morning meal was soft food, consisting of “sharps” (the outer part of
wheat, which is separated in grinding the corn for white flour) and
barley meal, mixed in equal parts, and added to any kitchen scraps
there might be. This was wetted with boiling water, and should have
been made into a stiff, dryish paste—a point Mrs. Wilson had been most
particular about. The cook, however, objected to any extra trouble; as
it was much easier to pour in water enough at once to make the mixture
wet and sloppy, she always did so; while, as for the kettle really
boiling—well, that was only one of her mistress’s many fads.
Then there was the Indian meal, which ought not to have been used,
except in the cold weather, and then only occasionally mixed with
the other meal, but this had all been used up, and no fresh had been
ordered, so the fowls had been fed on Indian meal alone, till that,
too, was finished.
Again, with her liberal ideas, Ella gave them far more food than they
could eat, and the wet, sour mess lay about all day; so that it was not
at all to be wondered at that the fowls drooped, seemed out of order,
and did not lay their proper quantity of eggs, and Ella, afraid of
exciting her aunt by telling her they were ailing, only increased the
evil by increasing the quantity of food.
This state of things had lasted some time, when the nurse took pity
on Ella’s difficulties, and told her it would do her aunt no harm to
be asked for advice about the fowls; so, to Ella’s great relief, they
talked the matter over together, and a change was instituted in the
feeding. Fresh meal of all kinds was ordered, and Ella had a practical
lessons in mixing it.
Mrs. Wilson had all the materials brought into her room, and directed
the process, while Ella, arrayed in a large apron, and with her sleeves
turned up carefully, followed her instructions.
Some potato peelings and kitchen scraps had previously been boiled
together till they were quite soft, and now Ella cut these up small,
with an old knife, and then mixed the meal in equal parts, while
waiting for the kettle to boil.
As soon as it boiled, the scraps were mixed in with the dry flour, and
Ella, seizing the big wooden spoon, began to stir vigorously, while the
nurse poured in the boiling water.
“Enough water,” Mrs. Wilson cried, in spite of the incredulity of
the two operators, who had intended to put in twice as much. “Don’t
stop beating it up, child,” and Ella continued till she was hot and
breathless.
“Now take up a handful and squeeze it.”
Ella did so, and it fell from her hand a stiff lump, leaving her palm
quite clean.
“That is quite right,” said Mrs. Wilson, encouragingly, after slowly
arranging her gold spectacles, and peering at the mass in the basin.
“See that it is always stiff like that; and never give them more than
they will run after when you throw it for them. If you find any is
left, do not give them so much next time. At night give them each as
much grain as you can take up in your hand, but no more. You may give
the ducks a little more, but stop at once when their hunger is not
keen. Now go and feed them, child; I am tired.”
Under this treatment the fowls soon revived, and Ella was happy about
them again, at any rate till she discovered that she had made other
mistakes. She found the eggs she got now were much better and richer
than those bought in shops, or even than those she got when the fowls
were being carelessly fed, and that in consequence fewer of them were
necessary in cooking.
One day, before she had began to take solid food, to the great delight
of her nurses, Mrs. Wilson declared she was hungry, and had taken a
fancy for a boiled egg. There were not many eggs from the hens now, but
the ducks laid regularly; so Ella picked out a fine large duck egg,
and carried in the prettily arranged tray herself; but what was her
disappointment when, on breaking the shell, the egg was found not to be
fresh. Her aunt pushed the tray away in disgust, the sight of the bad
egg had quite turned off her appetite, and she refused to eat anything
at all.
The nurse was very much vexed, and Ella herself was greatly distressed,
and went off with the tray, more convinced than ever that housekeeping
was not her vocation, and that she never would succeed in it.
The next time she was alone in the sick-room her aunt told her that she
was evidently very careless about the eggs, and must begin to manage
them differently. To begin with, she must use up all in the house as
quickly as possible for cooking, and every fresh one that came in must
be dated with lead pencil, and placed in order, with the large end
downward, in a board pierced with round holes for the purpose, and
which was kept in the cool larder. They were to be used in the order in
which they were brought in, and, Mrs. Wilson added, severely, she hoped
they would not soon disgrace themselves again by serving up a musty egg.
At the beginning of January, Mrs. Wilson directed Ella to bring a
certain note-book and the writing materials.
