[Illustration: THE GLEANER.
_From the Painting in the Salon by JULES BRETON_]
[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1018.] JULY 1, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
THE SECRET OF THE SEA.
BY EDWARD OXENFORD.
[Illustration]
_All rights reserved._]
They stand at twilight by the rippling ocean,
A youth and maiden, as they plight their troth,
And perfect faith and infinite devotion
Have made their dwelling in the hearts of both.
They will be wedded when his cruise is ended,
“And that will not be long, love!” murmurs he;
But whether lives shall be hereafter blended
As yet remains a secret of the sea!
Across the waters now his ship is sailing
Erect and stately, for the wind is fair,
And she who watches knows that love unfailing
Is ever present with her dear one there!
When from her sight his form at last is hidden,
“It will not be for long, love!” murmurs she;
But whether meeting hence shall be forbidden
As yet remains a secret of the sea!
The years pass onward, but no tidings reach her
Of him who still is to her brave heart dear;
But, hoping still, she prays that Hope may teach her
To bear the burthen of her growing fear.
She trusts to his last words, despairing never,
“Your promise, love, you yet will keep to me!”
But whether now his lips are hushed for ever
Remains, untold, a secret of the sea!
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object
in Life,” etc.
CHAPTER XIV.
ANOTHER DOOR OPENS.
Why did Lucy Challoner start when she entered her own kitchen, well
knowing that a visitor was there, for whose presence she had given full
permission?
She started, because when one expects to see a moon-faced, shy youth,
with a shock of red hair, it does give one rather a shock to be
suddenly confronted by a tall jovial man of thirty, wearing a full
black beard!
What ought Lucy to have done? Perhaps she ought to have walked forward,
saying that this was not the person to whom she had made her kitchen
free, inquiring who he was, and bidding him go about his business.
But poor Lucy was not a business-like and self-confident mistress, and
she was so thoroughly disconcerted and taken aback that, with a single
exclamation of surprise, she beat a hasty retreat.
Upstairs in the dining-room she considered the position. She could hear
the voices in the kitchen. It seemed to her that there was smothered
laughter on the part of the man. She could hear Jane speak with a
defiant angry tone. Some kitchen utensils were moved sharply and
noisily, as by the hand of an offended person.
It was very clear that the carpenter sweetheart had been discarded, and
that this stranger had filled his place so promptly that Jane had not
thought it worth her while to go through any ceremony of transferring
his privileges. Of course she had known well enough that her mistress
would be no party to such a rapidly moving panorama of courtship. Or
was there any genuine courtship in the matter at all, or was the form
of a professed “engagement” the mask under which mere promiscuous
acquaintances were encouraged? Who was this man? Lucy could not but
remember his free laughter and loud talk on what had evidently been the
evening of his first appearance. Now when she had unwittingly surprised
him in her kitchen, he neither blenched nor offered the slightest
explanation or apology. As Lucy sat, reflective, she heard him laugh
again.
However, this evening he did not stay till the usual hour of nine, but
went off as soon as the spring twilight darkened into dusk—went off
with slamming of doors, and stamping of feet, and whistling, as he
mounted the area stairs.
Lucy lit her lamp. She resolved not to summon Jane to her presence, but
to wait till she brought the supper tray. Perhaps she wished to give
Jane an opportunity to come and offer some voluntary explanation and
apology. Perhaps she wished to calm her own nerves. Perhaps—and this is
the most probable—she deferred simply out of dread of a scene. Lucy had
always felt that Jane was an unknown quantity in the house, so she had
no prevision as to how the servant would act in any crisis.
The maid moved about the kitchen noisily. It was evident that supper
was to be served in very good time. If Lucy was afraid of Jane, Jane
was clearly not going to be afraid of her.
She came upstairs with a very firm step, and looked straight at her
mistress as she put down the tray. Lucy’s heart was beating very fast,
but she controlled her nerves enough to say with a perfectly even voice—
“Jane, I must ask you for some explanation about the change of your
weekly visitor, for——”
Jane interrupted her.
“Please, m’m,” she said, “there’s no need to ask me anything. I’ve come
to give you notice—to bid you suit yourself before this day month.
