That day was the beginning of a week of pure delight to Catherine.
In proportion as her body drank in the pure sweet air, so her mind
and outlook developed and expanded. It was much for her to have
the constant companionship of a woman like Margaret Gray, a woman
whose generous nature viewed the girl’s beauty without jealousy, and
delighted in setting it off to the best advantage. At first, indeed,
she had had a qualm. Suppose that Granville, in spite of his apparent
indifference, should take a fancy to this penniless teacher. What would
become of all his sister’s ambitious schemes for his promotion by a
marriage with Lord Mayne’s sister, a scheme not utterly absurd in the
face of that lady’s marked esteem for him? That, indeed, would be a
disastrous ending to Margaret’s benevolent plans, and she determined
to avert it by a little talk with her new friend. She read Catherine
through and through, and knew that she was one of those women who take
a highly idealistic view of love and marriage; who conceive that even a
suspected preference of a man for a particular woman makes him sacred
to her, and who would shrink from desiring another girl’s lover as they
would shrink from a robbery. If she could convey to Catherine that
Granville’s affections were already engaged, she knew that she would
have little to fear.
They were sitting out on the verandah after dinner, reviewing
the delightful experiences of the day, spent in the ascent of a
neighbouring hill.
“And to-morrow we will go into the valley for a change. Wouldn’t it
be nice to go on the lake? Granville rows splendidly; he was in his
college boat the last year at Oxford,” said Margaret.
“Don’t you think you two had better go alone?” asked Catherine. “I am
sure you would enjoy it more, and I can easily find something else to
do.”
“Oh, but you must come,” urged Margaret. “You would be frightfully dull
alone, and I want you.”
“It’s awfully good of you, but——”
“But what?”
“I don’t think your brother likes the trouble of always having another
person to look after.”
Margaret laughed.
“Oh, you mustn’t think that; he really likes you very much, but you are
rather incomprehensible to him. He would be so distressed if he thought
that you stayed away on that account.” Secretly Margaret thought,
“Rather a dangerous symptom, that she should be so sensitive to his
indifference.”
“Granville is not quite an ordinary person, you know,” added his
sister, speaking very fast, in order to cover Catherine’s confusion.
“It takes a long time for him to get to like people, but when he has
once formed a friendship no one could be more loyal. I envy Lady
Blanche.”
“Lady Blanche?” asked Catherine. “Who is she?”
“Oh, she is Lord Mayne’s sister. Long ago, before our father died,
Granville and Maurice—Lord Mayne, you know—were at Oxford together.
They were great chums, and Granville used to spend most of his
vacations at Grimshaw. He and Lady Blanche were certainly very good
friends, and I think there might have been an engagement had not my
father died suddenly, leaving his affairs in an inextricable muddle. He
was overwhelmed with debt; and instead of inheriting a large fortune,
as we had imagined would be the case, Granville and I found ourselves
with only a comparatively small capital. The interest on that is still
going to pay off the debts. Of course, Granville couldn’t speak then,
and it was fortunate for him that Lord Mayne entered Parliament at that
time, and insisted on his becoming his secretary. Between ourselves it
was quite equally fortunate for Lord Mayne, because Granville is ten
times as clever as he is; and when people praise his speeches, and talk
of him as the ‘most brilliant of our younger politicians,’ I hug myself
and think that he is inspired by my brother.”
“But how sad!” cried Catherine sympathetically. “And did Lady Blanche
care for him all the time?”
“That I can’t tell, but though all this is seven years ago, she is
still unmarried, and if Granville ever recovered any of our fortune
I am sure he would ask her. It would be a splendid thing for him,
for Blanche has heaps of money of her own. Think—he could go into
Parliament and make quite as great a figure as Lord Mayne.”
“That would be splendid,” cried the girl enthusiastically, “but if she
loves him, surely she would be glad to marry him without the money.”
“No doubt; but he can’t ask her, at least, not yet. But sometimes I
hope that by some lucky chance they may come to an understanding, and
the difficulty may be solved. Come, we must say ‘Good night’ now, if we
are to start early to-morrow.”
Margaret’s stratagem had quite succeeded in one way, and the girl
looked on Granville henceforth as an engaged man. But this made an
enormous difference to her. Absurdly conscious of her lack of means,
and fearful lest anyone should think that she looked forward to
matrimony as a deliverance from her daily toil, her manner to the
few men she had met had been almost repellant. But if Mr. Gray were
engaged, he could not (she thought, in the innocence of her heart)
imagine that she had any designs on him. And so the constraint which
had hitherto affected her manner to him wore off; she met him as
frankly and as unaffectedly as she did his sister.
