strangely on those world-old hills.
"Words are very inadequate," said Elma presently.
"Oh, one understands all right without words," said he; "but where is
the rest of your party, I wonder? I suppose you were not alone?"
"Mother has gone to a dinner-party," she answered. "Oh dear, what ought
I to do? She will be so frightened! She is waiting for me. I must get
some one to go and tell her I am all right. How could I sit here and
forget how frightened she will be when I don't come!"
"We had better wait a little longer, I think," he said. "You cannot walk
just yet, can you?"
"My shoes are all cut to pieces," she owned ruefully. "I suppose we must
wait. It was very lucky for me you were passing just then."
"Yes, I had just cut the shop for an hour or two, and I came round here
to have a quiet smoke. Lost my way, as a matter of fact."
"They must keep open very late at your shop," she remarked.
He hesitated a moment before he answered, "Very late."
"And I suppose you haven't dined?" she went on. "You must come back with
me, and dine at the hotel. I cannot go on to the party now, at any rate;
my clothes are in rags, and, besides, it must be quite late."
"Do you know your way back to the hotel?" he asked, as the time went on
and the jampannis remained, to all appearance, as dead as ever.
"No, I have never walked down this way, and it is far too dark to
attempt it now," said Elma very decidedly.
The time passed pleasantly enough while they waited, and more than once
their light-hearted laughter rang out into the night.
At last they heard a pattering of bare feet coming down the road. The
stranger hailed in Hindustani, and the natives stopped and began an
excited jabbering all together, which the stranger answered in their own
language.
"These are the jampannis who were killed," he announced to Elma. "If you
wish it, I will send one of them with a message to your mother, and the
others can fetch a couple of jampans to take us to the hotel."
"You seem to know Hindustani very well," she remarked, when the men had
been sent on their various errands.
"Yes, I have been some little time in India," he answered, "though I
have only been a few days at Simla. Will you allow me to introduce
myself? My name is Angus McIvor."
"And I am Elma Macdonald. I hope we shall not meet any one at the hotel
before I can get to my room. Oh! and will you let me go on in front, and
get out before you come?--I am so dreadfully tattered and torn."
"I promise not to look at you at all until you give me leave," he
answered gravely. "And what about me? I have lost my hat, and as yet I
have no idea of the extent of the damage my garments have sustained."
"Then I won't look at you either," said Elma, and they laughed together
again in the gayest _camaraderie_.
Dinner was over at the Bellevue when they got back there; but they
neither of them felt the want of other company. They had a very merry
little dinner-party all to themselves, and Angus was able to look at the
damsel errant he had rescued. Her beauty came upon him with a shock of
surprise. He had seen many beautiful women in his time, but never
anything so enchanting as the droop of her mouth, or the lovely curves
of her throat, or the transparent candour of her sweet blue eyes.
What Elma saw was a tall, well-knit young fellow, with a dark, plain
face, a hawk nose, and grey eyes. He was clean-shaven; no moustache or
beard concealed the masterful squareness of his jaw or the rather
satirical curve of his thin lips.
Directly dinner was over he left her, though she begged him to stay till
her mother came home.
"Mother would like to thank you for what you did for me," she said.
"I will come and be thanked to-morrow morning, then," he said, laughing.
"I shall want to know how you are after your accident, you know--that
is, if I can get away from the shop."
Mrs. Macdonald came home rather early, and not in the best of tempers.
She had been a good deal alarmed and upset when Elma failed to arrive at
Government House; and even after the jampanni had brought the message
that her daughter was safe at the hotel she was extremely annoyed at
Elma's absence from the party. There were several bachelor guests whom
she would have been glad to introduce to her; and when she thought of
the radiant figure in the shimmering white robe that she had last seen
on the hotel verandah, she was ready to cry with vexation and
disappointment.
She listened with ill-concealed impatience to Elma's account of her
accident. "And pray who is this Mr. McIvor who roams about rescuing
distressed damsels?" she asked. "I never heard his name before."
"He said he came out of a shop," said Elma simply.
"A shop!" cried Mrs. Macdonald. "Really, Elma, you are no better than an
idiot! The idea of asking a man who comes out of a shop to dine with you
here! What will people say? You must be mad."
"But he was very kind to me, mother," said Elma, "and he missed his own
dinner by helping me. And, you know, I might have lain in that horrible
place all night if he had not helped me out. I don't see that any one
here can complain about his shop; they were not asked to meet him: we
dined quite by ourselves, he and I."
Mrs. Macdonald stamped her foot. "You are hopeless, Elma--quite
hopeless!" she cried. "What was your aunt dreaming of to bring you up to
have no more sense than a child of three years old?"
"He is very gentlemanly," said Elma, still gently expostulating. "You
will see for yourself: he is coming to call on you to-morrow, and to ask
how I am."
"Elma, I forbid you to see him again!" said the mother, now tragically
impressive. "If he calls to-morrow, I shall see him alone. You are not
to come into the room."
"I am afraid he will think it very unkind and rude," said Elma
regretfully; "and I can never forget how kind he was and how glad I was
to see him when he came down the _kudd_ after me."
But she made no further resistance to her mother's orders, having
privately decided in her own mind to find out what shop in Simla had the
advantage of his services, and to see him there herself and thank him
again.
Angus McIvor duly called next morning, and was received by Mrs.
Macdonald alone; but what passed between them at that interview remains
a secret between him and that lady.
After lunch Elma strolled out for her usual solitary walk while her
mother was enjoying her siesta. She wandered idly along under the trees
down the road along which the jampannis had whirled her the evening
before, and so to the broken edge of the _kudd_ where she had rolled
over.
There, sitting on the bank, smoking serenely, was Angus McIvor. He threw
away his cigar, and got up as soon as she saw him.
Her lovely face flushed, her blue eyes darkened with pleasure, as she
held out her hand in greeting.
"I thought you would be sure to come here," he said, smiling down upon
her.
"Oh, you expected me, then?" she said, and her eyes fell before his.
"Why weren't you there this morning when I came to be thanked?" he
asked.
She turned her head away uneasily. "Mother did not wish me to come in,"
she said.
"Why not?"
No answer.
"Well, never mind that now," he said. "I will ask you again some other
time. Now let us go up towards the top of Jacko; there are some pretty
views I should like to show you."
And, nothing loth, Elma went with him.
"Why did your mother not wish you to see me this morning?"
"I cannot tell," said Elma lamely.
"Was it because of the shop?" he persisted. "Tell me. I promise you I
will not mind. Was it?"
The fair head drooped a little, and the answer came in a whisper he
could hardly hear: "Yes."
"And do you mind about the shop?"
She raised indignant blue eyes to his. "Of course not!" she said. "You
ought to know that without asking me."
"Then will you meet me again to-morrow outside here?" he asked.
"No, I cannot do that."
"Then you are ashamed of the shop?"
"Indeed, I am not!"
"But I cannot meet you any other way," he urged. "I cannot come to see
you, and you have not been to my shop yet since I came to Simla. So
where can I see you? Will you meet me again?"
"Indeed, I cannot!"
"Then it is the shop?"
The blue eyes were full of distress, the tender mouth grew more
pathetic. "I will come just once," she said, "to show you I care nothing
about the shop. But you must not ask me again to do what I know my
mother would not like. I cannot deceive her."
And on the next day they met again and walked together.
He did not ask her to meet him again, but on the third day he joined her
at the gate.
"This is quite accidental, you know," he said, laughing down into her
happy eyes.
And as they walked in the tender green shadows upon wooded Jacko, his
eyes said, "I love you," and hers faltered and looked down.
And on the homeward way he took her hand. "I will not ask you to meet me
again in secret, my sweetest," he said, "because I love you. I am
ashamed that for one moment I doubted your innocent, unworldly heart. I
will woo and win you openly as you should be wooed."
And without waiting for an answer, he kissed her hand and left her.
That evening there was a great reception at Government House, and the
Viceroy's new aide-de-camp, Lord Angus McIvor Stuart, helped to receive
the guests.
"This is my 'shop,' Mrs. Macdonald," he said. "It was a silly and slangy
way to speak of it; but, upon my honour, I never meant to deceive any
one when I said it first."
Then was Elma Macdonald openly wooed and won by the man who loved her.
THE TREVERN TREASURE.
BY LUCY HARDY.
A garden in the west of England some two and a half centuries ago; an
old-world garden, with prim yew hedges and a sundial, and, in one shady
and sequestered nook, two persons standing; one, a man some forty years
of age, tall and handsome, the other a lady of grace and beauty some
fifteen years his junior. Both were cloaked and muffled and spoke in low
and anxious tones.
"An anxious task well done, sweetheart," the husband said at length, in
tones of satisfaction; "and now, my darling, remember that this secret
lies betwixt thou and I. Be heedful in keeping it--for thine own sake
and that of our little babe. Should evil times arise, this hidden
treasure may yet prove provision for our boy and for thee." So saying,
he drew her arm within his own and led her into the house.
Sir Ralph Trevern had strongly espoused the Royal cause from the
commencement of the Civil troubles, and was now paying a hurried visit
to his home, to conceal his chief valuables, and to arrange for the
departure of his wife Sybil and his baby heir to Exeter; a town still
loyal to the king, and where he hoped his wife and babe would be safer
than in their remote Devonshire Manor House amid neighbours of
Parliamentary sympathies.
At Exeter Sybil Trevern remained until the city was forced to capitulate
in the spring of 1646; and then, widowed and landless (for Sir Ralph had
fallen at Marston Moor and his estate had been confiscated), she was
thankful to accept the invitation of some Royalist friends, who had
accompanied the queen, Henrietta Maria, in her secret flight to France
some while before, and journeyed, with her babe, to join them in Paris.
There was no opportunity for Sybil Trevern to return to her old home,
now in the possession of enemies; and, remembering her husband's strict
charge of secrecy, she was reluctant to mention the hidden treasure,
even to her friends.
"I will reveal it to our boy when he is of an age to understand it,"
thought Lady Trevern; but she never lived to see her son grow into
manhood, or even into youth.
The trials and sorrows which had befallen her had told upon the gentle
woman; and while the little Ralph was still a child, his mother passed
into the Silent Land.
The concealment of valuables in secret places frequently results in
misadventure. Sybil had often described to her little son the concealed
valuables, which, if the exiled Royalists were ever able to re-visit
England, she hoped to recover for herself and for him; and, in later
years, Sir Ralph could still recall the enigmatical words in which his
mother had (possibly with the idea that the rhyme might, as it did,
cling to his childish memory) spoken to him of the hidden treasure.
"Near the water, by the fern,
The Trevern secret you shall learn,"
had often been whispered into his childish ears, and this rhyme was now
the only clue that he possessed to the hiding-place of all that remained
of his family's fortunes. The articles heedfully concealed by the elder
Sir Ralph were of no small value. Besides papers and documents of some
moment to the family, and some heirlooms (antique silver so prized as to
have been exempted, even by the devoted Royalists, from contribution to
the king's "war treasure chest," for which the University of Oxford, and
many a loyal family, had melted down their plate), Sir Ralph had hidden
a most valuable collection of jewels, notably a necklace of rubies and
diamonds, which had been a treasured possession of the Treverns since
the days of Elizabeth, when one of the family had turned "gentleman
adventurer," become a companion of Drake and Hawkins, and won it as a
prize from a Spanish galloon.
In his childhood, the present Sir Ralph had heard (from old servants as
well as from his mother) descriptions of these treasured jewels; but the
secret of their hiding-place now rested with the dead.
Sir Ralph grew to manhood, returned to England at the Restoration, and
finally, after much suing and delay, succeeded in obtaining repossession
of his small paternal estate. Then, for many months, did he devote
himself to a careful, but utterly unavailing, search about his property,
vainly seeking along the lake-side and all round the big pond for the
concealed valuables--but never finding aught but disappointment. The
neighbours said that the silent, morose man, who spent his days walking
about the estate with bent head and anxious, searching eyes, had become
a trifle crazed; and indeed his fruitless search after his hidden wealth
had grown into a monomania.