Ever since I’ve been here I’ve been thinking I’d like service in the
country—with some lady as is a lady, and doesn’t come a-poking her nose
into my kitchen when she knows I’ve got a friend there. I like a lady
as looks after her work at the proper time, not having to go out of a
morning to earn her bread. It’s not your fault, m’m, I dessay, but it
ain’t pleasant for a girl.”
In face of this impertinence, Lucy rallied her spirits and dignity.
Cost what such effort may afterwards, it is not at such moments that
any spirited woman fails or shrinks.
“Very well, Jane,” she said. “Under these circumstances, I need ask
you no questions. This spares me a painful task. But as your senior,
even but by a few years and a little experience, I trust that you will
deeply consider your ways. You have not treated me well. That may not
matter much now. But I fear that you are not acting in a way to secure
your own womanly respectability and happiness. If you seek a reference
from me, I shall have to tell any inquirer what has happened.”
“Very well, m’m. Please, m’m, you’ll remember it was me that gave you
notice.”
“I shall remember,” said Lucy. Not another word was exchanged.
The event gave Lucy a sleepless night, partly because it had excited
her beyond her ebbing strength, and partly because she could not help
forecasting ways and means with which to meet this fresh domestic
difficulty.
To live in the same house with somebody so flatly antagonistic
as she felt Jane intended to be, was a hard trial for a lonely
and over-strained woman. Lucy realised that Jane was capable of
insolence—that her outburst had not been a mere fit of temper, but
a revelation of the coarse, cruel nature seething beneath the dull
exterior. It might not have been wise, but if Lucy had been a free
woman, she would have paid Jane her wages and let her go at once, so
as to clear the atmosphere. But Lucy was not a free woman; she had her
engagements to fulfil, her work to do.
She had hoped to take advantage of the fine weather to take Hugh a
little out of town on Saturday afternoons, thus giving him fresh air
and enjoyment, and also snatching an opportunity to make a study or
a sketch. But now the four Saturday afternoons which would pass over
before Jane’s departure were all the leisure in which to seek a new
supply of domestic help. This “month” of Jane’s would bring Lucy to the
edge of the summer holidays at the Institute. Had all gone on right
with Jane, Lucy had meant to get her decent old charwoman to spend her
nights in the house and give the girl company and security, while she
and Hugh went down to Deal for two or three weeks. She had a secret
consciousness that she was “running down” in a way which needed both
the fresh sea breezes and the strong, calm presence of Jarvis May’s
brave widow. She had hoped to persuade Miss Latimer to make one of the
party. That lady herself would have respite from her one or two little
engagements, and she had not had a seaside holiday for two or three
years. Lucy meant to give the invitation as a favour to herself, since
Miss Latimer’s presence would ensure her the more leisure and freedom
for sketching. For in that seaside holiday she had hoped to lay in a
store of sketches—as many as she could possibly work up before the
darkening days of next winter would be brightened by Charlie’s return.
Now all these plans of hers must be knocked on the head! She tried to
be thankful that if she failed to secure satisfactory help during the
coming month, then the holidays would at least give her leisure to do
her own housework for awhile. She had accustomed herself to remember
that, as Jeremy Taylor tells us, every trial has two handles, or at
least that we have two hands, and that, when anything happens to our
displeasure, it is the part of a wise and submissive spirit to handle
it on that side in which we can find some comfort or use. But it seemed
to poor Lucy as if this “handle” was so slight that it was ready to
break in her trembling grasp. She knew that trials which loom large
in the mists of our own minds are sometimes wonderfully reduced in
magnitude if we can get them outside ourselves, and state them in plain
terms. So she tried to rally her courage and spirits by asking what was
this trouble, after all? She was simply parting from a servant whom she
had never liked, and who had proved herself to be a girl of low type.
That was how Lucy resolutely put it, and then it seemed little enough.
She would not let herself add that she was already worn out under the
awful anxiety of her husband’s illness, the strain of the separation,
the practical solitude, the unremitting duties which would allow of no
rest nor recreation. She left these in her sub-consciousness. When we
know that no hand but ours is on the helm, we can face anything except
the full realisation that we ourselves are stunned and reeling in the
storm.