Margaret had given him a hint to persuade Catherine to come with them
the next day, and as she came downstairs, she found him waiting in the
hall.
“Why, are you not ready yet?” he asked, seeing that she was without her
hat.
“I—did not think of coming to-day,” she said, hesitating, and smiling
to conceal the disappointment in her tone.
“Oh, but you must, please! Margaret will be so disappointed—we shall
both be disappointed if you don’t. Look outside; can you resist it?”
The sun was shining on the twin peaks at the head of the valley,
the sky was a brilliant blue, the air dry and clear with that sweet
freshness peculiar to mountainous places. Catherine wavered in her
decision.
“Come,” said Granville decidedly, “run up and get your hat, and I will
have coffee for you by the time you come down. We have only ten minutes
before we must start.”
The girl, feeling half ashamed of her own weakness, yet, at the same
time, happy and pleased, returned in a minute, equipped for the day.
Margaret’s confidences and Granville’s own cordiality had broken down
the barrier. Catherine soon found herself talking quite easily and
naturally to the brother of her friend, while he, on his part, realised
that his early prejudices were fast disappearing. How fresh and
unaffected the girl was, and how simplicity and wisdom mingled in her
conversation! They talked of books, and he was surprised to find how
apt and sympathetic her criticisms were, though they betrayed at every
moment the speaker’s ignorance of the world, and her extravagantly
ideal view of human nature. Margaret, walking beside them, would
listen quietly, now and then putting in some shrewd comment or witty
parenthesis, which set them all laughing, and relieved the strain of a
too intense conversation.
So five days passed, the intimacy deepening hourly, while every evening
brought its gift of quiet converse on the starlit verandah, and every
morning its glad summons to another day of enthusiastic activity.
Catherine counted these days as a miser counts his gold. The High
School, and all the premature anxieties and responsibilities that
poverty had laid upon her seemed so far away. Now, for the first time,
she realised what life might mean, what for some few it did mean.
“Only seven days more!” she sighed, as she bound her hair before the
looking-glass, just a week after her arrival. “What a glorious week it
has been! If only the next is as good!”
Brilliant weather still smiled upon them. They were to go that day for
a longer excursion than any they had as yet undertaken, a long climb,
which involved the aid of guides, and which was to be shared by some of
the other visitors.
Margaret was waiting for Catherine on the verandah.
“How lovely you are!” she exclaimed, in a sudden burst of admiration,
as the sun caught the girl’s bright brown hair, and bathed her figure
in a kind of golden glory. “Do you know, if you were not you, I might
be afraid”—she added in a whisper, looking significantly at Granville
who was some yards away, talking to the guide.
Catherine’s face crimsoned. “Oh, how can you say such things?” she
asked indignantly.
“Forgive me, dear, it was too bad. But I never knew a girl less
conscious of her own power, or less of a coquette than you. I would
trust you not only with my brother, but with my lover, if by any
possibility one should fall to my share.”
“Margaret! When everyone loves you!” cried her friend.
“Now we are getting sentimental, and we had better join the others,”
laughed Margaret. And so at last they started, a merry chattering
party, up the steep ascent to the mountains.
Catherine never forgot that day; the first few miles of shady forest,
where ferns and bilberries nestled by quiet springs of water, and
the shy inhabitants of the pine-trees fled away with a rustling of
branches and nimble feet at their approach. And then the gradual cool
emergence on wide green fields, in whose hollows lay the quiet blue
lakes, troubled only by the gentle hoofs of the dainty bell-adorned
cattle. Here they found, by bubbling springs, bright patches of blue
gentian, that outrivalled the sky in brilliancy, and bade defiance to
the vanishing mantle of half-melted snow that lay around them. All
these things Catherine seemed to see in a kind of glorified vision, and
though Granville was beside her, neither spoke much; the rest of the
party had hastened on with mirth and laughter; Margaret especially had
discovered that one of the guides was a most interesting companion, and
was chattering gaily to him in German.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” asked Catherine’s companion suddenly, and
there was a new accent in his voice, that was an imperative summons to
her subdued emotions.
“Immensely!” she replied, sighing.
