered.
Even Miss Melford was astonished and impressed by Estella's unwonted
splendour, for touching the necklet, I overheard her say:
"Very pretty, my dear! Your grandfather, I presume, gave you the set?
Very kind of him!"
Stella, with a flushed face, replied:
"He did not give it, ma'am," and the matter dropped.
Miss Melford and I presumed that Mr. Keed had simply lent his
grand-daughter the articles--which likely enough belonged to his stock
of antiquities--for the day.
It was a delightful fete--one of those bright and happy days which are
shining milestones along the road of life. The peacocks strutted about
on the terrace and made us laugh when they spread out their tails. We
ate strawberries and cream under the elms, played all kinds of outdoor
games on the greensward, and when we were tired rested in the cool,
pot-pourri scented parlours.
I am of opinion that Estella enjoyed herself as much as any of us,
though she became strangely quiet and downcast on our way home. But, as
Ivy truly remarked, it was not to be wondered at; the fairy palace was
left behind, and the role of Cinderella awaited her on the morrow.
Upon the day succeeding the party, we broke up. I went home to spend the
vacation with my uncle and aunt, and when I returned to school I found
as usual, on reassembling, that there were a few vacant places, amongst
them that of Estella Keed. I wondered how this was, though I did not
presume to question Miss Melford on the subject; but one autumn morning,
when passing through Mercer's Lane, I came across Estella. She looked
shabby and disconsolate, in her faded gown and worn headgear, and I
asked her if she had been unwell.
"Oh dear no," was the response, "only very dull. I never go anywhere, or
see any one--how can I help being so? I am only Molly now. No one calls
me by my beautiful mother's name, Estella. I want to learn to be a
typewriter, or something, and go and live in a big city, but grandpa
says I must wait, and then he'll see about it! I detest this horrid
lane!" she added passionately.
I looked down the long, mediaeval street, with its gabled houses, and
then at the old church tower (round which the birds were circling in the
distance), and replied with truth that it was picturesque, and carried
one back into the storied past.
"I am tired of the past--it's all past at ours--the jewels have been
worn by dead women, the old china, and bric-a-brac, has stood in empty
houses! It's all of the dead and gone. So is the house, all the rooms
are old. I should like to live in a new house."
"Perhaps you want a change?" I said. "Why don't you come back to
school?"
She shook her head, and glanced away from me--up at the old Gothic
church tower, and then said hurriedly:
"I must hurry on now, Gloria--I am wanted--at home."
One December evening not long after, during Miss Melford's hour with us,
at recreation, she said:
"Young ladies, you will be pleased to hear that your old schoolmate,
Estella Keed, returns to us to-morrow."
On the morrow Estella came, but how different was she from the old and
the former Estella!
She wore a suitable and becoming costume of royal blue, and was a
beautiful and pleasant looking girl! Her own natural graces had their
own proper setting. It seemed indeed as if all things had become new to
her, as if she lived and breathed in a fresher and fairer world than of
yore!
Perhaps because I had been sympathetic in the hour of trouble, she
attached herself to me, and one day, during recess, she told me why she
had been temporarily withdrawn from school.
"Gloria," she said, "grandfather never gave me his permission to go to
the garden-party--indeed, I never asked for it, for I was quite sure
that he would not give it.
"But I meant to go all the same, and persuaded Mrs. Mansfield, the
housekeeper, to help me. She it was who altered and did up an old gown
of mother's for me to wear. But without the coral set I should not have
been able to go; for, as you know, I had no adornments. I'd often seen
them when on sale and wished for them; but I knew that they would
neither be given nor lent for the party.
"Then Fate, as it seemed, befriended me; my grandfather had to go to
London about some curios on the date fixed for the party, and I
determined to borrow the set and make myself look presentable. All I had
to do was to go to the window and take them out of their satin-lined
case.
"I hoped to replace them before my grandfather returned from town, but
when I got home from the fete I found that he had returned by an earlier
and quicker train than he himself had expected to. He looked at me from
head to foot, then touched the necklace and the clasp, and demanded of
me sternly where I had been.
"I was tongue-tied for a few moments, and then I blurted out the truth:
"'Grandfather,' I said, 'I've been to Dr. Tempest's garden-party as one
of Miss Melford's senior girls, and as I didn't want to be different
from the other girls I borrowed the coral set for the day. They are not
hurt in the least.'
"The room seemed going round with me as I spoke, even the dutch cheese
on the supper table seemed to be bobbing up and down.
"At last my grandfather spoke:
"'Take the set off and give them to me,' he said shortly.
"I yielded up the treasures with trembling hands, and when I had done so
he told me I should not return to school, and then added:
"'Go to your room and don't let me hear of this affair again. I fear you
are as fond of finery as your mother was.'
"You know the rest. I did not return to Miss Melford's, and I should not
have been here now but for Dr. Saunders. Soon after the garden-party my
grandfather was taken ill, and the doctor had to be called in. I think
he must have taken pity on me, and must have spoken to my grandfather
about me. Anyhow, my grandfather called me to his bedside one day, and
told me that he knew that he could not live many years longer, and that
all he wanted was to leave me able--after he was gone--to live a good
and useful life without want, and that if he had been too saving in the
past, it was all that my future should be provided for. There was a
strange tenderness in his voice. Strange at least it seemed to me, for I
had never heard it there before, and I put my face down upon the pillow
beside him and cried. He took my hand in his, and the silence was more
full of hope and promise than any words of either could have been. I
waited upon him after that, and he seemed to like to have me about him,
and when he got better he told me that he wished me to return to school
and to make the best use of my opportunities while I had them. He told
me that he had decided to make me an allowance for dress, and that he
hoped that I should so use it as to give him proof before he died that
I could be trusted to deal wisely with all that he might have to leave."
Estella remained at school until I left, and the last time I saw her
there she was wearing the red coral set which had estranged her from her
grandfather as a token of reconciliation; and she told me that the old
man's hands trembled in giving them to her, even more than hers did in
giving them up, as he said to her with tears in his eyes and voice:--
"All that I have is thine."
III.--MAURA: THE MUNIFICENT.
I.
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT.
Maura was the most popular girl in the school. She would have been
envied if she had not been so much loved. The reason was that she was
amiable as well as pretty, she had plenty of pocket-money, and was
generous to a fault. If a girl had lost, or mislaid, her gloves, Maura
would instantly say, "Oh, don't make a fuss, go to my glove-box and take
a pair." Or if a pupil's stock of pin-money ran out before the end of
the quarter, she would slip a few shillings into her hand, merrily
whispering:
"For every evil under the sun,
There's either a remedy, or there's none;
_I've_ found one."
Maura was heiress of Whichello-Towers, in the north, with the broad
lands appertaining. She was an orphan, her nearest relative being her
uncle, a banker, who was her guardian, and somewhat anxious about his
charge. So anxious indeed that he sometimes curtailed her allowance, in
order to teach her prudence.
"Maura, my dear, waste is wicked even in the wealthy; you need wisdom as
well as wealth," said Miss Melford to her one day. And indeed she did,
for sometimes the articles she bought for others were singularly
extravagant and inappropriate.
When Selina, the rosy-cheeked cook, was married from the school, the
teachers and pupils naturally gave her wedding presents. My gift took
the form of a teapot, Margot's of a dozen of fine linen handkerchiefs,
and the others (with the exception of Maura) of things useful to a
country gardener's wife.
Maura bought a dress of heliotrope silk, elaborately trimmed with white
lace, and as the bride truly observed, "Fit for a princess."
But the heiress of Whichello had a lodging in all our hearts, and when
I, one midwinter morning, saw her distraught with a troubled look in her
soft brown eyes, I was grieved, and begged her to confide in me.
"If I do, you cannot help me, Gloria," said Maura. "The fact is, I'm
short of money."
"Not an unusual state of affairs," rose to my lips, but the words
changed as I uttered them.
"Poor Maura! Surely _you_ have a little left?"
"Only these," and she drew out two shillings.
"Well, you must draw on my little bank, until your uncle sends your next
remittance," was my reply.
"It isn't any use. Gloria, you are nice, and sweet, but _your_ money
would only be a drop in the ocean! I'm not to have any money all next
quarter. This letter came this morning. Read it."
I did. It was a letter from Maura's guardian, who informed her that he
desired to give her an object lesson in thrift, and, therefore, would
hold her next remittance--which had already been anticipated--over. He
also intimated that any applications to him would be useless.
"Well, things might be worse," was my comment, as I returned the letter.
"You must let _me_ be your banker and must economise, and be prudent
till the next cheque arrives."
"Yes, I will--but----"
"But what, Maura?"
"I'm in debt--dreadfully in debt. See."
With this she drew some papers from her pocket, and handed them to me.
One by one I looked them over. The first was a coal dealer's bill for a
fairly large load of coal.
"_That_," said Maura, "was for old Mrs. Grant, in Black-Cross Buildings.
She was _so_ cold, it made me quite creepy to look at her."
I opened another. This was from a firm of motor-car and cycle dealers,
and was the balance due upon a lady's cycle. I was perplexed.
"Why, you said you never intended to cycle," I said, with amazement,
"and _now_ you have bought this Peerless bicycle!"
"Yes, but it was not for myself," she said, "I gave it to Meg Morrison
to ride to and from her work in the City! Trams and 'buses don't run to
Kersley, and it was a terrible walk for the poor girl."
"Could not Meg have bought one on the instalment system for herself?"
"Why, Gloria, how mean you are! She has seven brothers and sisters, and
four of them are growing boys, with appetites! The butcher and baker
claim just all she earns."
I opened the third yellow envelope, and was surprised to see a bill
with: To Joseph Greenaway, Furniture Dealer, one child's mahogany cot L1
10_s_, upon it.
"Maura," I cried, "this is the climax. Why ever did you buy a baby's
cot--and how came Mr. Greenaway to trust you? You are only a minor--an
infant in law!"
"Oh, do stop," said Maura; "you're like Hermione or Rosalind,
or--somebody--who put on a barrister's gown in the play----"
"Portia, I suppose you mean?"
"Yes, Portia. Mr. Greenaway let me have the cot because I once bought a
little blue chair from him, for Selina's baby, for which I paid _cash
down_."
It is impossible to describe the triumphant manner in which she uttered
"cash down," it was as if she had said, _I_ paid the national debt.
"Now," she proceeded, "I'll tell you why I bought it--I was one day
passing a weaver's house in Revel Lane, when I saw a young woman crying
bitterly but silently at the bottom of one of the long entries or
passages. 'I fear you are in trouble' I said. 'Is any one ill?'
"She shook her head. She couldn't speak for a moment, then whispered:
"'Daisie's cot has followed the loom!'
"I asked her what following the loom meant.
"'O young lady,' she replied, 'the weaver's trade has been mortle bad
lately, and last week I sold Daisie's cot for the rent--and when the
broker took it up I thought my heart would break; but hearts don't
break, missie, they just go on achin'.'
"Daisie was her only child, and the cot was a carved one, an heirloom in
which several generations of the family had slept!
"I had only a florin in my purse, but I gave her that, took her name and
address and walked on.
"But the woman haunted me. All the rest of the day I seemed to see her
weeping in the long, grey street, and to hear _her_ sobbing above the
sound of the music in the music-room, and when I woke up in the middle
of the night, I thought I would go to Mr. Greenaway the next day, and
ask him to let me have a cot, and I'd pay him out of my next quarter's
pocket-money. The very next day he sent the crib--'From an unknown
friend.' That's all, Gloria! Now, what shall I do?"
"Go and tell Miss Melford all about it," said I. "Come, _now_."
Maura shrank from the ordeal, but in the end I persuaded her to
accompany me to the cedar parlour, where the Lady Principal was writing.
A wood fire burned cheerily on the white marble hearth, and the winter
sunlight fell brightly on the flower-stand full of flowers--amidst which
the piping bullfinch, Puffball, hopped about.
Miss Melford, with her satin-brown hair, and golden-brown silk dress,
was a pleasant figure to look upon as she put down her pen, and said
sweetly:
"Well, girls, what is it?"
Maura drew back and was silent, but I was spokeswoman for her; and when
I concluded my story there was silence for a few moments.
Then Miss Melford rose, and putting an arm round Maura's shoulders,
gravely, but at the same time tenderly, in her own sweet way, pointed
out the moral of the situation, and then added:
"You shall accompany me to see the people who have generously (if
unwisely) allowed you to have the goods, and I will explain matters, and
request them to wait."
Maura was a quiet, subdued girl for a time after this, but a few days
later she knocked timidly at Miss Melford's door. Miss Melford was
alone, and bade her enter. Once in the room Maura hesitated, and then
said:
"Please, Miss Melford, may I ask a favour?"
"Certainly, my dear! What is it?"
"If I can find any right and honourable way of earning the money to pay
the bills with, may I do so?"
"Assuredly," said Miss Melford, "if you will submit your plan to my
approval; but, Maura, I am afraid you will find it is harder to earn
money than you think."
"Oh yes, I know money is hard to get, and very, very easy to spend. What
a queer world it is!" was Maura's comment, as she left the room.
II.
THE BAL MASQUE.
There was to be a Children's Fancy Dress Ball--a Bal Masque, to which
all Miss Melford's senior pupils were going, and little else was talked
of weeks before the great event was due!
Margot was to go as Evangeline, and I was to be Priscilla the Puritan
Maiden, but none of us knew in what character Maura Merle was to appear.
It was kept secret.
Knowing the state of her finances, both Miss Melford and the girls
offered to provide her costume, but she gratefully and firmly rejected
both proposals, saying that she had made arrangements for a dress, and
that it would be a surprise.
And indeed it was, for when we all assembled in the white drawing-room,
in readiness for our escort to the Town Hall, Maura was what newspapers
style "the cynosure of all eyes."
She wore a frock of pale blue silk! and all over it in golden letters
were the words: "Sweets from Fairyland."
Her waving golden hair was adorned by a small, white satin, Trigon hat,
ornamented with a blue band, on which were the words: "Fairy Queen."
From her waist depended an elaborate bonbonniere, her sash was dotted
all over with imitation confections of various kinds, her blue satin
shoes had rosettes of tiny bonbons, and her domino suggested chocolate
cream.
There were of course loud exclamations of--"What does this mean, Maura?"
"Why, you are Fairy Queen, like the Fairyland Confectioner's Company's
advertisements!" but all Maura said was:
"Girls, Miss Melford knows all about it, and approves."
At this juncture, Miss Melford's voice was heard saying: "Follow me, my
dears," and we all filed out of the room, and down the stairs to the
carriages in waiting. The Town Hall was beautifully decorated, and the
costumes were delightful. There were cavaliers, sweeps, princesses, and
beggar-maids, but no one attracted more notice than Fairy Queen, who
instead of dancing glided about amongst the company, offering fondants
and caramels from her big bonbonniere.
The young guests laughed as they ate the sweetmeats, and rallied her
upon the character she had chosen.
"Why have you left Fairyland?" asked a musketeer, and Fairy Queen
replied:
"Because I want you all to have fairy fare."
"Won't you dance, Fairy Queen?" asked Bonnie Prince Charlie,
persuasively, but Fairy Queen curtsied, and answered:
"I pray you excuse me, I'm on duty for the Company in Wayverne Square."
I guessed that there was something behind all this, and the sequel
proved my conjecture true.
For when the Bal Masque was a golden memory, Maura came to me with a
little bundle of receipted bills in her hand, saying:
"Look, Gloria, "Fairy Queen" paid _these_. I was with Ivy in a
confectioner's one day when the mistress told us that a member of the
newly started firm of sweetmeat manufacturers, who traded as the
Fairyland Company, had said that he wished _he_ had a daughter who could
go to the ball as Fairy Queen, and exploit his goods.
"I thought to myself: 'Well, Maura Merle could do it,' and I went to the
Company and offered to undertake the duty, subject, of course, to Miss
Melford's permission.
"They said they would give me a handsome sum, and provide the dress, and
I wrote to Uncle Felix, and begged him to let me have his sanction.
"His answer was: 'The money will be honestly earned, earn it.'
"So I did! The Company were much pleased with me, and here are the
receipted bills. I need hardly tell you how much I enjoyed being what a
newsboy in the street called me, 'The Little Chocolate Girl!'"
IV.--MARGOT: THE MARTYR.
I.
AT SCHOOL.
"Mademoiselle Margot, Professor Revere's daughter, who has come to share
your English studies, girls," said Miss Melford, presenting a tall,
clear-complexioned, sweet-faced girl one May morning on the opening of
school.
The new-comer bowed gracefully, and then took a vacant seat next to me,
and we all took good-natured notice of her, for her black frock was worn
for her newly lost mother, and her father, our popular French master,
was an exile, who for a supposed political offence had forfeited his
estate, near La Ville Sonnante, as the old city of Avignon is often
called. Margot would have been _une grande demoiselle_ in her own
country had not monsieur fallen under the displeasure of a powerful
cabinet minister during a change of _regime_, and Miss Melford's girls
were of opinion that the position would have suited her, and she the
position.
Mademoiselle Margot soon interested us all, not only in herself, but in
her antecedents and prospects. She was never tired of talking of her old
associations, and that with an enthusiasm that aroused our sympathy and
inspired our hopes.
"Picture to yourself," she would say, "Mon Desir on a summer's day, the
lawns spreading out their lovely carpet for the feet, the trees waving
their glorious foliage overhead, the birds singing in the branches, the
bees humming in the parterre, and the water plashing in the fountains.
_Maman_ loved it, as I did, and the country people loved us as we loved
them. _Maman_ used to say, 'A little sunshine, a little love, a little
self-denial, that is life.' Even had we been poor there, walked instead
of ridden, ate brown bread in lieu of white, we should have been amongst
our own people. But now----"
Then we would all crowd round her and spin romances about the Prince
Charming who would come her way, and present her with Mon Desir, with
all its dear delights, and with it--his own hand.
Margot's failing was a too sensitive pride. She was proud both of and
for the professor. She could not forget that he was, as she would say,
_un grand gentilhomme_, that his ancestors had fought with Bayard and
Turenne, had been gentlemen-in-waiting to kings, had wedded women who
were ladies of the court.
I discovered this slight fault of my darling's on one occasion in this
way: as we girls were going our usual noonday walk, we came to a large,
red-brick house, standing alone in its own grounds; it was not a cottage
of gentility, but a place which an estate agent would have described as
a desirable mansion. Everything about it, mutely, but eloquently, said
money. Big glass-houses, big coach-houses, big plate glass windows,
spacious gardens, trim lawns, etc., etc., etc.
As the school filed past, an elaborate barouche drew up to the iron
gateway, and a lady, who was about entering it, stared at our party, and
then looked keenly at Margot. She was a pretty woman, blonde, with a
mass of fluffy, honey-coloured hair, and a cold, pale blue pair of eyes.
Her costume was of smooth, blue-grey cloth, the flowing cloak lined with
ermine, and her hat a marvel of millinery; indeed, she presented a
striking contrast to the professor's daughter in her plain, neat black
coat and frock, and small toque, with its trimming of white narcissi,
and I cannot say that I was favourably impressed by the unknown, she was
far too cold and purse-proud looking to please me.
After a close and none too polite scrutiny, the lady bowed, approached,
and held out her hand.
"Good-morning, Miss Revere," she said graciously, yet with more than a
suspicion of patronage, "I trust the professor is well," and without
waiting for an answer, "and your mother? We have been so busy
entertaining, that I have been quite unable to call, or send! However,
tell her that I am going to send for her to Bellevue, the very _first_
day I'm alone, the _very first_!"
We two girls were alone (the rest having gone on with Fraeulein
Schwartze), and there was silence for a moment, during which the lady
turned toward her well-appointed carriage; then Margot spoke, with some
asperity, though I heard the tears in her silvery voice.
"Mrs. Seawood," she said, "there is no more need to trouble; _maman_ has
gone where no one will be ashamed of her because she was poor."
The lady turned a little pale, and expressed herself as shocked, and
then, having offered some cold condolences, spoke to the coachman; and
as we passed on we heard the quick rattle of the horses' hoofs, as the
barouche rolled down the long drive.
There are times when silence is golden, and _this_ was one! I did not
speak until we came to a five-barred gate, on the topmost rung of which
Margot laid her arms, bent her head, and sobbed like a little child.
I put my arm round her neck to comfort her.
"Margot, _cherie_," I whispered, "tell me why you weep."
It appeared that the professor had been used to teach the little
delicate son of the purse-proud lady, and that he had taken great
interest in the little fellow both on account of his backwardness and
frail health.