As the years rolled by, Sir Ralph became a soured and misanthropic man;
for his estate had returned to him in a ruinous and burthened condition,
and the acquisition of his hidden treasure was really necessary to clear
off incumbrances and to repair the family fortunes.
Lady Trevern often assured her husband that it was more than probable
that the late Cromwellian proprietor had discovered the jewels during
his occupancy, and that, like a prudent man, he kept his own counsel in
the matter. But Sir Ralph still clung to the belief that somewhere in
his grounds, "near the water and by the fern," the wealth he now so
sorely needed lay concealed. That in this faith Sir Ralph lived and died
was proved by his will, in which he bequeathed to the younger of his two
sons, "and to his heirs," the jewels and other specified valuables which
the testator firmly believed were still concealed _somewhere_ about the
Trevern property. The widowed Lady Trevern, however, was a capable and
practically-minded woman, little inclined to set much value upon this
visionary idea of "treasure trove." She was most reluctant to see her
sons waste their lives in a hopeless search after the missing property,
and succeeded in impressing both her children with her own views
regarding the utter hopelessness of their father's quest. And, as the
years passed away, the story of the "Trevern Treasure" became merely a
kind of "family legend." The ferns said nothing, and the water kept its
secret.
Fortune was not more kindly to the Treverns in the eighteenth century
than she had been in the seventeenth. Roger Trevern, the elder son and
inheritor of the estate, found it a hard struggle to maintain himself
and his large family upon the impoverished property, while the younger
son Richard, the designated heir of the missing treasure, became
implicated in the Jacobite rising of 1715, was forced to fly to Holland
after Mar's defeat, and died in exile, a few years after the disaster of
Sherrifmuir, bequeathing a destitute orphan girl to his brother's
charge.
Roger Trevern, a most kindly man, welcomed this addition to his already
large family without a murmur; and little Mary Trevern grew up with her
cousins, beloved and kindly treated by all in the household. It was only
as the child grew into womanhood that a change came over Madam Trevern's
feelings towards her young niece; for Madam Trevern was a shrewd and
sensible woman, a devoted, but also an ambitious, mother. Much as she
liked sweet Mary Trevern, she had no desire to see her eldest son, the
youthful heir of the sadly encumbered estate, wedded to a portionless
bride, however comely and amiable. And Dick Trevern had lately been
exhibiting a marked preference for his pretty cousin, a fact which
greatly disturbed his mother's peace of mind.
Mary herself knew this, and did not resent her aunt's feelings in the
matter. The girl, as one of the elders among the children, had long been
familiar with the story of the family straits and struggles, and could
only acquiesce (though with a stifled sigh) in Madam Trevern's oft
repeated axiom that "whenever Dick wedded, his bride must bring with her
sufficient dowry to free the estate" from some of the mortgages which
were crushing and crippling it. Mary knew that a marriage between
herself and Dick could only result in bringing troubles upon both--and
yet--and yet--love and prudence do not often go hand-in-hand--and
although no word of actual wooing had ever passed between the young
folk, both had, unfortunately, learned to love each other but too well.
Wistfully did she think of that hidden treasure, now but a forlorn hope,
yet all the hope she had.
"And had the poor child but a dowry there is none to whom I would sooner
see our Dick wedded," Madam Trevern once remarked to her husband; "for
Molly is a good girl, and like a daughter to us already. But, Roger,
'tis but sheer midsummer madness to dream of such a marriage now; truly
'twould be but 'hunger marrying thirst.' Dick must seek for a bride who
at least brings some small fortune with her; and is there not Mistress
Cynthia at the Hall, young and comely, and well dowered, casting eyes of
favour upon him already?"
Roger Trevern sighed a little; he honestly liked Mary, and would have
welcomed her heartily as a daughter-in-law, though prudent
considerations told him that his wife spoke truly regarding the
hopelessness of such a marriage for his son.
And then Madam Trevern went on to discuss with her husband the scheme
she had now much at heart, viz., the separation of the young folks by
the transference of Mary to the family of a distant kinsman in London.
"You do but lose your youth buried here with us, child," said Madam
Trevern to Mary, with kindly hypocrisy one day, "while with our cousin
Martin, who would be glad enough to take a bright young maid like thee
to be companion to his ailing wife, thou mayst see the world, and
perchance make a great marriage, which will cause thee to look down upon
us poor Devon rustics." But Mary wept silently, though she was ready,
even willing, to go to London as desired.
It was the girl's last day in the old home; her modest outfit had been
prepared and packed, and the old waggoner was to call on the morrow to
convey Mary and her uncle (who was to be her escort to the wonderful,
far-off "London town") to Exeter; whence, by slow and tedious stages,
the travellers would reach the metropolis at last.
Dick, who had been astutely sent away from home for a few weeks, knew
nothing of his cousin's intended departure--Madam Trevern had purposely
schemed thus to escape any "farewells" between the young people,
arranging Mary's London visit very suddenly; and "perhaps 'twas the
wisest," the girl sighed to herself as she wandered for the last time
round the old, familiar garden, and seated herself, _alone!_ on the
mossy well curb, where she and Dick had so often sat and talked together
on sweet summer evenings in the past.
Mary's heart was indeed sad within her, and visions of what "might have
been" would keep welling up before her. Oh! if only some good fairy had
been keeping back the secret of the hidden treasure to reveal it now,
how happy it would be.
Her solitary musings were, however, put to flight by the appearance of
the younger children, with whom she was a great favourite, and who had
gained an hour's respite from their usual "bed-time" upon this, their
cousin's last night at home. Tom, and Will, and Sally, and Ben, had
indeed received the tidings of their beloved "Molly's" impending
departure with great dismay; and their vociferous lamentations were
hardly to be checked by their mother's assurances that one day "Cousin
Molly" might come back to see them, when she was "a great lady, riding
in her coach and six," and would bring them picture-books and gilt
gingerbread.
It was with a strange pang at her heart that Mary now submitted to the
loving, if rather boisterous, caresses of the urchins who climbed her
lap and clung around her neck.
But Mary had not chosen her quiet seat with a view to childhood's romps
or she had chosen a safer one. As it was the shout of merriment was
quickly followed by a sudden cry, a splash, and a simultaneous
exclamation of dismay from Mary and the children. Will, the youngest,
most troublesome, and therefore best beloved of the family, the
four-years-old "baby," had slipped on the curb of the well,
overbalanced himself, and fallen in; dropping a toy into the water as he
did so. In a moment Mary was on her feet. Seizing the bucket, she called
the elder boys to work the windlass, and, with firm, but quiet
instructions and a face as white as death, consigned herself to the
unknown deep.
Near the bottom of the well, which was not very deep, she came upon her
little cousin suspended by his clothes to a hook fastened in the well
side. She was not long in disengaging the little fellow's clothes from
the friendly hook, and was about to signal to be drawn up, when beneath
the hook, and explanatory of it--"near the water, by the fern"--what was
it? A large hole in the side of the well, and in it--the Trevern
treasure, found at last!
Though the lapse of many years had rotted some of the leather covering
of the jewel casket, the gems themselves, when lifted out, flashed forth
in undimmed beauty; the silver cups and flagons, if discoloured, were
still intact, and the papers in the metal case were well preserved.
These last proved of great importance to Roger Trevern, enabling him to
substantiate his claim to some disputed property, which was quite
sufficient to relieve his estate of all its embarrassments.
And as for Mary, she restored her youngest cousin to his mother's arms,
and took the eldest to her own.
A MEMORABLE DAY.
BY SARAH DOUDNEY.
Miss Tillotson's grey parrot had called "Clarissa" a dozen times at
least, and was listening with his cunning head on one side for footsteps
on the stairs. Breakfast was ready; an urn, shaped something like a
sepulchral monument, was steaming on the table, and near it stood an old
china jar filled with monthly roses. It was a warm, bright morning--that
twenty-ninth of August in the year 1782. The windows at each end of the
room were wide open, but scarcely a breath of air wandered in, or
stirred the lilac bushes in the garden. For the Tillotsons' house could
boast of a respectable strip of ground, although it stood in a street in
Portsea.
At a quarter past eight Clarissa Tillotson came downstairs, and entered
the room with a quick, firm step, taking no notice of the parrot's
salutation. She was a tall, fair girl of nineteen; her hair, worn
according to the fashion of that period, in short curls, was almost
flaxen; her eyes were clear blue, her features regular, and, but for a
certain hardness and sternness about the mouth, she might have been
pronounced beautiful. She was dressed in a short-waisted gown of white
muslin, with a blue girdle; her bodice was cut square, leaving her neck
uncovered; her tight sleeves reached to the wrists. The gown was so
scanty, and the skirt clung so closely to her figure, that it made her
appear even taller than she really was. And at this day, on the wall of
a modern London mansion, Clarissa's grandchildren and
great-grandchildren behold her in a tarnished gilt frame, habited in
the very costume which she wore on that memorable morning.
"Good-morning, Anthony," she said stiffly, as a young man, two years
older than herself, made his appearance.
"Good-morning, sister," he answered in a cheery tone, drawing a step
nearer as if he meant to give her a kiss. But Clarissa drew up her
stately figure to its full height, and turned quickly to the table.
Her brother coloured with annoyance. There had been a quarrel between
them on the preceding day, and Anthony was willing to make the first
advance towards reconciliation. But he saw that Clarissa intended to
keep him at a distance, and he knew the obstinacy of her nature too well
to renew his attempt. He took his seat with a sigh, thinking how bright
the home-life would be if the cloud of her unyielding temper did not too
frequently darken the domestic sunshine.
"I find that father is not well enough to come down yet," he said at
last, breaking an awkward silence. "He means to leave his room this
afternoon."
"Dr. Vale charged him to be very cautious," rejoined Clarissa.
These young people were motherless; the daughter reigned as mistress of
her father's house, acknowledging no control save his, and that was of
the mildest kind. Captain Tillotson was the most indulgent of parents;
his wife had died while Clarissa was still too young to realize her
loss, and the child had been entirely left to the care of an old
servant, who allowed her to have her own way in all things. At school
she had been forced to submit to discipline; but her strong will was
never conquered, and she generally contrived to gain an ascendency over
her companions. Having retired from long and honourable service in the
Royal Navy, the captain settled himself at home, to pass his old age in
peace; and Clarissa proved herself an affectionate daughter. But Anthony
was scarcely so easy to manage as her father; to him, his sister's word
was not always law, and she sometimes found herself good-humouredly
contradicted.
"If I give in," thought she, going over the before-mentioned quarrel,
"he will think that he has got the mastery. No; I will treat him with
marked coldness until he makes an apology."
Thoroughly chilled by her frigid tone and manner, Anthony made few
efforts to sustain the conversation. Breakfast was finished in silence,
and he rose rather hastily from his seat at the table.
"I am going on board the _Royal George_ this morning," he said, moving
towards the door. "If my father asks for me, Clarissa, please tell him
that I wanted to say a few words to Lieutenant Holloway. He will have to
sail again shortly."
"Very well," replied Clarissa, indifferently.
The hall-door closed behind him, and she rung the bell to have the
breakfast-table cleared. Then the sunshine tempted her to saunter into
the garden, and gather a bunch of sweet lavender, but from some
unexplained cause her mind was ill at ease. She could take no pleasure
in her flowers; no interest in the vine which had been her especial
care; and she returned to the house, determined to spend the morning at
her worsted-work. Seating herself near the open window, she drew her
frame towards her, and arranged her crewels. The shining needle darted
in and out, and she was soon deeply absorbed in her occupation.
Every piece of work has a history of its own; and this quaint
representation of the woman of Samaria was fated to be of great interest
to succeeding generations. But the busy worker little guessed what
memories would hereafter cling to that morning's labour, nor dreamed
that some day those very stitches would remind her of the darkest hours
in her life.