“Then why sigh?” he asked, laughing; and then, looking down, he saw
that her eyes were full of tears.
“I believe you are tired!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “Suppose we sit
down and have a little rest.”
“No, really, I am not at all tired; only everything is so perfect.”
“Then let us prolong perfection,” he answered. “We are nearly at the
top now, and we shall soon find the others again. Here is a comfortable
place; you can lean against this rock, and I will put a stone for your
feet.”
But at that moment, there was a sudden sound of falling rock, a rush of
loosened stones and gravel, and just within an ace of her shoulder a
huge fragment of rock broke away, and was hurled down the slope beneath
them, followed by a mass of mingled snow and débris.
His arm went quickly round her, and drew her from the spot.
“My darling! What an escape! And you didn’t even scream!” he said,
not withdrawing his arm. “There, don’t tremble; it’s all right,” he
continued, soothing her as he would a frightened child, and for a
moment his lips rested on hers.
This recalled Catherine to her senses.
“Oh, you mustn’t,” she cried, breaking from him in an agony of shame.
One clear thought possessed her mind; either that kiss was treason to
Lady Blanche, or he had taken advantage of her defenceless position to
insult her. To her intense relief, as she hurried forwards round the
turning of the path, she came upon all the others, who had stopped to
drink at a little wayside spring.
“Oh, did you hear that noise?” asked Margaret. “I suppose it was a
miniature avalanche.”
“Not a very insignificant one,” said Granville, who was close behind.
“It nearly knocked us over. However, all’s well that ends well,” he
added gaily. “Miss West, do you want a drink?”
His light, conversational tone struck on Catherine’s overstrained
emotions with a sudden chill. How could he manage such a sudden
transition? But she summoned all her self-control, and took the cup in
as matter-of-fact a way as he handed it to her.
For the rest of the day she clung close to Margaret. She felt that
to let Granville approach her would be treason to the friend who had
reposed so much confidence in her. Suppose Margaret should think that
she had been trying to attract her brother’s attention! And then,
again, with a sudden pang came the cruel thought that his conduct might
imply no real attachment to her; that he had merely given way to the
impulse of the moment, or, worse still, was a deliberate flirt. And yet
she could not believe this; all that she knew of him militated against
such a view; she could not think that she had been so greatly mistaken
in her estimate of his character, nor that he could thus belie the
traditions of a gentleman. Her heart confirmed her faith in him, and
amidst the tumultuous emotions of the moment, she was surprised and
ashamed to recognise an irrepressible elation, and a strange absence of
that feeling of angry humiliation which she supposed to be the correct
state of mind under the circumstances. Notwithstanding this, when the
hotel was again reached, she pleaded fatigue, and slipping away to her
own room, did not reappear that evening.
Granville was walking up and down the verandah in a state of suppressed
excitement, longing to see the flutter of her skirt in the doorway, yet
conscious that her manner to him since the episode of the avalanche
had been a tacit reproof. How stupid he had been to frighten her so;
and yet, although he was not a vain man, he could not pretend to think
that she had been very angry with him. She had permitted his embrace,
and that from a girl of her stamp was a sufficient avowal of the state
of her feelings. His honour as well as his inclination required that
he should make a definite claim to her affection, and if Catherine
had ventured to come down that evening he would have done so. But
her absence gave him time for reflection, and as the wave of emotion
subsided, he realised how fatal such a step would be to his career.
He was an extremely ambitious man, and success to him would involve
either a long celibacy, or a rich marriage. Hitherto his intellect had
been developed at the expense of his affections, and except for his
warm attachment to his sister, and a loyal friendship for Lord Mayne,
his heart had remained untouched. He had dallied with the idea of a
marriage with Blanche, but had not regarded it with much seriousness;
from a worldly point of view it would certainly be advantageous, but,
on the whole, he preferred the independence of the bachelor state. He
remained on cordial terms with the heiress, and awaited the development
of affairs without the least impatience, only laughing at his sister’s
frequent hints as to Lady Blanche’s inclination for him. Perhaps,
little as he suspected it, he was all the while guided by his own
nobility of heart, which withheld him from the sacrilege of a loveless
marriage. And would his heart now vindicate its authority over his
intellect and triumph over the closely-laid schemes, the absorbing
aims, the ceaseless industry of years? Supposing that Catherine should
confirm her unspoken confession, was he prepared to relinquish for
her his long-cherished ambitions, and resign himself to a life of
insignificance and dependence?