It seemed to Lucy that as she and Miss Latimer were not to have their
holiday together at the seaside, the next best thing would be to
invite Miss Latimer to spend her holiday in the little house with the
verandah, so that they might at least enjoy each other’s society. Miss
Latimer accepted the invitation eagerly, adding the information that
she had got to leave the house in which she had been living, as the
family were quitting town.
“Come and stay with me, then, till you are comfortably suited
elsewhere,” Lucy wrote back in reply. “I wish I could ask you to stay
till Charlie returns. But it would give you too long a journey to your
pupils.”
Miss Latimer’s answer soon came.
“I gladly accept your invitation in its new extended form,” she said.
“I wish we could be together in this London which can make separation
so easy. I should not mind the length of the daily journey to my pupil,
but my income is too small to bear deduction of a railway fare.”
Lucy pondered over that letter. Sometimes when Hugh had gone to bed,
she sat in her parlour, too tired to work and sick with loneliness.
Why should not Miss Latimer stay with her, paying what she had paid
hitherto, less the railway fare? She wrote to Miss Latimer, making
this proposal, and saying, “Why not? Are we not sensible women?” Miss
Latimer came and talked it over, and decided to accept the plan; then
she and Lucy agreed that, as in this instance there was a breathing
spell before they were deprived of household help, they would try what
“advertisement” would do.
So Lucy put a very explicit advertisement into three daily papers,
which had columns both of “Situations Wanted,” and “Vacant.” Applicants
were to call “on Saturday afternoons only.” When the first Saturday
came, she gave Hugh his painting book with which to amuse himself, took
her needlework and sat expectant.
All that came to the house was repeated postman’s knocks. Every post
brought circulars—printed, typewritten or lithographed—from different
registry offices. But not one servant, suitable or the reverse, put in
appearance!
Lucy thought this experience must be special and peculiar. So she
resolved to repeat the process next week. At the same time, she thought
she had better take more active measures. Therefore she began to con
the columns of “Situations Wanted,” determined to write to every
advertiser whose statement of her capacities and requirements held out
any hope.
Lucy had often carelessly glanced over these columns in days gone by.
Then it had seemed only as if there were plenty of people “waiting to
be hired” for every purpose. She had felt quite sorry to think how much
hope deferred and disappointment must be involved. But when one came
to scan this newspaper page for an express purpose, it was wonderful
into what a small number the hopeful cases shrank! “General Servants”
in themselves were few enough, but even those who were so described all
added “where another is kept,” or “where boy cleans knives and boots.”
Lucy knew by experience that it was useless to approach these. There
were “lady-helps” by the score. Some of these were only prepared to
work “where there is a servant.” The others specially stated that they
would do “nothing menial.”
There were, however, two advertisers who described themselves as
“useful helps,” “well educated and highly recommended,” and who laid
down no conditions save concerning “a comfortable home” and a “salary”
not higher than the wages Mrs. Challoner was prepared to give. The
one, “Miss L.,” called herself thirty-two, and gave an address in a
suburb on the northern edge of London. The other described herself
as twenty-six, and gave her name as Miss F., Parsonage Cottage, in a
little town not very far away.
To both these addresses Lucy wrote. She detailed her own position,
and added that she would be anxious to make every concession to
give comfort and leisure to any well-educated woman whose household
co-operation she could secure. She particularly requested a prompt
reply in any case, and enclosed stamped and directed envelopes.
Day after day of the second week passed. No reply came from either
“Miss L.” or “Miss F.” Presently Lucy noticed that she received a
circular from a registry office, established in the country town from
which Miss F. had issued her advertisement. She also discovered that
both “Miss L.” and “Miss F.,” while apparently ignoring answers to
their advertisements, were still repeating those advertisements. Also
she found another advertisement word for word like “Miss L.’s,” but
this time requesting that answers should be directed to “Miss N.”
somewhere in the S.W. district.
“Surely things are not what they seem!” thought Lucy. She wrote again,
but much less sanguinely this time, to the one or two advertisers,
whose case seemed in the least likely to meet her requirements,
and began to wonder whether her own advertisements would bring any
applicants on the second Saturday.