"After he died," said Margot, "his mother seemed grateful for these
small kindnesses, and called upon us. Sometimes she sent the carriage
for _maman_ to spend a few hours at Bellevue, but always when the
weather was unpleasant. Then, you see, I used to go to the Seawoods for
my mother, take bouquets of violets, Easter eggs, and other small
complimentary tokens of regard, and madame would exclaim, 'How sweet!'
or 'How lovely!' but always in a patronising manner. I only told the
'How sweet!' and 'How beautiful!' to mother, because _she_ used to look
wistfully at me, and say how glad she was that I had some English
friends.
"Once, I remember, I was passing Bellevue at night with papa; it was a
cold, January evening, with snow falling, and we shivered a little.
They were giving a grand party, the house was lit up like an enchanted
palace, and papa (who is often as sweetly simple as Don Quixote) said:
"'I cannot understand why your friends have overlooked you, _petite_,
you could have worn the little grey frock with blue trimmings, eh?'
"They never understood how hollow a friendship it was. They could not
realise that others could display a meanness of which they themselves
were incapable, and I suppose it was only my own proud heart, less free
from the vanity of human weakness than theirs, which made me detect and
resent it; and so I had to endure the misery of this proud patronage and
let my parents think I was enjoying the friendship of love. To be proud
and dependent, Gloria, is to be poor indeed. But I must conquer my
pride, if only that I may conquer my poverty, and as Miss Melford told
us at scripture this morning, he that conquers his own proud heart is
greater than he that taketh a city."
Then she linked her arm in mine, and said:
"The Good God has allowed me to become poor, but he has given me _one_
talent, I can paint, and if only for papa's sake I must overcome evil
with good and try to win a victory over myself."
II.
THE PALM-BEARERS.
Miss Melford, and a chosen party of the senior girls (of whom I was
one), stood in our beautiful Art Gallery attentively studying a water
colour on the line. The picture was numbered 379 in the catalogue, was
called "Palm-Bearers," and was painted by Miss Margot Revere! _Our
Margot_, the girl who had been my classmate, whom I had loved as a
sister. The scene portrayed was a procession of early Christians
entering an Eastern city at Eastertide. There were matrons and maids,
golden-haired children, and white-haired men, all bearing green palm
branches, under an intense, cerulean sky.
"Well done, Margot," said Miss Melford softly, with a suspicious dimness
in her eyes, and there was a general chorus of approval from all
beholders.
Margot, who was much older than I, had left school long since, had
studied, worked, copied in the great Art Galleries, exhibited, and sold
her works.
She was then in Rome with her father, who had become blind, and I had at
that moment a long letter from her in my bag, as I stood looking at her
picture. In one passage of it she had written: "the girl with the crown
of white roses in my last painting is my little Gloria, my girl comrade,
who consoled me when I was sad, who watched next my pillow when I was
sick, and when sad memories made me cry at night crept to me through the
long dormitory and knelt beside me, like a white-robed ministering
angel. Apropos of palms, mama was a palm-bearer; I must win one before I
look on her dear, dear face." As I thought on these words, Miss
Melford's voice speaking to Gurda broke in on my thoughts.
"Dear, dear, how extremely like to Gloria is that figure in the middle
of Margot's painting!"
"Of course, Miss Melford, Margot will have sketched it from her. She was
her chum, her soul's sister."
"Her soul's sister!" Those three words went with me through the gallery;
into the sculpture room, amidst white marble figures, into the room full
of Delia Robbia and majolica ware, everywhere!
Even when we descended the flight of steps, and came into the great
white square, I seemed to hear them in the plashing of the fountains.
III.
THE RAIN OF FIRE.
It was August, and rain had fallen on the hot, parched earth.
The bells in the church tower were ringing a muffled peal, and as I
listened to the sad, sweet music, I thought of Margot, lonely Margot,
who had seen her father laid under the ilex trees, and then gone to
visit a distant relative at Chateau Belair in the West Indies. It was a
strange coincidence, but as I thought of her the servant brought in a
card, bearing the name, M. Achille Levasseur, beneath which was
pencilled:
"Late of Chateau Belair, and cousin of the late Mademoiselle Margot
Revere."
So Margot was dead, had gone to join her loved ones where there are no
distinctions between rich and poor.
Stunned, and half incredulous, I told the maid to show him in, and in a
few minutes a tall, dark, foreign looking man stood in the bright,
flower-scented room which (it being recess), I occupied in Miss
Melford's absence.
I rose, bowed, and asked him to be seated, then, with an effort, said:
"M'sieu, I am Gloria, Margot's chum, and chosen sister. Tell _me_ about
her."
The story was a short one, we had neither of us a desire to dwell upon
the details. The island had been subject to the fury rain of a
quenchless volcano. Whole villages had been overwhelmed and buried in
the burning lava, and hundreds had met with a fiery death. In the midst
of the mad confusion, Margot's calm presence and example inspired the
strong, reassured the terrified, aided the feeble, and helped many on
the way to safety. How many owed their lives to her, her cousin could
not say, but that it was at the cost of her own, was only too terribly
true. She had helped her cousin's family on to the higher ground, which
ensured safety from the boiling lava, only to discover that one little
one had been left behind peacefully sleeping in her cot, the little
baby who had been christened Gloria at Margot's desire in memory of me.
It was a terrible moment to all but Margot, and to her it was the moment
of a supreme inspiration. She dashed down the hill before she could be
stayed, though the ground shook under her feet, and the burning sea of
fiery rain was pouring down the valley below. She reached the house and
seized the infant, and started with frenzied speed to ascend the hill
again. Her cousin, who had seen to the safety of the others of his
family, had now started out to meet her. They saw each other and hurried
with all the speed they could to meet. Within touch a terrific explosion
deafened them as the father seized his child, and Margot, struck by a
boulder belched from the throat of the fierce volcano, sank back into
the fiery sea.
As M. Levasseur ceased, there came through the open window the silvery
sound of the minster bells. They were playing the lovely air,
Angels ever bright and fair,
Take, O take, me to your care.
It came to me that they had taken Margot in a chariot of fire, and I
seemed to see her in an angel throng with a palm branch in her hand.
My favourite trinket is a heart-shaped locket, containing a lock of dark
brown hair, intermixed with golden threads. It is both a souvenir, and a
mascot; for the hair is from the head of my girl chum Margot.
V.--IRENE: THE SNOW FLOWER.
I.
BEDFELLOWS.
Amongst Miss Melford's intimate friends, when I was a boarder at her
school, was a silvery-haired, stately lady, known as Mrs. Dace, who in
her early life had been _gouvernante_ to the Imperial children at the
court of the Czar. Her old friends and pupils wrote to her frequently,
and she still took a keen interest in the Slav, and in things Slavonic.
When her Russian friends--the Petrovskys--came to England, they left
their youngest child, Irene, as a pupil at Miss Melford's school, to
pursue her education while they travelled in Western Europe for a while.
Irene Petrovsky was a pretty little thing, with flaxen hair and clear
blue eyes, and we called her the Snow Flower, after that beautiful
Siberian plant which blooms only in midwinter. I have never forgotten
her first appearance at the school. When Miss Melford led her into the
classroom we all looked up at the small figure in its plain white cloth
frock trimmed with golden sable, and admired the tiny fair curls which
clustered round her white brow. She made a grand court curtsey, and then
sat silently, like a wee white flower, in a corner.
We elder pupils were made guardians of the younger ones in Miss
Melford's school, and it was my duty as Irene's guardian to take her to
rest in the little white nest next to mine in the long dormitory. In the
middle of the first night I was disturbed by a faint sobbing near me,
and I sat up to listen. The sobs proceeded from the bed of the little
Russian girl, and I found she was crying for her elder sister, who, she
said, used to take her in her arms and hold her by the hand until she
fell asleep. A happy thought came to me; my white nest was larger than
hers. So I bade her creep into it, which she readily did, and nestled up
to me, like a trembling, affrighted little bird, falling at last into a
calm, sweet sleep.
From that time forward we two were firm friends, and the girls used to
call the Little Russ, Gloria's shadow.
She was very grateful, and I in my turn grew to love her dearly; so
dearly that when her father, the count, came to take her home, in
consequence of the death of her mother, I felt as if I had lost a little
sister.
Ever after this our little snow flower was a fragrant memory to me. I
often thought of her, and wondered as I watched the white clouds moving
across the summer sky, or the silver moon shining in the heavens,
whether she too was looking out upon the same fair scene from the other
side the sea and thinking of her some time sister of Miss Melford's
school.
II.
AFTER MANY DAYS.
Some years after I had left the school financial difficulties beset my
uncle's affairs. Aunt Ducie died in the midst of them, and Uncle Gervase
did not long survive. Our household gods went under the auctioneer's
hammer, our beautiful home became the home of strangers, and I went to
live in an obscure quarter of a distant town. My means being exceeding
small, I took rooms in a small house in a semi-rural suburb, and from
thence began to look for work for pen and pencil. I had learned to draw,
and had succeeded in one or two small attempts at story telling, and
with my pen and pencil for crutches, and with youth and hope on my side,
I started out with nervous confidence upon the highway of fame.
Cherry-Tree Avenue was a long, narrow street within a stone's throw of
the grim, grey castellated towers of the county gaol, and the weekly
tenants who took the small, red-brick houses were continually changing.
Facing us was No. 3, Magdala Terrace, a house which was empty for some
weeks, but one April evening a large van full of new furniture drove up
to it, followed by a respectable looking man and woman of the artisan
class, who soon began to set the house in order. Before sleep had fallen
on the shabby street a cab drove up to No. 3, and from it stepped a
woman, tall, slight, and closely veiled. I had been to the pillar box to
post an answer to an advertisement, and it happened that I passed the
door of the newly let house as the cab drew up. Without waiting to be
summoned, the trim young woman came out to welcome the new-comer, and
said in French:
"Madame, the place is poor, but clean, and quiet, and," lowering her
voice, "fitted for observation."
In spite of my own anxieties I wondered who the stranger could be, and
why the little house was to be an observatory. Then I remembered the
vicinity of the big gaol, and thought that madame might have an interest
in one of the black sheep incarcerated there.
Very soon strange rumours began to circulate amongst the dwellers in the
avenue. The bright young woman was madame's foster sister; madame
herself was of high degree, a countess, or one of even nobler rank,
travelling in disguise; the quiet, dark young man, her foster sister's
husband, was a woodcarver, who was out of work and only too glad to
serve the foreign lady, who out of generous pity had come to stay with
them.
I, of course, gave no credence to these seemingly absurd reports, but,
all the same, I was aware that there was a mystery at No. 3. The lady
was young, beautiful, and distinguished looking, she had dark, pathetic,
haunting eyes, which reminded me forcibly of other eyes I had seen, but
when and where I could not recall; and though her dresses were dark,
they were _chic_, the word Paris was writ plain on all her toques.
Madame made no friends, and it was clear from the first that she desired
to be undisturbed, at any rate by her neighbours. Every now and again
there were visitors at No 3, but these were strangers, foreign looking
visitors, cloaked, swarthy and sombre men who came and went, one of whom
I overheard say in French as he flicked the ash from his cigar: "Chut!
the rat keeps in his hole, he will not stir."
At Maytime, in the early gloaming, the foreign lady and I met in the
narrow street.
We met face to face, and passed each other with a slight bow of
recognition; a moment after I heard soft, hurried footfalls, and the
strange lady was by my side.
She held out an envelope addressed to me, saying:
"Pardon me, if I mistake not, you dropped this. Is it not so?"
I thanked her, and took the letter, saying:
"It _is_ mine, and I should have troubled had I lost it."
This little incident broke down our old-time reserve, and saying:
"I go to-morrow," she placed a bunch of amber roses she was carrying in
my hand. I thanked her, and asked by what name I might remember her?
"As Nadine," she whispered softly. "I need not ask you yours."
The mention of the name electrified me. Here was I bidding farewell to
Nadine, whose little sister Irene, our sweet snow flower, I had loved
and lost at the old school far away.
Nadine noticed my excitement, and putting her finger to her lips,
cautioned me to silence. But I was not to be denied.
"Irene?" I said in a whisper, "Irene, where is Irene?"
"Hush!" she said, taking me by the arm and drawing me in at the open
doorway of No. 3. "Speak of it not again. Irene fell a victim to our
cruel Russian laws, and lies beside her husband among the snow tombs of
Siberia."
The next morning the strange dark house was empty. The woodcarver and
his wife, and the beautiful Nadine, had vanished with the shadows of the
night.
VI.--NADINE: THE PRINCESS.
I.
WHICHELLO TOWERS.
It was between the lights. I was looking down the dingy street from
behind the curtains of my little window at the postman who was working
his way slowly from side to side delivering his messages of hope and
fear, and was wondering whether I was among those to whom he bore
tidings of joy or sorrow. I had few correspondents, and no expectations,
and so it was with surprise that I saw him ultimately turn in at our
little garden gate and place a letter in our box.
I was not long in breaking the seal, and it was with real delight and
surprise that I discovered that it was from my old schoolfellow, the
generous and sometimes extravagant Maura. It ran thus:
"WHICHELLO TOWERS,
_October 3rd._
"MY DEAR ABSURD LITTLE GLORIA,--
"Why have you hidden away from your friends so long? Was it
pride, self-styled dignity? Never mind, I have found you
out at last, and I want you to join our house-party here.
We have some interesting people with us of whom you can
make pencil sketches and pen pictures (they call them
cameos or thumbnails, do they not?). Amongst them are the
beautiful Princess Milontine, who wrote, 'Over the
Steppes,' and the famous Russian General, Loris Trakoff.
"The change will do you good. Name the day and time of your
arrival, and I will meet you at the station. There are
surprises in store for you, but you must come if you would
realise them.
"Your affectionate MAURA."
I put by the missive, and meditated over the pros and cons. My wardrobe
would need replenishing, and I had none too much money to spend. I could
manage this, however, but there arose another question.
I was a worker--would it do me harm to disport myself in the flowery
mead with the butterflies? Should I feel a distaste for the bread earned
by labour and pain after the honey placed, effortless, on my plate?
So much for the cons. The pros were these:
Black, being most inexpensive in a smoky town, was my wear, relieved by
a few touches of blue. And I should not go as a butterfly, but as a
quiet worker in my dark things. I need only buy a new walking costume,
and a fresh dinner dress. The costume difficulty was disposed of. Then
again, I had been without a day's change for five years; and here was
the prospect of one I should enjoy. The pros had the victory, I went.
I arrived at the station in the gloaming, when twilight veiled the
everlasting hills, and found two figures waiting on the narrow platform.
One of these had a fresh, fair, bonnie face, framed in hair of a golden
brown, and I knew her for Maura Merle, my old schoolfellow, the lady of
Whichello Towers. The other was darker, taller, and the very dark blue
eyes had a pensive expression, she could have posed as a study for
Milton's _Il Pensoroso_, and I did not recognise her for an instant, and
then I exclaimed: "Not--not 'Stella."
"Yes, 'Stella," said Maura. Our own beautiful Estella and the miser's
heiress came forward and kissed my first surprise away. As she did so I
noticed that she was wearing the beautiful coral set which had wrought
the tragedy of her school days.
We had naturally much to say to each other, and as we walked towards
Whichello Towers together, Maura said:
"You have worked and suffered, Gloria, since we were last together. You
look thoughtful, are graver, and there are violet circles under your
eyes, which used to be so merry."
"Yes," I said, "I've had to fight the battle of life for myself since I
left school, but it makes the more welcome this reunion with my old
schoolfellows."
"Speaking of them," interposed Maura, "we have Princess Milontine
staying with us--little Irene's sister--I left her doing the honours on
my behalf when I came to meet you."
This then was the second surprise in store for me. Neither of my
companions had the slightest idea how great a surprise it was.
Naturally, we had much to talk of during our walk up to the Towers, Miss
Melford had passed away, and one or two of my old companions had
followed her across the border. Irene was, of course, one of them, but
I took the news of her death as though I had not heard it before.
I had not heard of Miss Melford's death previously, and the angel of
memory came down and troubled the waters of my soul, so I was silent for
a time.
The silence was broken by Maura, saying:
"There is something painful, if not tragical, connected with Irene's
death, of which the princess refuses to speak; so the subject is never
mentioned to her." And then, as if to change the subject, she added, "I
have named my little daughter Cordelia after Miss Melford, but we call
her Corrie."
As she spoke we came in sight of The Towers--a large, four-winged
mansion, with pepper box turrets, oriel windows, a square lawn, and many
tree-lined walks.
"Home," said Maura, and in a few minutes I found myself in the large
warm hall, bright with firelight, and sweet with autumn flowers.
Standing by a table, and turning over the leaves of a book, stood a
graceful woman in fawn and cream, who turned round upon our entrance,
saying:
"There is tea on the way, you will take some?"
"Thank you, princess, yes, directly we come down," said Maura, and then
she added: "See, I have brought an old friend to see you, Gloria,
Princess Milontine."
The foreign lady held out her hand, and as I took it I found myself
almost involuntarily murmuring, "Nadine." For the dark pathetic eyes of
the Russian princess were those of the mysterious foreigner who had
lodged in Cherry-Tree Avenue. She kissed me (foreign fashion) on both
cheeks, and as she did so whispered: "Hush! let the dead past sleep."
Wondering much, I held my peace and went to inspect the sunshine of
Whichello Towers, the pretty dimpled Corrie; and though I forgot the
incident during the evening, I remembered it when I found myself in my
own room.
Why had Nadine lived in the mean street with the so-called woodcarver
and his wife? She was a widow, true, but widows of rank do not usually
lodge in such humble places for pleasure. Then again, what was the
mystery attaching to Irene? Would the tangled skein ever be unravelled?
Time would show.
Whichello Towers was more than a great house, it was a home, a northern
liberty hall, surrounded by woods and big breezy moors. There was
something for every one in this broad domain. A fine library full of
rare editions of rare books, a museum of natural history specimens, a
gallery of antiquities, a lake on which to skate or row, preserves in
which to shoot, a grand ball-room with an old-world polished floor, a
long corridor full of pictures and articles of vertu, and a beautiful
music-room.
Princess Nadine and I were much together, we talked of her little
sister's school-days, but never of her latter ones, the subject was
evidently tabooed.
General Trakoff (a stern, military man who had once been governor of the
penal settlement of O----) was evidently devoted to the beautiful Russ,
and I found myself hoping that she would not become "Madame la
Generale," for though the general was the very pink of politeness, I
could not like him.
I had spent a happy fortnight at the Towers when the incident occurred
which will always remain the most vivid in my memory. A sudden and
severe frost had set in. All the trees turned to white coral, the lake
was frozen stone hard. There were naturally many skating parties
organised, and in these Nadine and I generally joined. One morning,
after we had been skating for nearly half an hour, the princess averred
herself tired, and said she would stand out for a time. The general
declared that he would also rest awhile, and the two left the lake
together, and stood watching the skaters at the edge of the pine wood.
By-and-by I too grew a little weary, and thought I would go for a stroll
by myself through the woods I loved so much. The air was fresh and keen,
squirrels jumped about in the trees, and the storm-cock sang blithely.
Through an opening in the glade I saw the princess and the general
chatting _en tete-a-tete_.
As I came up the former was saying, in a tone of earnest raillery:
"Now, tell me, general, is there nothing you regret doing, or having
allowed to be done, when you were administrator of O----?"
She spoke with a strange, almost tragic, earnestness, and when her
companion replied:
"No, on my honour, princess."
She bowed gravely. A moment later, with a careless laugh, she opened a
gold bonbonniere full of chocolate caramels, and held it temptingly
towards him.
He hesitated, and as he did so I put my arm through the branches, and
with a playful:
"By your leave, princess," attempted to help myself.
Nadine started, and closed the box with a snap, a strange pallor coming
over her white, set face. The general looked gravely at her, and then,
raising his hat, with a "Till we meet again," walked leisurely away.
I must own to being slightly offended, I was childishly fond of
chocolate, and the act seemed so inexplicably discourteous. We walked to
the house in silence, neither of us speaking, until we reached the side
entrance. Here the princess paused by the nail-studded oaken door, and
said:
"There will come a day when things done in secret will be declared upon
the housetops, then (if not before) you will know the secret of the gold
bonbonniere. Say, 'Forgiven, Nadine.'"
And I said it with my hand in hers.
How glad I was afterwards that I had done so.
II.
THE PASSING OF NADINE.
Throughout the great house of Whichello Towers there was a hush.
Soft-footed servants went to and fro, all the guests save Estella and I
went away with many condolences. The Princess Nadine was passing away
in the room overlooking the pine woods. She had been thrown from her
horse whilst hunting with the Whichello hounds, and the end was not far
off.
I was sitting in the library with a great sadness in my heart, when the
door opened, and Canon Manningtree, the white-haired rector of
Whichello, came into the room.
