[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 692. SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
'LIVES O' MEN.'
The stranger who sails for the first time up the Firth of Forth must
be struck with the numerous villages that stud its picturesque shores.
These for the most part are fishing-villages, inhabited by a race of
hardy men, who at times run fearful risks at sea. Though the morning
may look settled, and the prospects of a good 'take' induce the boats
to venture forth far out to sea, the afternoon may prove so boisterous
that all hands are glad to beat a retreat, and leaving lines or nets
to look after themselves, make for some harbour of refuge. Sometimes,
as was prominently the case last year, the weather may come on so
suddenly violent that the best appointed boats, handled by experienced
men, run dreadful risks, and reach the sheltering haven only by a
hair's-breadth. At times no skill can avail, and wives and mothers--and
as we had occasion to shew in a recent article on the Hebrides,
sweethearts--are left lamenting. It is unfortunate that many of the
harbours on the Firth of Forth are dry or nearly so at low-water, so
that a boat at sea _must_ wait outside before the crew can venture in;
for thus are doubtless lost many boats and their hapless crews that
otherwise might 'make the run' and be out of danger. Unable to make
harbour from want of water, there is no alternative but to lie off
under close-reefed sail till the tide makes, or be dashed to splinters
on a lee-shore. This will assist the reader of the following story in
understanding the anxiety felt by those on shore for the boats at sea,
even when the boats appeared in sight. Having braved the open sea in
all its fury, the attempt to take the harbour at the ebb might have
been disastrous to all.
With this preface we offer to our readers a description of such a scene
as witnessed by one who has kindly placed it at our disposal. His story
runs as follows:
'It's a sair, sair nicht, sir. God help them out on the sea!' With
these words was I greeted as, through the darkness of that awful night
of the 3d of August last, I groped my way to the harbour of the small
fishing-village on the east coast of Scotland where I was then staying,
being interested in the herring-fishing there.
On the evening of the night above mentioned a number of the boats
had gone to sea, even though the weather (to say the least of it)
looked threatening. The fishing up to this date had been a comparative
failure; but signs of herring on the coast had been met with on the
previous night; and with time wearing on, little doing, and a number of
mouths to fill, the hardy weather-beaten fishermen were loath to lose a
chance; so to sea they went, some few boats being providentially kept
on shore.
The night, from being threatening, grew bad, with gathering clouds and
rain, and gusts of wind from the sea. Wives kept up good fires against
their husbands' return, as all expected the boats back. The _last_ boat
that went out _did_ return, but no others; and the fishermen on shore
were of opinion that with the wind they had had, the boats would be
'weel at sea an' sweer' (unwilling) 'to turn!'
Eleven o'clock comes, and the weather not much worse. Opinions are
hazarded that it will 'maybe tak aff wi' the tide;' and I turn in and
am soon asleep. Not to sleep long, however. One o'clock, and I am
awakened with the howling wind, blast after blast, battering the rain
against the windows, and rattling and banging windows and doors; and
the noise of that dread continuous, seething, inexpressible _hus-sh_
from the now storm-tossed angry sea. Out of bed at once, and into
clothes and oilskins, then out into the night. Dark? Yes; black! Wind
like to tear you off your legs, and rain blinding; but worst of all,
that raging sea outside.
I struggle down to the harbour; and there, under the lee of an old
boat, I find two or three fishermen, and am greeted with the words I
commenced with. I could merely make out the indistinct forms of the
men, but I knew the voice of the one who spoke. He was an old man now,
past going to sea; but out there, somewhere in the darkness, were two
sturdy young men, his sons, for whom he had worked in their childhood,
and who now worked for him in his old age. Well might he pray: 'God
help them out on the sea!' A month or two later than this, last year,
his youngest, bonnie son was one of a crew of five drowned in that very
sea, before his old father's eyes.
During temporary lulls, we could hear that there were others about; and
often a sad pent-up wail, choked with a sob, told of 'wives and mithers
maist despairin'' wandering past through the darkness and rain.
The cold gray dawn comes at last, only to shew us a widespread army
of fighting waves dashing wildly on to the shore, and making a clean
breach over the protection breakwater of the little harbour; plainly
shewing the impossibility of any of the boats taking _that_ harbour,
even should they make shoreward. The safety of the boats inside the
very harbour even has to be looked after, for when the tide makes, the
run will be likely to snap everything.
As the morning advances and no boats heave in sight, the question
arises, Where will they be? Some say they will make this or that
harbour farther north; while others say they will be riding out the
storm at sea, 'hanging by'[1] their nets. Already, by break of day,
between twenty and thirty dripping half-clad women have started to walk
along the coast to the next fishing-ports. They cannot wait here till
the telegraph opens; and when it does open it finds plenty of work
without them.
Some men have taken the road also, promising to telegraph back, should
they find any tidings of friends or neighbours. Those of us left here
gather together at sheltered corners and peer out to sea and hazard an
opinion now and then. The old man before spoken of tells how he was at
sea the night of the great loss twenty-nine years ago, but doubts if it
was as bad a night as this has been. Another--even older-looking--tells
how that night is as fresh in his memory as yesterday, for, as he said,
he had then thought his last night on land or sea had come. He too is
sure this has been a wilder night; but then he hopefully adds: 'Look at
the boats they've got to work wi' noo!' Then with a sigh: 'But a' will
no tell their tale o' this nicht.'
Morning grows into noon, and the rain has now settled down into a dark
drizzle, occasionally clearing a little and allowing at times a better
look-out to sea.
During one of these breaks a boat heaves in sight, evidently making
straight for the harbour, under a small patch of sail, and labouring
heavily in the trough of the sea. Instantly the village is in a
commotion, for well do all know what will be the fate of that boat and
crew should they get too far in-shore. The cries of the poor women
are heart-rending as they rush hither and thither through cold and
wet clasping their bewildered little bairnies to their breasts. Away
there goes a stalwart young fellow with a tar-barrel on his shoulder,
followed by others carrying wood and shavings; and in a few minutes a
warning flame bursts from the hillside; up goes a white flag on the
end of the pier, a signal of too much sea on for taking the harbour;
and there also from a schooner inside the harbour waves the Union-jack
half-mast high, with ensign reversed--a world-wide understood signal
of danger. Soon also another fire blazes from another point higher up,
from where it is considered it will be better seen by those in the
boat; and the old boat-builder (from whose yard the barrel, chips, and
shavings have been got) stands by with a flagon of oil, from which,
from time to time, he pours a little over the fire, making it shoot
forth a flashing, brighter flame.