But lo! on the Friday afternoon a prospect of relief opened up from a
wholly unexpected quarter.
Miss Latimer had gone out to tea.
As Lucy and Hugh, on their return from the Institute and the
Kindergarten turned hand in hand into Pelham Street, they saw a neat
brougham standing in front of the little house with the verandah.
Lucy knew at once what guest this was. The Challoners had only one
“carriage visitor,” and even she was not a “carriage person” in the
strictest sense. For a month every year, generally the month of
blossoming trees, picture galleries and distinguished strangers in
London, Mrs. Bray hired a brougham. As for the rest of the year, for
six months of it she never left her own house, for two months more she
and Mr. Bray went to Bath or Buxton or Harrogate, and for the remaining
three she limited herself to hobbling promenades in the Gardens near
her home, where she could lean on the arm of her faithful Rachel, or
indulge herself in the dissipation of a chair and a chairman.
In her “carriage month” the old lady put herself in step with the
latest ideas in fashion, art, and science, picked up one or two new
acquaintances to fill the gaps left by death among old friends, and
punctiliously returned every call which she had received during the
season of her seclusion or limitation.
“Here is Mrs. Bray come to see us, Hugh,” said Lucy. Whereupon the boy
joyously echoed “Mrs. Bray!” and set off at a canter. Lucy hastened
her steps after him. But as the child reached the little house with
the verandah, he did not rush at the door, or even pull the bell,
but turned aside to the brougham. It was evident that the object of
interest was still in its interior. Yes, there she was, Mrs. Bray
herself, throwing up her hands in delight on catching sight of Lucy.
“Oh, how fortunate that we should appear just as you arrived!” cried
Lucy.
“I’ve been waiting ten minutes, my dear,” said the old lady. “Your
servant would not let me in; she said ‘the missis was awful partic’ler,
and she’d never had no words with her, except about lettin’ folks into
the house too easy.’” (Jane’s accent and grammar did not lose in Mrs.
Bray’s imitation.) “What harm she thought a poor limping, half-blind
old dame is likely to do, I don’t know. But it is clear that you’re an
awful dragon, my dear. I shouldn’t have thought it of you.”
Lucy had given Hugh the latch-key wherewith to open the door, and while
Mrs. Bray spoke, she was making her way into the hall, aided by Lucy’s
arm.
“This is very annoying,” said Lucy. “I leave you to imagine under what
circumstances I have been ‘partic’ler’ about ‘folks’ coming into the
house. I fear Jane has done this out of pure malice.”
“My dear, I thought so at once,” returned Mrs. Bray, “and I was
a perfect match for her; for I showed no annoyance, and I highly
commended you, saying that if all ladies were as prudent we should not
hear of half the robberies which take place.” Mrs. Bray gave a quick
little nod of triumphant self-satisfaction.
“And, my dear,” she went on, “that’s not the sort of girl for you to
have about your house. A creature who will turn her own misdemeanours
into nettles to sting you with, is capable of anything. She should be
at once sent off about her business.”
“She is going off about it,” answered Lucy. “The moment she knew she
had done something which I could not pass over in silence, she gave me
‘notice.’”
“Hoity-toity,” cried Mrs. Bray; “and I hope you’ve got somebody else,
and will be able to release her before her date?”
Lucy shook her head with a sad little smile. “But don’t let me talk
kitchen,” she said, “I want to hear your impressions of the Royal
Academy.”
“It’s been open for just a fortnight,” said Mrs. Bray, looking keenly
at her. “Of course, you’ve been? I know all about your bothering
Institute classes, but there was Saturday.”
“Last Saturday I had to stay indoors in hopes of interviewing
servants,” Lucy answered cheerfully, “and I shall have to do the same
to-morrow.”
“There now, my dear, you see that kitchen will come into our talk,”
returned Mrs. Bray, shaking a playful finger at her hostess. “You can’t
shut it out. It underlies all our living, and we ought to speak about
what really concerns and interests us. It is called underbred to shrink
from ‘talking shop,’ but after all it is the only talk worth engaging
in. You verify my words, my dear, for you wanted to turn from the
kitchen to pictures, that being ‘the shop’ you prefer. But the kitchen
comes first, my dear. At bottom, the pictures depend on the kitchen.