But in the midst of the conflict something happened which revealed to
him the strength of his passion, and brought him to a swift decision.
His sister at this moment came running to him, her face flushed with
excitement, holding a letter and telegram in her hand.
“What do you think?” she cried. “A letter from Blanche! Actually, she
is at Interlaken, and wants to meet us there. She has been travelling
with the Brookes, but they are going back through Paris, which she
hates. The telegram has just come, too. She would like us to go there
to-morrow, and bring her back with us.”
Secretly Margaret was thinking, “What a stroke of luck! Could anything
be more favourable to an explanation than all these circumstances?” But
Granville’s first exclamation was not promising.
“What a nuisance!” he cried.
Margaret looked at him with mingled dismay and surprise, and his next
words were not reassuring.
“What is to become of Miss West if we go away? She will be all alone.”
“Nonsense, Granville, what absurd objections you do make! We need not
be away more than two days, and Catherine is quite able to take care of
herself.”
“Poor little girl!” he began, and then bit his lip at his own
indiscretion. “Very well, I suppose we must go. I’ll find the
time-table.”
But how unwelcome to him at this moment was the thought of the new
arrival! Though his conscience was quite clear with regard to her, he
felt that Blanche would prove a discordant element. He did not for a
moment suppose that his engagement would be the least trouble to her;
but he would have preferred to conduct his wooing under less vigilant
eyes; besides, if he did not speedily acquaint Margaret with the true
state of affairs, he knew that she would be continually planning to
leave him and Blanche together, and the opportunities for seeing
Catherine by herself would be rendered much fewer. After much thought
he determined that as soon as he saw the latter he would come to some
definite understanding with her; but this could not be till after their
return from Interlaken, as they would have to start early the next
morning, probably before she was up. He would therefore send her a note
explaining his absence, and expressed in such a manner as to leave no
doubt as to his attachment; and having written this, and seen about
its safe delivery, he turned in, prepared to bear the vexations of the
morrow with as good a grace as possible.
Margaret had meanwhile run up to Catherine’s room and tapped gently at
the door. The girl opened it with trembling hands.
“Oh, you mustn’t get up, dear,” said Margaret. “I only came to tell you
something. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but Granville and I are
obliged to go to Interlaken to-morrow. We shall be away all day, and I
don’t want you to get up to see us off, so I thought I would come and
say good-bye now.”
Catherine, whom she had forced down on the couch again, raised herself
on one elbow, and looked at her in some bewilderment.
“Going away? I don’t quite understand. Do you mean that you are going
home?”
“My dear child! What an idea! Haven’t we promised to look after you,
and take you with us when that unhappy day does arrive? No, but Lady
Blanche has telegraphed to us to meet her at Interlaken; she wants to
join us here. Now, congratulate me, dear. She is evidently not averse
to my pet scheme; and what could be more favourable to an understanding
than these romantic surroundings? Oh, I hope very much that the
engagement will be definitely announced as soon as we get back.”
“You think it would be a good thing for your brother?” asked Catherine,
glad that the darkening room hid her face.
“What a question to ask! It would be his making. Blanche is just the
wife for him—a tall, clever girl, who would make a capital hostess,
and help him in his political career. If it hadn’t been for his horrid
pride, which makes him dread the mere suspicion of interested motives,
the thing would have come off long ago. And now I think I may promise
you a ticket for the Ladies’ Gallery when he makes his maiden speech.”
“Is he so very proud? Does he really care for her?” faltered Catherine.
“Well, I don’t pretend that he is passionately in love. He is
so reserved and so self-controlled, and all his interests are
intellectual; love would never play an absorbing part in his life,
though, if he once made up his mind, no one would be more loyal. Oh, I
think Lady Blanche will be very happy, and if I didn’t think the main
advantage would be with her, I wouldn’t try so hard to bring it about.
Now, good-bye, dear; only for a day, you know. And mind you have a good
rest while we are away.”
Margaret disappeared, and Catherine did the obvious and feminine thing
under the circumstances; she buried her face in the sofa cushion and
burst into tears. Till then, she felt, she had never known what grief
was. “But it is much better for him,” she sobbed. “How could I help
him, or ever do anything for him? It was all a mistake—and how silly I
am!”