“Now,” she began, as soon as Ella was ready, “you will find a list, at
the beginning, of all subscriptions that are due. I want you to write
to all the people, and enclose the amounts. I will write cheques for
the large sums, but for the others you must get postal orders. Make a
list of all you will want, and then you can get them when you go out.”
“But they have not applied for the subscriptions yet, auntie. I have
brought you every application that has come. Would it not be better to
leave them till they are asked for?”
But this did not suit Aunt Mary’s views at all. She pointed out to Ella
that she kept a note herself of the date when her subscriptions were
due, and therefore knew the time as well as the recipients; and so she
did not see the good of making the charities expend a penny postage,
in addition to the cost of paper and envelope and clerk’s salary, in
merely reminding her of the fact.
“And be sure,” she continued, “that you put a stamped envelope in with
each subscription. I want them to get the benefit of the whole amount,
without having to spend part of it in reminding and thanking me.”
“There is another notice under the ‘January’ heading, auntie, about
paying the dog tax. Ought that to be attended to?”
“Oh, yes, to be sure. Now you see the good of keeping a memorandum
book, for I had quite forgotten that January was the month for renewing
the licence. That will be seven and sixpence. Two dogs, did you say?
Dear, dear, child, how ignorant you are, to be sure! Don’t you know
that dogs are not taxed till they are six months old, and the puppy is
not nearly that yet?”
Ella looked rather crestfallen at this rebuke, which her aunt
perceiving, hastened to comfort her by saying—
“Well, it can’t be helped. You are a good girl, and do your best,
my dear; but things were different when I was young, and girls were
expected to know all the ways of a house. Ah, yes! girls were very
useful, in the old days, when I was young.”
(_To be continued._)
“NO.”
BY MARY E. HULLAH.
[Illustration]
Embrance Clemon sat writing in a snug room on the second floor of
a house in an old-fashioned London street. A geranium stood on a
flower-stand near the window; the walls were painted brown, and the
carpet had faded into a comfortable insignificance.
Embrance was just twenty-four. She had come to London three years ago,
on the strength of a promise of two pupils, and, behold! the pupils
had multiplied rapidly, and she now had as many lessons as she could
manage. She had been brought up by an aunt in the west of England; she
had been educated at a high school, where she had successfully passed
all the examinations that were open to her, and she was thoroughly
happy in her present work. In very truth, she stood alone in the world.
A few months ago, Mrs. Clemon (the aunt who had bestowed upon her such
good care) had set sail for New Zealand, to join her only son, who was
a farmer. She would fain have taken Embrance with her, but there were
two insurmountable difficulties in the way: a lack of funds, and the
young farmer’s desire to marry his cousin, as soon as he should be in
a position to support a wife. Embrance liked him, but she did not like
him well enough to consent to this arrangement; she therefore decided
to remain in London, and Mrs. Clemon, after some fretting, had been
induced to look upon the plan with approval.
The years of work in the smoke and fog had not done more than tone down
the roses in Embrance’s cheeks; her hair, simply drawn back and plaited
to her head, was that shade of brown that most people call black; she
had kindly brown eyes, a large mouth, and a smile that won the hearts
of her pupils at once, and caused their elder sisters to say that,
after all, Miss Clemon was not so plain when you came to talk to her.
Certainly, Miss Clemon was very little given to thinking about her
appearance. It was, as Mrs. Clemon had always maintained, a pity. The
grey gown that she wore, with a stiff collar, was singularly unbecoming
to her; it was, indeed, warm and scrupulously neat, but when you had
said that, you had come to an end of its praises. It was hideous.
At last, Embrance put down her pen and looked at the clock; it was
getting late, and the tea-things were still uncleared from one end of
the table. The street was very quiet, and she heard the postman’s knock
next door.
“I wish somebody would write to me,” she said, aloud.
It was not the mail day, but there were friends in the country who
corresponded with her from time to time, and to-night she would have
rejoiced over the arrival of any letter. “I almost think,” she said,
looking round her little domain with a half-stifled sigh, “that it was
a pity that I refused to go to that concert, but if I had gone”—with
a glance at a thick book—“I shouldn’t have got through my reading.
By-and-by, when I’m an old lady, perhaps I shall have time to enjoy
myself!” The gratification that she derived from this reflection was
considerably damped by the after-thought, “and then I shan’t care about
it!”