"Miss Dene," he said gravely, "in the absence of a priest of the Greek
Church, I have ministered to Princess Milontine. She is going to meet a
merciful Saviour who knows her temptations, and the singular
circumstances in which she has been placed. She desires to see you. Do
not excite her. Speak to her of the infinite love of God. Will you
please go to her _now_."
Weeping, I went.
Sitting beside the sufferer was Maura, who rose when I came in, and left
us two alone, save for that unseen Angel who calls us to the presence of
our God.
The princess looked at me with her beautiful wistful eyes, as she had
looked when she gave me the amber roses in the narrow street.
"Gloria, little sister, I am going to tell _how_ Irene died."
"No, no, not if it distresses you."
"I would rather tell you. Listen! I have not much time to speak. As you
know, we are of a noble Russian family, and Irene and I were the only
children. I was ten years older than Irene, and was educated in France;
she came to England, and was your schoolmate!
"I was passionately fond of the child I had seen an infant lying in her
pink-lined cot, and when she came out and married Prince Alex Laskine, I
prayed that God's sunshine might light on my darling's head. Then, I
myself married, and travelled with my husband in all kinds of strange,
out-of-the-way places; in one of which he died, and I came back to St.
Petersburgh, a childless, lonely widow!
"But there was no Irene; her husband had been implicated in a plot, and
had been sent to O----, one of the most desolate places in Siberia, and
my sister had voluntarily accompanied him!
"When I heard this, I never rested until I too was en route to Siberia!
I wanted to take Irene in my arms and to console her as her dead mother
would have done. O---- was a fearful place, just a colony of dreary huts
by the sea. Behind were the wolf-infested forests; in the midst of it,
the frowning fortress prison! When I showed my ukase, and demanded to
see my relations, they simply showed me two graves. Irene and Alex
rested side by side, in the silent acre, and an exile told me _how_ they
had died! Alex had been knouted for refusing to play the part of Judas,
and had passed away in the fortress. Irene was found dead inside their
small wooden hut, kneeling beside her bed. Her heart had broken! My
little Snow Flower had been crushed under the iron heel of despotism.
"He by whose mandate this iniquity was done was General Loris Trakoff,
the governor of the province! I was turned to stone by Irene's grave,
and afterwards became a partisan of the Nihilists.
"Night and day I pondered upon how I could be revenged upon Trakoff, and
at last Fate seemed to favour me.
"The general (so it was reported) was coming to visit a former friend of
his. I made up my mind to be there also, and to shoot him, if
opportunity served.
"So, two members of our society, a young mechanic and his wife, rented a
house in Cherry-Tree Avenue, to which I came, and whilst waiting for my
revenge I became acquainted with you."
She paused, whispered, "The restorative," and I gave her the medicine.
The sweet, faint voice spoke again.
"I knew that you were Irene's friend because I saw your name upon the
letter that I picked up, and I loved you, Gloria, aye, and was sorry for
you."
I laid my cheek next hers.
"Dear, I knew it, and was fond of you."
"Fond of the Nihilist Princess, my little English Gloria! 'Tis a strange
world!
"After all, the general did not come, and then we all left. I bided my
time. No outsider knew me for a _Revolutionnaire_, so I mixed in society
as before, and accepted the invitation to Whichello, on purpose to meet
him here.
"The bonbonniere was filled with poisoned caramels, prepared by a
Nihilist chemist, and it was my intention to destroy myself after I had
destroyed my enemy. I gave him one chance; I asked him if he repented of
anything, and he answered 'No.'
"At the great crisis your little hand, as a hand from another world--as
Irene's hand might have done--came between us.
"Your coming saved him. I could not let you share his fate."
"Oh, thank God!" I said. "Nadine, tell me--tell God, that you are sorry,
that you repent your dreadful purpose."
"I do, I do," she whispered. "Lying here I see all the sins, the errors,
the mistakes. I do not despair of God's mercy though I am myself
deserving of His wrath. Irene used to tell me that when she fell asleep,
in the new world of school life, it was in your arms. Put them round me,
Gloria, and let me fall asleep."
I placed my arm gently, very gently, under her head, and then sat very
still.
I heard the big clock in the clock-tower slowly and distinctly strike
the hour of twelve, I saw the pale lips move and heard them murmur:
"Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere mei."
But save for this, all was silence! And in the silence Princess Nadine
slept.
MY YEAR AT SCHOOL.
BY MARGARET WATSON.
I was rather old to start out as a school-girl, for I was seventeen, and
had never been to school before.
We lived in the heart of the country, and my education had been rather
casual--broken into now for a day's work, and now for a day's play, now
for visitors staying in the house, now for a visit to friends or
relations; as is the way when you are one of a large family, and do your
lessons at home--especially if your tastes lie rather in the line of
doing than thinking.
I did not love books. I loved gardening and riding the pony, and making
cakes, and minding the baby. My sisters were much cleverer than I, and I
had never believed it possible that I could excel in anything requiring
study, so I satisfied myself with being rather clever with my hands.
However, I didn't really mind work of any kind, and I worked at my
lessons when I _was_ at them, though I was always ready enough to throw
them aside for anything else that might turn up. When my mother said I
must go away to a good school for a year I was quite willing. I always
loved a change.
The school chosen was a London High School, and I was to board with some
people we knew. They had no connection with the school, so I was thrown
pretty much on my own resources, and had to find my way about for
myself.
I had to go up first for the entrance exam., and I shall never forget my
feelings that day. The headmistress had a sharp, quick manner, and I
thought she set me down as very stupid for my age. I was put in a room
with a lot of girls, mostly younger than myself, and given a set of
exam. papers to do. The way the questions were put was new to me, I was
nervous and worried, but I worked on doggedly with the courage of
despair, certain that I was showing appalling ignorance for a girl of
seventeen, and that I should be placed in a form with the babies.
Two very pretty girls were working beside me. They had curly black hair,
and bright complexions, and lovely dark eyes, and there was a fair girl,
who wrote diligently all the time, and seemed in no difficulty. When it
was over I asked her how she had got on, and she said she had found it
quite easy, and answered most of the questions. We compared notes, and I
saw that if she was right I must be wrong, and as she was quite sure she
was right I went home very despondent indeed, but determined to work my
way up from the bottom if need be.
Next morning I hardened my heart for what was to befall me, and started
for school. I had to go by omnibus, and found one that ran just at the
right time.
I was met at the school entrance by a tall, thin, small-featured lady,
who wore glasses, and spoke in a sharp, clear voice, but quite kindly,
telling me that I was in the Fifth Form, and my desk was that nearest
the door.
There was a good deal of crush and confusion as there were a lot of new
girls, and I sat at my desk and wondered whether the Fifth Form was the
highest or the lowest. I could hardly believe I was in the highest form,
but the other girls sitting at the desks looked as old as myself. The
two pretty dark girls were there, but I saw no sign of the fair girl who
had worked so easily.
I sat and watched for her, and presently she came in, but she was moved
on to the form behind. She was in the Fourth Form, and I heard her
name--Mabel Smith.
I had a good report at the end of the first term, and went home
happy--very happy to get home again, for I had never been so long away
before, and I found my little brothers grown out of knowledge. But the
Christmas holidays were soon over, and I went back in a cold, snowy
week; and London snow is a miserable spectacle, not like the lovely pure
white covering which hides up all dirt and ugliness in the country.
However, I knew my way about by this time, and found my old familiar bus
waiting for me, and the conductor greeted me with great friendliness. He
was a most kind man, and always waited for me as long as he could.
This term we had a new mistress for mathematics, and I didn't like her a
bit.
I was always very slow and stupid at mathematics, and the new mistress
was so quick, she worked away like lightning, and I _could_ not follow
her. She would rush through a proposition in Euclid, proving that some
figure was, or was not equal to some other figure, and leave me stranded
vainly trying to understand the first proof when she was at the last,
and I _couldn't_ care, anyhow, whether one line could be proved equal to
another or not, I felt it would be much simpler to measure it and have
done with it. It was the same in arithmetic; she took us through
innumerable step-fractions with innumerable steps, just as fast as she
could put the figures down, and all I could do was to stare stupidly at
the blackboard and hope that I might be able to worry some sense out of
it all at home; and she gave us so much home-work that I had to toil
till after ten at night, and then had to leave my sums half done, or
neglect my other work altogether.
I was slow and stupid, I knew, but the others all suffered too, though
not so much, and presently complaints were made by all the other
mistresses that their work was not done, and all the girls had the same
reason to give, the arithmetic took so long.
So Miss Vinton made out a time-table for our prep., and said we were to
leave off when the time was up, whether we'd finished or not. It was a
great relief, my hair was turning grey with the work and worry! But I
did not get on at all with mathematics, and in the end of term exam. I
came out very badly in that and in French.
As most of us had done badly in those subjects our poor madame and the
mathematical mistress did not come back next term.
Miss Vinton gave us mathematics herself, and a splendid teacher she was,
letting some daylight even into my thick head, which was not constructed
for that kind of work, and her sister gave us French, and we really
began to make progress. Some of the girls had done well before, those
who sat near madame and talked to her, but most of us had not learnt
much from her.
Altogether it was with regret that I saw the end of my school-year
drawing near; and I was very anxious to do well in the final exams.
They were to be rather important, as we were to have a university
examiner, and there were two prizes offered by people interested in the
school, one for the best literature paper, and one for the best history.
I _did_ want a prize to take home.
There was great excitement in the school, and we all meant to try our
best. The Fourth and Fifth Forms were to have the same papers, so as to
give the Fourth Form girls a chance for the prize, and Mabel Smith said
she was determined to win that offered for literature.
The exam. week began. Geology, arithmetic, Latin, French, German. We
worked through them all conscientiously but without much enthusiasm.
Then came the literature, you could hear the girls hold their breaths as
the papers were given to them.
I read the questions down the first time, and my head spun round so that
I could not understand one.
"This won't do," I said to myself, and set my teeth and clung to my desk
till I steadied down. Then I read them through again.
I found one question I could answer right away, and by the time I had
done that my brain was clear, and I knew the answers to every one.
Alice Thompson was sitting next me, she was one of the pretty dark
girls, and very idle.
"What's the date of Paradise Lost?" she whispered.
I didn't know what to do. I wouldn't speak, and of course I knew that it
was very mean of her to ask, but I was sure of the date, and I thought
it would be mean of me not to tell her. Just then Miss Vinton walked up
the room and glanced round at us.
Alice bent over her work, writing diligently. Miss Vinton went down the
room again, and Alice edged up to me, questioning me with her pretty
dark eyes.
I hesitated, then I pushed the sheet I had just finished close to the
edge of my desk so that she could read the date, which she did quickly
enough. After that she looked over my papers freely whenever Miss Vinton
wasn't looking.
I was rather worried about it, but I didn't think she could win the
prize, for I knew she hadn't worked at the subject at all, and if she
didn't I thought it couldn't matter much to any one.
I had answered all the questions a good while before the time was up, I
thought we had been allowed too long, and was surprised to see Mabel
Smith and one or two more scribbling away for dear life till the last
minute. However, the time was up at last, and we all gave in our papers.
"How did you get on, Margaret?" asked Miss Vinton, smiling kindly at me.
"I think I answered all the questions right," I replied.
"That's good," she said.
The history paper was given us next day, and it filled me with despair.
The questions were so put that short answers were no use, and I was
afraid to trust myself to write down my own ideas. However, after a bit
the ideas began to come, and I quite enjoyed scribbling them down.
Alice had been moved to another desk, so I was left in peace, for
Joyce, who was a friend of mine, was next to me, working away quietly.
I was getting on swimmingly, when all at once the bell rang, and I had
only answered three quarters of the questions.
I _was_ vexed, for I could see one or two more I could have done.
However, there was no help for it. The papers must be given up.
"I wish I had had a little more time," I said to Miss Vinton, as I gave
in my work.
"You had as much as the rest," she answered, rather sharply, and I went
away feeling sad and snubbed.
The exams. were over, and we were to know the result next day.
I don't think any of us wanted that extra half hour in bed in the
morning, which generally seemed so desirable; and we were all waiting in
the cloak-room--a chattering throng, for discipline was relaxed on this
occasion. When the school-bell rang, and we hurried in to take our
places, Miss Vinton made us a speech, saying that the general results of
the examinations had been very satisfactory. Our term's work had been on
the whole good.
We could hardly listen to these general remarks when we were longing for
particulars. At last they came:
Alice Thompson was awarded the literature prize. Her work was so very
accurate, and her paper so well written.
There was a silence of astonishment.
Alice turned scarlet. I felt horrified to think what mischief I had done
by being so weak-minded as to let her copy my work. Mabel Smith was
white. But Miss Vinton went on calmly:
"Mabel Smith comes next. Her paper was exceptionally well written, but
there were a few blunders which placed it below Alice's."
Then came Nelly, Joyce, and the rest of the Fifth Form, and one or two
of the Fourth--and I began to get over the shock of Alice's success and
to wonder what had happened to me. At last my name came with just half
marks.
My cheeks were burning. I was dreadfully disappointed and ashamed. Miss
Vinton saw what I was feeling and stopped to explain that the examiner
had not wanted mere bald answers of dates and names, but well-written
essays, showing thought and intelligence. This was how I had failed,
while Alice, cribbing my facts, had worked them out well, and come out
first. I felt very sore about it, and almost forgot the injustice done
to Mabel Smith.
There was still the history prize, and a hush of excited expectation
fell on us when Miss Vinton began again:
"The history prize has been awarded to Nelly Gascoyne for a very good
paper indeed. Margaret and Joyce have been bracketed second. Their
papers were excellent, and only just behind Nelly's in merit."
I gasped with surprise. I had left so many questions unanswered that I
had had no hope of distinction in history.
This was some consolation for my former disgrace--and then my mind went
back to the question of what was to be done about the literature prize.
As soon as the business of the morning was concluded Mabel Smith touched
my arm. She was still quite white, and her eyes were blazing.
"I must speak to you," she said.
"Come to the cloak-room," I answered, "we can get our books after."
"You _know_ Alice Thompson cheated," she said, the moment we were alone.
"I sat just behind, and I saw you push your papers over to her, and she
leant over, and copied whatever she wanted."
"I never dreamt she'd get the prize," I answered, "I only wanted to help
her out of a hole."
"Well, she _did_ get it--and it's my prize, and what are you going to do
about it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. Of course I oughtn't to have let her copy--but
I thought it wouldn't hurt any one."
"You'll have to tell Miss Vinton now. It's not fair I should be cheated
out of the prize I've honestly won, and I'd worked so hard for it too.
I can't think how I came to make those mistakes."
"I wish to peace you hadn't!"
"But, anyhow, Alice could never have got it if she hadn't cheated, and
you must tell Miss Vinton."
"Oh! that's too much," I cried. "It's for Alice to tell Miss Vinton, I
can't. I'm willing to tell Alice she must."
"And if she won't?"
"Then I don't quite see what's to be done."
"You'll let her keep my prize?"
"Well, you can tell Miss Vinton if you like."
"It's you that ought to tell her. It was all your fault, you'd no right
to help Alice to cheat."
"I know that's true. But it makes it all the more impossible for me to
tell on her."
Just then Alice came in:
"Oh, Margaret!" she cried.
Then she saw Mabel and stopped.
"Are you going to tell Miss Vinton you cheated?" said Mabel, going up to
her with flaming eyes.
"_Margaret_, did you tell?" said Alice.
"I saw you!" said Mabel, "I sat just behind and saw you! You're not
going to try to keep my prize, are you?"
"No, of course not," said Alice, "I never thought of getting the prize.
I only wanted to write a decent paper and not have Miss Vinton pitching
into me as usual. You're welcome to the prize, if that will do."
Mabel said nothing.
"I'm afraid that won't quite do," I said. "It would be too difficult for
Mabel to explain at home without telling on you. You'd much better tell
on yourself."
"I can't," said Alice, "I'm as sorry as I can be, now, that I did
it--but I can't face Miss Vinton."
She looked ready to cry.
"Well, I shall have to confess too," I said. "It was partly my fault.
Let us go together."
"I daren't," said Alice.
But I could see she was yielding.
"Come along," I said, taking her arm. "It's the only way out. You know
you won't keep Mabel's prize, and it's as bad to keep her honour and
glory. This is the only way out. Let's get it over."
She came then, but reluctantly.
Fortunately we found Miss Vinton alone in her room, and between us we
managed to stammer out our confession.
Miss Vinton, I think, was not surprised. She had feared there was
something not quite straight. But she was extremely severe with us both,
as much with me as with Alice, and as it was to be my last interview
with her I was heart-broken.
However, I lingered a moment after Alice, and then turned back and said:
"Please forgive me, you can't think how sorry I am."
"Remember, Margaret," she replied, "that it is not enough to be
honourable in your own conduct--you must as far as possible discourage
anything dishonourable in other people. I know you would not cheat
yourself, but if it is wrong to cheat, it is equally wrong to help some
one else to cheat--don't you see? Will you remember this in future--in
big things as well as in small? You must not only do right yourself.
Your influence must be on the right side too. Certainly, I forgive you.
You've been a good girl all this year, and I'm sorry to lose you."
So I went away comforted.
And I came home with never a prize to show. But I had what was better. I
had acquired a real love of study which I have never lost. I don't know
what became of Alice Thompson, I only hope that she never had to earn
her living by teaching. Nelly Gascoyne went home to a jolly family of
brothers and sisters and gave herself up to the pleasures and duties of
home. Joyce became assistant mistress in a school, and Mabel followed up
her successes at school by winning a scholarship at Cambridge a year
later.
And I--well, I've never come in first anywhere, but I'm fairly contented
with a second place.
THE SILVER STAR.
BY NELLIE HOLDERNESS.
Maysie Grey had set her heart on the Drawing Society's Silver Star. She
kept her ambition to herself as a thing too audacious to be put into
words. That she possessed talent, the school fully recognised. She was
only thirteen, and by dint of steady perseverance was making almost
daily progress. Her painting lessons were a source of unmixed pleasure
to her, for hers was a nature that never yielded to discouragement, and
never magnified difficulties.
"You must aim at the Bronze Star this year," her science mistress had
said to her, while helping her to fix the glass slides she was to paint
from, under the microscope, "and next year you must go on to the
Silver----"
"Look, how beautiful the colours are!" Maysie exclaimed in delight. The
delicate, varying tints fascinated her. She set to work with enthusiasm,
never having done anything of the kind before. "'Mycetozoa,' do you call
them?" she asked.
"Yes. Be sure you spell it rightly."
The next day, when the first of her three sheets was finished, Miss
Elton came in to examine it. Though she said little, she was evidently
more than satisfied. It was nearly tea-time, and Maysie spent the few
minutes before preparation was over in tearing up some old drawings.
After breakfast, on the following morning, before the bell rang for
class, she went over to Ruth Allen's desk to ask her how to spell
"Mycetozoa." Ruth was her particular chum, and the best English scholar
in the form.
"I've got something to show you, Maysie," she said, when she had
furnished the desired information. She brought out a piece of paper as
she spoke, and passed it on to her friend behind the cover of her open
desk. It was a fragment of one of Maysie's zoological drawing-sheets,
evidently picked up out of the waste-paper basket--a wasp with wings
outspread, showing the three divisions of an insect's body. The head was
roughly altered so as to form a caricature of a human face, and above
was printed, in letters that might have done credit to Maysie herself:
"Miss E. in a tantrum," and below: "How doth the little waxy wasp
rejoice to snap and snarl!"
Maysie did not share Ruth's unreasonable animosity towards Miss Elton,
but she could not repress a smile at this specimen of school-girl wit.
Just then the bell rang, and she went back to her own desk, while Ruth,
letting the lid of hers slip down, was so startled by the noise it made
in the sudden silence that she did not see a piece of paper flutter out
on to the ground, and gently glide underneath the platform of the
mistress's desk, which was just in front of her.
That morning Maysie began her second sheet, and joined the others in the
garden after dinner. Molly Brooks, another of her friends, came eagerly
running up to her.
"Why didn't you come to botany?" she asked.
"I've been doing my exhibition work."
"Oh, of course! I suppose it's nearly finished?"
"About half. It hasn't to be sent off till next week, so there's plenty
of time."
At that moment Ruth Allen linked her arm in Maysie's.
"I'm in my third row," she began casually.
"What, already?" asked Maysie.
"Yes, haven't you heard?" Molly chimed in.
"Oh, it's Miss Elton again!" went on Ruth. "We never can hit it off. You
weren't at botany class this morning."
"No, what happened?"
Ruth shrugged her shoulders. Molly looked expressively at Maysie. Ruth
seldom got through a botany class without an explosion.
"I hate botany," said Ruth recklessly, "and I hate Miss Elton. I'm
supposed to be in silence now, but as Miss Bennet came in and told us
all to go out, I thought I'd better not risk another disobedience mark."