Presently she dried her tears, and carefully bathing her eyes and
brushing her hair, she exchanged her dressing-gown for the dress she
had travelled in. Then she dragged out her portmanteau, and began to
fold her clothes, preparatory to packing them in it. In the midst of
these preparations, there came another knock at the door. This time it
was the chambermaid with a note.
Catherine took it with a feeling that almost amounted to dread, and
tore it open.
“Dearest,” it ran, “I am obliged to be away to-morrow, and shall
not be able to see you before I start. I shall try to be back in
the evening. Good-bye for a little while.
“G. G.”
This was the signal for a fresh burst of tears. She held the letter
to her lips for a minute, and then folded it away in the bosom of her
dress. Then she went on with her packing. In another hour it was all
done.
Ten o’clock. She wondered whether Margaret and Granville were still
up. Even tourists go to bed early in Switzerland, and, considering
their plans for the next day, she thought it doubtful. So she slipped
downstairs, and told the porter that she was obliged to go away
suddenly, and would like to leave by the first train in the morning.
Which was it?
“Ah, there is one at sigs o’clock, mees,” he said. “There is a party
leaving at five to catch it. Ze young lady will perhaps like to travel
with them?”
On further inquiry Catherine found that the train she would go by left
the station half an hour after the one by which the Grays would travel.
She determined to remain in her room till they had started, and thus
manage her departure unobserved. She went upstairs again, and wrote
two little notes, one to Margaret and one to Granville.
“Dearest Margaret,” said the first, “please don’t think me ungrateful
for going away like this. I shall never forget you or your kindness.
Perhaps some day I shall be able to thank you, but for the present I
implore you not to try to find out where I am gone.”
The other was more difficult of composition; but after two or three
attempts she produced the following—
“Please do not think me unkind if I say that I think it better for both
of us not to meet again. I cannot explain why, but I am sure that I am
right. Good-bye, my dear.”
She could not refrain from the little touch of tenderness at the end,
though afterwards she would have given worlds to recall it. “After
all,” she argued, “he must know that I do care; and I would rather he
thought that than that he should believe I let him behave so, without
loving him.”
And so it happened that the next morning she was on her way back to
England, a week before she had anticipated; certainly her holiday had
not failed to bring her adventures.
(_To be continued._)
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
STUDY AND STUDIO.
RACHEL M. WESTLAKE (New Zealand).—Many thanks for your pleasant
letter.—1. The joyous keeping of Christmas itself (for which see
Chambers’s _Book of Days_) is responsible for the sending of Christmas
cards. Just as we send birthday cards to greet our friends on
their birthdays, so we send cards to greet those to whom we cannot
personally wish “A happy Christmas.” We do not think there is any
ancient origin of the custom.—2. Boys at public schools are “taught
so much about the heathen gods and goddesses” because to understand
Greek and Latin literature it is necessary to understand mythology.
Homer, for instance, cannot be understood without knowing about Zeus,
Pallas Athênê, and the other inhabitants of Olympus “who hold the wide
heaven.” The whole subject of the value of classical education is far
too vast to enter upon here.
ST. PATRICK.—1. We will consider your request as to the article on
“Burnt Wood Work.”—2. We are afraid there is no way of restoring the
colour in question; but careful washing will do much to prevent its
conversion into green in the first instance.
AN IGNORANT MUSICIAN.—1. There is no royal road to success in reading
music at sight. The only way is to practise constantly reading new
music. A distinguished professor, whom we know, advises also reading
the notes by the eye, without the piano.—2. Both your methods of
treating the bass chords are equally correct, but you should beware of
consecutive octaves.
If “COUNTRY LASS” were to write to Mrs. Sole, Crudwell Rectory,
Malmesbury, she might receive help of a practical kind.
A READER ABROAD (New Zealand).—We are glad to tell you something of
what we know about Berry Pomeroy Castle. It is said to have been
founded by Ralph de la Pomeroie, one of William the Conqueror’s
knights, who received from his sovereign fifty-eight manors in all,
among them that of Berry, in Devonshire. The castle remained in the
possession of the Pomeroy family until the middle of the sixteenth
century, when Sir Thomas Pomeroy, who had been a ringleader in the
Rising in the West, and had as a punishment for rebellion been deprived
of many of his estates, sold it to Lord Seymour. The Seymour family
built an imposing structure within the older part of the castle, but
never brought it to perfection. A fire, caused by lightning, so injured
the building in the early part of the eighteenth century that it was
abandoned to decay. Prince, the author of _The Worthies of Devon_,
describes the castle as very magnificent, and so vast “that it was a
good day’s work for a servant but to open and shut the casements.” It
is now, owing to the luxuriant setting of thick foliage and ivy and
its beautiful situation, one of the most picturesque of English ruins;
and it is interesting to observe the difference in architecture of its
composite parts. We advise you to apply for a photograph to Crauford’s
Library, Dartmouth; or Westley’s Library, Torquay.