She worked on until the old clock in the hall struck ten; and at the
same moment a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, strewing the
table with petals from the over-blown roses in the jar, and blowing
Clarissa's curls about her head. It was a welcome breeze, coming as it
did after the sultry stillness, and she stood up between the two windows
to enjoy the draught. Then, after pacing the long room to and fro for
awhile, she sat down to her frame again, and began to think about her
brother Anthony.
Had she been quite right after all? Would it not have been well to have
received that kiss of peace? Was it such a very meritorious thing to
hold out until her adversary had humbled himself before her? Even if the
apology were made, would it not be rather a poor victory--one of those
conquests which degrade instead of exalting the conqueror? Anthony was a
noble fellow, a brother of whom most girls would be proud. His only
fault was that determination to maintain his own opinion; but was that
indeed a fault? She worked faster, and almost decided that it was not.
So busy was her brain that time flew by unheeded, and she started to
hear the clock striking one. Scarcely had the stroke died away, when a
shrill cry came ringing through the quiet street, driving the colour out
of her face in an instant. Springing up from her chair, she hurried to
the window that overlooked the pavement, and saw that people had come to
their doors with dismayed faces, for a woman was standing on the
causeway, raising that terrible wail.
"It's all true--it's all true!" she shrieked. "The _Royal George_ has
gone down at Spithead."
The two maid-servants rushed upstairs in affright, for the cry had
reached their ears. The captain heard it in his room overhead, and came
down in his dressing-gown and slippers; but his daughter scarcely stayed
to exchange a word with him. Mechanically seizing the garden-hat and
shawl that hung in the hall, she put them on, and ran out into the
street, setting off at full speed for the dockyard gates. Could it be
true? Alas! the news was confirmed before she reached her destination,
and the first wail was but the herald of many others. Even in that hour
of universal distress and consternation people took note of the tall,
fair young lady whose face and lips were as white as the dress she wore.
The _Royal George_ had lately arrived at Spithead after a cruise, and on
that fatal morning she was undergoing the operation known as a
"parliament heel." The sea was smooth and the weather still, and the
business was begun early in the morning, a number of men from Portsmouth
dockyard going on board to assist the ship's carpenters. It was found
necessary, it is said, to strip off more of the sheathing than had been
intended; and the men, eager to reach the defect in the ship's bottom,
were induced to heel her too much. Then indeed "the land-breeze shook
her shrouds," throwing her wholly on one side; the cannon rolled over to
the side depressed; the water rushed in; and the gallant ship met her
doom. Such was the story, told in hurried and broken words, that
Clarissa heard from the pale lips of an old seaman; but he could give no
other tidings. The boats of the fleet had put off to the rescue; that
was all he could tell.
There was no hope in Clarissa's heart as she turned her steps homewards.
Anthony had gone down--gone down with Admiral Kempenfeldt and his eight
hundred. The same breeze that had scattered the rose-petals and played
with her curls had a deadlier mission to perform. She remembered how she
had stood rejoicing in that sudden gust of cool wind, and the thought
turned her faint and sick as she reached her father's house.
"Clarissa," cried the captain, meeting her at the door, "what is all
this? Surely it can't be true. Where's Anthony?"
Ay, where was Anthony? She threw her arms round the old man's neck, and
hid her eyes upon his shoulder that she might not see his face.
"Father--dear father! He said he was going to see Lieutenant Holloway on
board----"
She could not finish her sentence, and there was no need of more words.
Captain Tillotson was a brave man; he had faced death many a time
without flinching, but this was a blow which he was wholly unprepared to
meet. Putting his daughter gently aside, he sat down on a sofa, and
looked straight before him with that terrible blank look that tells its
own tale of a stroke that has crushed out all strength. The servants,
glancing from the father to the daughter, saw that on both faces this
sudden sorrow had done the work of years. What was time? Was it months
or minutes ago that the first cry had sounded through the street?
"If I had only kissed him!" Clarissa did not know that she was saying
the words aloud. To her, indeed, this cup was doubly bitter, for it was
mingled with the gall of remorse. But for that hard nature of hers, she
might have had the sweetness of a kind parting to think upon. Had he
forgiven her, in his loving heart, while the great ship was going down,
and the water was taking away his life? Ah, she might never know that,
until the cruel sea gave up its dead.
There was a noise of wheels in the street; but what were noises to her?
The sound drew nearer; the wheels stopped at the door, but it could be
only some friend, who had come in haste to tell them the bad news which
they knew already.
Battered, and bruised, and dripping with water, a man descended from the
hackney coach, and Clarissa started up.
The face was so pale, the whole aspect so strange, that she could not
receive the great truth all at once. It was not until he entered the
room, and knelt down, wet and trembling as he was, at his father's feet,
that she realized her brother's safety.
Anthony had been on the upper deck when the ship sank, and was among
that small number who escaped death. All those who were between decks
shared the fate of the great Admiral who went down with his sword in its
sheath, and ended his threescore years and ten of hard service, in sight
of shore. The many were taken, the few left; but although hundreds of
homes were made desolate that day, there were some from whence the
strain of thanksgiving ascended, tempered by the national woe.
People were wont to say afterwards that Clarissa never again looked so
young and fair as she did before the blow fell. But if that day's agony
robbed her of her bloom, it left with her the "meek and quiet spirit"
which never comes to some of us until it is gained through a great
sorrow.
DORA.
_AN OSTLER'S STORY._
BY ALFRED H. MILES.
Tell you a story, Master 'Arry? Ah! there's only one story as ought to
be told in this yer stable, and that's the old un as allus hupsets me to
tell. But I don't mind a-goin' over the old ground once ag'in, Master
'Arry, as you know werry well, if these yer gents 'as a mind to listen
to a hold man's yarn. It beats all the printed stories as ever I see,
but then, as I ain't no scholar, and can't see werry well neither,
p'raps that ain't no much wonder arter all. Reading ain't much in my
line, yer see, sir, and, as the old master used to say, "Bring up yer
boys to the prerfishuns yer means 'em to foller." 'Osses is my
prerfishun, sir, and 'osses I was brought up to.
Excuse me just a minute, sir, if yer don't mind a-settin' on this yer
stool. I don't like to see nobody a-leanin' ag'in that there post. That
were "Snowflake's" stall, sir, in the old time, and "Snowflake" were
little Dora's pony.
My father were os'ler here, sir, afore I were born, and I growed up to
the stable, Master 'Arry, just as your ole father growed up to the 'All.
It were in ole Sir Markham's time, this were--ole Sir Markham, whose
picture hangs above the mantel in the dinin'-'all, as fine a hold
English gen'leman as ever crossed a 'unter and follered the 'ounds. The
first time as ever I see Sir Markham were when I were about four year
old. O' course, we lived on the estate, but I don't know as I'd ever
been up to the 'All till that partickler mornin', when I came wi' a
message for my father, and meets ole Sir Markham in the park. Now, yer
know, Sir Markham were a queer ole chap when he liked. He didn't take no
nonsens from nobody, he didn't. I've seen him thrash the keeper afore
now with his own ridin' whip, and he wouldn't 'a' stood partickler about
a boy or two, and as there'd been a deal of fruit stole out o' the
orchard about that time, he thought he'd jist up and frighten me a bit.
So he hollers out--"Hi! there, you boy, what right 'a' you got in my
park?" but I see a sort o' twinkle in his eye, so I knowed he weren't
real cross, and so I up and says, "Ain't boys got a right to go where
their fathers is?" He didn't say nothing more to me then, but when he
sees my father he says, "That's a smart boy o' yours, Jim," he says,
"and when he's a bit older yer must 'ave 'im up 'ere to 'elp."
Well, sir, I got a bit older in time, and I come up 'ere to 'elp, and,
'ceptin' for a very little while, I've been 'ere ever since.
I were a boy of fourteen when the things 'appened as make up the rest o'
my story. Sir Markham he were a matter o' sixty year old, I should say,
and Miss Dora, as I see it said in a book, once, "sweet, wery sweet,
wery, wery sweet seventeen."
I allus 'ad a hadmiration for Miss Dora. "Darling Dora" they called 'er
at the 'All, and so did I, when nobody wasn't listenin'. Nobody couldn't
know 'er without admirin' 'er, but I 'ad a special sort of hadmiration
for 'er as 'ad made me do any mortal thing she asked me, whatever it
might 'ave costed.
Yer see, when I were quite a little chap, and she were no much bigger,
she ses to me one day, when I were a bit scolded, she ses, "Never mind,
Jim," she ses, "cheer up; you'll be a man o' some sort some day;" and I
tell you, though I allus 'ad a hidea that way myself, when she said it I
grow'd a hinch straight off. If yer believes in yourself, Master 'Arry,
yer can do a lot, but if somebody else believes in yer there ain't
nothink in the whole world what yer can't do.
My particler business in the stable were Miss Dora's pony, Snowflake,
darling Dora's darling, as it got called o' times. She rode out a great
deal, did Miss Dora, and she rode well, and I generally 'ad to foller
'er on the bay cob. She'd spend a lot o' time about this yer stable, one
way and another, and we got to be werry partickler friends. Not as I
presum'd, mind yer, nor as she forgot 'er station; she were just a
hangel, she were, what couldn't be spoilt by nobody's company, and what
couldn't 'elp a-makin' o' other people wish as they were summut in the
hangel line, too.
But yer a-gettin' impatient I see, gents, and I ax yer pardon for
a-ramblin' a bit.
Well, it were Chris'mas time, as it might be now, and young Markham
(that were your father, Master 'Arry) he were 'ome from Oxford for 'is
'olidays, with as nice a young fellow as ever stepped, as 'ad come with
him to spend Chris'mas at the 'All. They called 'im the "Captain," not
that he were a harmy captain, or anythink of that, he were a captain of
summut at the college--maybe football or summut else. Somehow he often
came 'ome with young Markham at 'oliday times, and 'im and Miss Dora was
partickler friendly like.
It were not a werry snowy Chris'mas that year, though there were plenty
of frost, and the lake in the park would 'a' borne the London coach and
four without a crack. Young Markham and the Captain and Miss Dora did a
deal o' skatin', and ole Sir Markham invited a lot o' friends to come
and stay Chris'mas for the sake o' the sport. They did say as Aunt
Dorothy as Miss Dora were called arter 'ad been a-preachin' at 'im for
a-neglectin' o' Miss Dora and a-keepin 'er at the 'All without no
society, and I s'pose that's why Sir Markham were a-aggitatin' himself a
bit cos' we never 'ad no fuss at Chris'mas as a rule.
Well, we was werry busy at that time, I can tell yer; several of the
wisitors brought their own 'osses with them, and me and my father had
plenty to do a-lookin' arter 'em.
Among the wisitors as come from London were a real military hofficer, a
reg'lar scaff'ld pole he were, for length and breadth, with mustaches as
'ud 'a' done for reins, if 'e'd only been a 'oss. He weren't no
favourite o' mine, not from the fust. He were a bit too harbitry for me.
He were a-thinkin' he were a-goin' to hintroduce 'is harmy regerlations
into our stables; but he allus 'ad to wait the longest, for all 'is
hinterferin'. But what used to rile me the most with him were 'is nasty,
sneerin' ways at young Markham's friend, the Captain. Yer see, sir, he
were a real harmy captain, and so I s'pose he were a bit jealous o' our
young Captain, as was a lot better than 'im, arter all. O' course I
didn't see it at the time, but I've said to myself lots o' times since,
it were a reg'lar plant, that's what it were, that Aunt Dorothy 'ad
brought the big soldier down o' purpose for Miss Dora to fall in love
with; but 'e were just a little bit too late.
Well, yer know, gents, I told yer as I were quite a youngster at the
time, and though ole Sir Markham said as I were werry sharp, I must
confess as I didn't quite understand 'ow things were a-goin' on. I
noticed that the two captains kept pretty clear of each other, and that
Miss Dora never came near the stables for three days together, which
were a werry unusual thing for 'er; and one of the ole servants at the
'All told me as the hofficer 'ad been hasking Sir Markham if he might
pay his addresses to Miss Dora, and that Sir Markham 'ad said he might.