Her meditations were interrupted at this stage by a sound of stumbling
footsteps on the staircase. It was Annie, the maid, panting and out of
breath; there was a lady just come, who wanted to see Miss Clemon.
“A lady!” repeated Embrance. “What is her name?”
“She didn’t say, miss; she is coming up.”
A sharp ring of a bell sent Annie hurrying down stairs again; the lady,
whoever she was, would have to find her way unassisted.
Embrance went out on to the landing. “The stairs are very steep,” she
said, “please take care.”
“Embrance, oh, dear Embrance! is that you at last?” said a voice from
below. “I thought I should never find you in this horrible dark place;
how can you bear it?”
“Hush! Come up; I am glad to see you, Joan. Come into my room.”
The new-comer ran up the last few steps, and flung her arms vehemently
round Embrance, who led her into her sitting-room, and then drew back
to look at her.
“Oh, Embrance,” gasped Joan, fairly breaking down now that the door was
shut behind her, “do be glad to see me! I have taken you by surprise,
haven’t I? But you said you would always help me, so I’ve come.”
She took off her hat, and sat down on the sofa, dragging Embrance with
her. She was a young, fair girl, graceful in every movement, with a
small, delicate face, surrounded by masses of yellow hair. Her blue
eyes were full of tears, and her pretty lips quivered.
“My darling,” said Embrance, tenderly, holding her by both hands, “of
course you came if you wanted me; but you are so tired and cold, I will
ring for some hot water and make you fresh tea, and when you are rested
you shall tell me all about it.”
“Let me tell you now,” said Joan, excitedly. “Oh, Embrance! it is
so dull at home now that you are gone, and Mrs. Clemon is gone, and
everybody I care for! And I don’t get on with my painting, and they
cracked my best plate just when I wanted to send it to the Exhibition
at Exeter.”
“Well, never mind. You must begin another one,” said Embrance,
coaxingly, almost as if she had been speaking to a child, while she cut
thin slices of bread-and-butter, and produced cake from the recesses of
a cupboard. “Tell me, is your grandfather in London?”
“No; he’s at home, and Emily, too. I said that I should like to come
to you, and they said very well—I must write and ask you if it would
be convenient. And then I packed a bag, and just came up by the next
train.”
“My dear Joan, they will think that you are lost.”
“No they won’t. I wrote a letter to grandpapa before I came away, and
he had given his consent, you know. Are you shocked, Embrance?”
“Not in the least.” Embrance’s dark eyes rested on her friend with a
look that showed how completely she meant what she said. “But I should
like to hear the rest of the story, Joan. There is something more than
a cracked plate.”
“You are a real conjuror. I believe you know all about it without my
telling you.” Joan hung her head, and went on pathetically, “Alfred
Brownhill has been tiresome again, and grandpapa is bent upon my
accepting him, and Emily keeps on trying to persuade me. She says that
it is ridiculous for a girl in my position to throw away such a good
chance. I am tired of being told so often that I’m dependent; so——”
“You came to me to learn to do for your self, you poor child! You know
how glad I shall be to help you, if I can.”
“Embrance, you’re the kindest person in the world!” was all Joan said;
but she slipped her hand into her friend’s slim fingers caressingly.
They had been friends from childhood. Embrance had often helped
little Joan Fulloch with her lessons, or coaxed her grandfather into
overlooking some escapade that was against his notions of propriety.
She knew well that it was a dreary home for an imaginative girl down at
Doveton, and that Emily (another granddaughter of the old man’s) was as
unsympathetic as she could be, looking upon Joan’s wish to become an
artist as the wildest of wild schemes. Embrance had vague recollections
of Mr. Brownhill (a flourishing county town solicitor) as a dull man,
who played lawn tennis. She did not believe that Joan liked him, and
as the child was harshly treated at home, she was doubly welcome here.
At any rate, if the worst came to the worst, there was a small sum in
the savings bank that would pay extra expenses for a year to come—and a
year was a long time to look forward in Embrance’s eyes.
Joan soon regained her spirits, and forgot her fatigue in the novelty
of the situation. It was like a fairy tale, living up here at the top
of that corkscrew staircase; and what a pretty flower! and might she
paint here when Embrance was out? She had her own notions, though they
were somewhat erratic, about making money.