Miss Elton, who had been stooping down over some flower-beds, in search
of museum treasures, came up at this point. Her face was grave and
white, and her manner very stern and quiet.
"What are you doing out here, Ruth?" she demanded.
"Miss Bennet sent us all out; she said it was such a lovely day,"
answered Ruth carelessly.
"Then you can go and explain to Miss Bennet why I told you to remain in
this afternoon."
Ruth looked at Miss Elton, and then looked away; she slowly withdrew her
arm from Maysie's, and walked off without a word. At the door she came
face to face with Miss Bennet, the headmistress.
"Where are you going to, Ruth?" asked the latter.
"Miss Elton sent me in."
"Why?" There was grave rebuke in Miss Bennet's voice.
"Because I'm in silence."
"I do not understand why you were out at all."
Ruth made no attempt to defend herself.
"You'd better come to my room," continued Miss Bennet. "There is
something here that needs explaining.... Now, what were you in silence
for?" she continued, seating herself in her chair by the fire.
"I got sent out of botany class."
"And how many times have you been sent out of botany class?"
Ruth did not answer.
"Well, it has come to this, Ruth," Miss Bennet went on gravely, "that a
girl of your age--you are fourteen now, I believe--can no longer be
allowed to go on setting an example of insolence and disobedience to the
younger girls in the school. Now, remember, this is the last time. Let
me have no more complaints about you, or it will be my unpleasant duty
to write to your mother, and tell her that you cannot remain here."
There was a pause. The colour had left Ruth's face, and she was staring
moodily into the fire.
"You will apologise to Miss Elton," added Miss Bennet, rising, "and you
will remain in silence at meals for the rest of the week. And try to
make an effort over your botany. Your other work is good: you were top
last week. Now, promise me that you will make an effort."
Ruth, moved to penitence at the thought of her mother, promised to do
her best. That afternoon she apologised to Miss Elton, and made a
resolution to keep out of rows for the rest of the term. Maysie and she
walked about in the garden as usual, and talked things over. Maysie
looked grave when Ruth told her what Miss Bennet had said about sending
her away.
"Oh, Ruth!" she said, "you really must be careful! Why, if you got
expelled, it would be almost as bad for me as if I were expelled myself.
Miss Elton's awfully nice, if you only knew. I had such a lovely talk
with her on Sunday, all about home, and drawing. And then she's so jolly
at games, and she's never cross when you don't cheek her. And think how
horrid it must be for her whenever she comes to botany class, always
knowing that you're going to be dense! And you do do it on purpose
sometimes, dear, you know you do."
Ruth forced a laugh.
"Oh, I'm going to be awfully good," she said. "You'll see!"
It was Saturday the next day, and Maysie was just settling down to her
drawing in the music-room, when Miss Elton appeared. Maysie looked up
and smiled at her. It was no unusual thing for her science-mistress to
come in and remark on her progress. But on this occasion no answering
smile greeted her. Maysie was puzzled. Her inquiring grey eyes fell
before Miss Elton's; she began to search her conscience. What had she
done?
"I think it is a pity, Maysie," began Miss Elton, "that you put your
talents to such an improfitable use."
As she spoke she laid before Maysie the paper that Ruth had exhibited to
her in such triumph the day before. Maysie grew scarlet, and remained
quite speechless. Her name up in the corner, the neat, even printing, so
like her own, the altered diagram that Miss Elton had seen in its
original form--they stared her in the face, condemning her beyond hope
of appeal. She raised her head proudly, and tossed back the thick curly
hair that hung over her shoulder.
"Where did it come from?" she asked.
"I picked it up from under the edge of my platform, but that is of no
concern."
"But, Miss Elton----" stammered Maysie, growing suddenly confused.
"You have no excuse," put in Miss Elton, and her voice was all the
harder because of the disappointment that she felt. "This is a piece of
your paper, is it not?"
Maysie admitted that it was.
"And your diagram?"
"Yes; at least----"
"Is it, or is it not?"
Maysie's voice was very low.
"Yes, it is," she said.
Silence ensued, a brief, awkward silence. It was at this moment that
Maysie made up her mind. She would not clear herself at the expense of
her chum! Ruth should not be expelled through her!
Miss Elton believed _her_ guilty; she would not undeceive her.
Miss Elton waited with her eyes on Maysie's paintings.
They were done as no other girl in the school would have done them, but
the thought afforded her no satisfaction, though she had always
prophesied great things of Maysie. Then she glanced at the child's
downcast face.
"I am sorry about this, Maysie," she said, with the faintest suspicion
of reproach in her voice, "I thought we were better friends."
A lump came into Maysie's throat, and the tears into her eyes. She
looked at the microscope, at the tiny glass slides, at her unfinished
sheet; but she had nothing to say.
"Of course," continued Miss Elton, "I shall have to show it to Miss
Bennet. This comes, no doubt, of your friendship with Ruth. I have
always said that she would do you no good."
Maysie listened with a swelling heart. Supposing Ruth should be sent
for, and hear the whole story? Miss Elton was at the door; she ran up to
her in desperation.
"Miss Elton," she faltered, "don't say anything to the girls, will you?"
Miss Elton made no promise. The petition made her think no better of
Maysie.
The Fourth Form girls soon discovered that Maysie was in trouble, but no
one could get anything out of her. Ruth was forbidden to join her in
recreation, but on Sunday evening she managed to get a few minutes' talk
with her.
"Do tell me what the row's about, Maysie," she said.
"Oh, nothing much," said Maysie. "Do let's talk about something else."
"But I always thought you liked Miss Elton?"
"So I do. Can't you get into a row with a mistress you like?"
"Well, I'd apologise, if I were you. She was very nice to me."
"I can't, so it's no good." And Maysie sat silent, confronting this new
difficulty with a sinking heart. For how could she apologise, she asked
herself, for what she had never done?
"Well, I think you might tell me," Ruth went on. "_I_ told you about my
row; and what's the good of being chums if we can't keep each other's
secrets?"
But Maysie only sighed impatiently, and took up her library book.
"I wish you'd hurry up and finish those paintings of yours, and come
back properly to class," went on Ruth. "Aren't they nearly done?"
Maysie grew white, and turned away her face.
"I'm not going to try this year," she said.
"Why, I thought----" began Ruth. "Oh, I see! What a shame!"
Maysie choked down a sob. After a pause she said:
"Perhaps I shall have more chance of a Star next year."
"You'd have got one this!" said Ruth indignantly. "How mean to punish
you like that! And it's the only thing you care about!"
Maysie smiled. "Oh, never mind, dear," she said. "Everything seems mean
to us. You don't understand."
"But if you apologised it would be all right?"
"I daresay it might, but I don't think so. Besides, they've got to be
sent in by Wednesday, and I should hardly have time to do another
sheet."
Things went on like this until Monday evening. Though there was only one
day left, Maysie made no attempt to apologise. Miss Elton gave her every
opportunity, for she, too, hoped that Miss Bennet might thus be induced
to allow Maysie to finish her exhibition work, even at the last moment.
Maysie went to bed early that night. Her head had been aching all day,
and by the time tea was over she could hardly hold it up. Ruth was
greatly concerned about her, and, as a last resource, determined to
speak to Miss Bennet.
Maysie soon got into bed, and, being alone in the dormitory, hid her
face under the bed-clothes and sobbed. She was terribly homesick, poor
child, and now, for the first time, she began to doubt whether she had
done right after all; whether it would not have been wiser to have taken
Miss Bennet into her confidence, and trusted to her to set things right.
And then, there was that Silver Star! And a year was such a long time to
have to wait. But, thinking of Ruth, she grew ashamed of herself, and
dried her tears, and tried to go to sleep, though it was still quite
light out of doors.
Ruth, meanwhile, was sitting on the floor in front of Miss Bennet's
fire.
"It's about Maysie, Miss Bennet," she was saying. "I don't understand
what she has done, but I'm sure there must be some reason for her not
apologising."
Miss Bennet made no remark.
"She's so fond of Miss Elton, too. I don't see how she could have meant
to be rude to her."
"I'm afraid there is not much doubt about that," was the answer.
"It seems to me," went on Ruth nervously, "that there's some mystery
about it. Maysie won't tell me anything."
"Maysie has no reason to be proud of herself," replied Miss Bennet
coldly.
"It seems so horrid her not going in for the exhibition, and she's so
good at painting."
"There are various ways of making use of one's talents," said Miss
Bennet, rising. "Now this----"
Ruth jumped to her feet, and stood gazing. There, on Miss Bennet's
writing-table, lay the identical scrap of paper that she had shown to
Maysie the Friday before. "Miss E. in a tantrum!" There, too, was
Maysie's name in the corner. In a moment everything was clear.
"That!" she exclaimed. "Maysie didn't do that!"
Miss Bennet looked at her doubtfully.
"I did it!" she went on. "Oh, if I'd only known! Why didn't some one
tell me about it?"
"My dear child," began Miss Bennet.
"Yes, I did it!" repeated Ruth passionately. "It's Maysie's drawing, but
I altered it, I made up the words. Poor little Maysie! And she was so
keen on trying for the exhibition! It's so horribly unfair, when I did
it all the time!" She broke off with a sob, hardly knowing what she was
saying.
"But why----"
"I didn't know, and of course she wouldn't sneak about me--catch Maysie
sneaking! I told her I should be expelled if I got into another row."
Miss Bennet tried to calm her.
"Come, dear child," she said gravely; "if Maysie has been punished for
your fault, we must do our best to set things right at once. Tell me how
it happened."
Ruth explained as well as she could.
"And now Maysie's gone to bed," she added regretfully.
"Then I will go up to her. You can go back to your class-room."
Miss Bennet found Maysie asleep, with flushed cheeks, and eyelashes
still wet with tears. She stooped down, and kissed her gently. Maysie
opened her eyes with a sigh, and then sat up in bed. It had seemed
almost as if her mother were bending over her. "I am going to scold you,
Maysie," said Miss Bennet, but her smile belied her words.
Maysie smiled faintly in answer.
"Why have you allowed us to do you an injustice?"
The child was overwrought, and a sudden dread seized hold of her.
"Why--what do you mean, Miss Bennet?" she faltered.
"Ruth has explained everything to me. It is a great pity this mistake
should have been made----"
Maysie interrupted her.
"It was before she got sent out of class, Miss Bennet," she said. "Oh!
don't be angry with her! Don't send her away, will you?"
In her earnestness she laid her hand on Miss Bennet's arm. Miss Bennet
drew her to her, and kissed her again.
"Poor child!" she said. "So that's what you've been worrying your little
head about. No, I won't send her away, Miss Elton tells me that she has
improved already, and I am sure she will forgive her when she knows
everything."
Maysie thanked her with tears in her eyes.
"And now, I have one other thing to say," Miss Bennet continued. "You
must go to sleep at once, and wake up quite fresh and bright to-morrow
morning, and you shall give up the whole day to your painting. What do
you say to that?"
"How lovely!" exclaimed Maysie. "I shall get it done after all! Thank
you very, very much, Miss Bennet. Oh, I am so happy!" And she put her
arms round Miss Bennet's neck, and gave her an enthusiastic hug.
Maysie worked hard at her "Mycetozoa" the next day, and finished her
third sheet with complete success. Some weeks afterwards, Miss Bennet
sent for her to her room.
"I am glad to be able to tell you, Maysie," she said, "that you have
gained the Drawing Society's Silver Star."
Maysie drew a long breath; her heart was too full for words. The
_Silver_ Star! Could it be true?
Ruth was one of the first to congratulate her.
"I always said you'd get it, dear," she remarked as they walked round
the garden together. "And I'm just as glad as you are about it. I
haven't forgotten that it was through me you nearly lost the chance!"
Maysie returned the pressure of Ruth's hand without answering. Was not
the Silver Star the more to be prized for its association in thought
with those hours of lonely perplexity that she had gone through for the
sake of her friend?
UNCLE TONE.
BY KATE GODKIN.
"Mother darling! Is Uncle Tone really coming to see us at last? I heard
you tell father something about it," I said to my mother as she sat by
my couch, to which I had been tied for some weeks in consequence of a
cycling accident.
I had broken my leg, but had now so far recovered as to be able to move
cautiously with a stick. It was the first illness that I could remember,
and I was an only child, much loved, and I suppose much spoiled by the
most indulgent of fathers and mothers. I therefore made the most of my
opportunities and called freely on their resources for entertainment.
"Yes, love, I am happy to say he is. He has not been here now since you
were quite a little girl, eight years ago. You were just eight."
"Mother," I continued coaxingly, for I loved a story, "why are you so
fond of him, he is only your step-brother?"
"Step-brother!" she exclaimed. "He has been more than a brother to me.
He has been a father, far far more," she added sadly, "than my own
father was. He is, you know, nearly twenty years older than I."
"Will you tell me something about it?" I asked softly.
It was twilight in July, and I lay at the open French window which led
from the drawing-room to the lawn, and from which we had a view across
the park, far out over the country, bounded by the twinkling lights of
Southampton in the distance, for our house was situated on an elevation
in one of the loveliest spots in the New Forest. Dinner was over and
father was in the library clearing off some pressing work, as he had to
leave home for a day or two. It seemed to me the very time for
reminiscences.
"I think I will," said my mother slowly and thoughtfully.
She was a small, graceful woman, of about forty then, whose soft, dark
hair was just beginning to be touched with grey, but her face was as
fresh and dainty-looking as a girl's; a strong, sweet face that I loved
to look at, and that now, that she is no longer with me, I love to
remember.
"You ought to know what he did for your mother, and how much you owe him
indirectly. I should like him, too, to feel that he has his reward in
you."
My curiosity was excited, for I had never heard my mother speak like
that before, and so I settled myself to listen, and to enjoy what she
had to say.
"My childhood was a very wretched one, Cora," she began. "For that
reason I have spoken little of it to you, but endeavoured, assisted by
your father, to make yours the very opposite to it as far as lay in my
power, and that I could do so is due, I may say wholly, to your Uncle
Tone, who taught me to be happy myself, and to endeavour to make others
so."
I slipped my hand into my dear mother's; she was the best, most loving,
and wisest mother that ever lived.
"My mother died when I was born," she continued, "and my father took his
loss so to heart that he shut himself off from all society, grew silent
and morose, and," she added after some hesitation, "became in time a
drunkard."
She brought these words out with such an effort, such difficulty, that
the tears came to my eyes, and I whispered, "Don't go on, mother
darling, if it hurts you." She continued, however, without appearing to
notice my interruption.
"I ran wild till I was twelve or thirteen years of age, I had no society
but my father's and the servants', and I got no regular education. He
would not send me to school, but the vicar's daughter came over for an
hour or two every day to teach me what I could be induced to learn,
which was little enough. I was hot-tempered, headstrong, self-willed,
accustomed to fight for what I wanted, getting nothing by any other
means, and doing without what I could not get in that way. No softening,
no refining influence came into my life. My one pleasure even then was
music. I had a passion for it. Miss Vincent, the vicar's daughter,
taught me to play the piano, and I used to spend hours in the deserted
drawing-room, playing what I knew, and picking out tunes by myself,
while my father was shut up in his study. We had no near relation, no
one who cared enough to take pity on an unruly, troublesome, little
girl, with a drunken father. When I was between twelve and thirteen he
died, and a godmother who lived in Scotland took charge of me, and sent
me to a boarding-school, at which I spent the next four years. Schools
were not then what they are now, particularly in Scotland, and between
the time spent there and the holidays with Miss Clark, who was a stern,
old maid and a confirmed invalid, my life was very dreary; I was
becoming harder, and harder. I did not know in fact that I had any
feelings; they were not cultivated amongst the people who had to do with
me. She, also, died before I was seventeen, and then something happened
which was to change my whole life. My step-brother, whom I had never
seen, wrote to Miss McDougall, with whom I was at school, saying that my
home would, henceforth, be with him. Your Uncle Tone was my father's son
by his first marriage, and when his father married my mother, Tone went
to live with his maternal grandfather, who, on his death, left him the
beautiful place in Derbyshire to which I was to go. He lived there with
an old aunt. This news affected me very little; I had never had a happy
home, a real home; I did not know what that was, but I presumed I should
go somewhere on leaving school.
"My love of music had, in the meantime, increased. I had had a very good
master, a real musician, and I had worked hard for him. To me it was a
delight, but I never thought nor cared that it could give pleasure to
any one else. I used to shut myself up for hours in the holidays, out of
hearing of my godmother, who seldom left her room, and play, and play,
till my arms ached.
"I remember well the day he came for me. I was ready, waiting, when the
maid brought me the message that Sir Tone Wolsten was in the
drawing-room. He was standing on the hearth-rug talking to Miss
McDougall, and looked so tall to me. He is over six feet. I can see him
now as he stood there, erect, broad-shouldered, with bright chestnut
hair, clear, keen, dark blue eyes, and bronzed skin, a strong, kind,
fearless face. He looked a thorough man, one to be trusted. He greeted
me very kindly as his little sister, and took me home with him. Goldmead
Park was the loveliest place I had ever seen. His Aunt Evangeline, whom
I also called 'aunt,' was a frail, querulous old lady, whom he treated
as his mother. He did not marry till after her death, five years later.
I was planted in entirely new surroundings, with everything pleasant
about me, everything that I could desire, or ought to have desired. Your
uncle was kindness itself. He taught me to ride and to drive, supplied
me with books, took the greatest interest in me; but the restrictions of
every well-ordered home which would have been nothing to a properly
trained girl were unendurable to me. I resisted from sheer perverseness
and dislike of control. I do not mean to say that I was always
ill-tempered; I was lively and merry enough, and your uncle used to
tease me, and jest with me, which I enjoyed very much, and responded to
willingly.
"Some weeks had passed like this, my step-brother being most kind and
indulgent. Frequently Aunt Evangeline had asked me to play to them in
the evening after dinner, but I had refused obstinately. I liked to play
to myself, but I had never been accustomed to do so before any one, and
it never entered my head that it could give them pleasure, or that I was
bound to do it out of politeness. At last she became more irritable and
frequently made sarcastic remarks about the young people of the present
day. This happened again one evening, and I answered sharply, not to say
rudely.
"The next morning I wandered through the woods belonging to the park,
gathering violets, and had sat down, hot and tired, under a lovely
chestnut, with my lap full of flowers which I was arranging and tying up
in bunches in order to carry them home more easily. I heard footsteps,
which I recognised by their briskness and firmness, and looking up I saw
my brother approach, walking, as usual, erect, with his head well thrown
back but with stern lines in his face which I had not seen there before.
I looked up smiling, expecting his usual kind greeting, but instead of
that he strode straight up and stopped in front of me.
"'I was just thinking of you, Elfie,' he said, looking down at me, 'I
have something to say to you which I can as well say here as any place
else. I don't know why you should be so unamiable and discourteous to my
aunt, as you are, and I cannot allow it to continue. I will say nothing
of your manner to me. You receive here nothing but kindness. My great
desire is to make you happy, but it does not seem as if I succeeded very
well. At any rate, Aunt Evangeline must not be made uncomfortable, and I
should be doing you a wrong if I allowed you to behave so rudely.'
"'Why can't she leave me alone?' I exclaimed angrily, 'I don't want to
play to her.'
"'One does not leave little girls alone,' he answered calmly and
sternly, 'and such behaviour from a young girl to an old lady is most
unbecoming. It must come to an end, and the sooner the better!
To-night,' he continued in a tone that made me look up at him, 'you will
apologise to my aunt and _offer_ to play.'
"'I shall do nothing of the sort!' I exclaimed, turning crimson.
"'Oh yes, you will,' he answered quietly, 'I am accustomed to be obeyed,
and I don't think my little sister will defy me.'
"And with that he strode away, leaving me in a perfect turmoil of angry
feelings. I jumped up, scattering my lapful of violets, and started to
walk in the opposite direction. At lunch we met, he ignored me
completely, but I did not care, I felt hard and defiant.
"After dinner, he conducted Aunt Evangeline to the drawing-room as
usual, and as soon as she was seated he turned and looked at me, and
waited. I made no move, though I felt my courage, which had never before
forsaken me, ebb very low. He waited a few moments, and then said in a
tone, which in spite of all my efforts I could not resist:
"'Now, Elfie!'
"I rose slowly, with his eyes fixed on me all the time, crossed the room
to Aunt Evangeline, and stopped in front of her. 'I am sorry, Aunt
Evangeline, that I have been so rude to you,' I said in a low, trembling
voice. 'If you wish, I will play to you now.'
"I felt as if it were not I myself, but some one outside me that was
moving and speaking for me. I wished not to do it, but I was compelled
by my brother's force of will, as much as if I had been hypnotised.