ELLEN.—The sentence, “There is sorrow on the sea,” occurs in a verse of
the Bible—Jeremiah xlix. 23.
G. R. and MARY PRISCILLA CUNNINGHAM.—G. R. inquires for a “Practising
Society,” and Miss Cunningham writes at the same time to mention one,
so we commend our correspondents to each other. The “Honour Bright”
Practising Society encourages regular practice, awards prizes, and
levies fines. Address, for a copy of rules, the Secretary, Miss
Cunningham, 1, Bloemfontein Villas, Dalling Road, Hammersmith, W.
We may add for G. R.’s benefit that she will see other Practising
Societies mentioned if she scans this column for the past few months,
_e.g._, Mrs. Walker’s, Litlington Rectory, Berwick, Sussex, and Miss
Isabella Kent’s, Lay Rectory, Abington, Cambridge.
OPAL.—1. Your quotation is not correctly given. The verse—
“It is the little rift within the lute
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening, slowly silence all,”
will be found in Tennyson’s “Merlin and Vivien,” _Idylls of the
King_.—2. Eugene Field’s poems are published by Scribner’s Sons, New
York, and John Lane, London.
ANNE WEINHÄUPT (Innspruck).—1. We have a great many subscribers in
Austria, but must not give the exact numbers.—2. A “gooseberry-picker”
gathers a very thorny fruit for others to eat, having only the trouble
for his share. So a third person who accompanies a pair of lovers
for propriety’s sake has all the trouble and none of the pleasure of
the expedition. This at least is the explanation we have read of the
phrase, “to play goose-berry.” We may add that the expression is seldom
used nowadays. Many thanks for your kind letter.
K. K.—Your poems are far above the average of those we receive for
criticism. In the first verse of “Only” we should demur to the use of
the present tense “ends” for the sake of rhyme, in one instance. The
tense should be kept the same throughout one statement. In “Happiness,”
“best” and “happiness” do not rhyme. We thoroughly agree with the
sentiment of your concluding verse. We can quite understand that your
work has found acceptance for publication, but we have our own staff of
writers, and should not at present have use for your poems. Many thanks
for your good wishes.
“A DUTCH GIRL.”—As the author you admire is still living, there is no
biography published of her. Biographies, as a rule, are not compiled
until people are dead. Write to her publishers for any information you
desire, and they will give it to you if it is in accordance with her
wishes.
MILDRED.—You do not give us your address, so all we can advise you
to do is to write to the Secretary, Technical Education Board, St.
Martin’s Lane, London, W.C., inquiring for the nearest school where
you can study “black and white.” As to the length of the time it would
take you to learn to illustrate books, all depends on your previous
knowledge of drawing and natural capacity.
WINTON writes to tell CHEREA of an Early Rising Society; secretary,
Mrs. Eastes, 2, Church Hill, Walthamstow, Essex.
PINK.—We applaud your courage in wishing to learn Spanish, if your
hours of work are from 8 A.M. to 8.30 P.M. The _First Spanish Book_, by
A. M. Bower, is published at 2s. (actual cost, 1s. 6d.). There are also
Hossfield’s _New Method of Spanish_, and Sauer’s _Spanish Grammar_,
published at 3s. and 5s. (4s.) respectively. At any large second-hand
book-shop you would probably pick up a Spanish grammar for a few pence.
MAB.—An excellent book on the subject you name is _Woman’s Work and
Woman’s Culture_, edited by Mrs. Josephine Butler, and published by
Macmillan, but it is not new. Modern books are, _Pursuits of Women_,
by Frances Power Cobbe; _The Duties of Women_, by the same author;
_The Woman Question of Europe_, edited by Theodore Stanton; _Women in
English Life, from Mediæval to Modern Times_, by Georgina Hill, 2 vols.