Now all has been done that can at the moment be thought of, and it only
remains to wait. The boat still seems to be making for the shore; and
from that it is surmised that those on board of her are strange to this
part of the coast. 'He's keepin' her awa.' 'Na; he's only jibing her
end-on to the seas.' 'She's gaun aboot.' 'Na, na; the Lord hae mercy on
them; he's gaun to try the harbour!' Such are a few of the exclamations
from the anxious group round, or rather behind that danger-fire; and
there also from the lips of a bonnie fisher lass about fifteen or
sixteen I hear the earnest muttered prayer: 'The Lord be at the helm.
O Lord, be at the helm!' Her father and three of her brothers went to
sea last night in the same boat, and strange to say--though not known
to her or any on shore at the time--that boat for whose guidance she
prayed _was_ her father's. Still the boat holds on--until again, and
this time almost with a shout, it is announced that 'she's gaun aboot'
(shifting her course). Yes, and this time it is right. She _is_ about.
There is a sigh of relief from all, and many a hearty 'Thank God.'
Tongues seem loosened now, and criticisms are passed on how 'she's
behavin',' and how 'he' (the steersman) 'works her.' All agree that
those in the boat will make for a port about fifteen miles farther
north, which it is thought will be possible to be entered with safety.
At least all are relieved that for the present the boat seems out of
danger.
The Telegraph Office immediately on its being opened, and ever since,
has been completely besieged. What a picture, and how impossible to
picture it! A little wayside railway office crushed full of dripping,
crying women, with a sad-faced man here and there. Not a sound, except
occasionally a smothered sob or whisper, and the tic-tic-tic of the
instrument, meaning joy or grief perhaps to some of these poor women,
all eagerly watching that lad, or rather boy, the only one there who
understands that tic-tic-tic.
Then when news _does_ come of this or that boat's safety, watch the
brightening faces of those to whom it is good news; their long-drawn
thankful sigh of relief, and their again saddening look as they think
of others around them who have got no news yet. Quietly they pull their
shawls over their heads and slip out, only to make room for others who
have been standing outside in the rain waiting their turn.
But hollo! There goes the fire on the hill again. What does it mean?
Another boat? No; but the same one is about. Again all is consternation
and wonder, until the old boat-builder says quietly: 'He's weel
acquaint. It's ane o' oor ain folk, an' he's gaun to dodge aboot
expeck'n the wind to tak aff.' And he is right too; for the boat only
comes near enough not to be _too_ near, then 'bout ship and out again.
After a time another boat heaves in sight, then another, until, by
about five o'clock in the evening, there are eleven boats tossing about
out there on that wild sea, in sight of home, waiting for the storm to
abate and the sea go down. News has also come to hand of the safety of
other six of the thirty boats that went out from here last night, so
that there is still about half of them to be heard of yet, should those
in the offing turn out to belong to the place.
Well, it did 'tak aff;' and by nine o'clock that night fourteen boats
managed to get safely into the harbour, though with great difficulty
and danger.
What a sight was that also! A well-manned salmon coble kept afloat
in the fairway ready for an emergency, and at the same time giving
confidence to those in the boats taking the harbour. The pier crowded
with men, women, and children, anxiously, silently, watching each boat
through the peril. Then the greetings and questionings of the tired,
starving fishermen, whom the sea seems to have given up.
Still lots of the boats have yet to be heard of, and many a one wanders
the whole night through, unable to rest in his anxiety for the missing
ones. Next day, however, all are accounted for. All safe, except one
boat with a crew of five, swamped out at sea, in that dreadful August
storm, and all hands drowned; and it has proved a 'sair, sair nicht'
for the poor old fisherman with whose words I began this sketch, for
one of his stalwart sons was one of that crew of five, who leave four
widows and thirteen 'faitherless bairns;' proving how appropriate it is
in regard to the pursuit of the 'caller herrin'' that
Wives and mithers maist despairin'
Ca' them _lives o' men_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Herring boats frequently ride out a gale at sea by being made fast
by stout ropes to the nets, which answer the purpose of an anchor. In
this position the boat is said to be 'hanging by' the net.
A MORNING IN A LONDON HOSPITAL.
'If you will meet me at ---- Hospital at half-past ten on Monday
morning, I shall be happy to shew you anything in my power.' So ran a
note I received some little time since from a privileged visitor at one
of the largest London hospitals. An hour's ride brought me to the gates
of the institution, which is in the very heart of busy London, and yet,
as far as noise goes, might be miles away from all its life and bustle.
A little world by itself it stands, having its own laws and customs,
its chiefs and subordinates, and certainly its own joys and sorrows.
Crossing a stone yard and up a flight of steps, the first obstacle
presented itself in the shape of an ever-watchful porter; but the name
of my correspondent had a magical effect in quieting his fears. Friends
of the patients are allowed to visit them on three days in the week at
stated hours; but beyond this, without private interest, it is by no
means easy to obtain admission to any hospital.
Passing through the porter's gate, I found myself in a stone hall,
where my friend joined me; and opening a door at one end, she led me
into the accident ward. Down each side of the long room were arranged
beds at short intervals, each with its coverlet of blue check and
curtains to match. Yet there was little monotony in the appearance of
the whole, each bed taking different shapes according to the nature of
its inmate's accident. Skilled hands know how to place sufferers in
the position that causes least pain; and light frames are fixed over
injured limbs to prevent contact with the bed-clothes. Each bed too
has a chain suspended from the top, with a handle attached; by which
simple contrivance patients are enabled to raise and in some measure
help themselves much sooner than would otherwise be possible. Some of
the worst 'cases' are too ill to notice us as we go round; but from the
greater number we get something of a smile.
Our next step was to mount the stairs on the other side of the hall.
We now came to a large male surgical ward, holding about fifty beds
arranged as before described. Here the dressers or house-surgeons
were beginning their duties. The first bed at which we paused was
tenanted by a boy of twelve or fourteen years old, with a bright and
not unhealthy looking face; but a terrible abscess had formed on
the calf of the leg, so affecting the bone that a serious operation
was necessary to prevent amputation. This had been performed a few
days before our visit; but useful as chloroform is at the time of an
operation, it by no means saves all the pain. The first dressing is
much dreaded, and even in the case of which I write the poor boy's
sufferings were very great; but he was a true Briton as to endurance.