My ole father were a-hactin' a bit queer about that time, too; he kept
a-hasken' me if I'd like to be a postboy, or drive the London coach, or
anything o' that, cos', he ses, "Yer know, Jim, Miss Dora 'll be
marryin' somebody one o' these days, and maybe you'll 'ave to find
summut else to do when Snowflake's gone." "Well," I ses, "if Miss Dora
got married and go'd away, I reckon she'd take me with 'er to look arter
'er 'osses, so I sha'n't want no postboy's place, nor coachun's neither,
as I sees." And father he seemed pretty satisfied, he did, only 'e says,
"If ever you should want to drive to Scotland, Jim," he ses, "you go
across the moor to the Burnley Beeches, and then yer bears off to yer
right by the Ambly Arms, three mile along you'll fine the great North
Road, and there yer are."
Well, I didn't take no notice of this, though father he kept on sayin'
o' summut o' the sort all day long, and when it came to evenin', bein'
Chris'mas Eve, we went up to the 'All to 'ave supper in the kitchen, and
drink ole Sir Markham's 'elth. Sir Markham come down in the servants'
'all and made a speech, and some o' the gents come down too; but while
things were a-goin' at their 'ighest, my father he says to me, "Jim," 'e
says, "if ever you want to go to Scotland you go across the moor to the
Burnley Beeches, and then yer bears off to yer right by the Ambly Arms,
three mile along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are."
"All right," I says, angry like, "I don't want no Scotland; what d'yer
want to bother me for with yer Burnley Beeches, and yer Ambly Arms?"
"Jim," 'e ses solemn, "yer never know how useful a bit of hinformation
may come in sometimes; now," he says, "you'd better run over to the
stables, and see if all is a-goin' on right." Well, I see it was no use
argifyin', so off I starts. I sees as I comes near the stables as there
were a light there, as ought not to be, and o' course, I run back'ard to
tell my father, but lor, I thought he were off 'is 'ed, for all he ses
was, "If ever you wants to go to Scotland, Jim, it's across the moor to
the Burnley Beeches, off to yer right, by the Ambly Arms, three mile
along you'll fine the great North Road, and there yer are."
They'd been a-drinkin' a bit 'ard some of 'em, and I ses to myself
father's been a'elpin' of 'em, and I tears off to the stables to see
what was up.
Well, when I gets here, I comes in at that there door behind yer, sir,
and what should I see, but Miss Dora in Snowflake's stall, a-kissin' and
a-cryin' over 'im like mad. She didn't take no notice o' me no more'n if
I hadn't been there at all, and I came and stood ag'in that there post
as you were a-leanin' ag'in just now, sir. Little Dora were a-sobbin' as
if 'er 'art would break, and she were a-tryin' to say "Good-bye."
They're only little words, sir, at the most, but werry often they're the
'ardest words in all the world to say.
Well, sir, to make a long story short, it were just this: Sir Markham
had told 'er as she mustn't think nothink of young Markham's college
friend, 'cos 'e were poor and 'adn't nothink but 'is wits and 'is
learnin' to live on, and that the tall soldier 'ad been a-haskin' for
'er, and he'd promised 'er to 'im; and it 'ad clean broke 'er 'art, and
so she 'ad come down to this yer stable where everythink loved 'er to
tell 'er sorrows to her old pet Snowflake, to bury her face in his snowy
neck, and wipe 'er eyes on his flowin' mane.
But, afore I 'ad time to say anythink, who should foller me in at the
door but the young Captain hisself, and 'e come and stood by me a moment
without sayin' a word. He were werry pale, and 'is eyes shone like fire,
and at last he ses, in a hoarse sort of a whisper, "Jim," 'e ses, "they
wants to marry darling Dora to the big swaggerin' soldier, and I want
yer to 'elp me prewent 'em." "'Elp yer prewent 'em," I ses; "why, I'll
prewent 'em myself. I ain't werry big, p'r'aps, and maybe I couldn't
reach 'is bloated face, but a stone 'ud find 'is head as quickly as it
did the big Bible chap as David killed; and maybe I can shie." I hadn't
practised on ole Sir Markham's apples for nothink.
Well, sir, I needn't say as it didn't come to that. The fact is,
everythink were arranged. It were a matter o' seventy miles to Scotland
by the road, and they'd made up their minds to start for Gretna Green as
soon as the wisitors 'ad gone to bed. Father were in the swim, and
that's why he'd been a-'intin' to me all day and 'ad sent me to see what
the light meant. My father 'e were a artful ole man, 'e were; he knowed
better nor to 'ave anythink to do with it hisself. Why, I b'leave Sir
Markham 'ud a murdered 'im if he 'ad, but me, o' course,--I was only a
boy, and did as I were told.
Well, sir, a-hactin' under horders, I were a-waitin' with the
post-chaise at them Burnley Beeches at eleven o'clock. I'd been
a-waitin' some time, and I begun to be afraid as they weren't a-comin'.
At last I see a white somethink comin' along, and in another minute
they was alongside. I shall never forget that night. Miss Dora fainted
directly she were inside the carriage, and to me she looked as if she
were dead. "For God's sake, and for Dora's sake, drive for your life,
Jim!" said the young Captain, and I just did drive for my werry life. It
was werry dark and I couldn't see much, and it must a bin a-rainin' or
summut else,--anyhow there were a preshus lot o' water got in my eyes,
till I couldn't see nothink. Father had taken care to git the 'osses in
good condition, and they went away as though they knew as they were
a-carryin' their darlin' Dora from death to life.
From the Burnley Beeches I drove as I 'ad been directed, past the Ambly
Arms, and three mile further I found the great North Road, and there I
wore. You never know how useful a bit o' information may come in
sometimes. It were pretty straight work now, and the only thing I 'ad to
fear was a-wearin' out me 'osses afore we reached the Border. At two
o'clock we stopped and baited, and the young Captain he give me the tip.
He says, "Don't go _too_ fast," he ses; "they won't be arter us for an
hour or two yet, if they come at all. I've given 'em summut else to look
for fust," 'e ses, "and it'll take 'em all their time."
Weil, there ain't no need to make a long story out o' our run to
Scotland; we got there safe enough arter imaginin' as we was follered by
highwaymen, and goblins, and soldiers, and hall sorts o' other hevil
sperits, which were nothink but fancy arter all.
Why, bless yer, we 'adn't no real need to fear; the young Captain he
were one too many for 'em, he were, in more ways nor one. Afore he came
away he smashed a big hole in the ice, in the middle of the lake, and
put 'is 'at and Miss Dora's muff on the edge of the hole; and they were
a-breaking up the ice and dragging the lake all Chris'mas Day instead of
a-follerin' us.
Next thing came the weddin' in the blacksmith's shop, where the young
Captain took our darling Dora all to hisself, with ne'er a bridesmaid
but me to give 'er away and everythink else. Poor little Dora, she
fainted right off ag'in directly it were all over; and the young Captain
he flushed up regular, like one o' them hero chaps as they put in books.
I never see such a change in any one afore or since. 'E seemed as if 'e
could do anything now Miss Dora were hall 'is own. I tell yer, sir, you
can't fight nothing like 'arf so 'ard for yourself as yer can if you've
got some one else to fight for.
After the weddin', the Captain put up at the "Blacksmith's Arms," where
'e writes a long letter to ole Sir Markham, and one to your father,
Master 'Arry, which he give me to deliver, and with which I started 'ome
ag'in.
Ole Sir Markham never forgave the young Captain for a-runnin' off wi'
Miss Dora, and if it 'adn't 'a' bin for your father, Master 'Arry, I
shouldn't never 'a' come back to the 'All. Arter that they went abroad
to some foreign place as I never heerd of, and they lost track of 'em up
at the 'All too arter a bit; though I know as your father, Master 'Arry,
used to send 'em lots o' things without Sir Markham a-knowin' anythink
about it. And then came the letter with the black edge as said as our
Dora 'ad died o' one of them furren fevers as I didn't even know the
name of, and arter that we never heard no more. Poor ole Sir Markham
began to break up werry soon arter that. He were not like the same man
arter Miss Dora went, and werry soon 'e kept to the 'ouse altogether,
and we never saw nothink of 'im out o' doors.
Next thing we 'eard as he were ill, and everybody were a-wishin' as Miss
Dora 'ud come back and comfort 'im. At last, when he were really
a-dyin', 'e kep' on a-callin' her, "Dora, Dora," in 'is wanderin's like,
and nobody couldn't answer 'im, their 'arts was that full as there
weren't no room for words. I remember that night, sir, as if it were
yesterday, and yet it were forty year ago, Master 'Arry, ten year afore
you were born. It were Chris'mas Eve, and ole Sir Markham he were
keepin' on a-haskin' for Miss Dora, and I couldn't stand it no longer,
so I come over 'ere to smoke my pipe and be to myself, yer see, and bide
my feelin's like. Well, I were a-sittin' on a stool in that there
corner, a-thinkin' about ole Sir Markham and our darlin' Dora, when I
looks up, and as true as I ever see anythin' in my life I see her
a-standin' there afore me. She didn't take no notice of me, though, but
she run into Snowflake's stall there, sir, and buried her pretty face in
'is neck and stroked his mane and patted his sides, then she laughed one
o' her silv'ry laughs and clapped 'er 'ands and calls out, "'Ome again,
'ome again at last; happy, happy 'ome. Jim, Jim, where's that lazy Jim?"
But lor', sir, she were gone ag'in afore I could get up off the stool. I
rushed up to the 'All like lightnin', I can tell yer, and I see a bright
light a-shinin' in ole Sir Markham's bedroom. I never knowed 'ow I got
up them stairs, but I heerd ole Sir Markham cry out as loud as ever I
heerd 'im in my life, "Dora, Dora, come at last; darling Dora, darling!"
'E never said no more, did ole Sir Markham, she had taken 'im away.
* * * * *
You'll excuse me a-haskin' you not to lean ag'in that post, won't you,
sir? It's a kind o' sort o' friend o' mine. There ain't a sorrow as I've
ever had these forty year that I haven't shared with that post. It 'ave
been watered by little Dora's tears, and it 'ave been watered by mine,
and there ain't nothink in the 'ole world as I walues more. It ain't for
the likes o' me to talk o' lovin' a hangel like 'er, sir, but I 'av'n't
never loved no one else from that day to this, and maybe when my turn
comes at last, Master 'Arry, to go where there ain't no difference
between rich and poor, I may 'ear 'er bright sweet voice cry out ag'in
to me: "'Ome ag'in, Jim: happy, happy 'ome!"
LITTLE PEACE.
BY NORA RYEMAN.
In the heart of England stands a sleepy hollow called "Green Corner,"
and in this same sleepy hollow stands a fine old English manor house
styled "Green Corner Manor." It belongs to the Medlicott family, who
have owned it for generations. In their picture gallery hangs a most
singular picture, which is known far and wide as "The Portrait of Little
Peace." It depicts a beautiful child in the quaint and picturesque
costume of the age of King Charles II. A lamb stands by her side, and a
tame ringdove is perched on her wrist. Her eyes are deeply, darkly blue,
the curls which "fall adown her back are yellow, like ripe corn."