"'Do, dear, do!' the old lady exclaimed kindly and eagerly. 'I am so
fond of music, we both are, and we rarely have any one here who can
play.'
"I chose a piece in which I could give vent to the stormy feelings
raging within me. When I had finished I rose from the piano.
"'Thank you, dear,' she exclaimed. 'That was a treat!'
"'Such a treat,' remarked my brother, 'that it is hard to understand the
discourtesy and want of amiability that have deprived us of it so long.
Play something else, Elfie!' This was said quietly, but I was as
powerless to resist as if it were the sternest command.
"So I played three or four more pieces at his request, and then getting
up, took my work and sat down in silence at some distance from them,
while they 'talked music' In about half an hour he turned to me again
and asked me to play a particular piece which they had been discussing.
'Perhaps she is tired,' suggested Aunt Evangeline kindly.
"'It does not tire her to play for hours by herself,' was the quiet
rejoinder.
"I went to the piano in a mutinous, half desperate mood, thinking I
would go on till they were sick of it, so I played on and on. Presently
I forgot them, got lost in my music, and as usual my angry feelings died
away. I had no idea how long I had been playing when I became conscious
of a feeling of emotion I had never experienced before. I felt my heart
swell and my face flush, and with a sudden sob I burst into tears. I was
more startled than they were, for I had never, as far as I could
remember, shed a tear except with anger, and this was certainly not
anger. I started up and was about to leave the room hastily, when Tone
said in the same calm tone:
"Stay here, Elfie, you have no need to be ashamed of those tears.'
"At home I should have rushed from the room, banging the door after me:
I could give myself no account of my reason for going and sitting down
quietly instead; I did so, nevertheless, though I could not suppress my
sobs for some time. At last I became, outwardly at least, calm.
"Aunt Evangeline always retired to her room about nine o'clock, and at
first I did the same, but then my brother detained me for a game of
chess which he taught me to play, and to talk about some books that he
had given me to read, so that we usually sat together till ten o'clock.
That night, however, I had no mind to sit alone with him for an hour, so
I turned to say good-night as aunt was leaving the room. He held the
door open for her, bade her 'good-night,' and then closed it as
deliberately as if he had not seen my outstretched hand. He then turned
to me, and took it, cold and trembling as it was, in his own firm, warm
grasp, but with no intention of letting me go. Holding it, he looked
searchingly, but with a kind smile, into my face.
"'Is this revenge or punishment, Elfie?' he asked.
"'I don't know what you mean,' I exclaimed in confusion.
"'My game of chess?'
"'You won't want to play with me to-night, and I can't play either,' I
said, pressing my disengaged hand to my hot forehead. 'My stupidity
would try your patience more than ever.'
"'You must not say that,' he replied quietly, 'you are not stupid, and
as I have never felt the slightest shade of impatience, I cannot have
shown any. You play quite well enough to give me a very good game, but I
daresay you cannot to-night. One wants a cool, clear head for chess. Let
us talk instead.' So saying he led me to the chair aunt had just left,
put me in it, and drew his own chair nearer.
"'I don't want you to go to your room feeling lonely and upset,' he
said, 'I should like to see your peace of mind restored first. I should
like you to feel some satisfaction from the victory you have won over
your self-will to-night.'
"'The victory, such as it is, is yours!' I blurted out, looking away.
"'You say that,' he replied very gently, 'as if you thought it a poor
thing for a man to bully a young girl. Don't forget, Elfie, that I am
nearly old enough to be your father, that, in fact, I stand in that
position to you--I am your only relative and protector--that _I_ am
right and _you_ are wrong, and above all that it is for your own sake
that I do it. Poor child! you have had far too little home life and home
influence. I want you to be happy here, but the greatest source of
happiness lies in ourselves. What Milton says is very true, "The mind is
its own place, and in itself can make a hell of heaven, a heaven of
hell." You cannot be happy and make those around you happy, as long as
you are the slave of your will. A strong will is one of the most
valuable gifts we can have, but it must be our servant, not our master,
or it will prove a curse instead of a blessing. It must be under our
control, or it will force us to do things of which our good sense, good
feeling, and our consciences all disapprove. We must be able to use it
_against_ ourselves if need be. You are nearly grown up, Elfie, and
still such an undisciplined child! What you will not learn with me and
let me teach you in the next two or three years, the world will teach
you very harshly later. We none of us can go through life, least of all
a woman, doing what we like, knocking against every one as we go along.
We get very hard knocks back, and they hurt. We miss, too, the best
happiness that life can give. It contains none to equal that of making
other people happy. As we treat them, they treat us.
"'It is not in the least your fault, little one,' he added very kindly,
'you have had no chance of being different. You have, I am afraid,
received very little kindness, but help me to change all this. Don't
think for a moment that I want to subdue your will to mine, that I want
forced obedience to my wishes--that is the last thing I desire. I want
to place _your_ will under _your_ control. I forced you to do to-night
what I wanted, to make a beginning, to show you it was possible, to let
you feel the pleasure of being agreeable, to stir some gentler, softer
feelings in you. They came, much to your surprise, though not to mine.
We all have them, and it is not good to crush them.'
"While he was talking, a strange, subdued feeling came over me, such as
I had never known before. He spoke gently and impressively, in a deep,
soft tone peculiar to him when very much in earnest. I felt I wanted to
be what he wished me to be, to do what he wanted, and this sensation was
so new to me, that I could not at all understand it. I felt impelled to
tell him, but I was ashamed. I had never in my life been sorry for
anything I had done, still less acknowledged a fault. It was a new and
strange experience, I felt like a dumb animal as I raised my eyes
piteously to his.
"'What is it, little one? You want to say something, surely you are not
afraid?' he asked gently.
"'Forgive me, Tone,' I gasped, as two big tears rolled down my cheeks,
'I am sorry.'
"'I am glad to hear you say you are sorry,' he said, taking my hand,
'but between us there is no question of forgiveness. I have nothing to
pardon, I am not angry, I want to help you.'
"'I never felt like this before,' I muttered, 'I don't understand it,
but I will try to do what you want.'
"'You feel like this, Elfie, because you know that I am right, and that
I only want what is good for you. I want you to be happy, to open your
heart to the kindness we wish to show you, and to encourage feelings of
kindness in yourself towards other people. When you feel hard, and
cross, and disobliging, try to remember what I have been saying, and let
me help. Even if I have to appear stern sometimes, don't misunderstand
it.'
"He then talked about my mother, my home, told me something of my father
as _he_ had known him, until he actually succeeded in making me feel
peaceful and happy.
"From that day he never for a moment lost sight of the object he had in
view. He had me with him as much as possible, for long walks, rides and
drives. With infinite patience but unvarying firmness, he helped me
along, recognising every effort I made, appreciating my difficulties,
never putting an unnecessary restriction on me. So he moulded and formed
my character, lavishing kindness and affection on me in which, I must
say, Aunt Evangeline was not far behind, awakening all that was best and
noblest in my nature, never allowing simple submission of my will to
his.
"On my wedding-day, as we were bidding each other 'Good-bye!' he said:
"'You will be happy now, little sister, I know it. You have striven
nobly and will have your reward.'
"'The reward should be yours, Tone, not mine,' I answered, as I put my
arms round his neck and kissed him.
"Do you wonder now, Cora, that I love him so dearly, though he is my
step-brother?" my mother asked as she concluded, "and that I should like
him to see that I have endeavoured to do for you what he did for me?"
A NIGHT ON THE ROAD.
BY MARGARET WATSON.
The summer holidays had begun, and I was to travel home alone from
Paddington to Upperton.
I was quite old enough to travel alone, for I was fourteen, but it so
happened that I had never taken this journey by myself before. There was
only one change, and at Upperton the pony-cart would be waiting for me.
It was all quite simple, and I rather rejoiced in my independence as my
cab drew up under the archway at Paddington. But there my difficulties
began.
There was a raging, roaring crowd going off for holidays too. The cabman
demanded double the legal fare. It was a quarter of an hour before I
could get a porter for my luggage, and then I had almost to fight my way
to the ticket-office. When at last I had got my ticket the train was due
out.
"Jump in anywhere," said the porter; "I'll see that your luggage goes."
The carriages were crammed full. I raced down the platform till I saw
room for one, and then tore open the door, an sank into my seat as the
train steamed out of the station.
I looked round for sympathy at my narrow escape, but my
fellow-travellers were evidently one party. They looked at me coldly, as
at an unwelcome intruder, and drew more closely together, discussing the
day's doings; so I curled up in my corner and gave myself up to
anticipations of the holidays.
These were so engrossing that I took no count of the stations we passed
through. I was just picturing to myself the delights of a long ride on
the pony, when, to my amazement the stopping of the train was followed
by the loud exhortation:
"All change here!"
"Why, where are we?" I asked, looking up bewildered.
"At Lowford," replied one of my fellow-passengers.
But they gathered up their parcels, and swept out of the carriage
without a question as to my destination.
I seized on a porter.
"How did I get here?" I asked him; "I was going to Upperton. What has
happened?"
"Upperton, was you?" said the man. "Why, you must ha' got into the slip
carriage for Lowford. I s'pose 'twas a smartish crowd at Paddin'ton."
"It was," I replied, "and I hadn't time to ask if I was right. I suppose
my luggage has gone on. But what can I do now? How far is it to
Upperton? Is there another train?"
"Well, no, there ain't another train, not to-night. It's a matter of
fifteen mile to Upperton by the road."
"Which way is it?"
"Well, you couldn't miss it, that goes straight on pretty nigh all the
way. You've only got to follow the telegraph-postes till you comes to
the "Leather Bottle," and then you turns to the right."
"I know my way from there."
"But you could never walk all that way to-night. You'd better by half
stay at the hotel, and go on by rail in the morning."
"I'll wire to them at home to drive along the road and meet me, and I'll
walk on till they do."
"Well, it's fine, and I dessay they'll meet you more'n half way, but
'tis a lonely road this time o' night."
"I'm not afraid," said I, and walked off briskly.
I bought a couple of buns in a baker's shop, and went on to the
telegraph office--only to be told it was just after eight o'clock, and
they could send no message that night.
I turned out my pockets, but all the coins I had were a sixpenny and a
threepenny piece--not enough to pay for a night's lodging, I was sure.
The cabman's extortion, and a half-crown I had given to the porter at
Paddington in my haste, had reduced me to this.
What should I do? I was not long deciding to walk on. Perhaps they would
guess what had happened at home and send to meet me. The spice of
adventure appealed to me. If I had gone back to the porter he would
probably have taken me to the hotel, and they would have trusted me. But
I did not think of that--I imagine I did not want to think of it. I had
been used to country roads all my life, and it was a perfect evening in
late July.
My way lay straight into the heart of the setting sun as I took the
road. In a clear sky, all pale yellow and pink and green, the sun was
disappearing behind the line of beech-covered hills which lay between me
and home, but behind me the moon--as yet only like a tiny round white
cloud--was rising.
I felt like dancing along the road at first. The sense of freedom was
intoxicating. The scent of wild honeysuckle and cluster roses came from
the hedgerows. I ate my buns as I walked along; I had made three and a
half miles by the milestones in the first hour, and enjoyed every step
of the way.
"If they don't meet me," I thought, "how astonished they will be when I
walk in! It will be something to brag of for many a day, to have walked
fifteen miles after eight o'clock at night."
The daylight had faded, but the moon was so bright and clear that the
shadows of my solitary figure and the "telegraph-postes" were as black
and sharp as at noonday. Bats were flitting about up and down. A white
owl flew silently across the road. Rabbits were playing in the fields in
the silver light. It was all very beautiful, but a little lonely and
eerie. I hadn't passed a house for a mile.
Then I heard wheels behind me.
If it were some kind person who would give me a lift!
But I heard a lash used cruelly, and a rough, hoarse voice swearing at
the horse.
I hurried on, but of course the cart overtook me in a minute.
The man pulled up. He leaned down out of the cart to look at me, and I
saw his coarse, flushed face and watery eyes.
"Want a lift, my dear?" he asked.
"No, thank you," I answered, "I much prefer walking."
"Too late for a gal like you to be out," he said; "you jump up and drive
along o' me."
"No, thank you," I repeated, walking on as fast as I could.
He whipped his horse on to keep pace with me; then, leaning on the
dashboard, he made as though he would climb out of the cart. But just at
that moment a big bird rustled out of the hedge--the horse sprang aside,
precipitated his master into the bottom of the cart, and went off at a
gallop. Very thankful I was to see them disappear into the distance!
I was shaking so with fear that I had to sit down on a stone heap for a
while.
I pulled myself together and started on again, but all joy was gone from
the adventure--there seemed really to be too much adventure about it.
Three miles, four miles more I walked; but they did not go as the first
miles had gone. It was eleven o'clock, and I was only halfway; at this
rate I could not be home before two in the morning. If they had been
coming to meet me they would have done so before this. They must have
given me up for the night, every one would be in bed and asleep, and to
wake them up in the small hours would frighten them more than my not
coming home had done.
Moreover, the long road over the hill and through the woods was before
me. The thought of the moonlit, silent woods, with their weird shadows,
was too much for me; I looked about for a place of refuge for the night.
I soon found one.
A splendid rick of hay in a field close to the road had been cut.
Halfway up it there was a wide, broad ledge--just the place for a bed.
I did not take long to reach it, and, pulling some loose hay over myself
in case it grew chilly at dawn, I said my prayers--they were real
prayers that night--and was soon asleep in my soft, fragrant bed.
The sun woke me, shining hot on my nest. I looked at my watch, it was
six o'clock. Thrushes and blackbirds were singing their hearts out,
swallows were darting by, high in air a lark was hovering right above my
head, with quivering wings, singing his morning hymn of praise. I knelt,
up there on the hayrick, and let my thanks go with his to heaven's gate.
I had never felt such a keen sense of gratitude as I did that summer
morning: the dangers of the night all past and over, and a beautiful new
day given to me, and only seven miles and a half between me and home.
'Tis true that I was very hungry, but I started on my way and soon came
to a cottage whose mistress was up giving her husband his breakfast. She
very willingly gave me as much bread-and-butter as I could eat, and a
cup of tea. I did not quarrel with the thickness of the bread or the
quality of the butter, or even with the milkless tea--I had the poor
man's sauce to flavour them.
When she heard my story, the woman overwhelmed me with pity and regrets
that I had not reached her house overnight and slept there. But I did
not regret it. I would not have given up my "night on the road" now it
was over for worlds.
She was grateful for the sixpence I gave her--having learnt wisdom, I
reserved the threepenny bit--and I went on.
The air was delicious, with a spring and exhilaration in it which
belongs to the early morning hours. The sunlight played hide-and-seek in
the woods. Patches of purple heath alternated with lilac scabious and
pale hare-bells. The brake ferns were yellow-tipped here and there--a
forewarning of autumn--and in one little nook I found a bed of luscious
wild strawberries. My heart danced with my feet, and I wondered if the
tramps ever felt as I did, in the summer mornings, after sleeping out
under a hedge.
I reached home by nine o'clock, and then there was a hubbub, and a
calling out of, "Here's Muriel!" "Why, Muriel, where have you sprung
from?" "What happened last night? We were so frightened, but they told
us at the station that it was an awful crowd at Paddington, and you must
have missed the train, and of course we thought you would go back to
Miss Black's, but you ought to have wired."
It was ever so long before I could make them believe that I had been out
all night, and slept in a hayrick; and then mother was almost angry with
me, and father told me if ever I found myself in such a predicament
again I was to go to a respectable hotel and persuade them to take me
in. But he said he would take very good care that no child of his should
ever be in such a predicament again. But I could not be sorry, the
beginning and the end were so beautiful.
THE MISSING LETTER.
BY JENNIE CHAPPELL.
The Briars was a very old-fashioned house, standing in its own grounds,
about ten miles from Smokeytown. It was much dilapidated, for Miss Clare
the owner and occupier, had not the necessary means for repairing it,
and as she had lived there from her birth--a period of nearly sixty
years--did not like to have the old place pulled down. Not more than
half the rooms were habitable, and in one of them---the former
dining-room--there sat, one January afternoon, Miss Clare, with her
young nephew and niece. They were having tea, and the firelight danced
cosily on the worn, once handsome furniture, and the portly metal
teapot, which replaced the silver one, long since parted with for half
its value in current coin. The only modern article in the room,
excepting the aforesaid nephew and niece, was a pretty, though
inexpensive, pianoforte, which stood under a black-looking portrait of a
severe-visaged lady with her waist just under her arms, and a general
resemblance, as irreverent Aubrey said, to a yard and a half of pump
water.
Just now Miss Clare was consuming toast in silence, and Kate was
wondering if there was any way of making bows that had been washed twice
and turned three times look like new; while Aubrey's handsome head was
bent over a book, for he was addicted to replenishing mind and body at
the same time. Suddenly Miss Clare exclaimed, "Dear me; it is fifty
years to-day since Marjorie Westford died!"
Kate glanced up at the pump-water lady, with the laconic remark,
"Fancy!"
"It's very likely that on such an interesting anniversary the fair Miss
Marjorie may revisit her former haunts," said Aubrey, raising a pair of
glorious dark eyes with a mischievous smile; "so if you hear an
unearthly bumping and squealing in the small hours, you may know who it
is."
"The idea of a ghost 'bumping and squealing,'" laughed Kate. "And Miss
Marjorie, too! The orthodox groan and glide would be more like her
style." Then her mind wandered to a story connected with that lady,
which had given rise to much speculation on the part of the young
Clares. Half a century ago there lived at the Briars a family consisting
of a brother and two sisters; the former a gay young spendthrift of
twenty-five; the girls, Anna, aged twenty, and Lucy, the present Miss
Clare, nine years old respectively. With them resided a maiden sister of
their mother's, Marjorie Westford, an eccentric person, whose property
at her death reverted to a distant relative. A short time before she
died she divided her few trinkets and personal possessions between the
three young people, bequeathing to Anna, in addition, a sealed letter,
to be read on her twenty-first birthday. The girl hid the packet away
lest she should be tempted to read it before the appointed time; but ere
that arrived she was drowned by the upsetting of a boat, and never since
had the concealed letter been found, although every likely place had
been searched for it. Lucy never married, and George had but one son,
whose wife died soon after the birth of Kate, and in less than a year he
married again, this time to a beautiful young heiress, subsequently
mother to Aubrey, who was thus rather more than two years Kate's junior.
The younger George Clare, a spendthrift like his father, speedily
squandered his wife's fortune, and died, leaving her with barely
sufficient to keep herself and little son from want. Yet such was Mrs.
Clare's undying love for the husband who had treated her so badly, that
in their greatest straits she refused to part with a locket containing
his likeness and hers which was valuable by reason of the diamonds and
sapphires with which it was encrusted. This locket was the only thing
she had to leave her little Aubrey when she died, and he, a lovely boy
of nine summers, went with his half-sister (who had a small sum of money
settled on her by her maternal grandfather) to reside with their
great-aunt, Miss Clare.
Presently the quietness at the tea-table was disturbed by a loud single
knock at the front door, and Aubrey bounced out of the room.
"A note from Mr. Green," he said, returning. "I wonder what's up now? No
good, I'm afraid."
This foreboding was only too fully realised. The agent for Miss Clare's
little property at Smokeytown wrote to tell her that during a recent
gale one of her best houses had been so much injured by the falling of a
factory chimney, that the repairs would cost quite L30 before it could
again be habitable. This was a dire misfortune. So closely was their
income cut, and so carefully apportioned to meet the household expenses,
that, after fullest consideration, Miss Clare could only see her way
clear for getting together about L15 towards meeting this unexpected
demand, and three very anxious faces bent around the table in
discussion.
Presently Aubrey slipped away and ran upstairs to his own room. He then
lit a candle, and pulling a box from under an old horse-hair chair,
unlocked it, taking out a small morocco case, which, when opened,
revealed something that sparkled and scintillated even in the feeble
rays of the cheap "composite." It was the precious locket, placed in his
hands by his dying mother four years before. Inside were two exquisite
miniatures on ivory--the one a handsome, careless-looking man, the
other, on which the boy's tender gaze was now fixed, was the portrait of
a lady, with just such pure, bright features, and sweet, dark-grey eyes
as Aubrey himself.
"Mother, my own darling," he murmured, pressing the picture to his lips,
"how _can_ I part with you?" And dropping his head on the hard, prickly
cushion, by which he knelt, he cried in a way that would considerably
have astonished the youths with whom he had, a few hours earlier,
engaged in a vigorous snowball fight. They only knew a bright, mirthful
Aubrey Clare, the cleverest lad in his class, and the "jolliest fellow
out;" none but Kate had any idea of the deepest affections of his boyish
heart, and she truly sympathised with her half-brother in his love for
the only portrait and souvenir remaining of the gentle creature who had
so well supplied a mother's place for her. Something in Aubrey's face
when he left the room had told her of his thoughts, so presently she
followed him and tapped at the half-open door. Obtaining no answer, she
entered, and saw the boy kneeling before the old chair with his head
bent. The open case lay beside him, and Kate easily guessed what it was
held so tightly in his clenched hand. She stooped beside him, and
stroked his wavy hair caressingly as she said, "It can't be that,
Aubrey."