I did not know which to admire most, his bravery or the steady hand
and eye of the surgeon, who did not shrink from inflicting necessary
pain, whilst with bright words of encouragement he helped his poor
patient to 'be a man.' The air of cheerfulness about the ward was
surprising; round the fireplaces were groups of patients, just well
enough to be up. Gaunt and ill they looked, but as ready as possible
for a bit of fun. The Sister of the ward comes out of her cheery little
room just as we turn to go away, so we stop for a few minutes' chat
with her. She tells us that in addition to the services of Chaplain
and Scripture-readers, each ward is visited once a week by ladies, who
talk to the patients one by one, reading to them, and trying to shew
sisterly sympathy with their sorrows. Sister says that the patients
look forward to the visiting afternoon with great pleasure, and my
friend remarks: 'No wonder; poor things! They must find it very dull
lying here day after day and week after week.'
Sister breaks into a merry laugh, and utterly scouts the notion
that her ward could be anything but bright and pleasant. 'You see,'
she said, 'mine are surgical cases. It may be dull perhaps on the
medical side; but here the patients are well as a rule, except in one
particular thing.'
To our inexperienced minds 'one particular thing' seemed quite enough.
Asking the same Sister whether she found it difficult to obtain
permission from one of the authorities to do something she wished, she
answered with an amused smile: 'I never have any difficulty in getting
anything for anybody.' It certainly would be difficult to refuse
anything to such a bonnie face and pleasant manner. One could not but
be thankful that she and others like her shed their sunshine where
there must of necessity be so much shadow.
In the next ward (female) we had a few words with a motherly
night-nurse. She goes to bed after dinner (about 1 P.M.), and comes on
duty again at nine in the evening; but turning night into day seems to
agree capitally with her. Seeing several cots with tiny inmates, we ask
her whether they give her much trouble: her prompt answer is: 'Not a
bit; not half so much as some of the grown-ups.'
'And the medicine; have you difficulty with that?'
'Never; however nasty it is, they drink it up without a word.'
One case of a poor woman is both medical and surgical--a terrible
string of maladies; but another nurse, in answer to the question, 'Can
she recover?' answers heartily and with real interest: 'Indeed, we hope
she will.' She certainly would not without great care and the best of
nursing. Near her is a cot, and my friend asks the four-year-old inmate
what is the matter. A tiny voice pipes out in the very highest of high
trebles: 'I'se here tawse I tarn't walt.' A dislocated thigh will
prevent the poor baby from walking for several weeks. In the next cot
is a girl of five, injured in the same way. 'Run over,' nurse tells us;
and adds: 'Half of them are.'
A few more visits on the surgical side, and we come down-stairs again,
and go through a door at the opposite end of the hall from the porter's
lodge. The medical cases are in a block of buildings quite distinct
from the surgical. The first ward we entered was chiefly occupied by
consumptive patients. On opening the door, a most pitiful wail greeted
us. Going up to the cot from whence it proceeded, we found a tiny child
lying with its eyes fixed on the ceiling and giving utterance to the
most heart-rending cries. The Sister, nurses, and patients were alike
almost in despair about her. One nurse told us that little Jessie was
eighteen months old, though not so big as some children of as many
days. She had been brought to the hospital a week before, _starved_.
Her limbs were so rigid that they could scarcely bend them. A patient
told us that she nearly _bit through_ the spoon when first fed. The
doctor considered her much better; but she cried or rather wailed the
whole night and all day, unless nursed or fed. Nurse had taken her into
her own bed for three nights with little avail; and all the inmates
of the ward were feeling worn out with worry and want of sleep. At a
subsequent visit I found her still wailing, and tried the experiment of
nursing her for some hours. She was perfectly good in my lap, and went
to sleep. Flattering myself that I had done a good work in securing a
quiet morning for the other patients, I put my lady down in her cot.
She lay for just one minute, and then opened her eyes with a shriek
that made me glad to bundle her up and quiet her at any cost. At my
last visit I found that Sister had been obliged to send her away, after
trying what having the mother in at night would do, and finding it of
no use. One poor woman, very ill in the next bed, said to me: 'I do
love little children, and I have a baby of my own, so I don't mind some
crying; but it was dreadful to hear that child cry day and night, and
no sleep for any of us.'
There seems to be no special ward set apart for children; but cots are
sprinkled about in the female wards for those under the age of seven.
As a rule, the patients like this, and the little ones get a good deal
of notice and petting; but I am afraid no one regretted poor Jessie
excepting a deaf and dumb boy in a cot near, who could not hear her
cries, and delighted in clapping his hands at her. He was a handsome
child of five, with a wonderfully bright smile, and very quick at
catching the meaning of the slightest sign. At this first visit, his
only amusement was to fold up the bed-clothes and throw them on the rod
over his crib. His little tray had no toys on it; and notwithstanding
his sunny face, one could not but fancy the days must have been very
long and uninteresting. The last time I saw him he was rejoicing over
some bright pictures, pointing out their beauties to his kind nurse,
and making all sorts of inarticulate sounds of joy. One nurse had a
rather quaint idea of the use of pictures. In answer to my question,
'Would No. 7 understand these?' she said: 'O yes; he'd know how to tear
them up!'
After speaking to several of the patients, our attention was drawn to a
woman, who looked so much a picture of health, that it needed quite an
effort of faith to believe her when she said that, two or three weeks
before, she had been so dangerously ill that she scarcely expected
to leave the hospital alive; but under treatment she had improved so
rapidly that she was hoping to go to a Convalescent Home in a few days.
Several of the patients were well enough to be about. Whenever this
is the case, they take what share they can in waiting on those too
ill to help themselves. One or two are so ill that they cannot put a
foot to the ground, need to be lifted in and out of bed and waited on
like children. The Sister of this ward is most admirably suited to her
post. She has the gift of governing, and nurses, as well as patients,
are completely under her control. One of her duties is to go round the
ward administering medicine to each patient (the medicine is kept on a
shelf over the bed); and certainly the way they took it bore out the
statement of the nurse spoken of at the first: however disagreeable,
it was swallowed at once without the shadow of a grimace. Sister too
presides over the distribution of the smaller articles of food, kept
in little movable cupboards, of which there is one to each bed. The
bread is baked in small tempting loaves, and brought into the ward
in what looks likes a clothes-basket. Two patients carry this up the
middle, whilst Sister asks each in turn how much they feel equal to.
The amount they then receive lasts them till the following morning. A
stated allowance of butter is given in the same way. A bill of fare
hangs over each bed; eggs and all other extras being only given under
the doctor's orders. In addition to this diet-card, a form is suspended
from the bed's head, filled in with the name, age, address, and disease
of the patient, together with the names of his or her doctor and
house-surgeon, also the date of admission.
Going up another flight of stairs, we entered a ward for what a nurse
called 'difficult cases;' by which she meant diseases that require
special attention, and that do not shew themselves so decidedly as
to leave no doubt of their nature. The ward is large, holding about
fifty beds; but evidently it was not built originally for an hospital.