JEANNE MÜLLER (France).—1. We can only advise you to write to some
registry office of good standing, saying what you wish to do. Address,
Société des Professeurs de Français en Angleterre, 20, Bedford Street,
Strand, London, W.C., or the Agency for Foreign Governesses and Home,
3, Colville Houses, Talbot Road, London, N., superintended by M. le
pasteur du Pontet de la Harpe, French Parsonage, Bayswater. It would
be very wise of you to come to England to perfect your knowledge of
English.—2. Apply to any English bookseller, _e.g._, Messrs. Sotheran,
Strand, London, for the books in question.
HILDE (Geneva).—1. We advise you also to write to a good agency; for
instance, Association of German Governesses in England, 16, Wyndham
Place, Bryanston Square, London, or Miss Hug’s Registry for Foreign
Governesses, 21, Baker Street, London, W., or the Army and Navy
Auxiliary, Francis Street, Westminster. You might also advertise in the
_Morning Post_. Have you no friends in England? Private inquiry is by
far the best way of finding a home on reciprocal terms. Can any reader
suggest one?—2. We are willing to tell SYBIL that you advise her to eat
three oranges a day, and LA PETITE that you recommend her to place her
pressed flowers in cotton wadding to preserve the colour.
A LOVER OF MUSIC.—As you truly observe, we cannot, without hearing you
play, judge as to the chances of your passing an examination. We advise
you to write to the Secretary, Trinity College, Mandeville Place,
Manchester Square, W., for details as to the standard of proficiency
required, etc. The fee is from 10s. 6d. upwards. We commend your
perseverance in practising without lessons.
AZZIE.—Thanks also for your reply to “WINTON.” We know of no cure for
the trouble you speak of but time, patience, and attention to the
general health.
MIDGET.—Your writing is too “scratchy,” and looks as though you wrote
with the edge of your pen, or too fine a nib. Try to form your letters
more accurately. We think it would do you good to practise copying some
model of handwriting. Thanks for your information.
GEISHA.—You had better consult Mrs. Watson’s articles on “Self-Culture
for Girls.” We will certainly criticise anything you send in six
months’ time. Have you ever thought of joining an essay club? We
occasionally mention such in our columns.
HELEN (A Constant Reader).—The inability to talk often arises from
shyness and nervousness, or fatigue after a hard day’s work may cause
you to relapse into silence. You can do a great deal to overcome the
habit by forcing yourself to express your thoughts. You must have many
things pass through your mind—recollections of the past, hopes for the
future—that people who care for you would be interested to hear; then
put them into language. Or take some special book or subject in which
you are interested, and talk about it. Do not be discouraged; it is
better to be quiet than to talk nonsense; and above all, never _try_ to
talk brilliantly. Simple and natural conversation will “come of itself”
in time.
DAFFODIL (Cork).—1. Your version of Wordsworth’s couplet—
“The proud heart flashing through the eyes,
At sound of Rob Roy’s name,”
is found in the best edition, Dr. Knight’s, in eight volumes, and in
Moxon’s 6-vol. edition. But in the small 1-vol. edition we read—
“And kindle like a fire new stirred,
At sound of Rob Roy’s name.”
Poets occasionally change the form of their work, but you can certainly
consider the first quoted is the more correct of the two renderings.—2.
Your writing is too large and childish for your age. Keep a regular
space between your lines; do not make the downstrokes black, and try
to reduce it all to a smaller uniform size. Some letters now are much
larger than others.
MEDICAL.
HAWTHORN.—The various fruit salts, effervescing salines, effervescing
citrate of magnesia, etc., are all pleasant modifications of seidlitz
powders. You could make one for yourself by mixing together bicarbonate
of soda, citric acid, tartaric acid, oxide of magnesia, and sugar.
Heat these ingredients carefully in an earthenware pot and stir until
the mass assumes a granular appearance. But why make it yourself?
You can buy it ready-made cheaply enough. It is only the patent
preparations which are expensive, for they have to pay for the stamp
and advertisements.
DARK DESPAIR.—We think most probably you did dislocate your jaw.
Such an accident always leaves behind it some stiffness and pain on
movement, but by exercising the joint these gradually disappear. A
small blister over the joint, occasionally, will help to relieve
the stiffness. Friction over the joint will also do good. But it is
exercise that is most essential and movement to the point of pain, for
the object of the movement is to break down adhesion within the joint,
and it is these adhesions that cause the pain and stiffness.