"It must," replied a muffled voice from the chair cushion.
"It _sha'n't_ be," said Kate firmly. "I've thought of a plan----"
But Aubrey sprang to his feet. "See here, Katie," he said excitedly, but
with quivering voice; "I've been making an idol of this locket. It ought
to have gone before, when aunt lost so much money by those Joneses; but
you both humoured my selfishness."
"Being fond of anything, especially anything like that, isn't making an
idol of it, I'm sure," said Katie.
"It is if it prevents you doing what you ought, I tell you, Katie; it's
downright dishonest of me to keep this," he continued, with burning
cheeks, "living as I am upon charity, and aunt so poor. I see it plainly
now. Mr. Wallis offered to buy it of me last summer, and if he likes he
shall have it now."
"He is gone to Rillford," said Kate, in whose mind an idea was beginning
to hatch.
"He'll be back on Saturday, and then I'll ask him. It won't be _really_
losing mamma's likeness, you know," he added, with a pathetic attempt at
his own bright smile. "Whenever I shut my eyes I can see her face, just
as she looked when----" but he was stopped by a queer fit of coughing
and rubbed the curl of his hair that always tumbled over his forehead;
so Katie couldn't see his face, but she knew what the sacrifice must
cost him, and, girl-like, exalted him to a pedestal of heroism
immediately; but when she would have bestowed an enthusiastic embrace,
he slipped away from her and ran downstairs.
Left alone, Kate stood long at the uncurtained window, gazing at the
unearthlike beauty of the moonlit snow. When at last she turned away,
the afore mentioned idea was fully fledged and strong.
She found her hero with his nose ungracefully tucked into an uncut
magazine, and his chair tilted at a perilous angle with the floor, just
like any ordinary boy, and felt a tiny bit disappointed. Presently she
turned to the piano, which was to her a companion and never failing
delight. She had a taste for music, which Miss Clare had, as far as was
practicable, cultivated; and although Kate had not received much
instruction, she played with a sweetness and expression that quite made
up for any lack of brilliant execution. This evening her touch was very
tender, and the tunes she played were sad.
By-and-bye Katie lingered, talking earnestly with her aunt long after
Aubrey had gone to bed; and when at last she wished her good-night, she
added, anxiously, "Then I really may, auntie; you are sure you don't
mind?"
And Miss Clare said, "I give you full permission to do what you like,
dear. If you love Aubrey well enough to make so great a sacrifice for
him, I hope he will appreciate your generosity as he ought; but whether
he does or not, you will surely not lose your reward. I am more grieved
than I can tell you to know that it is necessary."
Two days later, Aubrey was just going to tear a piece off the
_Smokeytown Standard_ to do up a screw of ultramarine, when his eye was
arrested by an advertisement which he read two or three times before he
could believe the evidence of his senses; it was this,--
"To be sold immediately, a pretty walnut-wood cottage pianoforte, in
excellent condition, and with all the latest improvements. Price 15_l._
Apply at 'The Briars,' London Road."
He rushed upstairs to Kate, who, with her head adorned by a check
duster, was busy sweeping (for they had no servant), and burst in upon
her with, "What on earth are you going to sell it for?"
There was no need to inquire what "it" was, and Kate, without pausing in
her occupation, replied, "To help make up the money aunt wants."
"But if Mr. Wallis buys the locket;" then the truth flashed upon him,
and he broke off suddenly, "Oh, Katie, you're _never_ going to----"
"Sell the piano because I don't want the locket to go," finished Katie,
with a smile, that in spite of the check duster made her look quite
angelic.
Aubrey flew at her, and hugging her, broom and all, exclaimed,--
"Oh, how _could_ you! You are too good; I didn't half deserve it. Was
there ever such a darling sister before?" and a great deal more in the
same strain, as he showered kisses upon her till he took away her
breath, one moment declaring that she shouldn't do it and he wouldn't
have it, and the next assuring her that he could never thank her enough,
and never forget it as long as he lived. And Katie was as happy as he
was.
It was rather a damper, however, when that day passed, and the next, and
no one came to look even at the bargain. Aubrey said that if no
purchaser appeared before the following Wednesday, he should certainly
go to Mr. Wallis about the locket; and it really seemed as if Katie's
sacrifice was not to be made after all.
Tuesday afternoon came, still nobody had been in answer to the
advertisement. It was a pouring wet day, and Aubrey's holiday hung
heavily on his hands. He had read every book he could get at, painted
two illuminations, constructed several "patent" articles for Kate, which
would have been great successes, but for sundry "ifs," and abandoned as
hopeless the task of teaching Caesar, Miss Clare's asthmatic old dog, to
stand upon his hind legs, and was now gazing drearily out on the soaked
garden, almost wishing the vacation over. Suddenly he turned to his
sister, who was holding a skein of worsted for her aunt to wind,
exclaiming, "Katie, I've struck a bright!"
"What is it?" she asked, understanding that he had had an inspiration of
some sort. "An apparatus for getting at nuts without cracking them; or a
chest-protector for Caesar to wear in damp weather?"
"Neither; I'm going to rummage in the old bookcase upstairs, and see if
I can come across anything fit to read, or an adventure." And not being
in the habit of letting the grass grow under his feet (if vegetation was
ever known to develop in such unfavourable circumstances), he bounded
away; while Miss Clare observed, rather anxiously, "When that boy goes
adventure-seeking, it generally ends in a catastrophe; but I don't think
he can do much mischief up there."
Ten minutes afterwards, Katie went to see how Aubrey was getting on, and
found him doing nothing worse than polishing the covers of some very
dirty old books with one of his best pocket-handkerchiefs. When she
remonstrated with him, he recommended her to get a proper, ordained
duster, and undertake that part of the programme herself. So presently
she was quite busy, for Aubrey tossed the books out much faster than she
could dust and examine them. Very discoloured, mouldy-smelling old books
they were, of a remarkably uninteresting character generally, which
perhaps accounted for their long abandonment to the dust and damp of
that unused apartment. When the case was emptied, and the contents piled
upon the floor, Aubrey said, "Now lend us a hand to pull the old thing
out, and see what's behind."
"Spiders," replied Katie promptly, edging back.
"I'll have the satisfaction of a gentleman of the first spider that
looks at you," said Aubrey, reassuringly. "Come, catch hold!"
So Katie "caught hold;" and between them they managed to drag the
cumbrous piece of furniture sufficiently far out of the recess in which
it stood for the boy to slip behind. The half-high wainscoting had in
one place dissolved partnership with the wall; and obeying an impulse
for which he could never account, Aubrey dived behind, fishing out,
among several odd leaves and dilapidated covers, a small hymn-book bound
in red leather. Kate took it to the window to examine, for the light was
fading fast. On the fly-leaf was written in childish, curly-tailed
letters, "Anna Clare; July 1815," followed by the exquisite poetical
stanza commencing,--
"The grass is green, the rose is red;
Think of me when I am dead,"
which she read aloud to her brother. A minute afterwards, as she turned
the brown-spotted leaves, there fell out a packet, a letter
superscribed, "Miss Anna Clare; to be read on her twenty-first birthday,
and when quite alone." Katie gasped, "Oh, look!" and dropped the paper
as if it burned her fingers. Aubrey sprang forward, prepared to slay a
giant spider, but when his eyes fell upon the writing which had so
startled his sister, he too seemed petrified. They gazed fixedly into
each other's eyes for a minute, then Aubrey said emphatically,--
"It's _that_!" And both rushed precipitately downstairs, exclaiming,
"Auntie, auntie, we've found it!"
Now Miss Clare was just partaking of that popular refreshment "forty
winks," and was some time before she could understand what had so
greatly excited her young relations; but when at last it dawned upon
her, she hastily brought out her spectacles, and lit the lamp, while
every moment seemed an hour to the impatient children. When would she
leave off turning the yellow packet in her fingers, and poring over the
faded writing outside? At last the seal is broken, and two pairs of
eager eyes narrowly watch Miss Clare's face as she scans the contents.
"It _is_ the long-lost letter!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "Where
did you find it?"
Both quickly explained, adding, "Do read it, auntie; what does Miss
Marjorie say?"
So in a trembling voice Miss Clare read the words penned by a dying hand
fifty years before,--
"MY DEAREST ANNA,--I feel that I have but a short time
longer to live, and but one thing disturbs my peace. It is
the presentiment that sooner or later the thoughtless
extravagance of your brother George will bring you all into
trouble. It is little I can do to avert this calamity, but
years of economy have enabled me to save 280_l._ (which is
concealed beneath the floor in my room, under the third
plank from the south window, about ten inches from the
wall). I wish you, niece Anna, to hold this money in trust,
as a profound secret, and to be used _only_ in case of an
emergency such as I have hinted. In the event of none such
taking place before your sister is of age, you are then to
divide the money, equally between yourself, George and
Lucy, to use as you each may please. Hoping that I have
made my purpose clear, and that my ever trustworthy Anna
will faithfully carry out my wishes, I pray that the
blessing of God may rest richly on my nephew and nieces,
and bid you, dearest girl, farewell.
"MARJORIE WESTFORD.
"January 2nd, 1825."
Miss Clare's eyes were dim when she finished these words, sounding, as
they did, like a voice from the grave, while Kate and Aubrey sat in
spellbound silence. The boy was the first to speak.
"Do you think it is still there?"
"There is no reason why it should not be," replied Miss Clare; "indeed
it seems that this legacy, so strangely hidden for half a century, and
as strangely brought to light, is to be the means by which our Father
will bring us out of our present difficulties."
"Get a light, Katie, and let's look for the treasure; that will be the
best way of making sure that our adventure isn't the result of a
mince-pie supper," suggested Aubrey, producing his tool-box.
So they all proceeded to the room, now seldom entered, where Marjorie
Westford breathed her last. It was almost empty, and the spot indicated
in the letter was soon determined upon. Aubrey knelt down on the floor,
and commenced, in a most unsystematic way, his task of raising the
board; while Katie, trembling with excitement, dropped grease spots on
his head from her tilted candlestick.
Aubrey's small tools were wholly inadequate to their task, and many were
the cuts and bruises his inexperienced hands received before he at
length succeeded in prising the stubborn plank.
There lay the mahogany box, which, with some trouble, owing to its
weight, they succeeded in bringing to the surface. It fastened by a
simple catch, and was filled with golden guineas.
When Kate bade Aubrey good-night upon the stairs, he detained her a
minute to murmur with a soft light in his dusky eyes,--
"I'm so very, very glad your sacrifice isn't to be made, darling, but
the will is just the same as the deed. I shall love you for it as long
as you live; and better still," he added, with deepening colour and
lowered voice, "God knows, and will love you too."
"THE COLONEL."
BY MARION DICKEN.
Dick was only thirteen years of age, but he was in love, and in love too
with Captain Treves's wife, who, in his eyes, was spick-span perfection.
In their turn Mrs. Treves's two little boys, aged six and five
respectively, were in love with Dick, who appeared to them to be the
model of all that a schoolboy ought to be.
It was in church on Easter Sunday that Dick first realised his passion,
and then--as he glanced from Mrs. Treves to the captain's stalwart
form--the hopelessness of it! He remarked, afterwards, to his brother
Ted, a lieutenant in Treves's regiment, that Mrs. Treves looked
"ripping" in grey. But Ted was busy with his own thoughts, in which, if
the truth be told, the sermon figured as little as in those of his
younger brother.
Dick was on very friendly terms with the Treves and was rather surprised
to find that the captain and his wife treated him more like a little boy
than a "chap of thirteen--in fact, almost fourteen," as he put it to
himself. He used to take Jack and Roy out on the river and to the baths,
where he taught them both to swim. To use Ted's own expression to a
brother-sub, "Dick was making a thorough nursemaid and tutor of himself
to those kids of the captain's." He _was_ teaching them certainly,
unconsciously, but steadily, a great many things.
Jack no longer cried when he blistered his small paws trying to scull,
and when Roy thought of Dick, or the "colonel," as they called him, he
left off making grimaces at, and teasing, his baby sister, because Dick
had answered carelessly when Jack once offered to fight him, "No thanks,
old boy, I only hit a chap my own size." Roy recognised the difference
between tormenting a girl and fighting a boy.
About three weeks after Dick went back to school for the summer term,
both the little Treves's fell ill, and Jack cried incessantly for "the
colonel." Yet when kind old Colonel Duke came to see him one afternoon,
and brought him some grapes, the child turned fretfully away and still
cried, "'Colonel'; I want the 'colonel'!"
"But, Jack dear, this is the colonel," remonstrated his mother, gently
smoothing the crumpled pillow.
But Jack still wailed fretfully, and would not be comforted.
Colonel Duke happened to remark on the incident at mess that evening,
and Ted Lloyd knitted his brows, as if trying to solve some mental
mystery. The result of his cogitations was an early visit to Mrs. Treves
next day.
The children were worse. Roy was, indeed, dangerously ill; and neither
his father nor mother could persuade Jack to take his medicine.
"We cannot think whom he means by 'colonel'," added the poor lady
despairingly.
"That's just what I've come about, Mrs. Treves; they used to call my
young brother that at Easter."
"You are sure, Mr. Lloyd?"
"Quite. I heard them myself more than once. I'll trot round and see the
Mater, and we will wire for him if it will do any good."
That afternoon Dick received a telegram which sent him off full speed to
his housemaster for the necessary permission to go home.
"Is Mater ill?" he asked breathlessly, as he bundled out of the train on
to Ted, who bore the onrush heroically.
"No, she's quite well, only Treves's kids are ill."
"Well?" queried Dick rather indignantly, as he thought of the
cricket-match on the morrow, in which he had hoped to take part.
"Well, you see, Dick, they're seriously ill, and they can't make the
little 'un take his physic."
"Well, I can't take it for him, can I? queried Dick, as they started
home.
"Nobody wants you to, you little duffer. But the kids used to call you
'colonel,' and now he keeps crying for you. Perhaps if you order him to
take the physic, he will--that's all."
"Oh!" briefly responded Dick.
He was sorry to hear that his whilom chums, the "captain" and
"lieutenant," were ill. But weren't kids always having something or
other, and would he always be sent for to dose them? "Rot!"
However, these thoughts abruptly left him, when, directly after tea, he
went to the captain's and saw Mrs. Treves' pale and anxious face, and
instead, his old allegiance, but deeper and truer, returned.
"Thank you, Dick," she said kindly in reply to his awkward tender of
sympathy. And then they went upstairs.
By Jack's bed a glass of medicine was standing. A nurse was turning
Roy's pillow, and Captain Treves stood by her, gnawing his long
moustache.
Just then Jack's fretful wail sounded through the room for "'Colonel!'
Daddy, Jack wants the 'colonel'!"
"I'm here, old man," said Dick, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
"Drink this at once," he added, taking up the glass, as he remembered
his brother's suggestion.
But Jack had clutched Dick's hand and now lay back sleepily.
Dick felt desperate. He glanced round. Captain and Mrs. Treves and the
nurse were gathered round the other little white bed. Was Roy worse?
With what he felt to be an unmanly lump in his throat, he leaned over
the boy again.
"Jack, I say, Jack" (hurriedly), "if you drink this you shall be a
captain."
Jack heard, and when Dick raised him up, he drained the glass.
"But Roy, Dick, he's a captain?"
"Roy shall be promoted too," replied Dick.
And just then the captain left the other bed and came over to Jack. Dick
could see Mrs. Treves bending over Roy, and the nurse leaving the room.
He looked up and saw that there were actually tears in the captain's
eyes. He had never seen a soldier cry before, and guessed what had
happened. Roy had indeed been promoted. He would never again "play
soldiers" with Jack or Dick.
Jack was now sleeping quietly, and the doctor, who came in an hour
later, pronounced him out of danger.
* * * * *
"Goodbye, my boy. We thought you'd like Roy's watch as you were fond of
him," said the captain next day; and then Mrs. Treves not only shook
hands, but stooped and kissed him.
Dick flushed, muttered some incoherent thanks, and went off to the
station.
Dick reached school in time for the cricket-match, after all; but, fond
as he was of cricket, he absented himself from the ground that
afternoon, and spent the time printing off some photos of "two kids," as
a chum rather scornfully remarked.
One of those "kids" is now a lieutenant in the regiment of which Dick is
a captain, and, indeed, in a fair way to become a colonel--for the
second time in his life.
NETTIE.
BY ALFRED G. SAYERS.
Nettie was a bright, fair girl of fifteen years of age, tall and
graceful in movement and form, and resolute in character beyond her
years. She was standing on the departure platform of the L. & N. W.
Railway at Euston Square, watching the egress of the Manchester express,
or rather that part of it which disclosed a head, an arm, and a cap, all
moving in frantic and eccentric evolutions.
Tom, her brother, two years her senior, was on his way back to school
for his last term, full of vague, if big, ideas of what he was going to
be when, school days over, he should "put away childish things." "Most
of our fellows," he had said loftily, as he stood beside his sister on
the platform a few moments before, "go into the Army or Navy and become
admirals or generals or something of that sort." And then he had hinted
with less definiteness that his own career would probably combine the
advantages of all the professions though he only followed one. But Tom
soon dropped from these sublime heights to more mundane considerations,
and his last words concerned a new cricket bat which Nettie was to
"screw out of the gov'nor" for him, a new pup which she was to bring up
by hand under his special directions, and correspondence, which on her
part at least, was to be regular, and not too much occupied with details
about "the kids."
Nettie sighed as she turned her steps homewards, and her handkerchief
was damped by at least one drop of distilled emotion that bedewed the
rose upon her cheek. Poor Nettie, she too was conscious of a destiny,
and had bewildered thoughts of what she was going to be! She had opened
her heart on this subject to her brother Tom during the holidays; but
she had not received much encouragement, and at the present moment she
was inclined to murmur at the reflection that the world was made for
boys, and after all she was only a girl.
"What will you be?" Tom had said in answer to her question during one of
their confidential chats. "You? why, you--well, you will stay with the
mater, of course."
"Yes; but girls do all sorts of things nowadays, Tom," she had replied.
"Some are doctors, some are authors, some are----"
"Blue-stockings," responded the ungallant Tom. "Don't be absurd, Net,"
he added patronisingly; "you'll stay with the pater and mater, and some
day you will marry some fellow, or you can keep house for me, and then,
when I am not with my ship or my regiment, of course I shall be with
you."
Poor Nettie! She had formed an idea that the possibilities of life ought
to include something more heroic for her than keeping house for her
brother, and she had determined that she would not sink herself in the
hum-drum of uneventful existence without some effort to avoid it; and so
it happened that that same evening, after doing her duty by the baby pup
and Tom's new cricket bat, she startled her father and mother by the
somewhat abrupt and altogether unexpected question,--
"Father, what am I going to be?"
"Be?" repeated her father, drawing her on to his knee, "why, be my good
little daughter as you always have been, Nettie. Are you tired of that,
dear?"
But no, Nettie was not tired of her father's love, and she had no idea
of being less affectionate because she wanted to be more wise and
useful, and so she returned her father's caresses with interest, and
treated her mother in the same way, so that there might be no jealousy;
and then, sitting down in the armchair with the air of one commanding
attention, harked back to the all-absorbing topic. "You know, father,
there's Minnie Roberts, isn't there?"
"What if there is?" replied her father.
"Well, you know she's going to the University, don't you, dad?"
"No, I didn't."
"Well, she is. Then she'll be a doctor, or professor, or something.
That's what I should like to be."
Mr. Anderson looked from his wife to his daughter with somewhat of
surprise on his face. He was a just man; and he and his wife had but
recently discussed the plans (including personal sacrifices) by which
Master Tom's advancement was to be secured. Really, that anything
particular needed to be done for Nettie had hardly occurred to him. He
had imagined her going on at the High School for another year, say, and
then settling down as mother's companion. His desire not to be harsh,
coupled with his unreadiness, led Mr. Anderson to temporise. "Well,
little girl," he said, "you plod on, and we'll have a talk about it."