Several rooms seem to have been thrown into one by removing the doors;
but the projections of the division walls remain and serve to break
the monotony of appearance. Of the same size and build was the next
we entered, which was privileged in possessing the society of two cats
as pets. Here we found another baby of the same age as Jessie, and
like her, _starved_; but here the likeness ended. This little creature
seemed the darling of the ward; nurses and patients vied with each
other as to who should nurse her, and all declared 'she never cries,
and gets _so_ fat.' Whilst talking about her we saw one of the saddest
of hospital sights. On entering, we had noticed one bed with a curtain
drawn round it. 'Very ill indeed,' was the explanation given. At the
other end a bed stood surrounded by a screen. Standing with my back
to the door, I suddenly saw a change come over the patients' faces.
Turning quickly, I was surprised and shocked to see two men bearing on
their shoulders a coffin. They had to walk the whole length of the ward
to take away the body of a patient who had died the night before in the
screened bed. As the bearers walked past, it was painful indeed to see
the strained gaze fixed by the patients on their sad burden. Even the
children seemed to feel the possibility of their being the next to be
so carried. It seems strange that this practice of not _immediately_
removing the dead (to be coffined apart from the wards) should be
continued, especially at this particular hospital, where the comfort
and cheerfulness of the inmates are so constantly kept in view.
There are pretty fern-stands scattered about in different parts of the
building; suitable texts in neat frames hang over the beds; and the
fireplaces give a specially pleasant look to the wards. Some of them
are really handsome. Coloured tiles of nice design extend a foot or
more beyond, and above the fire itself, so that even in summer-time the
fireplace is a pretty spot, and in winter the reflection of flame in
the china is most cheery. Then each ward has its couches and chairs.
In one we noticed a comfortable crimson sofa, looking most tempting
with its white crochet antimacassars. 'Sent just as it is, by a lady,'
we are told. Near it were several American chairs with holland covers
bound with crimson. The effect was really good; and in this respect the
hospital contrasts well with those where no effort is made to enliven
the inevitable gloom of so much suffering and sorrow. The Sisters
dress in black, with white lace or muslin caps; and the amount of
taste exhibited in their arrangement shews no indifference to personal
appearance. The nurses are suitably dressed in uniform of print dress
and plain cap. Both Sisters and nurses are, as a rule, sunny and kind,
and nothing could exceed the courtesy with which I was received,
nor the pleasant way in which information was volunteered. The
house-doctor, who was spoken of most affectionately by the patients,
gave me kind permission to come again and see what I had that day
missed--the early morning work.
We were about leaving the hospital, when my friend exclaimed: 'You must
see this ward.' So saying, she led me to a small building by itself
in the garden, where the patients take exercise when convalescent.
Certainly it was a pleasant spot. The sun shining in, made it seem the
brightest of the wards. It is divided into two rooms, one for male, the
other for female patients. The cases are chiefly bronchitis and similar
acute diseases. It is presided over by a sweet-looking Sister. She has
her little establishment all to herself including a separate room for
any desperate case. She is an enthusiast at her vocation, and tells us
she gets all the best cases. Asking for an explanation of 'best,' she
says: 'My gentlemen' (students) 'are the most advanced, and so they
pick out all the most interesting, I mean dangerous cases.'
On our way out, my friend shewed me the block of buildings set apart
for the use of out-patients. Pointing to one room, she said: 'That is
where they do any _little_ thing--such as taking out a tooth.' I am
afraid most of us are in the habit of looking upon that operation as
anything but little; and to tell the truth, the patients we encountered
coming up the steps seemed to share the popular notion, and did not
look particularly joyful in their anticipations. So we left the
hospital, feeling thankful that, though suffering and poverty must
always be, so much is done to alleviate the sorrows of the suffering
poor.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER XVI.--MARIAN'S RISE IN LIFE.
In the garden I found Mr Wentworth pacing one of the side-walks.
'How does she bear it?' he asked, advancing towards me.
'I do not fear for her--eventually. But it is very terrible.' Striking
my hand upon the arm of a garden-seat, I angrily added: 'And he dares
to call it love! Thank God, the more she sees of it the less she will
believe in it!'
'He is trying to persuade her not to act upon that paper. I saw that
was his intention.'
'But you were not so blind as to suppose he would succeed?' I retorted.
'No; I was not so blind as that.'
'He will only succeed in making her suffer more; though there may be
some use in that. Her eyes may be opened to his selfishness and--and
utter worthlessness, at last. Indeed, I am proud to say I never called
that man my friend.'
'Sit down, Miss Haddon; you will want all your nerve presently,' he
said gently. 'What should we do without you?'
I sat down, and gave way to a few tears.
'There; that's all right: done you good; hasn't it?'--in a relieved
sort of tone; but looking as though he were not a little puzzled at
my getting relief in that fashion. I could not help feeling that he
regarded my tears indulgently--as less to be dreaded than fainting, but
as curious, decidedly curious, _man_ that he was!
The Fates were certainly against my impressing Robert Wentworth with
the notion that I was above feminine weakness; he so naturally, and
I now believe quite unconsciously, shewed a vein of satire upon such
occasions. Yet I do not think that he intended to be satirical, when
he appeared most so; it simply arose from contrast--his inability to
comprehend certain forms of weakness, and his ludicrous gentleness
towards it. But be the cause what it might, his gentleness had now the
good effect of putting me upon my mettle.
Seeing that I was beginning to recover my dignity, he went on more
securely: 'She needs all the help you can give her. Poor Lilian! it
is terribly hard for her to lose her lover as well as her name and
fortune, Mary' (from this time I was never again 'Miss Haddon' to him).
'But if she can keep her faith in friendship, she will in time get over
the loss of the rest.'
Yes; she would lose her lover as well as her name and fortune. Robert
Wentworth saw as clearly as I did that sooner or later what had
happened would separate them. We saw them step from the window; and
hastily bidding me good-bye, my companion was turning away.
'Please do not leave me just yet,' I pleaded.
'It is better I should go--for you all. The fewer witnesses of the
humiliation the better. By-and-by--in a day or two;' and laying his
hand for a moment on mine, as it rested passively on the seat, he
walked quickly on down the path to go out by the door leading from the
lower grounds.
As Lilian drew nearer, followed by Arthur Trafford, his lowering brows
and angry eyes told me that the beginning of the end had already taken
place. But she was not drooping now. She placed her hand in mine,
and held it with a firm hold, which I thought intimated that she had
not succumbed under pressure. Nay, she was growing stronger rather
than weaker under it. But she left him to explain; and if I had hoped
anything from Arthur Trafford, the way in which he spoke would have
destroyed my hope.
