While the young folks had been enjoying themselves in the ball-room,
their elders had found the time hang somewhat heavily on their hands.
The evening had not been so interesting to them as to their juniors.
Lady Darcy was tired with the preparations of the day, and the Countess
with her journey from town. Both were fain to yawn behind their fans
from time to time, and were longing for the moment to come when they
could retire to bed. If only those indefatigable children would
say good night and take themselves off! But the echo of the piano
still sounded from the room, and seemed to go on, and on, in endless
repetition.
Everything comes to those who wait however, even the conclusion of a
ball to the weary chaperon. At long past midnight the strains died
away, and in the hope of an early release the ladies roused themselves
to fresh conversational effort. What they said was unimportant and
could never be remembered; but at one moment, as it seemed, they were
smiling and exchanging their little commonplace amenities, two languid,
fine ladies whose aim in life might have been to disguise their own
feelings and hide the hearts that God had given them; the next the
artificial smiles were wiped away, and they were clinging together,
two terrified, cowering women, with a mother’s soul in their faces—a
mother’s love and fear and dread! A piercing cry had sounded through
the stillness, and another, and another, and while they sat paralysed
with fear, footsteps came tearing along the passage, the door was burst
open, and a wild, dishevelled-looking figure rushed into the room.
A curtain was wound round face and figure, but beneath its folds a
long white arm gripped convulsively at the air, and two little feet
staggered about in pink silk slippers.
Lady Darcy gave a cry of anguish; but her terror seemed to hold her
rooted to the spot, and it was her husband who darted forward and
caught the swaying figure in his arms. The heavy wrappings came loose
in his grasp, and as they did so an unmistakable smell pervaded the
room—the smell of singed and burning clothing. A cloud of blackened
rags fluttered to the ground as the last fold of the curtain was
unloosed, and among them—most pitiful sight of all—were stray gleams
of gold where a severed lock of hair lay on the carpet, its end still
turned in glistening curl.
“Rosalind! Rosalind!” gasped the poor mother, clutching the arms of her
chair, and looking as if she were about to faint herself, as she gazed
upon the pitiful figure of her child. The lower portion of Rosalind’s
dress was practically uninjured, but the gauze skirt and all the frills
and puffing round the neck hung in tatters, her hair was singed and
roughened, and as the air touched her skin she screamed with pain, and
held her hands up to her neck and face.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! I am burning! Cover me up! Cover me up! I shall die! Oh,
mother, mother! The pain—the pain!”
She reeled as if about to faint, yet if anyone attempted to approach
she beat them off with frantic hands, as if in terror of being touched.
One of the ladies ran forward with a shawl, and wrapped it forcibly
round the poor scarred shoulders, while the gentlemen hurried out of
the room to send for a doctor and make necessary arrangements. One
of the number came back almost immediately with the news that he had
failed to discover the cause of the accident. There was no sign of fire
upstairs, the ball-room was dark and deserted, the servants engaged in
setting the entertaining rooms in order. For the present, at least, the
cause of the accident remained a mystery, and the distracted father and
mother occupied themselves in trying to pacify their child.
“I’ll carry you upstairs, my darling. We will put something on your
skin which will take away the pain. Try to be quiet, and tell us how it
happened. What were you doing to set yourself on fire?”
“Peggy! Peggy!” gasped Rosalind faintly. Her strength was failing by
this time, and she could hardly speak; but Lady Darcy’s face stiffened
into an awful anger at the sound of that name. She turned like a
tigress to her husband, her face quivering with anger.
“That girl again! That wicked girl! It is the second time to-night!
She has killed the child; but she shall be punished! I’ll have her
punished! She shall not kill my child, and go free! I’ll—I’ll——”
“Hush, hush, Beatrice! Take care! You frighten Rosalind. We must get
her to bed. There is not a moment to lose.”
Lord Darcy beckoned to one of the servants who, by this time, were
crowding in at the door, and between them they lifted poor, groaning
Rosalind in their arms and carried her up the staircase, down which she
had tripped so gaily a few hours before. Tenderly as they held her, she
moaned with every movement, and when she was laid on her bed, it seemed
for a moment as if consciousness were about to forsake her. Then
suddenly a light sprung into her eyes. She lifted her hand and gasped
out one word—just one word—repeated over and over again in a tone of
agonised entreaty.
“Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!”
“Yes, darling, yes! I’ll go to her. Be quiet—only be quiet!”
Lady Darcy turned away with a shudder as the maid and an old family
servant began the task of removing the clothes from Rosalind’s writhing
limbs, and, seizing her husband by the arm, drew him out on the
landing. Her face was white, but her eyes gleamed, and the words hissed
as they fell from her lips.
“Find that girl and turn her out of this house! I will not have her
here another hour! Do you hear—not a minute! Send her away at once
before I see her! Don’t let me see her! I can’t be responsible for what
I would do!”
“Yes, yes, dear, I’ll send her away! Try to calm yourself. Remember you
have work to do. Rosalind will need you.”