To-morrow she would write to her cousin, Horace Meade, and he would
help her to get something to do; and she began making calculations as
to the number of people who required dinner services in the course of
a year. If Horace could once get orders for her, her fortune was made,
and in her spare time, she would paint landscapes for exhibitions.
“Then, you must give up these rooms,” exclaimed Joan, eagerly, “and we
can go and live somewhere where there is a garden. And, dear Embrance,
you’ll let me buy you another dress. You ought really never to wear
that cold colour.”
Joan’s own dress was of a delicate blue shade, hanging in artistic
folds about her pretty figure.
Embrance heaved a little sigh; she was accustomed of old to her
friend’s castle-building, but she would not say a word to damp her
ardour on this first night. She arranged her books and papers ready for
the morning’s work (her special reading must, of course, be put aside
now), then she came and sat by Joan, and listened to her long account
of home troubles, till the clock struck eleven, and the lamp began to
burn low.
The days passed on; the winter was at hand. In spite of Joan Fulloch’s
good resolutions, in spite of her hostess’s kindness, she was far
from content in her new surroundings. Her grandfather had sent a box
containing clothes and painting materials; he had enclosed a brief note
in which he foretold that she would soon wish to return to Doveton.
Perhaps, if it had not been for this note, Joan would have said
good-bye to Embrance and the second floor parlour some weeks ago. As
it was she stayed on, always looking out for commissions that never
came, and making plans to paint pictures that she never began. Either
the light was too bad, or she had a headache; there was always an
excuse, and Embrance returned night after night, to find her visitor
plunged in the depths of despair. She would straightway set to work
to cheer her up, and before tea was over, Joan was invariably sure
of success—to-morrow or the next day. At last she heard of a pupil,
but, unfortunately, she did not take kindly to teaching; she was very
unpunctual, and it did not seem likely that her connection would
increase with rapidity. In the meantime, Embrance had begun to draw
upon her savings, for the expenses had increased marvellously since the
autumn. There were so many little luxuries that Joan, poor child, could
not possibly do without.
“Embrance,” said Joan, one evening. She was sitting over the fire with
a novel, her face was flushed, and her hair was disordered; “I do want
so many things. I wish I could earn some money.”
“You have got your pupil,” said Embrance, looking up from her book.
She was translating Schiller, and it was the third time that Joan had
interrupted her.
“Five shillings an hour!” exclaimed Joan, kicking the fireirons down
with a clatter. “It’s so little; I shan’t have earned enough by
Christmas to buy a winter jacket, and besides, I owe you so much,
Embrance!”
“Never mind about that, Joanie; I have enough for the present, if we
are careful.”
“It is so tiresome of Horace to be away just when I want him most,”
continued Joan, “but he’ll come to-morrow; he has enough to do; he
ought to be able to help me. Do try and be in early to-morrow.”
Embrance shook her head. “I can’t be home till seven o’clock.”
“Put off that stupid lesson.”
“I’m afraid it is impossible.”
“I want you to see Horace. You never do anything I ask you!”
“I am very sorry, Joan.”
“What’s the good of being sorry?” asked Joan, pettishly. “No, no! I
don’t mean it!” She turned round sharply and saw that her friend’s eyes
were full of tears. In a second, she had flung down her book and was
kneeling at Embrance’s chair: “Do forgive me, it isn’t true. You are
the only person in the world who has real patience with me. Don’t mind
what I said; I didn’t mean it.”
It took some time to calm Joan down after her fit of penitence, but at
last she went back to her novel.
Embrance sat with both arms on the table; the translation got no
farther. Her heart was full of love for her friend, and yet—she had
her fair share of common sense—she could not but see that Joan was
thoroughly unfit for her present mode of life. She was just one of
those girls who would be happiest in a home of her own. Here, for once,
Embrance found herself cordially agreeing with Emily Fulloch, who was
as old-fashioned in her notions as it was possible for a narrow-minded
spinster to be.
Perhaps a “brain-wave” of sympathy passed from one friend to another at
that moment, for Joan looked up from her book:
“Darling, I think you will like Horace better than Mr. Brownhill,
though he is not so good-looking. I hope you will!”
“I will try,” said Embrance, jumping up to kiss Joan; “I will try my
hardest, for your sake.”
Joan blushed, and Embrance began talking of other matters.
A week later, Mrs. Rakely (a friend of the Fullochs) came to London.