'Miss--Farrar' (there was a sufficiently long pause between the words
to bring the colour rushing to her cheeks) 'seems determined to take
your advice, Miss Haddon. She means to recognise that marriage, cost
what it may.'
There was something peculiarly offensive, and I saw that he meant it to
be so, in imputing the 'advice,' as he termed it, to me. But this was
not a time for me to retort, so I merely replied: 'You are angry, Mr
Trafford.'
'Angry! Is it to be expected that I could stand quietly by and make
no protest, while such a sacrifice was being made? I suppose you have
persuaded Lilian to believe that the consequences to her are nothing to
me; you have tried to make her believe that I do not love her.'
'I believe that you _do_ love her, Mr Trafford,' I replied. It was not
his love, but its quality, which I doubted. Looking steadily at him, I
added: 'And now is the time to prove the worth of your love.'
'I can best do that by protecting her interests, Miss Haddon.' Turning
pleadingly towards Lilian again, he added: 'If you would only promise
me to delay making it known for a few days--for a day--while we talk it
over, and--and take further advice. For Heaven's sake, do not do such a
rash thing on the impulse of the moment, Lilian! Say you will think it
over?'
'It needs no thinking,' she murmured.
'And my wishes are nothing to you?'
'I hoped--I believed--that you would help me to do what I am doing,
Arthur,' she replied in a low broken voice.
'Is it possible that you can think that I should help you to sacrifice
your mother's good name, and disobey your father's wishes, to gratify a
sentimental and very doubtful feeling, such as this? It will not even
be of any real benefit to the girl herself, who is already much better
off than she had any right to expect, and happy enough as she is. I say
nothing of the entire disregard of _my_ wishes--the cruel injustice to
me--after being so long led on to believe in your love for me.'
'Spare me!'
'How have you spared me?'
'I _cannot_ act differently--I dare not!' she ejaculated, wringing her
hands.
'Not though you cast away my love in doing it?'
She was silent; her clasped hands tightening painfully over each other,
as she bowed her head in an agony of suffering, which his own nature
was too shallow to understand.
I think that he once more imagined that he had found the way to
influence her, and he impetuously went on: 'You cannot mean to cast me
off. Dearest Lilian, I know that your love for me is true, and'----
'I _must_ do what is right. O Arthur, it is so hard to bear, and I need
help so much: for our love's sake, help me!' putting out her hands
towards him with a last appeal.
'You call it right to bring shame upon your dead mother and to be
untrue to me?'
'You are pitiless, Mr Trafford!' I put in, losing all patience. 'And
you do not know Lilian, or you would see that you are adding to her
suffering to no purpose; for you will not alter her determination: she
will act according to her perception of what is right in the matter,
suffer what she may.'
'Then let her take the consequences!' he exclaimed, losing all
self-command, and without another word turning away and walking off in
a towering passion; as I afterwards found, going through the house and
straight down to the railway station.
Lilian clung sobbing to me a few moments: 'God help me! Pray for me,
Mary!'
'You are helped, dear Lilian. Strength _has_ been given to you, and the
rest will come easier.'
'Yes; nothing can be very painful now'--wearily.
A servant came to tell us that tea was taken in, and that Mrs Tipper
and Miss Reed were waiting for us.
'Have you quite decided to make it known at once, dear?'
'Yes; the sooner it is over the better.'
'Perhaps it is. Would you like to go to your room, and leave me to
prepare them a little, dear Lilian?'
'Yes; I should be very glad--if you do not mind--if you think it is
best, Mary.'
'I think it best for you to be present,' I replied, reflecting that it
would at least be better for her than brooding over the miserable scene
which had just been enacted. 'But if you do not feel equal to it, and
would like me to act for you, I will of course do so.'
'I will come with you,' she quietly replied, putting her hand into mine.
I stopped for a moment to kiss the pure brow, then we went together to
the morning-room.
'Excuse my sending, dears; but we thought that you had perhaps
forgotten,' said the kind little lady. 'But where are the gentlemen?
James said that Mr Wentworth had arrived.'
'They are gone,' I replied, trying to nerve myself for what was to come.
'Gone, dear?' Then she nervously added, taking note of Lilian's white
face: 'Is there anything the matter? Is not Lilian well, Mary?'
I placed Lilian on a couch, and took my seat beside her; then replied:
'She has had a very great' (I was going to say shock, but substituted)
'surprise. Something has occurred which will affect her whole future
life.'
I saw that Marian's interest was awakened now.
'Affect her whole future life!' she slowly repeated. Then with a sudden
unholy light in her eyes, she eagerly went on: 'You don't mean to say
that there's been a quarrel, and that it's all broken off between Mr
Trafford and her?'
'Be good enough to listen quietly,' I sternly replied. 'Lilian wishes
me to tell you, and I will do so in as few words as possible. In
looking over the contents of a cabinet which had belonged to her
father, Lilian found a paper purporting to be an agreement, which,
being signed in Scotland, constitutes a marriage between Mr Farrar--and
your mother.'
'Ma!'
'And after ascertaining that it is genuine, for that kind of thing'
(I could not help putting in the last little tag, though I might just
as well have left it unsaid, so little did it trouble her), 'Lilian
has decided to act upon it. She intends to recognise your mother's
marriage, though it be at the sacrifice of everything she most cares
for in the world.'
Mrs Tipper hurriedly rose from her seat, and crossed over to Lilian's
side.
'Married to Ma!' ejaculated Marian, gazing at us with dilating eyes
and parted lips. 'My gracious! And if Ma was his wife, I must be his
daughter--his eldest daughter, and I've as good a right'---- She
paused, for the moment quite dazzled by the light which was breaking
in upon her; then presently added, a little more doubtfully: 'But you
forget; Ma died only fifteen years ago, and Lilian is over seventeen.
How could he have two wives, unless'----
'It is Lilian's mother who was wronged,' I explained, feeling that the
sooner it was all said the better, if I wished to spare Lilian as much
as possible from hearing the other's comments.
'My goodness!' In her surprise and excitement, forgetting company
manners and her usual fine-ladyism, as well as being entirely oblivious
of Lilian's position and consequent feelings in the matter. 'Then that
was what you meant when you questioned me so closely the other day
about the exact time of Ma's death. You _were_ sharp!'
Mrs Tipper had Lilian in her arms, murmuring tender love-speeches over
her. Marian might go on as she pleased now.
It did please her to go on. 'To think of Ma being Mrs Farrar after all!