PORCUPINE.—1. Errors of the refraction of the eyes more often
cause squint than every other of its causes put together. And very
frequently, if the squint is slight or fairly recent, wearing
glasses will cure it. If it has gone further than this, an operation
is necessary.—2. Go to the dentist at once; your teeth want to be
thoroughly overhauled.
A FACTORY GIRL.—Phossy-jaw is a rare disease now, and we cannot
recollect ever having seen a case. It used to be fairly common, but the
stringent laws relating to match-workers have done much to stop the
disease. It is said that the phosphorus affects the jaw through decayed
teeth, and that if the teeth are perfect phossy-jaw does not occur.
ALABAMA.—Decidedly girls can suffer from gout. But recently we saw a
girl of seventeen who had typical acute gout in her great toe joint.
It certainly is not very common for it to show itself before middle
life, but it is not so uncommon as is usually supposed. Gout is far
more frequent in England than in any other country, but it is less
common than it used to be, possibly because port wine is drunk less
than it was formerly. A curious fact in connection with the heredity
of gout is, that gout and rheumatism often alternate in families; one
generation suffers from gout, the next from rheumatism, the third
from gout, etc. But more commonly gout is regularly hereditary. It is
considerably more common in men than in women.
A PERPLEXED GIRL.—Most probably your troubles are due to anæmia; the
stoutness and puffiness of the face, the flushings and high colour
of the cheeks, are very commonly met with in that condition. It by
no means follows that because the blood is deficient the cheeks will
be pale. The whites of the eyes, the inside of the lips, etc., will
be pale in anæmia, but it is almost as frequent to find the face
ruddy as pale. We therefore feel pretty confident that anæmia causes
your trouble; but whether that condition is simply the ordinary
“green-sickness” or due to some other cause we cannot say without
examining you. It is unnecessary for us to describe the treatment for
anæmia as we have done so, so frequently before.
INQUIRER.—There has just been another inquiry into the question of
the spread of infectious disease by oysters; and the very question
you ask us was discussed at length. Green oysters apparently belong
to three classes: firstly, those that are free from disease or from
metallic salts—these are perfectly healthy; secondly, those that owe
their green colour to salts of copper. It used to be thought that the
green colour of some oysters was due to iron salts, but the present
inquiry has proved beyond question that copper, and not iron, salts
cause the green colour. Thirdly, the most important group of all from
the medical standpoint, there are green oysters which owe their colour
to some disease of the blood. What disease is not known; nor do we know
if eating these oysters would injure the human body. Still, it is safer
to avoid eating green oysters at all. A very significant fact is that
in no single instance was the typhoid germ found in the oyster; and if
by chance the germ did get into the oyster it was speedily destroyed,
because it appears that fresh sea-water kills the bacillus altogether.
This last fact certainly is rather upsetting to the commonly-held view
that oysters can only become infected with typhoid germs by means of
sewers; indeed, the whole investigation casts doubt upon the opinion
that oysters can convey typhoid fever at all, but it by no means
disproves it.
ANXIOUS INQUIRER.—Discharge of matter from the ear is a condition
which requires very careful treatment, for it is one of those simple,
everyday affairs which not uncommonly lead to the most terrible
diseases. It is not in itself very dangerous, and if properly treated
scarcely ever ends in trouble, but the danger lies in neglect.
Discharge from the ear is always a very chronic affair, and though a
person may rigorously wash out her ears for a month or so, she begins
to doubt whether the syringing does any good. She gets careless, misses
a day or so, and eventually gives up treatment altogether. And then
may begin, by slow and insidious steps, or suddenly, in the course of
a few hours, one of those fearful diseases of which only a physician
can conceive the malignancy, diseases which, if unrelieved by prompt
surgery, end fatally without fail in a few days. But as we said before,
if the discharge from the ears is treated, the dangers of these
calamities is practically nothing. The treatment for the condition is
to syringe out the ears twice a day with a weak antiseptic. Condy’s
fluid diluted with warm water to the tint of pink blotting-paper will
do very well. It is also advisable to have your throat examined,
for chronic throat trouble is particularly likely to cause chronic
discharge from the ears.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WE FOUR!
[_From photo: By C. Read, Wishaw._]
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[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text:
Page 661: Mondodelphum to Monodelphum—“ally to _L. Monodelphum_”.
Page 668: kimself to himself—“knew himself to be”.
lone to tone—“a very low tone.”
Page 669: musn’t to mustn’t—“mustn’t think that”.]