She stayed at an hotel close by, and was glad of Joan’s company, as
she wished to get through as much sight-seeing as she conveniently—or
inconveniently—could in the space of a fortnight.
One Saturday afternoon Embrance had come home early (Joan had gone to
luncheon with Mrs. Rakely); she was tired, it had been a warm, rainy
day; her boots were muddy and her dress was damp. The armchair by the
fire looked very tempting; she sat down, and in a few seconds was fast
asleep, dreaming of a magnificent abode in New Zealand, where Joan, in
a white satin gown and a diamond necklace, was blissfully wedded to an
emperor with flowing ringlets and bright grey eyes. The emperor had
very bright eyes, indeed, and a habit of knocking on the ground with
his sceptre; he was also afflicted with a curious kind of cough that
did not sound natural—and yet it was natural, appallingly so. With a
start and a jerk, Embrance sat up in her chair wide awake, and met the
gaze of a real pair of grey eyes (brimming over with fun) that belonged
to a gentleman, who stood, hat in hand, at the open door.
“I really apologise humbly,” he said, without venturing to approach;
“but I was told to walk up, and I knocked several times, and someone
said ‘Come in.’”
Embrance had recovered her presence of mind. “Please do come in,” she
said. “I am very sorry that I was asleep; but I was so tired. I think
you are Mr. Meade?”
“That is my name,” said the visitor, looking across the room from the
smoky fire to the rows of books with a quick glance; “and I have the
pleasure of speaking to Miss Clemon.”
“Yes,” said Embrance, holding out her hand. “Joan will be so
disappointed to miss you. She is not in.”
The recollection of her plans for Joan’s future happiness brought the
blood to her cheeks. She stooped over the fire to hide her confusion.
Yes, she liked the look of him. He had a clever, kindly face, much
bronzed by the sun; he wore a short beard and a turned-down collar; he
had no gloves, and his hands were long and thin.
“Do let me do that for you,” said Mr. Meade, putting down his hat and
umbrella. “I am exceedingly skilful at managing fires and chimneys; in
fact, I have occasionally regretted not having been brought up to it
professionally.”
“As a chimney-sweep?” inquired Embrance.
“No, I think not,” said Mr. Meade, gravely, as he inserted the poker
between the bars, “but there might have been an opening as stoker or
master of the bellows in some grand family. There, now, if you will
allow me to have a sheet of newspaper, I think I shall succeed to
perfection.”
Embrance fetched the newspaper, and in a few minutes the crimson flames
were leaping up the chimney.
(_To be continued._)
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
A PASTORALE.
BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.
CHAPTER IX.
The following Saturday turned out to be a misty November morning.
Towards noon the fog lifted, and at half-past one, when Dame Hursey
prepared to start to keep her appointment with her son, it was
tolerably clear, but the old wool-gatherer, who was as weather-wise as
John Shelley himself, shook her head as she scanned the horizon from
the door of her miserable cottage, and muttered to herself she doubted
the fog would come on worse than ever at sunset.
As this was the first time she had seen her son for twelve or thirteen
years, and would probably be the last, seeing that he was going back
to Australia, probably never to return, at least in her lifetime, Dame
Hursey regarded the occasion as a festive one, and had taken a holiday
in honour of it. Her morning had been spent in cleaning her miserable
cottage, in the faint hope that her son might be persuaded to come home
and spend the evening with her. In this hope all her wool-gatherings
had been taken upstairs instead of lying about the floor and corners
of the kitchen, as they usually did; the floor had been scrubbed, a
fire was lighted, two rickety armchairs drawn up to it, and a cup
and saucer, a mug, and two or three plates—Dame Hursey’s stock of
crockery—placed on the table. She dispensed with dinner, and contenting
herself with a piece of bread and cheese, reserved two red herrings for
her tea on her return with her son.
Then she dressed herself in her Sunday dress, not without some qualms
lest the fog should turn to rain. Even if it did, on such an occasion
as this she must wear her best things, so she put on her black stuff
dress, a black and white plaid shawl, and a bonnet that might have come
out of the ark, judging from its antique shape, and which, to Dame
Hursey’s pride, was ornamented with some dirty old artificial flowers.
Thus attired, and having made up the fire and left the kettle on the
hob, she locked up her hut, put the key in her pocket, and providing
herself with a gigantic cotton umbrella, to answer the purpose of a
walking-stick as well as in case of rain, she set out for Mount Harry.