I should like to hear what Mr Pratt will say to _that_, after talking
about being able to tell a lady when he saw her! Mrs Farrar! And I'm
the eldest daughter, and'---- A new thought occurred to her, and she
went on with raised colour: 'Why, if I'm the eldest daughter, the real
Miss Farrar, and there was no will, everything must be mine!'
'Everything you most care for will most probably be yours.'
My words brought back the recollection of Arthur Trafford, and she
eagerly whispered: 'Does he know, Miss Haddon? Will it make any
difference to him, do you think?'
I turned away in disgust, and went towards Lilian.
'Come, Lilian; you need rest and quiet: come to your room, dear.--You
will come with us--will you not, Mrs Tipper?'
'Certainly I will,' returned Mrs Tipper promptly, rising to accompany
us: 'my place is with her.'
There was no necessity to apologise for leaving Marian alone. She was
for the moment too entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the great
change in her prospects to take any notice of our proceedings. 'Miss
Farrar!' I heard her repeating to herself, as she stood gazing out of
the window at the Fairview terraces and gardens, whilst we made our way
towards the door--'Miss FARRAR!'
Well, we were not entirely comfortless; we three could wonderfully help
each other. Mrs Tipper had at once returned to her allegiance; and from
thenceforth, I knew that Lilian would reign alone in her heart. Indeed
I think it was some time before the dear little woman could forgive
herself for being so disloyal to Lilian as to allow the other to reign
with her, even for a time. Marian's reception of the news had shocked
her a great deal more than it had shocked me, because she was less
prepared to see the former as she really was.
We were sitting together, and were already I was thankful to find
beginning to be able to face the worst and talk over the event with
some degree of calmness, when Lydia the housemaid tapped at the door
with a message from 'Miss Farrar.'
'If you please, ma'am, Miss Farrar wishes to know if you will come to
tea, or if you would prefer its being sent up here?' said the girl,
staring at us with all her eyes, astonishment depicted in every line of
her face.
Truly Marian had lost no time in making the change in her fortune
known. But that was, I suppose, to be expected. Obeying a sign from
Lilian and her aunt, I bade Lydia bring us some tea there.
We none of us went down again that night, although two or three very
gracious messages were sent up by 'Miss Farrar.' The repetition of the
name, and the girl's whole manner very evidently shewed that she had
been taken into Marian's confidence. I could see by her hesitating
reply to a question of Lilian's, that she had been informed that
her young mistress had no right to her father's name; and this made
me at length decide to give Lydia the true version of the story for
circulation. There was now no helping its getting about, and therefore
I determined that Lilian's unhesitating justice should be made known.
Following her out of the room, I rapidly gave Lydia an account of what
had happened. It was not necessary to dwell upon Lilian's unswerving
truth and justice. I just related the facts, and they spoke for
themselves.
Lydia was astounded; too much so to pick and choose her words, or to
assume a higher morality than she really felt.
'My! Give up all that, when she might so easily have kept it all! Oh,
Miss Haddon, an angel straight down from heaven couldn't do more than
that! It's almost _too_ good, it really is' (regretfully), 'giving up
this beautiful house, and thousands and thousands a year, when she
might have just torn up that paper, and nobody ever been the wiser!
One wouldn't mind if a bad person had to give it up; but it don't seem
right for dear Miss Lilian to suffer--it really don't.'
'Do not you think she is better able to endure suffering than a bad
person would be, Lydia?'
'I suppose she is, Miss; I suppose that's religion; but---- There; I
can't bear to think of it! That Miss Reed, who isn't fit to hold a
candle to her for goodness, leave alone ladified ways, to be set up
above over Miss Lilian! A pretty mistress _she_ will make; though,'
added Lydia, gradually awakening to the possibility of certain
consequences accruing to herself, 'I shan't be here long to see it.
I've let her see what I think of her, a good deal too plain for that;
and for the matter of that, so has every one of us, though she's only
got herself to thank for it.'
I had had my suspicions that Marian was not liked amongst the servants;
indeed Becky had more than once given me a hint that the former was
just as much disliked in the house as Lilian was beloved. The first
thing the next morning, Becky shewed me something else.
'Why, what is the matter, Becky?' I inquired, when she entered the
room, her swollen eyelids and red nose betokening recent and violent
emotion, which I could not wholly attribute to her attachment to
Lilian, and consequent sympathy with her suffering. Though Lilian was
growing in Becky's favour, the growth was slow.
'Please, don't ask me, Miss'--lugubriously. Then, after a struggle
against herself, she put down the jug of water she was carrying, and
burst forth into a wail of sorrow.
'I must ask you, Becky, and of course you must tell me your trouble.'
'You've got to go,' she sobbed out. 'You're going to be sent away the
very first! She told Lydia so this morning. But I'll go too; I told her
so. You will let me go with you; won't you, Miss Haddon, dear? You've
always been my real mistress in my heart; and it won't make scarce any
difference to you, till we can get another place. I can live on as
little as you can; and there's another quarter's wages nearly due.'
'Hush, Becky! Don't cry so, child!' I murmured, not a little touched,
and trying to wipe her tears away. 'It is not so bad as you think--not
for me. I should very much prefer leaving Fairview now, I assure you,
indeed---- What if I tell you a secret, Becky; something which no one
else, not even Miss Lilian, knows, though I love her so much? I think I
can do very well without taking another situation, and I mean to have
you with me.'
'Do without!' she ejaculated, her thoughts, I think, reverting to my
small success in 'doing without' at Mrs Sowler's. 'Don't try that
again, for'----
'Listen a moment, Becky. In three or four months I am going to be
married.'
'Married! Oh, Miss Haddon, dear!' she ejaculated, her mouth expanding
and her whole face brightening. 'And may I guess who he is? I think I
can.'
'Yes.'
'It's that gentleman, Mr Wentworth, who comes here so often, and looks
at you so. Isn't it? Mr Saunders said he knew it would come. And I
don't believe there's another gentleman in all the world as is so fit
for you, that I don't; for I know a little about him too. I did not
like to tell you before, but that time as'----
'Stop, stop, Becky!' I ejaculated, laughing outright. 'What in the
world put such an idea into your head? Mr Wentworth indeed! Certainly
not; _quite_ a different kind of gentleman.'
'Oh!' said Becky, her face falling.
'But I do not wish it mentioned, Becky. I only tell you that you may
have the pleasure of feeling that you and I need have no anxiety about
the future; for of course you will be with me.'