Nettie was in a triumphant mood. She had expected repulse, to be
reminded of the terrible expense Tom was, and was to be, and she felt
the battle already won. Doubtless the fact that Nettie was heartened was
a great deal toward the success that was unexpectedly to dazzle her. She
worked hard at school, and yet so buoyant was her spirit, that she found
it easy to neglect none of her customary duties at home. She helped dust
the drawing-room, and ran to little Dorothy in her troubles as of yore;
and Mrs. Anderson came to remark more and more often to her husband,
what a treat it would be when Nettie came home for good. "You can see
she has forgotten every word about the idea of a profession," said that
lady; "and I'm very glad. She's the light of the house." Forgotten! Oh
no! Far from it! as they were soon to realise. The end of the term
came--Tom was expected home on the morrow, Saturday. In the afternoon
Nettie walked in from school, her face ablaze with excitement. For a
moment she could say nothing; so that her mother dropped her work and
wondered if Nettie had picked up a thousand-pound note. Then came the
announcement--"Mother! I've won a Scholarship!"
"You have?"
"Yes, mother dear, I'm the QUEEN VICTORIA SCHOLAR!" Nettie stood up and
bowed.
"And what does that do for you?"
"Why, I can go on studying for my profession for three years, and it
won't cost father a penny!"
"What profession, dear?"
"I don't know, mother, what. But I want to be a doctor."
"A what!"
"A doctor, mother. Minnie Roberts is studying for a doctor; and I think
it's splendid."
"What! cut people open with a knife!"
"Yes, mother, if it's going to do them good."
"But, my dear----"
However, Nettie knew very little about the medical profession; she only
knew that Minnie Roberts went about just in the independent way that a
man does, and was studying hard, and seemed very lively and witty. So
detailed discussion was postponed to congratulation, inquiry, and
surmise. "What _will_ Tom say?" Nettie found herself continually asking
herself, and herself quite unable to answer herself. What Tom did
actually say we must detail in its proper place, which comes when Mr.
Anderson and Nettie go to meet him at the station. They were both rather
excited, for Mr. Anderson had, to tell the truth, felt somewhat guilty
towards his little daughter over the question of the profession. While
he had flattered himself that the idea was a passing fancy, she had
cherished his words of encouragement, and had made easier the
realisation of her dream by her steady improvement of the opportunity at
hand, viz., her school work.
Tom kissed Nettie and shook hands with his father, and then it was that
Nettie said,--
"Tom, I've won a Scholarship!"
And then it was, standing beside his luggage, that Tom replied,--
"Sennacherib!"
Though not strictly to the point, no other word or phrase could have
shown those who knew Tom how much he was moved. Nettie knew. She was
rather sorry Tom had to be told at all, for he had been quite
unsuccessful this term, a good deal to his father's disappointment; and
Nettie was sure he must feel the contrast of her own success rather
keenly. They talked of other things on the way home, and directly Tom
had kissed his mother and Dorothy and Joe, Nettie said, "Now shall we go
and get the pup? I can tell you he's a beauty!"
"What a brick you are, Net, to think of it!" said Tom. "Yes; let's go."
These holidays were very delightful to Nettie and Tom; that young man
permitted, even encouraged, terms of perfect equality. He forgot to
patronise or disparage his sister or her sex. Perhaps his sister's
success and his own lack of it had made him feel a bit modest. Nettie
had explained her achievement both to herself and others by the fact
that she had been so happy. And she was right. Some people talk as
though a discipline of pain were necessary for all people in order to
develop the best in them. That is not so. There are certain temperaments
found in natures naturally fine, to whom a discipline of pleasure is
best, especially in youth, and happily God often sends pleasure to
these: we mean the pleasure of success; the pleasure of realising
cherished plans; the pleasure of health and strength to meet every duty
of life cheerfully. And now Nettie began to build castles in the air for
Tom. Tom would go to Sandhurst; he would pass well; he would have a
commission in a crack regiment. And Tom's repentance of some former
disparagement of the sex was shown in such remarks as "that Beauchamp
major--you know, the fellow I told you a good deal about."
"Oh yes, a fine fellow!"
"Well, I don't know, Net--I begin to think he's a beastly idiot. That
fellow was bragging to me the other day that he bullied his sisters into
fagging for him when he was at home. I think that's enough for me." And
so holidays again came to an end, to Nettie's secret delight. She hated
parting with Tom, but she longed to be back at her work.
* * * * *
Six years passed away and Nettie's career had been one of unbroken
success. She had proceeded to Newnham and had come out splendidly in her
examinations. Only one thing clouded her sky. Tom had not been
successful. In spite of all that coaching could do, he had been plucked
at Sandhurst, and the doctor had prohibited further study for the
present. Nettie wrote to him constantly, making light of his failure,
and assuring him of ultimate success. And now she was to make her start
in her chosen profession. Before long she would be able to write herself
"Nettie Anderson, M.D." and she was then to go into practice with her
elder friend, Minnie Roberts. Little paragraphs had even appeared in
some of the papers that "for the first time in the history of medicine
in England, two lady graduates in medicine are to practise in
partnership." Miss Roberts was already settled in one of the Bloomsbury
squares, and had a constantly increasing circle of clients.
One Saturday afternoon in October the inaugural banquet was held. Nettie
had a flat of her own in the house, and here the feast was spread. Mr.
and Mrs. Anderson, Tom, and the two doctors formed the company. They
were all so proud of Nettie that they almost forgot Tom's lack of
success. There was what is understood as a high time. Who so gay and
bright as Nettie! Who so gentle and courteous as Tom! (I am afraid a
discipline of failure is best for some of us!) How the time flew! How
soon mother and Nettie had to go to Nettie's room for the mother to don
her bonnet and get back home in decent time!
"But you'll be marrying, you know, some day, Nettie."
"Ah! time will show, mother dear," was Nettie's answer; and then she
added, "but if I do it will be from choice and not necessity."
THE MAGIC CABINET.
BY ALBERT E. HOOPER.
"A castle built of granite.
With towers grim and tall;
A castle built of rainbows,
With sunbeams over all:--
I pass the one, in ruins,
And mount a golden stair,--
For the newest and the truest,
And the oldest and the boldest,
And the fairest and the rarest,
Is my castle in the air."--M.
I.
ON TWO SIDES OF THE CABINET.
"Plenty of nourishment, remember, Mr. Goodman," said the doctor; "you
must really see that your wife carries out my instructions. And you, my
dear lady, mustn't trouble about want of appetite. The appetite will
come all in good time, if you do what I tell you. Good-afternoon."
Little Grace Goodman gazed after the retreating figure of the doctor;
and when the door closed behind him and her father, she turned to look
at her mother.
Mrs. Goodman looked very pale and ill, and as she lay back in her
cushioned-chair she tried to wipe away a tear unseen. But Grace's sight
was very sharp, and she ran across the room and threw her arms
impetuously round her mother's neck.
"Oh, mother, are you very miserable?" she asked, while her own lip
quivered pitifully.
"No, no, my darling, not 'very miserable,'" answered her mother, kissing
the little girl tenderly. "Hush! don't cry, my love, or you will make
father unhappy. Here he comes."
Mr. Goodman re-entered the room looking very thoughtful; but as he came
and sat down beside his wife, he smiled and said cheerfully, "You will
soon be well now, the doctor says. The worst is over, and you only need
strengthening."
Mrs. Goodman smiled sadly.
"He little knows how impossible it is to carry out his orders," she
said.
"Not impossible. We shall be able to manage it, I think."
A sudden light of hope sprang into the sick lady's eyes.
"Is the book taken at last, then?" she asked eagerly.
"The book? No, indeed. The publishers all refuse to have anything to do
with it. It is a risky business, you see, to bring out such an expensive
book, and I can't say that I'm surprised at their refusal."
"How are we to get the money, then?" asked his wife. "We have barely
enough for our everyday wants, and we cannot spare anything for extras."
"We must sell something."
Mrs. Goodman glanced round the shabbily furnished room, and then looked
back at her husband questioningly.
"Uncle Jacob's Indian cabinet must go," said he.
Mrs. Goodman looked quickly towards a large black piece of furniture
which stood in a dusky corner of the room, and after a moment's pause,
she said: "I don't like to part with it at all. It may be very foolish
and superstitious of me, but I always feel that we should be unwise to
forget Uncle Jacob's advice. You know what he said about it in his
will."
"I can't say that I remember much about it," answered her husband. "I
have a dim remembrance that he said something that sounded rather
heathenish about the cabinet bringing good luck to its owners. I didn't
pay much attention to it at the time, because I don't believe in
anything of the sort. And besides, your Uncle Jacob was a very peculiar
old gentleman; one never knew what to make of his odd fancies and
whims."
"Yes, you are quite right; he was a strange old man; but somehow I never
shared the belief of most people that his intellect was weak. I think he
had gathered some out-of-the-way notions during his life in India; but
his mind always seemed clear enough on practical questions."
"Well, what was it he said about the Indian cabinet?"
"He said that he left it to us because we had no need for any of his
money--we had plenty of our own then!--that the old Magic Cabinet, as he
called it, had once been the property of a rich Rajah, who had received
it from the hands of a wise Buddhist priest; that there was something
talismanic about it, which gave it the power of averting misfortune from
its owners; and that it would be a great mistake ever to part with it."
Mr. Goodman laughed uneasily.
"I wonder what Uncle Jacob would say now," said he. "When he amused
himself by writing all that fanciful rubbish in his will, he little
thought that we should be reduced to such want. It is true, he never
believed that my book would be worth anything; but he could not foresee
the failure of the bank and the loss of all our money. I scarcely think,
if he were alive now, that he would advise me to keep the cabinet and
allow you to go without the nourishment the doctor orders."
The invalid sighed.
"I suppose there is no help for it," she answered. "The old cabinet must
go; for I am useless without strength, and I only make the struggle
harder for you."
All the time her father and mother had been talking, little Grace had
been looking from one to the other with eager, wide-open eyes; and now
she cried: "Oh, mother! must the dear old black cabinet be taken away?
And sha'n't we ever see it again!"
Her father drew her between his knees and smoothed back her fluffy
golden hair as he said gently: "I know how you will miss it, dear; you
have had such splendid games and make-believes with it, haven't you? But
you will be glad to give it up to make mother well, I know."
"Will mother be quite well when the old cabinet is gone away?" asked
Grace. "Will her face be bright and pink like it used to be? And will
she go out of doors again?"
"Yes, darling, I hope so. I am going out now to ask a man to come and
fetch away the cabinet, and while I am gone I want mother to try and get
'forty winks,' so you must be very quiet."
"Yes, I will," answered Grace quickly. "I must go and say 'good-bye' to
the cabinet."
Saying this, the little girl ran to the corner of the room in which the
cabinet stood; and Mr. Goodman, bending down, kissed his wife's pale
face very tenderly, whispered a word of hope and comfort in her ear, and
then left the room; and a moment later the sound of the house-door told
that he had gone out.
Gradually the twilight grew dimmer and dimmer in the little room; and as
the dusky shadows, which had been lurking in the corners, began to creep
out across the floor and walls and ceiling, Mrs. Goodman fell into a
peaceful sleep.
But little Grace sat quite still on the floor, gazing at the Indian
cabinet.
It was a large and handsome piece of furniture made of ebony, which
looked beautifully black and shiny; and the folding doors in front were
carved in a wonderful fashion, and inlaid with cunning silver tracery.
The carvings on these doors had always been Grace's special delight;
they had served as her picture books and toys since her earliest
remembrance, and she knew every line of them by heart. All the birds,
and beasts, and curly snakes were old friends; but Grace paid little
attention to any of them just now. All her thoughts were given to the
central piece of carving, half of which was on each of the doors of the
cabinet.
This centre piece was carved into the form of an Indian temple, with
cupolas and towers of raised work; and in front of the temple door there
sat the figure of a solemn looking Indian priest.
Of all Grace's toy friends this priest was the oldest and dearest, and
as she looked at him now, the tears began to gather in her eyes at the
thought of parting with him. And no wonder. He was really a most
delightful little old man. His long beard was made of hair-like silver
wire, the whites of his eyes were little specks of inlaid ivory, and in
his hand he balanced a small bar of solid gold, which did duty as the
latch of the cabinet doors.
Grace gazed at the priest long and lovingly, and at last, shuffling a
little nearer to the cabinet, she whispered: "I don't like saying
'good-bye' a bit. I wish you needn't go away. Don't you think you might
stay after all if you liked, and help mother to get well in some other
way? You belong to a magic cabinet, so I suppose you are a magic priest,
and can do all sorts of wonderful things if you choose."
The priest nodded gravely.
Then, of course, Grace gave a sudden jump, and started away from the
cabinet with a rather frightened look on her face.
It was one thing to talk to this little carved wooden figure in play,
and make believe that he was a real live magic priest, but it was quite
another to find him nodding at her.
She felt very puzzled, but seeing that the figure was sitting quite
still in front of the temple, she drew close up to the cabinet again,
and presently she whispered: "Did you nod at me just now?"
The ebony priest bowed his head almost to the ground.
There could be no doubt about it this time. He was a magic priest after
all. Grace did not feel frightened any more. A joyful hope began to
swell in her heart, and she said, "Oh, I'm so glad! You won't go away
and leave us, will you?"
For a moment the figure sat motionless, and then the head gave a most
decided shake, wagging the silver beard from side to side.
"What a dear old darling you are," exclaimed Grace in delight. "But you
know how ill poor mother is, and how much she wants nice things to make
her strong. You will have to get them for her, if you stay, you know."
Again the priest nodded gravely.
"It isn't a very easy thing to do," said Grace, holding up a warning
finger. "My father is ever such a clever man, and he can't always manage
it. Why, he has written a great big book, all on long sheets of
paper--piles, and _piles_, and PILES of them, and even that hasn't done
it! I shouldn't think you could write a book."
The figure of the priest sat perfectly still, and as she talked Grace
thought that the expression on his face grew more solemn than ever, and
even a little cross, so she hastened to say, "Don't be offended, please.
I didn't mean to be rude. I know you must be very magic indeed, or you
couldn't nod your head so beautifully. But do you really think you can
get mother everything the doctor has ordered?"
A fourth time the priest nodded, and this time he did it more
emphatically than ever.
Little Grace clapped her hands softly.
"Oh! _do_ begin at once, there's a dear," she whispered coaxingly.
Very slowly, as if his joints were stiff, the priest raised his arms,
and allowed the golden bar in his hands to revolve in a half-circle; and
then the Indian temple split right down the middle, and the two doors of
the Magic Cabinet swung wide open.
Grace lost sight of the little priest, and the temple, and all the other
wonderful carvings as the folding doors rolled back on their hinges; and
she gazed into the cabinet, wondering what would happen next. She had
often seen the inside of the cabinet, so, beautiful as it was, it was
not new to her, and she felt a little disappointed. Half of the space
was filled up by tiny drawers and cupboards, all covered with thin
sheets of mother-of-pearl, glowing with soft and delicate tints of pink
and blue; but the other half was quite unoccupied, and so highly
polished was the ebony, that the open space looked to Grace like a
square-cut cave of shiny black marble.
For some moments the little girl sat quite still, gazing into the depths
of the cabinet; but as nothing happened she got upon her feet, and,
drawing a step nearer, put her head and half her body inside the open
space. Everything looked very dark in there, and she felt more
disappointed than ever; but, just as she was about to draw out her head
again, she noticed a shining speck in one of the top corners at the
back of the cabinet. This was not the first time she had seen it, and
she had always determined to look at it closer; but the cabinet stood on
carved feet, like the claws of an alligator, and Grace's outstretched
hand could not quite reach the back. But now the cabinet might be going
away she felt that she must delay no longer, so she quickly crossed the
floor and fetched the highest hassock from under the table, and planted
it in front of the dark opening. Getting upon this, she climbed right
into the open space, and a moment later she was sitting on the ebony
floor of the Magic Cabinet.
It was rather a tight squeeze; but Grace did not mind that in the least:
she drew her feet close in under her, and laughed with glee. Now she
could see the shining speck plainly. It was only a tiny bright spot in
the centre of a tarnished metal knob. The knob was an ugly,
uninteresting-looking thing, and it was fixed so high up in the dark
corner that she would never have noticed it if it had not been for the
bright speck in the centre.
Wondering what the knob could be for, Grace gave it a sharp pull; but
she could not move it. Next she pushed it; and then----
Bang!
The folding doors fell to with a slam, everything became suddenly dark,
and Grace found herself shut inside the Magic Cabinet. Just for an
instant she felt too startled to move; but when she recovered from her
surprise, instead of trying to open the doors of the cabinet, she felt
for the little metal knob again, and then pushed at it with all her
might.
First there was a sharp snap, like the turning of a lock; and then she
heard a harsh, grating sound, as the back of the cabinet slid slowly
aside and revealed--what do you think?
The wall of the room behind? A secret cupboard?
No, neither of these.
Directly the back of the cabinet moved aside a sudden and brilliant
flash of light dazzled Grace's eyes, and she was obliged to cover them
with her hands. But it was not long before she began to peep between
her fingers, and then she almost cried out for joy.
It seemed that a scene of fairyland had been spread out before her, but
not in a picture, for everything she saw looked as real as it was
beautiful. Grace found that she was no longer sitting in a dark and
narrow cabinet, but on the top step of a marble stairway, which led down
to a lake of clear and shining water. This lake, on which numbers of
snowy swans swam in and out among the lily beds, stretched out far and
wide, and on its banks, among flower-decked trees and shrubs, stately
palaces and temples were built, whose gilded domes and marble terraces
glistened brightly in the sunshine.
All this Grace took in with one delighted glance, but it was as quickly
forgotten in a new and greater surprise that awaited her.
Gently but swiftly over the surface of the shining lake there glided a
wonderful boat which glimmered with a pearly lustre, and as the breeze,
filling its sails of purple silk, brought it closer to the steps, Grace
gave a glad cry and sprang to her feet. A tall, white-bearded man, who
stood in the prow of the boat, waved a long golden wand over his head,
and Grace clapped her hands in glee.
"It's my dear, dear Indian priest off the door of the cabinet," she
cried. "But how tall and beautiful he has grown!"
Before she could say another word the boat of pearl sailed up alongside
the bottom marble step, and the old man beckoned to her to come down.
She needed no second bidding, but ran lightly down the stairs and sprang
into his outstretched arms.
"What a dear, good magic priest you are to come," she said, as he put
her into a cosy place on some cushions at the bottom of the boat. "And
what a lovely place this is! Do you live here?"
"Sometimes," answered the old man, with a grave smile.
"Oh, of course; I forgot. You live on the door of the Magic Cabinet
sometimes. You have been there quite a long time. Ever since I can
remember anything you have sat in front of the little carved temple.
Don't you find it dull there sometimes?"
"How do you know I don't go away while you are asleep?"
"I never thought of that," said Grace. "But please tell me, where is the
Magic Cabinet now?"
The old priest was busy attending to the sails of the boat, which was
now shooting swiftly away from the shore; but at the question he looked
up and pointed towards the top of the steps with his golden wand.
Grace looked and saw a lovely little temple built of inlaid coloured
marbles.
"Is that really the back of our dear old black cabinet?" she cried. "How
pretty it is! I wonder why we have never found it out."
"Everything has two sides," said the old man, "and one is always more
beautiful than the other; and, strange to say, the best side is
generally hidden. It can always be found if people wish for it; but as a
rule they don't care to take the trouble."
Grace looked very earnestly into the priest's face while he spoke; and
after he had finished she was so long silent that at last he asked,
"What are you thinking about?"
"I was thinking about your face," she answered. "You won't think me
rude, will you?"
"No, certainly not."
"Well, of course, you are just my dear old Indian priest, with the
strange, dark face and nice white beard, exactly like I have always
known you, only ever so much bigger and taller; and I'm sure that long
wand is much finer than the little gold bar you generally hold; but I
can't help thinking you are just a little like my mother's Uncle Jacob,
who left us the Magic Cabinet. I have often looked at him in the album,
and your eyes have a look in them like his. You don't mind, do you?"
"Not at all," answered the old man, smiling kindly; and then he went
back to the sails again, because the boat was nearing a little island.
"Are we going to get out here?" asked Grace.
"Yes; you want me to do something for you, don't you?" And then,
without waiting for an answer, he pulled some silken cords, which folded
up the purple sails like the wings of a resting-bird, and the boat
grounded gently, and without the slightest shock, on a mossy bank.
Taking the little girl in his arms, the old man sprang ashore. Bright
flowers and ripe fruits grew in abundance on this fairy-like island, and
birds of gorgeous plumage flew hither and thither, filling the sunny air
with music.
But the old priest did not seem to notice any of these things. He led
Grace by the hand up the mossy bank, and through a thicket of flowering
shrubs into a glade, in the centre of which he halted and said, "Now,
what is it to be?"
"Oh, I can't choose," said Grace, looking eagerly up into his face. "You
know I want mother to be quite well; and I don't want you or the Magic
Cabinet to go away from us. But I don't know what you had better do.
Please, please, do whatever you like; I know it will be nice."