The greatest artists would tell you so, though they’ve left off
glorifying copper pots and carrots as the good old Dutch school used to
do.”
By this time Lucy had set out her little afternoon tea-tray, and had
summoned Jane to bring the kettle with boiling water. Everything else
she did herself, yet she was not too pre-occupied to be amused by her
visitor’s expression while the handmaid was in the room. It was the
expression of a person unwillingly in the presence of a noxious animal.
What pained and puzzled Lucy was, that this and Mrs. Bray’s earlier
diatribe seemed to have had a good effect upon Jane so far as making
her move more softly and speak more respectfully. It acted as all her
own justice, patience, and consideration had failed to do.
“A horrid girl,” was the lady’s comment as Jane departed.
“You see her at her very best,” remarked Lucy, with a constrained
little laugh. “You seem to have had a good effect on her. I must have
made some mistake in dealing with her.”
“She sees that I know her at her exact worth, or rather worthlessness,”
retorted the old lady, “and worthless people respect one for that at
least as much as the worthy do for one’s just appreciation. But don’t
distress yourself about your ‘mistakes,’ my dear. I’m only a visitor,
and you are that hateful thing, a mistress; that gives her a different
point of view. Above all, I come in a carriage, which, doubtless, she
thinks is my own. My dear, make up your mind to the fact that to the
common people ‘the real lady, whom it is a pleasure to serve,’ is the
woman with money—the woman who does nothing, but expects everybody to
wait upon her and to put her first. In their eyes, nobody who works for
her living is ‘a real lady.’”
“I don’t think we need attribute these things to the ‘common people,’”
said Lucy quietly. “I notice the same feeling among the mass of women
of my own class.”
Whatever the old lady had originally meant, she was too keen and alert
to deny the truth of Lucy’s proposition. She adroitly parried it.
“My dear, the common people form the mass of every class. There are
more of them in the lower classes simply because the lower classes are
the larger. Sometimes, too, the others are too cowardly to put their
creed into words, though they are faithful enough to it in deeds.
But of course I don’t know much about the young women of our class
nowadays. I thought you had changed all that, and that all of you were
running after ‘careers.’”
Lucy laughed. “I don’t think that makes any difference,” she said. “A
very plain distinction is generally drawn between the young woman who
selects a career for her pleasure and her ‘interest in life,’ and the
other who does the same thing for her livelihood.”
“And I daresay nobody emphasises that distinction more strongly than
some of your most advanced women,” said Mrs. Bray, whose searching
observation, despite her professed ignorance, had probably taught her
all that Lucy could tell her and a good deal more too. “So that’s
the present-day way of it, is it? Well, my way would be that every
girl should have her own father to give her a dowry suitable to her
position, and her own husband who would do all the rest. I suppose
that’s Utopia. We all have Utopias, and that’s mine. What does a woman
want with a career, except for a living? Her grandmother and her
great-grandmother (if she had any, poor dear!) found enough career in
making the most of what the gods—I mean the men—provided.”
“But even girls who don’t need a livelihood may find it hard to occupy
themselves,” Lucy mildly suggested. “It seems cruel to deny work to any
human being.”
“Perhaps so, my love, but it’s very mean of them to want to be provided
for as women and working women at one and the same time. Let them be
one or the other, whichever they choose; they’ve a right to freedom of
choice, but they ought not to be both. Why, to be so is to be the very
worst form of—what is it Mr. Bray calls the men whom labourers don’t
like?—black caps? No, blacklegs—yes, the very worst form of blackleg.
It’s not ladylike. But here am I, rattling away about all sorts of
women’s social questions (which are but branches from the kitchen after
all), and forgetting the kitchen itself. Do you know, my dear, the
minute you said that this hussy is leaving, it occurred to me that I
know somebody who can come in her place, who will probably suit you to
a T, and who will regard me as a special providence if I get her the
situation.”
“Oh, Mrs. Bray,” cried Lucy, “you make my heart leap with delight. This
is so unexpected. Surely it is too good to be true!”
(_To be continued._)
THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.
BY FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.