Beneath this portrait in tarnished golden letters are these words of
Holy Writ, "Blessed are the peacemakers," and if you read the chronicles
of the Medlicott family you will read the history of this child. It was
written by Dame Ursula, the wife of Godfrey Medlicott, and runs as
under:--
"It was New Year's Eve, and my heart was heavy, so also was my
husband's. For 'Verily our house had been left unto us desolate.' Our
son Hilary had died in France, and our daughter, Grace, slept in the
chancel of the parish church with dusty banners once borne by heroic
Medlicotts waving over her marble tomb. 'Would God, that I had died for
thee, my boy,' said dead Hilary's father when he looked at the empty
chair in the chimney corner; 'and, my darling, life is savourless
without thee,' I cried in bitterness of spirit, as I looked at the
little plot of garden ground which had been known as Mistress Gracie's
garden when my sweet one lived. Scarcely had this cry escaped my lips
when a most strange thing befel. Seated on the last of the terrace steps
was a little child, who as I passed her stretched out her hand and
caught fast hold of my gown. I looked down, and there, beside me, was a
most singular and beautiful child. The moonlight fell on her small, pale
face and long, yellow hair, and I saw that she was both poorly and
plainly clad. 'What do you want, my little maid?' I asked. 'You, madam,'
she said serenely. 'From whence have you come?' was my next query. 'From
a prison in London town,' was the strange reply. Doubtless this child
(so I reasoned) was the daughter of some poor man who had suffered for
conscience' sake; and, mayhap, some person who pitied his sad plight had
taken the girl and thrown her on our charity, or, rather, mercy.
'Child,' said I, 'wilt come into the Manor with me, and have some
chocolate and cake?' 'That will I, madam,' she answered softly. 'I came
on purpose to stay with you.' The little one has partly lost her wits, I
thought, but I said nothing, and the stranger trotted after me into my
own parlour, just as a tame lamb or a little dog might have done. She
took her seat on a tabouret at my knee, and ate her spiced cake and
sipped her chocolate with a pretty, modest air. Just so was my Gracie
wont to sit, and even as I thought of her my dim eyes grew dimmer still
with tears. At last they fell, and some of them dropped on the strange
guest's golden head, which she had confidingly placed on my knee.
'Don't, sweet madam,' she said, 'don't grieve overmuch! You will find
balm in giving balm! You will find comfort in giving comfort! For _I am
Peace_, and I have come to tarry with you for a little space!' I
perceived that the child's wits were astray, but, somehow, I felt
strangely drawn to her, and as she had nowhere else to go I kept her
with me, and that New Year's Eve she slept in my Grace's bed, and on
the succeeding day she was clothed in one of my lost ewe lamb's gowns,
and all in the household styled her Little Peace, because she gave no
other name at all.
* * * * *
"Time passed on--and the strange child still abode with us, and every
day we loved her more, for she 'went about doing good,' and, what is
more, became my schoolmistress, and instructed me in the holy art of
charity. For my own great woe had made me forgetful of the woes and
afflictions of others. This is how she went about her work. One winter
day, when the fountain in the park was frozen, the child, who had been
a-walking, came up to me and said, 'Dear madam, are apples good?' 'Of a
surety they are--excellent for dessert, and also baked, with spiced ale.
Wherefore dost ask?' 'Because old Gaffer Cressidge, and the dame his
wife, are sitting eating baked apples and dry bread over in Ashete
village, and methinks that soup would suit them better. Madam, we must
set the pot boiling, and I will take them some. And, madam, dear, there
must be a cupboard in this house.' 'Alack, my pretty one,' said I, 'of
cupboards we already have enow. There is King Charles's cupboard in
which we hid his Majesty after Worcester fight, and the green and blue
closet, as well as many others. Sure, you prattle of that of which you
do not know.' She shook her fair, bright head, and answered, 'Nay,
madam, there is no strangers' cupboard for forlorn wayfarers, and there
must be one, full of food, and wine, and physic, and sweet,
health-restoring cordials. And the birdies must have a breakfast daily.
Dorothy, the cookmaid, must boil bread in skimmed milk, and throw it on
the lawn; then Master Robin and Master Thrush and Mistress Jenny Wren
will all feast together. I once saw the little princes, in King Edward's
time, feed the birdies thus; and so did Willie Shakespeare, in Stratford
town.' Alas, I thought, alas, all is _now too_ plain. This child must
have been akin to some great scholar, who taught her his own lore, and
too much learning hath assuredly made her mad; but I will humour her,
and then will try to bring her poor wits home. Thus reasoning, I placed
her by my side, and cast my arms around her, and then I whispered, 'Tell
me of thyself.' 'That will I,' she replied. 'I am Peace, and I come both
in storms and after them. I came to Joan the Maid, on her stone scaffold
in the Market Place of Rouen. I came to Rachel Russel when she sustained
her husband's courage. I came to Mere Toinette, the brown-faced peasant
woman, when she denied herself for her children. I came to Gaffer and
Grannie Cressidge as they smiled at each other when eating the apples
and bread. And I came to a man named Bunyan in his prison, and lo! he
wrote of _me_. Now I have come to you.' 'Yea, to stay with me,' I said,
but she answered not, she only kissed my hand, and on the morrow, when
the wintry sunlight shone on all things within the manor house, it did
_not_ shine upon her golden head! Her little bed was empty, so was her
little chair; but the place she had filled in my heart was _still_
filled, and so I think it will be for ever! Some there are who call her
a Good Fay or Fairy, and some there are who call her by another and
sweeter name, but I think of her always as Little Peace, the hope giver,
who came to teach me when my eyes were dim with grief. For no one can
tell in what form a blessing will cross his threshold and dwell beside
him as his helper, friend, and guest."
THE STORY OF WASSILI AND DARIA.
_A RUSSIAN STORY._
BY ROBERT GUILLEMARD.
Whilst staying in Siberia, on one occasion, when returning from an
evening walk in the woods I was surprised at seeing a young Russian girl
crying beside a clump of trees; she seemed pretty, and I approached; she
saw me not, but continued to give vent to her tears.
I stopped to examine her appearance; her black hair, arranged in the
fashion of the country, flowed from under the diadem usually worn by the
Siberian girls, and formed a striking contrast, by its jet black colour,
with the fairness of her skin. Whilst I was looking at her, she turned
her head, and, perceiving me, rose in great haste, wiped off her tears,
and said to me:
"Pardon me, father--but I am very unfortunate."
"I wish," said I, "that it were in my power to give you any
consolation."
"I expect no consolation," she replied; "it is out of your power to give
me any."
"But why are you crying?"
She was silent, and her sobs alone intimated that she was deeply
afflicted.
"Can you have committed any fault," said I, "that has roused your
father's anger against you?"
"He is angry with me, it is true; but is it my fault if I cannot love
his Aphanassi?"
The subject now began to be interesting; for as Chateaubriand says,
there were love and tears at the bottom of this story. I felt peculiarly
interested in the narrative.
I asked the young Siberian girl who this Aphanassi was whom she could
not love. She became more composed, and with enchanting grace, and
almost French volubility, she informed me that the summer before a
Baskir family had travelled further to the north than these tribes are
accustomed to do, and had brought their flocks into the neighbourhood of
the zavode of Tchornaia; they came from time to time to the village to
buy things, and to sell the gowns called _doubas_, which their wives dye
of a yellow colour with the bark of the birch tree. Now her father, the
respectable Michael, was a shopkeeper, and constant communications began
to be established between the Baskir and the Russian family. This
connection became more close, when it was discovered that both families
were of that sect which pretends to have preserved its religion free
from all pollution or mixture, and gives its members the name of
_Stareobratzi_. The head of the Baskir family, Aphanassi, soon fell in
love with young Daria, and asked her in marriage from her father; but
though wealthy, Aphanassi had a rough and repulsive look, and Daria
could not bear him; she had, therefore, given him an absolute refusal.
Her father doated on her, and had not pressed the matter farther, though
he was desirous of forming an alliance so advantageous to his trade; and
the Baskir had returned to his own country in the month of August to
gather the crops of hemp and rye. But winter passed away, and the heats
of June had scarcely been felt before Aphanassi had again appeared, with
an immense quantity of bales of rich _doubas_, Chinese belts, and
kaftans, and a herd of more than five hundred horses; he came, in fact,
surrounded with all his splendour, and renewed again his offers and his
entreaties. Old Michael was nearly gained by his offers, and Daria was
in despair, for she was about to be sacrificed to gain, and she detested
Aphanassi more than she had done the year before.
I listened to her with strong emotion, pitied her sorrows, which had so
easily procured me her confidence, and when she left me, she was less
afflicted than before.
The next day I returned to the spot where I had seen her, and found her
again; she received me with a smile. Aphanassi had not come that
morning, and Daria, probably thinking that I would come back to the
spot, had come to ask me what she ought to reply to him, as well as to
her father. I gave her my advice with a strong feeling of interest, and
convinced that pity would henceforward open to me the road to her heart,
I tried to become acquainted with her family. The same evening I bought
some things from old Michael, and flattering him on his judgment and
experience, endeavoured to lay the foundation of intimacy.
During several days I went regularly to the same spot, and almost always
found Daria, as if we had appointed a meeting. Her melancholy increased;
every time she saw me she asked for further advice, and although she
showed me nothing but confidence, yet the habit of seeing her, of
deploring her situation, of having near me a young and beautiful woman,
after hearing for many, many months no other voices than the rough ones
of officers, soldiers, and smiths--all these circumstances affected my
heart with unusual emotion.
The sight of Daria reminded me of the circumstances of my first love;
and these recollections, in their turn, embellished Daria with all their
charms.
One day she said to me:
"You have seen Aphanassi this morning at my father's; don't you think he
is very rough, and has an ugly, ill-natured countenance?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Well, I will show you whom I prefer to him." She smiled in saying this,
and I was powerfully affected, as if she had been about to say, "You are
the man!" She then threw back the gauze veil that flowed from her
head-dress, and instantly, at a certain signal, a young man sprung from
behind the trees and cried out to me:
"Thank you, Frenchman, for your good advice! I am Wassili, the friend of
Daria!"
This sight perfectly confounded me. So close to love, and to be nothing
but a confidant after all! I blushed for shame, but Daria soon
dispelled this impulse of ill-humour. She said to me:
"Wassili, whom I have never mentioned to you, is my friend; I was
desirous of making you acquainted with him. But he was jealous because
you gave me consolation and I wished him to remain concealed from you,
that he might be convinced by your language of the worthiness of your
sentiments. Wassili will love you as I do; stranger, still give us your
advice!"
The words of Daria calmed my trouble; and I felt happy that, at a
thousand leagues from my native land, in the bosom of an enemy's
country, I was bound by no tie to a foreign soil, but could still afford
consolation to two beings in misfortune.
Wassili was handsome and amiable; he was also wealthy; but Aphanassi was
much more so, and old Michael, though formerly flattered with the
attentions of Wassili to his daughter, now rejected them with disdain.
We agreed upon a plan of attack against the Baskir. I talked to Michael
several times on the subject, and tried to arrange their differences;
but it was of no avail.
Meanwhile took place the feast of St. John, the patron saint of
Tchornaia, which assembled all the inhabitants of the neighbouring
villages.
Early in the morning of the holiday, the whole of the inhabitants,
dressed in their finest clothes, get into a number of little narrow
boats, made of a single tree, like the canoes of the South Sea savages.
A man is placed in the middle with one oar in his hands, and strikes the
water first on one side and then on the other, and makes the boat move
forward with great velocity. These frail skiffs are all in a line, race
against each other, and perform a variety of evolutions on the lake. The
women are placed at the bow and stern, and sing national songs, while
the men are engaged in a variety of exercises and amusements on the
shore. A large barge, carrying the heads of the village and the most
distinguished inhabitants, contains a band of music, whose harmony
contrasts with the songs that are heard from the other boats.
Beautiful weather usually prevails at this season, and the day closes
with dances and suppers in the open air; and the lake of Tchornaia,
naturally of a solitary aspect, becomes all at once full of life and
animation, and presents an enchanting prospect.
Wassili had got several boats ready, which were filled with musicians,
who attracted general attention, and were soon followed by almost all
the skiffs in the same way as the gondolas in the Venetian lagoons
follow the musical amateurs who sing during the night. Wassili knew that
Michael would be flattered to hear an account of the success he had
obtained: but Aphanassi had also come to the festival. As soon as he
learned that the musicians of Wassili were followed by the crowd, and
that his rival's name was in every one's mouth, he collected twenty of
his finest horses, covered them with rich stuffs, and, as soon as the
sports on the lake were over, began, by the sound of Tartar music, a
series of races on the shore, which was a novel sight in the summer
season, and was generally admired. His triumph was complete, and at
Tchornaia nothing was talked of for several days but the races on the
shore of the lake, and the Baskir's influence with Michael increased
considerably.