The poor old lord went stooping away, his tired face looking aged and
haggard with anxiety. His beautiful young daughter was scarcely less
dear to him than to her mother, and the sound of her cries cut to his
heart, yet in the midst of his anguish he had a pang of compassion for
the poor child who, as he believed, was the thoughtless cause of the
accident. What agony of remorse must be hers! What torture she would
now be suffering!
The guests and servants were standing huddled together on the landing
upstairs or running to and fro to procure what was needed. Every
thought was concentrated on Rosalind, and Rosalind alone, and the part
of the house where the dance had been held was absolutely deserted.
He took his way along the gaily decorated hall, noted with absent eye
the disordered condition of the “harem,” which had been pointed out so
proudly at the beginning of the evening, and entered the empty room.
The lights were out, except for a few candles scattered here and there
among the flowers. He walked slowly forward, saw the silver candlestick
on the floor before the fireplace, and stood gazing at it with a quick
appreciation of what had happened. For some reason or other Rosalind
had tried to reach the candle, and the light had caught her gauzy skirt
which had burst into flames. It was all easy—terribly easy to imagine;
but in what way had Peggy Saville been responsible for the accident, so
that her name should sound so persistently on Rosalind’s lips, and who
had been the good Samaritan who had come to the rescue with that thick
curtain which had killed the flames before they had time to finish the
work of destruction?
Lord Darcy peered curiously round. The oak floor stretched before him
dark and still save where its polished surface reflected the light
overhead; but surely in the corner opposite to where he stood there was
a darker mass—a shadow deeper than the rest?
He walked towards it, bending forward with straining eyes. Another
curtain of the same pattern as that which had enveloped Rosalind—a
curtain of rich Oriental hues with a strange unaccountable patch of
white in the centre. What was it? It must be part of the fabric itself.
Lord Darcy told himself that he had no doubt on the subject, yet the
way across the room seemed unaccountably long, and his heart beat
fast with apprehension. In another moment he stood in the corner and
knew too well the meaning of that patch of white. Peggy Saville lay
stretched upon the curtain, white and unconscious, to all appearance
dead!
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
OUR PUZZLE POEM REPORT: IN PERILOUS TIMES.
IN PERILOUS TIMES.
AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE.
_Catching Fire._
If your clothing catches fire,
Do not rush about for aid,
Simply roll on mat or mire
And a fearful death evade.
_Railway Collision._
If a railway collision you fear,
Jump on the seat of the carriage, for so
Your legs of calamity may be quite clear,
And the spring that’s in wood may all safety bestow.
PRIZE WINNERS.
_Seven Shillings and Sixpence Each._
Lily Belling, Wribbenhall, Bewdley, Worcestershire.
Nanette Bewley, 40, Fitzwilliam Place, Dublin.
A. C. Carter, Shottery Hall, Stratford-on-Avon.
Maude Gibney, 37, Newton Road, W.
G. D. Honeyburne, Abbotsbury, 23, Duke Street, Southport.
Mrs. Mason, 30, Cambridge Street, Great Horton, Bradford, Yorks.
E. Mastin, 261, Western Bank, Sheffield.
P. Miller, 104, Brecknock Road, N.
Agnes Oliver, 13, Fountainhall Road, Edinburgh.
Janet Scott, Willmington House, Dunster.
Fred and Violet Shoberl, Hookwood, Edge Hill, Wimbledon.
Wm. Dunford-Smith, 71, Ondine Road, E. Dulwich, S.E.
W. Fitzjames White, 9, Kinfauns Terrace, Low Fell, Gateshead.
John R. Whyberd, 308, Crystal Palace Road, S.E.
_Special Mention._
Annie A. Arnott, E. Lord, A. Phillips.
_Very Highly Commended._
Mrs. Atkins, Amelia Austin, Margaret Bailey, M. Bolingbroke, A. T.
Child, Ethel M. A. Darbyshire, Frederick Fuller, Miss Fryer, Thomas
Gale, Ellie Hanlon, Mrs. Ethel Hartley, Ethel Winifred Hodgkinson, W.
E. Llewellyn, W. M. Madden, E. M. Le Mottée, Ellen M. Price, Helen
Simpson, S. Southall, Agnes Mary Vincent, Gertrude Whicker, Emily
Wilkinson, Helen B. Younger.
_Highly Commended._
Maude Abbott, Eliza Acworth, Rev. S. Bell, Gladys M. Bernays, Dora
A. Blake, E. M. Blott, Isabel Borrow, Nellie D. Bourne, Rev. F.
Townshend Chamberlain, M. J. Champneys, F. Clark, Lillian Clews, C.
A. Cooper, Rev. E. N. Dalton, S. Dewhirst, Ethel Dickson, Violet F.
Doney, Louie Drury, William Fraser, F. M. Goodchild, Annie M. Gooden,
A. Grainger, E. A. Hedge, Mrs. Hickman, Hilda G. Hinkson, Gertrude
Hire, E. St. G. Hodson, Edith M. Howard, Annie M. Hutchens, George L.
Ingram, K. H. Ingram, Elsie M. Jay, L. Foster-Jones, D. Langley, Eva
H. Laurence, Eliza Learmount, Ethel C. McMaster, John Marshall, Marian
Eva Messenger, F. M. Morgan, M. Theodora Moxon, Robert Murdoch, Eben.