There was only one little drawback to Becky's happiness now--the
regret that Robert Wentworth was not to be my husband; and I thought
his being so great a favourite of hers quite sufficiently accounted
for her disappointment. I, in turn, was a little disappointed that the
face I had shewn her in the locket was so difficult to connect with the
idea of my happiness; though I told myself Philip must look much more
manly now. But having set Becky's fears at rest, I was a great deal too
anxious about Lilian's future to think much about my own.
FOSSIL MEN.
Men of science in their eagerness to support a theory are apt to fall
into mistakes. They reason honestly enough, but from too narrow a
basis of facts. For example, the skeleton of a man is found imbedded
in limestone. That man must have lived in the geological period, long
before the commencement of human record. This theory looks well, but is
not satisfactory. We do not know at what time the limestone, which was
originally a loose substance, assumed the rocky form. There is a case
in point.
At the western end of the geological galleries of the British Museum
may be seen a human skeleton imbedded in a block of limestone brought
from Guadeloupe. At first sight this would seem to be a silent
but unimpeachable witness to the remote antiquity of our race. On
investigation, however, the fossil man is found to be in this point
of view a bearer of most unreliable testimony. All fossils are not
necessarily very old, and this skeleton is comparatively a modern
one. The limestone in which it is imbedded is a very rapidly formed
deposit of corals and small shells bound together by a kind of natural
calcareous cement. The remains are those of an Indian, whose death
is placed by some authorities at as recent a period as two hundred
years ago. The same rock often contains remains of unmistakably recent
origin. In England a coin of Edward I. has been found imbedded in it;
in France a cannon buried in this hard stone was quarried out of a
deposit on the lower Rhone.
Another 'fossil man' was found at Denise in Auvergne. The bones were
beneath the hardened lava stream of an extinct volcano, and it was
alleged that the volcanoes of Auvergne had not been active since the
Christian era, as Julius Cæsar had actually encamped among them. This
view was put forward more than thirty years ago. Since then, a more
careful investigation of local history has proved that there were
serious volcanic disturbances in Auvergne as late as the fifth century;
and further, it appears that the original position of the buried man is
very doubtful, as there has been a landslip on the spot.
In 1848 some human bones were found imbedded in the rocks on the shores
of Lake Monroe in Florida. It was reported at the time that the rock
was a coralline limestone; and on this basis Agassiz and Lyell assigned
to the fossil men an age of at least ten thousand years. But the claim
to this venerable antiquity was unfortunately exploded by a discovery
which shewed that the evidence on which it rested was false. Pourtalès,
the original discoverer, came forward to rectify the mistake. The rock
in which the bones lay was not the old coralline limestone of Florida,
but a recent fresh-water sandstone, which contains (besides the bones)
large numbers of shells of precisely the same species as those still
indigenous to the lake.
So far we have dealt only with errors resulting from imperfect
information or too hastily drawn inferences. But there are cases in
which, as we have said, an uneducated man has succeeded in deceiving
a geologist in his own special line of study. The well-known jaw of
Moulin Quignon is a case in point. Every one has heard of M. Boucher
de Perthes' careful exploration of the gravels of the Somme Valley,
which resulted in the discovery of thousands of flint implements, the
handiwork of primitive man in Western Europe. But up to 1863 M. Boucher
de Perthes had found no human remains in the gravel, though it had
been predicted that such would be found; and he was naturally anxious
to make the discovery. He had offered a reward for this purpose to the
workmen of the different gravel-pits in the valley. Several attempts
had been made to deceive him with false discoveries, but in every case
his special knowledge had saved him from falling into a trap. At length
he and many others with him were completely deceived by the cunning
of a workman. In 1863 a quarryman at Moulin Quignon, near Abbeville,
came to M. Boucher de Perthes with the news that he had laid bare a
human bone in the gravel. He had left it undisturbed, in order that
the professor might himself examine it _in situ_, and explore the
surrounding deposit for further remains. M. de Perthes and some of his
friends went to the spot. Half imbedded in the gravel--a bed of pebbles
stained a dull red by the presence of iron in the deposit--they found a
human jawbone with several teeth still in position, the whole stained
like the surrounding gravel. Close by was a flint hatchet.
As soon as the news of the discovery reached England, a number of
English men of science visited Abbeville. To the doubts which they
expressed as to the genuineness of the discovery, M. de Perthes
replied that he had himself removed the jawbone from the undisturbed
bed of gravel, and that the workmen who had uncovered it were men
of irreproachable character. Two conferences of French and English
geologists were held, one at Paris, the other at Abbeville; the bone
and teeth were carefully examined; and though many were not fully
satisfied, the general impression was that the discovery was a genuine
one. M. de Quatrefages expressed his opinion that it might be regarded
as 'the first human fossil ever discovered except in a cave.' But
among the English geologists there were some who were not so easily
convinced. One of the teeth was brought to London and subjected to
microscopical examination; and it was shewn that there were no signs of
mineral infiltration into its structure. The tooth was like one from
a recent grave. The jawbone when sawn across at Paris had emitted the
odour of fresh bone. It was pointed out that the edges of the flints
found with it were quite sharp and fresh; there were no signs of
rounding or rolling in an ancient river. The workmen were watched. It
was discovered that they occasionally found means to introduce flint
implements of modern manufacture into the gravel. It was observed too
that the reddish deposit on the bone could easily be imparted to the
surface of bones and flints by artificial means. Suspicion was thus
aroused in many quarters, when Mr Busk opened a Celtic grave not far
from Moulin Quignon, and there found the skeleton of a Gaulic warrior
_minus the lower jawbone_. The famous jaw of Moulin Quignon was all
that was needed to make the skeleton a perfect one. For most men this
has settled the question of the non-authenticity of the discovery. But
some still believe in it.
Another famous fossil is the 'Calaveras Skull,' alleged to have been
found one hundred and fifty feet deep in the shaft of a gold mine at
Angelos, in Calaveras County, California. The skull is said to have
come from the gold-bearing gravel; and in the strata above are no less
than five beds of lava and other volcanic rocks. Professor Whitney
secured the skull for the Museum of the Californian Geological Survey;
but he was not the actual discoverer, and there is a pretty general
impression that he was 'hoaxed.' Dr Andrews of Chicago investigated
the matter, and gives evidence that the skull was taken by two of the
miners from a _cave_ in the valley, and placed in the gravel where it
was found with a view to hoax the officers of the Survey; and this
would explain the fact that there are well-marked traces of stalagmite
upon the skull. This 'discovery' it was that suggested to the
Californian humorist Bret Harte the idea of his amusing _Address to a
Fossil Skull_. Many of our readers are doubtless already familiar with
it; they will pardon our quoting a few lines for those who are not. The
poet's exordium is a solemn one:
Speak, O man less recent! fragmentary fossil!
Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,
Hid in lowest depths below the earliest stratum
Of volcanic tufa.
Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium;
Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;
Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions
Of earth's epidermis!
He begs the skull to tell its story: what was its epoch; did its former
possessor behold 'the dim and watery woodland' of the carboniferous
times; or did he live when 'cheerful pterodactyls' might have circled
over his head. An answer was vouchsafed to him.
Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,
And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication
Ground the teeth together;
And from that imperfect dental exhibition,
Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian,
Came those hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs
Of expectoration:
'Which my name is Bowers! and my crust was busted
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County;
But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces
Home to old Missouri!'
The bone-caves have of course yielded numbers of ancient skulls--most
of them, be it noted, very well developed, and many superior to
savage skulls of the present day. The strangely deformed skull of the
Neanderthal Valley (found near Düsseldorf) is thought by many to have
been that of an idiot. It stands unique among ancient skulls. Even
the famous skull of the Engis cavern near Liège, is said by Professor
Huxley to have 'no mark of degradation about any part of its structure.
It is in fact,' he continues, 'a fair average skull, which might have
belonged to a philosopher, or might have contained the thoughtless
brains of a savage.'
But we must stop here, or we shall drift into the controversy on
primitive man--rather too wide a subject to enter upon here. Let us
merely note that among all the remains that we possess of primitive
man, we have no vestiges of that ape-man or man-ape which figures so
prominently in certain modern theories of the origin of man.
SUCH OLD FRIENDS.
A STORY.
CHAPTER I.--COUNTRY LIFE.
The century was much younger, but it had passed its stormy infancy.
Just as after a stormy night we take down the shutters and let in the
light and rejoice in the calm of the dawn, so the country was beginning
to breathe freely after the long years of agitation it had known. Peace
was turning men's thoughts homewards, and there were even spirits
daring enough to suggest that the very constitution of England itself
needed patching up, or perhaps entirely renovating; scientific men
were talking of the wonderful power of steam; but meantime ordinary
mortals were content with the road, and were very proud of their
'High-flyers.' People were not so used to novelties then as we are
now, and 'newfangled' was frequently the verdict on them, given with
severity and even distrust. The far-spreading ocean of Time rubs off
points and sharp corners, and leaves them smooth and rounded, and
ready to fit in. But the eddies had scarcely yet stirred our far-off
west county village. Once a week indeed, the Squire had a newspaper,
which he lent to the Rector, who gave the benefit of it to some of his
parishioners in his calls before passing it on to the doctor; and so
news slowly circulated. It was such a quiet spot; the Parsonage and the
Hall nestled lovingly together, with the Church like a link between; a
small apology for a village was tucked close under the hill; and a few
farms and homesteads scattered here and there completed the parish.
But such a wealth of broad fair meadows and laden orchards lay around!
The upland fields were bleaker and more stubborn, but the growth of
purple heather covered many deficiencies, at least to the eye of the
lover of beauty; and the all-bountiful Hand that planted the earth had
crowned the ridges of hills with trees. Such trees, so grand and calm
and stately in their growth! Winter had the hardest possible fight to
rob them of their last robes; even November, whose sky is proverbially
'chill and drear'--November, whose 'leaf is red and sear,' found them
in a perfect sunset glory, from gold to deepest purple.
'I do not believe there are any trees like ours,' exclaimed Dorothy
Linley; and I think she ought to know, for she had lived with them all
her life--not that it was a very long life either when our, or rather
her story begins. She had scarcely seen a score of years; but things
look bright and sharply defined seen through the clear atmosphere of
youth. It was no wonder that she thought so on this afternoon as she
stood at the open window, looking up the long avenue of pink-and-white
horse-chestnuts, while the air was fragrant with the May from the tree
on the lawn. It was not a mere afternoon tea, but the real meal that
was laid in the Rectory drawing-room. In those days the article itself
was costly but good, and they drank it out of tiny cups. Some had been
handed down from a former generation and had no handles, others of more
modern make had. Dorothy's mother was sitting at the table, surveying
with a little pleased satisfaction its hospitable spread of country
dainties prepared under her own eye, if not with her own hands. They
were expecting a guest--Madam from the Hall. Mrs Linley's hands were
never idle; the whole parish could bear witness to her 'notableness;'
and her daughters were considered models of 'bringing up.'
'You would not have liked to live in the town where you were born, my
dear,' she said in answer to Dorothy's exclamation; then suffering
her work to drop into her lap, she looked beyond the slight figure at
the window, away through the chestnuts, far back into the past. 'I
thought as you do when first I walked up this avenue carrying you, an
infant, in my arms. Your father and I had had a hard struggle--his
means were so small as a curate, and he tried in vain to increase
them by teaching--those were such terrible times; bread was almost at
famine price; and I have sat with windows and doors bolted and barred,
trembling to hear the people in the streets, for bread-riots were not
uncommon. Everything was taxed, even the light that came in at the
windows; so many of them were closed up, making the houses dark and
gloomy. We could hardly believe it, when your father's cousin Kent
Linley, whom he had not seen for years, wrote to say that the family
"living" was vacant, and sooner than give it to a stranger, he offered
it to him.'
'It must have been like a glimpse of Paradise, mother.'
'It was; for your father's health was giving way under the strain. He
would have it that you, our first child, born just when our troubles
were greatest, were the herald of the peace that was coming; and when
he gave you his mother's name, he called you also Olive. You were the
first he christened at the little church here, and "Dorothy Olive" the
first name he wrote on the parish register.'
'Was Madam at the Hall then?' asked her daughter.
'No; the Squire brought home his bride two years later, before your
sister was born; and Mrs Melton used to come and see us very often. As
you know, she gave Juliet her own name. We thought it rather fanciful,
but could not refuse so kind a friend.' Mrs Linley looked up and smiled
as the owner of it entered the room--a younger copy of herself, small,
and with the same sweet tender eyes.
'Mother dear,' said the new-comer, seating herself beside her, 'do you
know what it is my godmother is coming to talk about this afternoon?'
'No, my child: perhaps some parish matter.'
'Perhaps,' said Dorothy from the window, 'it may be the long-talked-of
visit to London.'
'Oh, if it should!' cried Juliet, her face flushing with delight at the
thought.
'Well, we shall not have long to wait,' answered their mother, laying
down her work; 'for I hear the wheels coming up the avenue;' and the
Squire's large roomy carriage, drawn by its two sleek well-fed horses,
drawing up to the door, they all rose to receive their guest.