The old priest smiled, and struck the ground with his golden wand. Then
there was such a noise that Grace had to cover up both her ears; and at
the same time, out of the ground, at a little distance, there rose a
great red-brick house, with queer twisted chimneys and overhanging
gable-ends.
Grace stared with astonishment from the house to the gravely-smiling
priest; and at last she cried, "Why, it is our dear old home where we
used to live before we got so poor! I must be asleep and dreaming."
"Well, and if you are, don't you like the dream?" asked her old friend.
"Yes, yes, it's a beautiful dream; it can't be true," said Grace; and
then she added quickly, "May we go into the house?"
"Yes, if you like," he answered; and he took her by the hand, and led
her up the steps and through the doorway.
II.
UNCLE JACOB'S GIFT.
When Grace passed through the doorway of the red-brick house, which the
old priest had raised in such a magical fashion out of the ground, she
looked eagerly round the hall, and then clapped her hands and cried,
"Why, I do believe everything is here just as it used to be. I don't
remember all these beautiful pictures and things; but mother and father
have often told me about them. Oh, I wish they could be here to see!"
Her guide did not answer, but still holding her by the hand, he led her
into a spacious room. It was so pretty that it almost took Grace's
breath away. The softness of the carpets, the colours of the curtains
and other drapery, the glittering mirrors on the walls, everything she
saw was new and wonderful to her, and seemed like nothing so much as a
story out of the "Arabian Nights."
But before she could do anything more than give one little gasp of
delight, the old Indian priest at her side waved his golden wand.
Then a curtain which hung before a doorway at a little distance was
suddenly looped up, and, with a light step, Grace's mother, looking rosy
and well, came into the room.
Grace gave the old man's hand a hard squeeze, but although she had a
great longing to run straight into her mother's arms, some strange
feeling held her back. After feasting her eyes for a moment on her
mother's bright and happy face, she whispered, "Where's father?"
Again the wonderful golden wand was raised, and then the curtain which
had fallen into its place before the doorway was pushed hastily aside,
and Grace saw her father.
All traces of sorrow and care had left his face; he held his head high,
his eyes shone with a glad light, and in his hands he carried a large
book bound in white and gold.
As he entered the room, Mrs. Goodman turned, and with a little cry of
joy went to meet him. Then an expression came into her father's face
which Grace could not understand, as silently, and with bowed head, he
gave the beautiful book into his wife's hands.
"At last!" cried Grace's mother, taking it from him, and her voice was
broken by a sob, while the tears gathered in her eyes; but still Grace
could see that she was very happy.
Grace was very happy, too, and she could scarcely take her eyes from her
father and mother when she heard the voice of the Indian priest speaking
to her.
"Is there anything more you would like?" the old man asked.
"Oh, how kind and good you are!" cried Grace, squeezing his hand harder
than ever; "and how ungrateful I am to forget all about you. You have
chosen the loveliest things."
"But don't you want anything for yourself?" asked her strange friend.
"You may choose anything you like."
Grace looked all round the big room, and it seemed so full of pretty
things that at first she could not think of anything to wish for; but
suddenly she gave a little jump and cried: "The Magic Cabinet! It isn't
here; and I would like to have it, please."
The old man looked grave; but he answered at once: "You have chosen, so
you must have it; for in this country a choice is too serious a thing to
be taken back. If you don't like it you must make the best of it. But
you know you can't be at both sides of the cabinet at one and the same
time. Come with me."
Grace felt a little uncomfortable as the old man led her quickly across
the room and through the curtained doorway by which her father and
mother had entered.
Directly the curtain fell behind them she found that they were in the
dark; and, although she still held her friend's hand, she began to be
afraid.
"Oh, whatever is going to happen? I can't see anything at all!" she
cried.
"I am going to wave my golden wand," answered the slow and solemn voice
of the Indian priest.
As he spoke there was a vivid flash of light. Little Grace gave a
violent start, and rubbed her eyes; and then--and then she burst into
tears.
For what do you think that sudden flash of light had shown her?
It had shown her that she was back again in the shabby little home she
had known so long; that her mother, pale and ill as ever, was just
awakening from her sleep; that her father had returned and was lighting
the lamp; that the little carved figure of the Indian priest was sitting
motionless before the temple on the doors of the Magic Cabinet; and,
showing her all this, it also showed her that she had been fast asleep
and dreaming.
It was too hard to bear. To think that the wonderful power of the magic
priest, the beautiful fairy-like country, the dear old home, her
mother's health and happiness, and her father's book,--to think that all
these delightful things were only parts of a strange dream was a
terrible disappointment to Grace, and she cried as if her heart would
break.
"Why, darling," said her father, crossing the room and lifting up the
little girl in his strong arms, "is it as bad as all that? Can't you
bear to part with the old cabinet, even for mother's sake?"
"It's--it's not that," sobbed Grace, hiding her face on his shoulder.
"I--I wish we could keep the cabinet; but it's not that. It's my dream."
"Your dream, dear? Well, come and tell mother and me all about it."
Mr. Goodman sat down in a chair beside his wife, and when she could
control her sobs, Grace told them the whole story of her strange journey
to the other side of the Magic Cabinet.
When she had finished her father said: "Well, darling, it was a very
pleasant dream while it lasted; but beautiful things can't last for ever
any more than ugly ones. It is no wonder that you should have had such
a dream after all our talk about Uncle Jacob's fancies, and the Buddhist
priest, and the good fortune that was supposed to come to the owners of
the Magic Cabinet."
"Yes, I'm not surprised about all that, especially as Grace has always
made-believe about that funny little priest," said Mrs. Goodman; "but I
can't think what set her dreaming about a knob inside the cabinet."
"Oh, that's not only a dream," cried Grace. "I have often seen the
little knob, and I have pushed it and pulled it, but I can never make it
move."
"Why didn't you tell us about it? I'm sure I have never seen it," said
her mother.
"Come and show it to me now," said Mr. Goodman, putting Grace off his
knee, and taking the lamp from the table.
Grace, followed by her mother and father, crossed over to the corner in
which the Magic Cabinet stood. The lamp was placed on a chair just in
front of it; and then Grace, with rather a reproachful glance at the
figure of the Indian priest, twisted round the little gold bar, and
opened the two ebony doors.
"There!" cried Grace, stooping down, "I can just see the knob; but you
can't get low enough. You can feel it, though, if you put your hand into
this corner."
Guided by the direction in which her finger pointed, Mr. Goodman thrust
his hand right back into the darkest corner of the cabinet; and
presently he said, "Yes, I can certainly feel something hard and round
like a little button. But I can't move it."
As he spoke he pulled at the little knob with a force that shook the
cabinet in its place.
"Push it, father!" cried Grace eagerly. "That's what I did in my dream."
Mr. Goodman obeyed, and instantly there was a low musical "twang," like
that caused by the striking of a Jew's harp, or the quick vibration of a
piece of watch-spring; a sharp click followed, and something was heard
to fall on to the ebony floor of the cabinet.
Mrs. Goodman held the light closer, and in a moment her husband said,
"Here is a little secret door hinged down to the bottom of the cabinet.
The knob must have been fixed to a spring, and in pressing it I have
released the catch of the door, which has fallen flat, leaving a small
square opening."
"Is there anything inside?" asked Grace, in a hurried, excited whisper.
"Let me see," said her father, thrusting in his hand again. "Ah, yes! A
little drawer!"
A moment later he stood upright, holding a tiny drawer of sweet-smelling
sandal-wood in his hand.
"Come along to the table," he said; "we will soon see if there is
anything nice inside."
Although it was evident that he was trying to speak carelessly, there
was a strange eagerness in his manner; and as Mrs. Goodman set the lamp
on the table, the light revealed a spot of bright colour on each of her
pale cheeks; and as for Grace, she was in raptures.
"I know--I _know_ it's something beautiful," she cried; "and I believe
my priest is a magic priest after all."
They all three gathered round the light, and Mr. Goodman laid the little
secret drawer on the table.
The drawer seemed to be quite full, but its contents were completely
covered by a neatly-folded piece of Indian silk. This was quickly
removed; and under it there lay an ivory box of delicate workmanship. It
fitted closely into the drawer, and Mr. Goodman lifted it out with great
care. On opening the lid he revealed a second box; and this was so
beautiful that it drew exclamations of delight from both Grace and her
mother. The inner box was made of gold, and it was covered with fruit
and flowers and birds, all wrought in wonderful _repousse_ work.
There was some difficulty in finding how this golden box was to be
opened; but a little examination brought to light a secret spring, and
at the first pressure the lid of the box flew back and the central
treasure of the Magic Cabinet was exposed to view.
Grace gave a cry of disappointment, for, lying in a snug little nest of
pink cotton-wool, she saw only a dull, ugly-looking stone.
Mrs. Goodman did not speak, but looked earnestly at her husband as he
took the stone from its resting-place and held it close under the light.
He took a glass from his pocket and examined it carefully for a moment,
and then laid it back in the golden box again, and said, "It is a
diamond, and, I believe, a very valuable one."
"But it isn't a bit pretty and sparkly like the diamonds in the shop
windows," said Grace. "What is the good of it?"
"It is a wonderful magic gift," answered her father. "All that money can
do for us, this dull-looking stone can do. It can buy all the things
mother needs to make her strong and well."
"And it can print father's book, and make us all as happy as we were in
your dream," said her mother.
Mr. Goodman now took the little sandal-wood drawer in his hand again,
and, under another piece of Indian silk, he found a letter.
"My dear, this is for you," he said; "and see--surely this must be your
Uncle Jacob's writing?"
Mrs. Goodman took the envelope from his hand, and read the inscription,
which was written in strange, angular characters:
"TO MY NIECE."
Her hand shook a little as she broke the seal and drew out a small sheet
of paper covered closely with the same writing, and her voice was
unsteady as she read the old man's letter aloud.
"My dear Niece,--When my will is read you may be surprised
to find that I have left you only one gift--my old Indian
cabinet. But I value it very highly, and I believe that for
my sake you will never willingly part with it. I am rich,
and if you needed money I could leave you plenty; but you
have enough and to spare at present, and I hope you will
never know the want of it. But still, I mean to make one
slight provision for you. Authors are not always good men
of business, and your husband may lose his money; and
however great and good his book may be, it may be rejected
by the world, and you may some day be poor. I shall place
an uncut diamond of some value in the secret drawer of the
old cabinet, hoping that you may find it in a time of need.
You may wonder why I trust to such a chance; but some wise
man has said that _all chance is direction which we cannot
see_, and I believe he is right, so I shall follow my whim.
If you should discover the secret at a time when you are
not in need of money, keep the gem uncut as a wonderful
work of nature; there are not many like it in the world.
But if the money it can bring you will be useful, do not
hesitate to sell it; it will fetch a high price. In any
case, accept it as the last gift of your affectionate
"UNCLE JACOB."
There was silence in the little room for a few moments after Uncle
Jacob's letter had been read. Mr. Goodman led his wife back to her
chair, and Grace stood solemnly waiting for somebody to speak.
At last her father looked at her with a bright smile.
"We must be very thankful to Uncle Jacob for his gift," he said; "but we
mustn't forget that it was your wonderful dream which led us to the
discovery."
"I can't help thinking that my dear Indian priest had something to do
with it. You know he is a magic one; and he did look something like
Uncle Jacob in my dream, you know."
Her mother and father smiled; and Mr. Goodman rose briskly and said, "I
must make haste and tell the man he needn't come to look at the
cabinet."
"Oh, father," cried Grace, who was feeling a little puzzled, "won't it
have to go away, after all?"
"No, my child," he answered; "mother will be able to get well without
losing it now. We shall keep the Magic Cabinet."
"There, I thought my Indian priest wouldn't tell a story. I asked him
to promise not to go away and leave us, and he shook his hand most
beautifully."
Mr. Goodman bent down and kissed her; and then he left the room, and
Grace, after taking a peep at her little Indian priest, ran and threw
her arms lovingly round her mother's neck.
* * * * *
Uncle Jacob's gift was the means of making Grace's dream come true in a
wonderful way. First of all her mother got well and the roses came back
into her cheeks again; and then, instead of going on a magic journey
through the back of the cabinet, the father and mother and their little
girl went into the country, which was quite as beautiful, if not so
strange, as the island in the shining lake. A little later the dear old
red-brick home was bought again, and they all went to live there; Mr.
Goodman's book was published, and it was bound in white and gold, just
as Grace had seen it in her dream. And after it had been examined and
admired, at Grace's suggestion it was put away under the watchful care
of the little Indian priest in the Magic Cabinet.
GIRLHOOD AND YOUTH.
ONLY TIM.
BY SARAH DOUDNEY.
CHAPTER I.
"I say, Bee, are you coming?"
Claude Molyneux, in all the glory of fourteen summers and a suit of new
white flannels, stands looking up with a slight frown of impatience at
an open bay-window. It has been one of the hottest of August days; and
now at four o'clock in the afternoon the haze of heat hangs over the
sea, and makes a purple cloud of the distant coast. But, for all that,
it is splendid weather; just the kind of weather that a boy likes when
he comes to spend his holidays at the seaside; and Claude, who is an
Indian-born boy, has no objection to a good hot summer.
As he stands, hands in pockets, on the narrow pebbled path under the
window, you cannot help admiring the grace of his slim, well-knit
figure, and the delicate moulding of his features. The fair skin is
sun-tanned, as a boy's skin ought to be; the eyes, large and
heavy-lidded, are of a dark grey, not brilliant, but soft; the light,
fine hair is cropped close to the shapely head. He is a lad that one
likes at the first glance; and although one sees, all too plainly, that
those chiselled lips can take a disdainful curl sometimes, one knows
instinctively that they may always be trusted to tell the simple truth.
Anything mean, anything sneaky, could not live in the steady light of
those dark-grey eyes.
"I say, Bee-e!" he sings out again, with a little drawl, which, however,
does not make the tone less imperative. Master Claude is not accustomed
to be kept waiting, and is beginning to think himself rather badly used.
"Coming," cries a sweet treble; and then a head and shoulders appear
above the row of scarlet geraniums on the window-sill.
She is worth waiting for, this loitering Bee, whose thirteen years have
given her none of the airs of premature womanhood. Her smooth round
cheeks are tinted with the tender pink of the shell; her great eyes, of
speedwell blue, are opened frankly and fearlessly on the whole world.
Taken singly, not one of her features is, perhaps, quite faultless; but
it would be hard to find a critic who could quarrel with the small face,
framed in waves of ruddy golden hair that go tumbling down below her
waist. You can see a freckle or two on the sides of her little nose, and
notice that her slender hands are browned by the sea-side sun; for Bee
is one of those lucky girls who are permitted to dabble freely in
salt-water, and get all the benefit that briny breezes can bestow.
"I couldn't come sooner," she says in a tone of apology. "We always have
to learn a hymn on Saturdays, and I've had _such_ a bother with Dolly.
She _would_ want to know where 'the scoffer's seat' was, and if it had a
cushion? And it does so worry me to try to explain."
"Oh, you poor thing--you must be quite worn out!" responds Claude, with
genuine sympathy. "But make haste; you haven't got your hat on yet."
Bee makes a little dive, and brings up a wide-brimmed sailor's hat with
a blue ribbon round it. She puts it on, fastens it securely under the
silken masses of her hair, and then declares herself to be quite ready.
In the next instant the girl and boy are walking side by side along the
shore, near enough to the sea to hear the soft rush of the tide. The
blue eyes are turned inquiringly on Claude's face, which is just a shade
graver than it ought to be on this delightful do-nothing day.
"Bee," he says after a silence, "I don't quite approve of your being
great friends with Crooke--Tim Crooke. What a name it is! He may be a
good sort of fellow, but he's not in our set at all, you know."
"He _is_ a good sort of fellow," she answers. "There's no doubt about
that. Aunt Hetty likes him very much. And he's clever, Claude; he can do
ever so many things."
"I dare say he can," says Mr. Molyneux, throwing back his head and
quickening his pace. "But you needn't have got so _very_ intimate. We
could have done very well without him to-day."
"He's Mr. Carey's pupil," remarks Bee quietly. "Aunt Hetty couldn't
invite Mr. Carey and leave out Tim."
"Well, we could have been jolly enough without Mr. Carey. It's a
mistake, I think, to see too much of this Tim Crooke; he isn't a
gentleman, and he oughtn't to expect us to notice him particularly."
"He doesn't expect anything; we like him; he's our friend." The soft
pink deepens on Bee's cheeks, and her ripe lips quiver a little. She
loves Claude with all her heart, and thinks him the king of boys; but,
for all that, she won't let him be unjust if she can help it.
Claude tramps on over sand, and pebbles, and seaweed, with lips firmly
compressed and eyes gazing steadily before him. Bee, as she glances at
him, knows quite well what Claude feels when he looks as if his features
had got frozen into marble. And she knows, too, that he will be
painfully, frigidly, exasperatingly polite to her all the evening.
Matters cannot go on like this, she says to herself in desperation.
Claude arrived only yesterday, and here they are beginning his holiday
with a dreadful disagreement. She has been counting the days that must
pass before she sees him; writing him little letters full of sweet
child-love and longing; wearing a pinafore over her newest frock, that
it may be kept fresh and pretty for his critical eyes. And now he is
here, walking by her side; and she has offended him.
Is it Heaven or the instincts of her own innocent little heart that
teach this girl tact and wisdom? She doesn't proceed to inspire Claude
with a maddening desire to punch Tim's head, by recounting a long
catalogue of Mr. Crooke's perfections, as a more experienced person
would probably have done. But she draws a shade closer to her companion,
and presently he finds a tiny brown hand upon his white flannel sleeve.
"You dear old Empey," she says lovingly, "I've been wanting you for, oh,
_such_ a long time!"
The frozen face thaws; the dark grey eyes shine softly. "Empey" is her
pet name for him, an abbreviation of "Emperor;" and he likes to hear her
say it.
"And I've wanted you, old chap," he answers, putting his arm round the
brown-holland waist.
"Empey, we always do get on well together, don't we?"
"Of course we do,"--with a squeeze.
"Then, just to please me, won't you be a little kind to poor Tim? He's
not a splendid fellow like you, and he knows he never will be. I do so
want you to forget that he's a nobody. We are all so much more
comfortable when we don't remember things of that sort. You're not
angry, Empey?"
"Angry; no, you silly old thing!"
And then she knows, without any more words, that he will grant her
request.
The little boat that Claude has hired is waiting for them at the
landing-place, and Bee steps into it with the lightest of hearts. Aunt
Hetty and the rest will follow in a larger boat; but Mr. Molyneux has
resolved to row Miss Beatrice Jocelyn himself.
He rows as he does everything, easily and gracefully, and Bee watches
him with happy blue eyes as they go gliding over the warm sea. How still
it is to-day! Beyond the grey rocks and yellow sands they can see the
golden harvest fields full of standing sheaves, and still farther away
there are low hills faintly outlined through the hot mist. The little
town, with its irregularly-built terraces, looks dazzlingly white in
the sunshine; but the church, standing on high ground, lifts a red spire
into the hazy blue.
"I could live on the sea!" says Bee ecstatically. "You don't know what
it costs me to come out of a boat; I always want this lovely gliding
feeling to go on for ever. Don't you?"
"I like it awfully," he replies; "but then there are other things that
I want to do by-and-by. I mean to try my hand at tiger-shooting when I
go out to the governor."
"But, oh, Empey, it'll be a long time before you have to go out to
India!"
Her red mouth drops a little at the corners, and her dimples become
invisible. He looks at her with a gleam of mischief in his lazy eyes.
"What do you call a long time?" he asks. "Just a year or two, that's
nothing. Never mind, Bee, you'll get on very well without me."
"Oh, Empey!"
The great blue eyes glisten; and Claude is penitent in an instant.
"You ridiculous old chap!" he says gaily. "Haven't you been told
thousands of times that my dad is your guardian, and as good as a father
to you? And do you suppose that I'd go to India and leave you behind?
You're coming too, you know, and you'll sit perched up on the back of an
elephant to see me shoot tigers. What a time we'll have out there, Bee!"
"Do you really mean it?" she cries, with a rapturous face; blue eyes
shining like sapphires, cheeks aglow with the richest rose.
"Of course I do. It was all arranged, years ago, by our two governors; I
thought Aunt Hetty had told you. But I say, Bee, when the time _does_
come, I hope you won't make a fuss about leaving England!"
"Not a bit of it," she says sturdily. "I shall like to see the Ganges,
and the big water-lilies, and the alligators. But what's to become of
Dolly?"
"I don't know; I suppose she'll have to stay with Aunt Hetty. You belong
to _us_, you see, old girl; so you and I shall never be parted."
"No, never be parted," she echoes, looking out across the calm waters
with eyes full of innocent joy.