Mullen, A. St. J. O’Neill, Mrs. Morgan Owen, Hannah E. Powell, Jessie
Powell, Helen J. Ransom, Ada Rickards, Eleanor M. Rickie, Alexandrina
A. Robertson, Wilhelmina Robson, Eva M. Roper, Annie Saunders, S.
Sedgwick, Katherine H. Shorto, Caroline Skinner, Mildred M. Skrine,
M. Stuart, Mona Taylor, May Tutte, N. J. Warren, M. S. Webster, A. J.
Weight, V. M. Welman, Louisa Whitcher, Henry Wilkinson, R. Williamson,
Elizabeth Yarwood.
* * * * *
EXAMINERS’ REPORT.
The “Accidental Cycle” series promises to be very popular, a large
number of solutions having already been received. It is really very
pleasing to see how our readers struggle to acquire useful knowledge,
no matter how fantastic the shape in which it is presented. Certain it
is that knowledge acquired by solving a puzzle poem is likely to be
retained, and we can only hope that when our solvers’ clothes catch
fire, there may be a rug, a mat, or a sufficient quantity of mire at
hand.
We know a doctor who had to examine a class of boys on the ways of
dealing with various kinds of accidents. One lad appeared to be very
nervous, and the doctor, thinking he was not able to do himself justice
before the others, kept him back to test his knowledge alone.
“Now,” said the examiner, “supposing I were to catch fire in this room”
(a bare schoolroom, by the way), “what would you do?”
The boy seemed to be extremely unhappy and vainly searched the ceiling
and floor in turn for an inspiration. It was not until the question had
been repeated with a kindly word of encouragement that the answer came:
“Put it out, sir.”
Even then the doctor did not laugh, at any rate not obtrusively.
“Excellent,” said he, “but how?”
“Throw a blanket over you, sir,” was the more confident reply.
As there were no blankets in the building, the doctor gave up his
examination in despair, which was, however, somewhat tempered by his
thankfulness that the boy’s “knowledge” had not been put to a practical
test.
This little anecdote, which is perfectly true, suggests the question:
“What would you do if the extinguishers mentioned in the puzzle were
not available?” Doubtless our readers know; if not, they will be well
advised to find out without delay.
The puzzle form of our advice was not difficult to decipher, but,
regardless of rhythm, many solvers gave the first line as
“If your clothing catch fire.”
A large number wrote “around” for “about” in line 2, failing to discern
the essential difference, and several substituted “end” for “death” in
the fourth line. For this latter reading we can find no justification.
In “A railway collision” the metre proved to be very troublesome. It is
certainly very modern, the lines being respectively, nine, ten, eleven
and twelve syllables long. We do not know the rule which governs such
a metre, and are inclined to ascribe it that licence which every true
poet sometimes takes.
Considering the difficulty, we were surprised to find from thirty to
forty solutions giving the verse correctly. Three out of the four lines
were not difficult to solve, but the progressive nature of the metre
not being established, the first was not so easy. In many solutions an
adjective was inserted before railway as:
“If a terrible railway collision you fear,”
and so long as some sort of rhythm was maintained, we did not much
object.
A few competitors complained that the first picture in the last line
was very obscure. In our copy it was plain enough and a large majority
of solvers adopted “Spring,” in preference to any other reading.
One correspondent ventures to hope that ladies will be well assured of
their peril before acting on the advice given. As he points out, it is
not at all desirable that a carriageful of people should, for instance,
be disturbed by such athletic exercises every time a fog-signal is
heard.
Such a caution is perhaps, not wholly unnecessary, for there are people
who “fear” a collision every time they enter a train.
By the time this “Cycle” is ended how wise we shall all be!
Competitors whose names have not been mentioned above may rest assured
that their papers have been carefully preserved in view of the special
award to be made at the end of the series. Not one solution has been
destroyed, and quite possibly the greater prizes will fall to outsiders
after all.
[Illustration: ARTISTS.]
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS.
BY ERIC BROAD.
We wander through the smiling fields,
We gather fragrant flowers,
Our childish eyes the sunshine watch
From shady, sheltered bowers;
We have our dreams of joy to be,
Nor give a thought to loss;
For youth is all too blind to see
The Shadow of the Cross.
Years come and go; tears flow and fall,
Grief touches us awhile;
And then we sleep, while round us glows
The sunset of a smile;
Joy lingers just a day with us,
Life’s pathway seems as moss:
But, faintly purple, looms ahead
The Shadow of the Cross.
Time’s drifted snows have gathered thick,
Yet still the chase is long,
Truth’s snow-white bird soars out of sight,
But faint we hear its song;
And we have lost Hope’s Light awhile,
Count Love at best but dross;
We struggle through a purple gloom—
The Shadow of the Cross.
At last! At last! a music rare
Enchants our aching ears;
And once again, not far ahead,
The radiant sun appears:
Our souls on buoyant wings are borne,
And we retrieve our loss,—
A rich content is ours, beyond
The Shadow of the Cross.
LESSONS FROM NATURE.
BY JEAN A. OWEN, Author of “Forest, Field and Fell,” etc.