The grief of Daria made her father suspect that she met Wassili out of
the house, and he confined her at home. I saw none but the young man,
whose communications were far from being so pleasing to me as those of
Daria. Towards the end of July he informed me that Aphanassi had made
another attempt to get her from her father; but that the old man was so
overcome with her despair that he had only agreed that the marriage
should take place the ensuing summer, delaying the matter under the
pretext of getting her portion ready, but, in truth, to give her time to
make up her mind to follow the Baskir.
About this period Wassili was sent by M. Demidoff's agent, at the head
of a body of workmen, to the centre of the Ural Mountains to cut down
trees and burn them into charcoal. He was not to return till the middle
of September. During his absence I saw Daria almost daily; she had lost
the brilliancy of her look, but it seemed to me that her beauty was
increased, her countenance had assumed such an expression of melancholy.
I had gradually obtained the goodwill of Michael, and dispelled, as far
as lay in my power, the sorrows of his daughter. I was a foreigner, a
prisoner, little to be feared, and pretty well off in regard to money,
so that Michael felt no alarm at seeing me, and neglected no opportunity
of showing me his goodwill.
I received a strong proof of this about the middle of August. He brought
me to a family festival that takes place at the gathering of the
cabbage, and to which women only are usually admitted; it is, in fact,
their vintage season.
On the day that a family is to gather in their cabbage, which they salt
and lay up for the winter season, the women invite their female friends
and neighbours to come and assist them. On the evening before, they cut
the cabbages from the stem, and pull off the outside leaves and earth
that may be adhering to them. On the grand day, at the house where the
cabbages are collected, the women assemble, dressed in their most
brilliant manner, and armed with a sort of cleaver, with a handle in the
centre, more or less ornamented, according to the person's rank. They
place themselves round a kind of trough containing the cabbages. The old
women give the signal for action; two of the youngest girls take their
places in the middle of the room, and begin to dance a kind of
allemande, while the rest of the women sing national songs, and keep
time in driving their knives into the trough. When the girls are tired
with dancing, two more take their place, always eager to surpass the
former by the grace with which they make their movements. The songs
continue without intermission, and the cabbages are thus cut up in the
midst of a ball, which lasts from morning till night. Meanwhile, the
married women carry on the work, salt the cabbages, and carefully pack
them in barrels. In the evening the whole party sit down to supper,
after which only the men are admitted, but even then they remain apart
from the women. Glasses of wine and punch go round, dancing begins in a
more general manner, and they withdraw at a late hour, to begin the same
amusement at another neighbour's till all the harvest is finished.
Amidst all these young girls Daria always seemed to me the most amiable!
she danced when called upon by her mother; her motions expressed
satisfaction, and her eyes, scarcely refraining from tears, turned
towards the stranger, who alone knew her real situation, though amidst
so many indifferent people who called themselves her friends.
Towards the end of September, Wassili returned from the woods. Daria had
a prospect of several months before her before the return of Aphanassi,
if ever he should return at all; and she gave herself up to her love
with pleasing improvidence.
At this period there came to Tchornaia two Russian officers, with
several sergeants, who were much more like Cossacks than regular
soldiers. Their appearance was the signal of universal mourning--they
came to recruit. They proclaimed, in the Emperor's name, that on a
certain day all the men in the district, whatever their age might be,
were to assemble in the public square, there to be inspected.
At the appointed day every one was on the spot; but it was easy to see
by their looks that it was with the utmost repugnance that they had
obeyed. All the women were placed on the other side, and anxiously
waited for the result of the inspection, and some of them were crying
bitterly. I was present at this scene. The officers placed the men in
two rows, and passed along the ranks very slowly. Now and then they
touched a man, and he was immediately taken to a little group that was
formed in the centre of the square. When they had run over the two rows,
they again inspected the men that had been set apart, made them walk and
strip, _verified_ them, in a word, such as our recruiting _councils_ did
in our departments for many years. When a man was examined he was
allowed to go, when the crowd raised a shout of joy; or he was
immediately put in irons, in presence of his family, who raised cries of
despair--this man was fit for service.
These unfortunate beings, thus chained up, were kept out of view till
the very moment of their departure. No claims were valid against the
recruiting officer; age, marriage, the duties required to be paid to an
infirm parent, were all of no avail; sometimes, indeed, it happened, and
that but rarely, that a secret arrangement with the officer, for a sum
of money, saved a young man, a husband, or a father from his caprice,
for he was bound by no rule; it often happened, also, that he marked out
for the army a young man whose wife or mistress was coveted by the
neighbouring lord, or whom injustice had irritated and rendered
suspected.
To finish this description, which has made me leave my friends out of
view, at a very melancholy period, I shall add a few more particulars.
Wassili, as I said before, was at the review; the recruiting officer
thought he would make a handsome dragoon, or a soldier of the guard,
and, having looked at him from top to toe, he declared him fit for the
army.
Whilst his family were deploring his fate, and preparing to make every
sacrifice to obtain his discharge, some one cried out that the officer
would allow him to get off because he was wealthy, but that the poor
must march.
The Russian heard this, and perhaps on the point of making a bargain,
felt irritated, and would listen to no sort of arrangement, as a
scoundrel always does when you have been on the point of buying. Wassili
was put in irons, and destined to unlimited service--that is, to an
eternal exile, for the Russian soldier is never allowed to return to his
home.[1] Daria nearly fell a victim to her grief, and only recovered
some portion of vigour when the recruits were to set out.
[Footnote 1: He is enrolled for twenty years--that is, for a
whole life.]
On that day the recruiting party gorge them with meat and brandy till
they are nearly dead drunk. They are then thrown into the sledges and
carried off, still loaded with irons. A most heart-rending scene now
takes place; every family follows them with their cries, and chants the
prayers for the dead and the dying, while the unfortunate conscripts
themselves, besotted with liquor, remain stupid and indifferent, burst
into roars of laughter, or answer their friends with oaths and
imprecations.
Notwithstanding the force that had been shown to him, Wassili had drunk
nothing, and preserved his judgment unclouded; he stretched out his arms
towards Daria, towards his friends, and towards me, and bade us adieu
with many tears. Amidst the mournful sounds that struck upon her ears,
the young girl followed him rapidly, and had time to throw herself into
his arms before the sledge set out; but the moment he was beyond her
reach, she fell backward with violence on the ice. No one paid the least
attention to her; they all rushed forward and followed the sledges of
the recruiting party, which soon galloped out of sight. I lifted Daria
up; I did not attempt to restrain her grief, but took her back to her
father's, where she was paid every attention her situation required. In
about a month's time she was able to resume her usual occupations, but
she recovered only a portion of her former self.
Winter again set in. I often saw Daria, either at her father's house, or
when she walked out on purpose to meet me, which her father allowed, in
the hope of dissipating her sorrows. How the poor girl was altered since
the departure of Wassili! How many sad things the young Siberian told me
when our sledges glided together along the surface of the lake! What
melancholy there was in her language, and superstition in her belief!
I attempted to dissipate her sombre thoughts; but I soon perceived that
everything brought them back to her mind, and that the sight of this
savage nature, whose solitude affected my own thoughts with sorrow,
contributed to increase her melancholy. Within her own dwelling she was
less agitated, but more depressed; her fever was then languid, and her
beautiful face despoiled of that expression, full of agreeable
recollections, that animated her in our private conversation. These
walks could only make her worse, and I endeavoured to avoid them. She
understood my meaning. "Go," said she, "kind Frenchman, you are taking
fruitless care; Wassili has taken my life away with him; it cannot
return any more than he can."
I still continued to see her frequently. Old Michael was unhappy because
she wept on hearing even the name of Aphanassi; he foresaw that it would
be out of his power to have this wealthy man for his son-in-law, for his
promises had gained his heart long ago. However this may be, he made his
preparations in secret, bought fine silks, and ordered a magnificent
diadem to be made for his daughter. She guessed his object, and once
said to me, "My father is preparing a handsome ornament for me; it is
intended for the last time I shall be at church; let him make haste, for
Daria won't keep him waiting."
About the middle of June Aphanassi returned, more in love and more eager
than ever, and, as soon as he appeared, the daughter of Michael was
attacked by a burning fever that never left her. In a few days she was
at the gates of death. All the care bestowed upon her was of no avail,
and she died pronouncing the name of Wassili.
Full of profound grief, I followed her body to the church of the
Stareobratzi, at Nishnei-Taguil. It had been dressed in her finest
clothing, and she was placed in the coffin with her face uncovered. The
relations, friends, and members of the same church were present. The men
were ranged on one side, and the women on the other. After a funeral
hymn, in the language of the country, the priest, who was bare-headed,
pronounced the eulogium of the defunct. His grey hair, long beard,
Asiatic gown, and loud sobs, gave his discourse a peculiar solemnity.
When it was finished, every one came forward silently to bid farewell to
Daria, and kiss her hand. I went like the rest; like them I went alone
towards the coffin, took hold of the hand I had so often pressed, and
gave it the last farewell kiss.
PLUCK, PERIL & ADVENTURE.
MARJORIE MAY: A WILFUL YOUNG WOMAN.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN.
"How perfectly delightful! Just fancy riding along those lovely sands,
and seeing real live Bedouins on their horses or camels! I declare I see
camels padding along now! I wish it wouldn't get dark so fast. But the
city will look lovely when the moon is up."
"Is it quite safe?" asked a lady passenger, eager for the proposed
excursion, but a little timid in such strange surroundings. For Mogador
seemed like the ends of the earth to her. She had never been for a sea
voyage before.
"Oh, yes; safe enough, or Captain Taylor would never have arranged it.
Of course, it might not be safe to go quite alone; but a party
together--why, it's as safe as Regent Street."
"What is this excursion they are all talking about?" asked Marjorie May,
who had been standing apart in the bow of the boat, trying to dash in
the effect of the sunset lights upon the solemn, lonely African
mountains, with the white city sleeping on the edge of the sea,
surrounded by its stretch of desert. It was too dark for further
sketching, and the first bell had sounded for dinner. She joined the
group of passengers, eagerly discussing the proposed jaunt for the
morrow. Several voices answered her.
"Oh, the captain is going to arrange a sort of picnic for us to-morrow.
We have all day in harbour, you know, and part of the next. So to-morrow
we are to go ashore and take donkeys, and ride out along the shore there
for several miles, to some queer place or other, where they will arrange
lunch for us; and we can wander about and see the place, and get back on
board in time for dinner; and next day we can see the town. That only
takes an hour or so. We leave after lunch, but it will give plenty of
time."
"I think the town sounds more interesting than the donkey-rides," said
Marjorie. "I had not time to sketch in Tangiers, except just a few
figures dashed off anyhow. I must make some studies of the Arabs and
Nubians and Bedouins here. I shan't get another chance. This is the last
African port we stop at."
"Oh, I daresay you'll have plenty of time for sketching," answered her
cabin companion to whom she had spoken; "but I wouldn't miss the ride if
I were you. It'll be quite a unique experience."
The dinner-bell rang, and the company on board the _Oratava_ took their
seats in the pleasant upper deck saloon, where there was fresh air to be
had, and glimpses through the windows of the darkening sky, the rising
moon and brightening stars.
Marjorie's next-door neighbours were, on one side, the lady whose cabin
she shared, on the other a Mr. Stuart, with whom she waged a frequent
warfare. He was an experienced traveller, whilst she was quite
inexperienced; and sometimes he had spoken to her with an air of
authority which she resented, had nipped in the bud some pet project of
hers, or had overthrown some cherished theory by the weight of his
knowledge of stern facts.
But he had been to Mogador before, and Marjorie condescended to-night to
be gracious and ask questions. She was keenly interested in what she
heard. There was a Jewish quarter in the city as well as the Arab one.
There was a curious market. The whole town was very curious, being all
built in arcades and squares. It was not the least like Tangiers, he
told her, which was the only African town Marjorie had yet visited. This
cruise of the _Oratava_ had been a little unfortunate. The surf had been
so heavy along the coast, that the passengers had not been able to land
at any port of call since leaving Tangiers. They had had perforce to
remain upon the vessel whilst cargo was being taken on and shipped off.
But the sea had now calmed down. The restless Atlantic was quieting
itself. The vessel at anchor in the little harbour scarcely moved. The
conditions were all favourable for good weather, and the passengers were
confident of their pleasure trip on the morrow.
As Marjorie heard Mr. Stuart's description of the old town--one of the
most ancient in Africa--she was more and more resolved not to waste
precious moments in a stupid donkey-ride across the desert. Of course it
would be interesting in its way; but she had had excellent views of the
desert at several ports, whereas the interior of the old city was a
thing altogether new.
"I suppose it's quite a safe place?" she asked carelessly; and Mr.
Stuart answered at once:
"Oh, yes, perfectly safe. There are several English families living in
it. I lived there a year once. Of course, a stranger lady would not walk
about there alone; she might get lost in the perplexing arcades, and
Arab towns are never too sweet or too suitable for a lady to go about in
by herself. But I shall go and look up my friends there. It's safe
enough in that sense."
Marjorie's eyes began to sparkle under their long lashes. A plan was
fermenting in her brain.
"I think I shall spend my day there sketching," she said.
"All right; only you mustn't be alone," answered Mr. Stuart in his
rather imperious way. "You'd better take Colquhoun and his sister along
with you. They're artists, and he knows something of the language and
the ways of the Arabs."
A mutinous look came over Marjorie's face. She was not going to join
company with Mr. and Miss Colquhoun any more. She had struck up a rather
impulsive friendship with them at the outset of the voyage, but now she
could not bear them. It was not an exceptional experience with her. She
was eager to be friends with all the world; but again and again she
discovered that too promiscuous friendship was not always wise. It had
been so in this case, and Mr. Colquhoun had gone too far in some of his
expressions of admiration. Marjorie had discovered that his views were
much too lax to please her. She had resolved to have very little more to
do with them for the future. To ask to join them on the morrow, even if
they were going sketching, was a thing she could not and would not
condescend to.
No, her mind was quickly made up. It was all nonsense about its not
being safe. Why, there were English families and agents living in the
place, and she would never be silly and lose herself or her head. She
would land with the rest. There were about five-and-twenty passengers,
and all of them would go ashore, and most would probably go for the
donkey-ride into the desert. But she would quietly slip away, and nobody
would be anxious. Some would think she had gone with the Colquhouns, who
always sketched, or perhaps with Mr. Stuart, who had taken care of her
in Tangiers. She was an independent member of society--nobody's especial
charge. In the crowded streets of an Arab town nothing would be easier
than to slip away from the party soon after landing; and then she would
have a glorious day of liberty, wandering about, and making her own
studies and sketches, and joining the rest at the appointed time, when
they would be going back to the ship.
So Marjorie put her paints and sketching pad up, provided herself with
everything needful, and slept happily in her narrow berth, eagerly
waiting for the morrow, when so many new wonders would be revealed.
The morning dawned clear and fair, and Marjorie was early on deck,
watching with delight the beautiful effects of light as the sun rose
over the solemn mountains and lighted up the wide, lonely desert wastes.
She could see the caravans of camels coming citywards, could watch the
sunbeams falling upon the white walls, domes, and flat roofs of the
ancient town. She watched the cargo boats coming out with their loads,
and the familiar rattle of the steam crane and the shouts of the men
were in her ears. The deck was alive with curious forms of Arabs come to
display their wares. A turbaned man in one of the boats below was
eagerly offering a splendid-looking, sable-black Nubian for sale, and
Mr. Colquhoun was amusing himself by chaffering as though he meant to
buy, which he could have done for the sum of eight pounds; for there is
a slave market yet in Mogador, where men and women are driven in like
cattle to be bought and sold.
A duck had escaped from the steward's stores and was triumphantly
disporting himself in the green water. The steward had offered a reward
of half a dozen empty soda-water bottles to the person who would
recapture the bird, and two boats were in hot pursuit, whilst little
brown Arab boys kept diving in to try to swim down the agile duck, who,
however, succeeded in dodging them all with a neatness and sense of
humour that evoked much applause from the on-lookers. Marjorie heard
afterwards that it took three hours to effect the capture, and that at
least a dozen men or boys had taken part in it, but the reward offered
had amply contented them for their time and trouble.
Breakfast was quickly despatched that morning. Marjorie was almost too
excited to eat. She was full of delightful anticipations of a romantic,
independent day. Mr. Stuart's voice interrupted the pleasant current of
her thoughts.
"Would you like to come with me, Miss May? My friends would be very
pleased, I am sure. We could show you the town, and you would be sure of
a good lunch." He added the last words a little mischievously, because
Marjorie was often annoyed at the persistent way in which people made
everything subservient to meals. A bit of bread and a few dates or an
orange seemed to her quite sufficient sustenance between a ship's
breakfast and dinner.
But such a commonplace way of spending a day was not in the least in
accord with Marjorie's views. She thought she knew exactly what it would
be like to go with Mr. Stuart--a hurried walk through the town, an
introduction to a family of strangers, who would wish her anywhere else,
the obligation to sit still in a drawing-room or on a verandah whilst
Mr. Stuart told all the news from England, and then the inevitable
lunch, with only time for a perfunctory examination of the city. She
would not have minded seeing one of the houses where the English
families lived, but she could not sacrifice her day just for that.
"Oh, thank you, but I have made my plans," she answered quickly; "I must
do some sketching. I've not done half as much as I intended when I
started. I am a professional woman, you know, Mr. Stuart; I can't amuse
myself all day like you."
This was Marjorie's little bit of revenge for some of Mr. Stuart's
remarks to her at different times, when she had chosen to think that he
was making game of her professional work.
Marjorie was not exactly dependent upon her pencil and brush. She had a
small income of her own; but she would not have been able to live as she
did, or to enjoy the occasional jaunts abroad in which her soul
delighted, had it not been that she had won for herself a place as
illustrator upon one or two magazines. This trip was taken partly with a
view to getting new subjects for the illustration of a story, a good
deal of which was laid abroad and in the East. An Eastern tour was
beyond Marjorie's reach; but she had heard of these itinerary trips by
which for the modest sum of twenty guineas, she could travel as a
first-class passenger and see Gibraltar, Tangiers, several African
ports, including Mogador, the Canary Islands, and Madeira, and be back
again in London within the month. She was a good sailor, and even the
Bay had no terrors for her; so she had enjoyed herself to the full the
whole time. But she had not done as much work upon Arab subjects as she
had hoped, and she was resolved not to let this day be wasted.
Mr. Stuart would have offered advice; but Marjorie was in one of her
contrary moods, and was afraid of his ending by joining her, and
sacrificing his own day for her sake. She had a vaguely uneasy feeling
that what she intended to do would not be thought quite "proper," and
that Mr. Stuart would disapprove rather vehemently. She was quite
resolved not to allow Mr. Stuart's prejudices to influence her. What was
he to her that she should care for his approval or good opinion? After
the conclusion of the voyage she would never see him again. She never
wanted to, she said sometimes to herself, rather angrily; he was an
interfering kind of autocratic man, for whom she felt a considerable
dislike--and yet, somehow, Marjorie was occasionally conscious that she
thought more about Mr. Stuart than about all the rest of the passengers
put together.
It was very interesting getting off in the boats, and being rowed to the
city by the shouting, gesticulating Arabs. Marjorie liked the masterful
way of the captain and ship's officers with these dusky denizens of the
desert. They seemed to be so completely the lords of creation, yet were
immensely popular with the swarms of natives, who hung about the ship
the whole time she was in harbour. The quay was alive with picturesque
figures as they approached; but they did not land there. They passed
under an archway into a smaller basin, and were rowed across this to
another landing-place, where the same swarms of curious spectators
awaited them.
Marjorie's fingers were itching after brush and pencil. Everything about
her seemed a living picture, but for the moment she was forced to remain
with her fellow-passengers; and Mr. Stuart walked beside her, vainly
offering to carry her impedimenta.
"No, thank you," answered Marjorie briskly; "I like to have my own
things myself. I am not used to being waited on. Besides, you are going
to your friends. Oh, what a curious place! what big squares! And it's so
beautifully clean too! Call Arab towns dirty? Why, there's no dirt
anywhere; and oh, look at those people over yonder! What are they
doing?"
"Washing their clothes by treading on them. They always chant that sort
of sing-song whilst they are trampling them in the water. That is the
custom-house yonder, where they are taking the cargo we have just sent
off. Now we must go through the gate, and so into the town; but you will
find it all like this--one square or arcade leading into another by
gateways at the end. That's the distinguishing feature of Mogador, and
you will find some of them pretty dirty, though it's more dust than mud
this time of year."
Marjorie was enchanted by everything she saw. She only wished Mr. Stuart
would take himself off, for she saw no chance of slipping away
unobserved if he were at her side. Luckily for her, a young man came
hurriedly to meet them from somewhere in the opposite direction, and,
greeting Mr. Stuart with great effusion, carried him off forthwith,
whilst Marjorie hurried along after the rest of the party.
But they had no intention of exploring the wonderful old town that day.
They turned into a little side street, where there was nothing
particular to see, but where, outside the agent's office, a number of
donkeys were waiting. Marjorie caught hold of Miss Craven, her cabin
companion, and said hastily:
"I'm not going this ride; I don't care for being jolted on a donkey,
with only a pack of straw for a saddle and a rope for a bridle. I must
get some sketches done. The Colquhouns are going to sketch. I can find
them if I want. Don't let anybody bother about me. I'll join you in time
to go back to the boat at five."
"Well, take care of yourself," said Miss Craven, "and don't wander about
alone, for it's a most heathenish-looking place. But you will be all
right with the Colquhouns."
"Oh, yes," answered Marjorie, turning away with a burning face. She
felt rather guilty, as though she had gone near to speaking an untruth,
although no actual falsehood had passed her lips. Nobody heeded her as
she slipped through the crowd of donkey boys and onlookers. Some offered
her their beasts, but she smiled and shook her head, and hurried back to
the main route through the larger arcades. Once there, she went
leisurely, eagerly looking into shop doors, watching the brass-beating,
the hand-loom weaving, and dashing off little pencil sketches of the
children squatting at their tasks, or walking to or fro as they
performed some winding operations for an older person seated upon the
floor.
Nobody molested her in any way or seemed to notice her much. Sometimes a
shopkeeper would offer her his wares in dumb show; but Marjorie had very
little money with her, and, knowing nothing of the value of these
things, was not to be tempted.
The sun poured down hot and strong, but there was shade to be had in
these arcaded streets; and though some of them were anything but clean
or sweet, Marjorie forgave everything for the sake of the beauty and
picturesqueness of the scene. She wandered here, there, and all over;
she found herself in the long, straggling market, and made hasty
sketches of the men and women chaffering at their stalls; of camels,
with their strange, sleepy, or vicious faces, padding softly along,
turning their heads this way and that. She watched the lading of the
beasts, and heard their curious grunts of anger or remonstrance when the
load exceeded their approval. Everything was full of attraction for her,
and she only waited till she had explored the place to set herself down
and make some coloured sketches.
She soon had a following of small boys and loiterers, all interested in
the doings of the strange lady with her sketchbook, but Marjorie did not
mind that. She made some of the children stand to her, and got several
rather effective groups.
Then she set herself to work in greater earnest. She obtained a seat in
one or two places, and dashed in rapid coloured studies which she could
work upon afterwards. Her _forte_ was for bold effects rather than for
detail, and the strange old city gave her endless subjects. She did not
heed the flight of time. She passed from spot to spot, with her
following growing larger and larger, more and more curious: and so
engrossed was she in her task, that the lengthening of the shadows and
the dipping of the sun behind the walls did not attract her attention.
It was only when she suddenly found herself enveloped in the
quick-coming, semi-tropical shades of darkness that she realised the
necessity to beat a retreat.
She rose quickly and put up her things. There was a ring many deep about
her of curious natives, Arabs, Moors, Jews, Turks--she knew not how many
nationalities were gathered together in that circle. In the broad light
of day she had felt no qualm of uneasiness at the strange dusky faces.
Nobody had molested her, and Marjorie, partly through temperament,
partly through ignorance, had been perfectly fearless in this strange
old city. But with the dimness of evening gathering, she began to wish
herself safe on board the _Oratava_ again; and though she retained her
air of serene composure, she felt a little inward tremor as she moved
away.
The crowd did not attempt to hold her back, but walked with her in a
sort of compact bodyguard; and amongst themselves there was a great deal
of talking and gesticulating, which sounded very heathenish and a little
threatening to Marjorie.
She had realised before that Mogador was a larger place than she had
thought, and now she began to discover that she had no notion of the
right way to the quay. The arcades hemmed her in. She could see nothing
but walls about her and the ever-increasing crowd dogging her steps. Her
heart was beating thick and fast. She was tired and faint from want of
food, and this sudden and unfamiliar sense of fear robbed her of her
customary self-command and courage. She felt more like bursting into
tears than she ever remembered to have done before.
It was no good going on like this, wandering helplessly about in the
darkening town; she must do something and that quickly. Surely some of
these people knew a few words of English.
She stopped and faced them, and asked if nobody could take her to the
ship. Instantly they crowded round her, pointing and gesticulating; but
whether they understood, and what they meant, Marjorie could not
imagine. She remembered the name of the ship's agents, and spoke that
aloud several times, and there were more cries and more crowding and
gesticulation. Each man seemed struggling to get possession of her, and
Marjorie grew so frightened at the strange sounds, and the fierce
faces--as they seemed to her--and the gathering darkness, that she
completely lost her head. She looked wildly round her, gave a little
shrill cry of terror, and seeing the ring thinner in one place than
another, she made a dart through it, and began to run as if for her very
life. It was the maddest thing to do. Hitherto there had been no real
danger. Nobody had any thought of molesting the English lady, though her
behaviour had excited much curiosity. Anybody would have taken her down
to the quay, as they all knew where she came from. But this head-long
flight first startled them, and then roused that latent demon of
savagery which lies dormant in every son of the desert. Instantly, with
yells which sounded terrific in Marjorie's ears, they gave chase. Fear
lent her wings, but she heard the pursuit coming nearer and nearer. She
knew not where she was flying, whether towards safety or into the heart
of danger. Her breath came in sobbing gasps, her feet slipped and seemed
as though they would carry her no farther. The cries behind and on all
sides grew louder and fiercer. She was making blindly for the entrance
to the arcade. Each moment she expected to feel a hand grasping her from
the rear. There was no getting away from her pursuers in these terrible
arcades. Oh, why had she ever trusted herself alone in this awful old
city!
She darted through the archway, and then, uttering a faint cry, gave
herself up for lost, for she felt herself grasped tightly in a pair of
powerful arms, and all the terrible stories she had heard from
fellow-passengers about Europeans taken captive in Morocco, and put up
for ransom recurred to her excited fancy. She had nobody to ransom her.
She would be left to languish and die in some awful Moorish prison.
Perhaps nobody would ever know of her fate. That was what came of always
doing as one chose, and making one's friends believe a falsehood.
Like a lightning flash all this passed through Marjorie's mind. The next
instant she felt herself thrust against the wall. Some tall, dark figure
was standing in front of her, and a masterful English voice speaking
fluent Arabic was haranguing her pursuers in stern and menacing accents.
A sob of wonder and relief escaped Marjorie's white lips. She had not
fallen into the hands of the Moors. Mr. Stuart had caught her, was
protecting her, and when the mists cleared away from her eyes she saw
that the crowd was quickly melting away, and she knew that she was safe.
"Take my arm, Miss May," said Mr. Stuart; "they have sent back a boat
for you from the ship. Captain Taylor is making inquiries for you too.
Had you not been warned that a lady was not safe alone in Mogador--at
least, not after nightfall?"
Marjorie hung her head; tears were dropping silently. She felt more
humiliated than she had ever done in her life before. Suppose Mr. Stuart
had not come? It was a thought she could not bear to pursue.
They reached the boat. The captain listened to the story, and he spoke
with some grave severity to Marjorie, as he had a right to do; for he
had done everything to provide for the safety of his passengers, and it
was not right to him, or the company, for a wilful girl to run into
needless peril out of the waywardness of her heart.
Marjorie accepted the reproof with unwonted humility, and Mr. Stuart
suddenly spoke up for her:
"She will not do it again, captain; I will answer for her."
"All right, Mr. Stuart; I don't want to say any more. All's well that's
ends well; but----"
He checked further words, but Marjorie's cheeks whitened. She seemed to
see again those strange, fierce faces, and hear the cries of her
pursuers. In the gathering darkness Mr. Stuart put out his hand and took
firm hold of hers. She started for a moment, and then let it lie in his
clasp. Indeed, she felt her own fingers clinging to that strong hand,
and a thrill went through her as she felt his clasp tighten upon them.
They reached the side of the vessel; officers and passengers were
craning over to get news of the missing passenger.
"Here she is, all safe!" cried the captain rather gruffly, and a little
cry of relief went up, followed by a cheer.
Mr. Stuart leant forward in the darkness and whispered:
"You see what a commotion you have made, Marjorie, I think you will have
to let me answer for you, and take care of you in the future."
"I think I shall," she answered, with a little tremulous laugh that was
half a sob, and in the confusion of getting the boat brought up
alongside Marjorie felt a lover's kiss upon her cheek.
FOURTH COUSINS.
BY GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.
In the early summer of 1860 I went upon a visit to a distant relative of
mine, who lived in one of the Shetland Islands. It was early summer with
myself then: I was a medical student with life all before me--life and
hope, and joy and sorrow as well. I went north with the intention of
working hard, and took quite a small library with me; there was nothing
in the shape of study I did not mean to do, and to drive at: botany, the
_flora_ of the _Ultima Thule_, its _fauna_ and geology, too, to say
nothing of chemistry and therapeutics. So much for good intentions,
but--I may as well confess it as not--I never once opened my huge box of
books during the five months I lived at R----, and if I studied at all
it was from the book of Nature, which is open to every one who cares to
con its pages.
The steamboat landed me at Lerwick, and I completed my journey--with my
boxes--next day in an open boat.
It was a very cold morning, with a grey, cold, choppy sea on, the spray
from which dashed over the boat, wetting me thoroughly, and making me
feel pinched, blear-eyed, and miserable. I even envied the seals I saw
cosily asleep in dry, sandy caves, at the foot of the black and beetling
rocks.
How very fantastic those rocks were, but cheerless--so cheerless! Even
the sea birds that circled around them seemed screaming a dirge. An
opening in a wall of rock took us at length into a long, winding fiord,
or arm of the sea, with green bare fields on every side, and wild,
weird-like sheep that gazed on us for a moment, then bleated and fled.
Right at the end of this rock stood my friend's house, comfortable and
solid-looking, but unsheltered by a single tree.
"I sha'n't stay long here," I said to myself, as I landed.
An hour or two afterwards I had changed my mind entirely. I was seated
in a charmingly and cosily-furnished drawing-room upstairs. The windows
looked out to and away across the broad Atlantic. How strange it was;
for the loch that had led me to the front of the house, and the waters
of which rippled up to the very lawn, was part of the German Ocean, and
here at the back, and not a stone's throw distant, was the Atlantic! Its
great, green, dark billows rolled up and broke into foam against the
black breastwork of cliffs beneath us; the immense depth of its waves
could be judged of by keeping the eye fixed upon the tall, steeple-like
rocks which shot up here and there through the water a little way out to
sea: at one moment these would appear like lofty spires, and next they
would be almost entirely swallowed up.
Beside the fire, in an easy chair, sat my grey-haired old relation and
host, and, not far off, his wife. Hospitable, warm-hearted, and genial
both of them were. If marriages really are made in heaven, I could not
help thinking theirs must have been, so much did they seem each other's
counterpart.
Presently Cousin Maggie entered, smiling to me as she did so; her left
hand lingered fondly for a moment on her father's grey locks, then she
sat down unbidden to the piano. My own face was partially shaded by the
window curtain, so that I could study that of my fair cousin as she
played without appearing rude. Was she beautiful? that was the question
I asked myself, and was trying hard to answer. Every feature of her face
was faultless, her mouth and ears were small, she had a wealth of rich,
deep auburn hair, and eyes that seemed to have borrowed the noonday
tints of a summer sea, so bright, so blue were they. But was she
beautiful? I could not answer the question then.
On the strength of my blood relationship, distant though it was, for we
were really only third or fourth cousins, I was made a member of this
family from the first, and Maggie treated me as a brother. I was not
entirely pleased with the latter arrangement, because many days had not
passed ere I concluded it would be a pleasant pastime for me to make
love to Cousin Maggie. But weeks went by, and my love-making was still
postponed; it became a _sine die_ kind of a probability. Maggie was
constantly with me when out of doors--my companion in all my fishing and
shooting trips. But she carried not only a rod but even a rifle herself,
she could give me lessons in casting the fly--and did; she often shot
dead the seals that I had merely wounded, and her prowess in rowing
astonished me, and her daring in venturing so far to sea in our broad,
open boat often made me tremble for our safety.
A frequent visitor for the first two months of my stay at R---- was a
young and well-to-do farmer and fisher, who came in his boat from a
neighbouring island, always accompanied by his sister, and they usually
stayed a day or two. I was not long in perceiving that this Mr.
Thorforth was very fond of my cousin; the state of her feelings towards
him it was some time before I could fathom, but the revelation came at
last, and quite unexpectedly.
There was an old ruin some distance from the house, where, one lovely
moonlight night, I happened to be seated alone. I was not long alone,
however; from a window I could see my cousin and Thorforth coming
towards the place, and, thinking to surprise them, I drew back under the
shadow of a portion of the wall. But I was not to be an actor in that
scene, though it was one I shall never forget. I could not see _his_
face, but hers, on which the moonbeams fell, was pained,
half-frightened, impatient. He was telling her he loved her and asking
her to love him in return. She stopped him at last.
What she said need not be told. In a few moments he was gone, and she
was standing where he left her, following him with pitying eyes as he
walked hurriedly away.
Next day Magnus Thorforth said goodbye and left: even his sister looked
sad. She must have known it all. I never saw them again.
One day, about a month after this, Maggie and I were together in a cave
close by the ocean--a favourite haunt of ours on hot forenoons. Our boat
was drawn up close by, the day was bright, and the sea calm, its tiny
wavelets making drowsy, dreamy music on the yellow sands.
She had been reading aloud, and I was gazing at her face.
"I begin to think you are beautiful," I said.
She looked down at me where I lay with those innocent eyes of hers, that
always looked into mine as frankly as a child's would.
"I'm not sure," I continued, "that I sha'n't commence making love to
you, and perhaps I might marry you. What would you think of that?"
"Love!" she laughed, as musically as a sea-nymph--"love? Love betwixt a
cousin and a cousin? Preposterous!"
"I daresay," I said, pretending to pout, "you wouldn't marry me because
I'm poor."
"Poor!" she repeated, looking very firm and earnest now; "if the man I
loved were poor, I'd carry a creel for him--I'd gather shells for his
sake; but I don't love anybody and don't mean to. Come."
So that was the beginning and end of my love-making for Cousin Maggie.
And Maggie had said she never meant to love any one. Well, we never can
tell what may be in our immediate future.