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THE EMPIRE ANNUAL FOR GIRLS
Edited by
A. R. BUCKLAND, M.A.
With Contributions by
LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL.
Mrs. CREIGHTON.
Mrs. MACQUOID.
Mrs. BALFOUR MURPHY.
Mrs. G. de HORNE VAIZEY.
A. R. BUCKLAND.
FRANK ELIAS.
AGNES GIBERNE.
SOMERVILLE GIBNEY.
EDITH C. KENYON.
M. E. LONGMORE.
MAUD MADDICK.
M. B. MANWELL.
FLORENCE MOON.
E. B. MOORE.
MADELINE OYLER.
HENRY WILLIAMS.
Etc., etc.
With Coloured Plates and Sixteen Black and White Illustrations.
London:
4 Bouverie Street, E.C.
1911.
* * * * *
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
384 pp. demy 8vo, cloth gilt, with Coloured Plates and
16 Black and White Illustrations.
THE EMPIRE ANNUAL FOR BOYS
Edited by A. R. BUCKLAND, M.A.
With contributions by MORLEY ADAMS, W. GRINTON
BERRY, TOM BEVAN, A. W. COOPER, W. S. DOUGLAS,
FRANK ELIAS, LAURENCE M. GIBSON, W. J.
GORDON, F. M. HOLMES, RAMSAY GUTHRIE,
C. H. IRWIN, J. B. KNOWLTON, W. C.
METCALFE, A. J. H. MOULE, ERNEST
PROTHEROE, GORDON STABLES,
C. E. TYNDALE-BISCOE,
ETC., ETC.
* * * * *
[Illustration: RACE FOR LIFE. _See page 72_]
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE CHRISTMAS CHILD
MRS. G. DE HORNE VAIZEY 9
_The story of a happy thought, a strange discovery,
and a deed of love_
ANNA 22
MRS. MACQUOID
_A girl's adventure for a father's sake_
TO GIRLS OF THE EMPIRE 39
MRS. CREIGHTON
_Words of encouragement and stimulus to the daughters
of the Nation_
MY DANGEROUS MANIAC 45
LESLIE M. OYLER
_The singular adventure of two young people_
JIM RATTRAY, TROOPER 52
KELSO B. JOHNSON
_A story of the North-West Mounted Police_
MARY'S STEPPING ASIDE 59
EDITH C. KENYON
_Self-sacrifice bringing in the end its own reward_
A RACE FOR LIFE 66
LUCIE E. JACKSON
_A frontier incident from the Far West_
WHICH OF THE TWO? 74
AGNES GIBERNE
_A question of duty or inclination_
A CHRISTMAS WITH AUSTRALIAN BLACKS 89
J. S. PONDER
_An unusual but interesting Christmas party described_
MY MISTRESS ELIZABETH 96
ANNIE ARMITT
_A story of self-sacrifice and treachery in Sedgemoor days_
GIRL LIFE IN CANADA 114
JANEY CANUCK
_Girl life described by a resident in Alberta_
SUCH A TREASURE! 120
EILEEN O'CONNOR
_How a New Zealand girl found her true calling_
ROSETTE IN PERIL 131
M. LEFUSE
_A girl's strange adventures in the war of La Vendée_
GOLF FOR GIRLS 143
AN OLD STAGER
_Some practical advice to beginners and others_
SUNNY MISS MARTIN 148
SOMERVILLE GIBNEY
_A story of misunderstanding, patience, and reconciliation_
WHILST WAITING FOR THE MOTOR 160
MADELINE OYLER
_A warning to juvenile offenders_
THE GRUMPY MAN 165
MRS. HARTLEY PERKS
_A child's intervention and its results_
DOGS WE HAVE KNOWN 183
LADY CATHERINE MILNES-GASKELL
_True stories of dog life_
DAFT BESS 197
KATE BURNLEY BENT
_A tale of the Cornish Coast_
A SPRINGTIME DUET 203
MARY LESLIE
_A domestic chant for spring-cleaning days._
OUT OF DEADLY PERIL 204
K. BALFOUR MURPHY
_A skating episode in Canada_
THE PEARL-RIMMED LOCKET 211
M. B. MANWELL
_The detection of a strange offender_
REMBRANDT'S SISTER 221
HENRY WILLIAMS
_A record of affection and self-sacrifice_
HEPSIE'S XMAS VISIT 230
MAUD MADDICK
_A child's misdeed and its unexpected results_
OUR AFRICAN DRIVER 238
J. H. SPETTIGUE
_A glimpse of South African life_
CLAUDIA'S PLACE 247
A. R. BUCKLAND
_How Claudia changed her views_
FAMOUS WOMEN PIONEERS 260
FRANK ELIAS
_Some of the women who have helped to open up new lands_
POOR JANE'S BROTHER 266
M. LING
_The strange adventures of two little people_
THE SUGAR-CREEK HIGHWAYMAN 285
ADELA E. ORPEN
_An alarm and a discovery_
DOROTHY'S DAY 294
M. E. LONGMORE
_A day beginning in sorrow and ending in joy_
A STRANGE MOOSE HUNT 310
H. WILLIAM DAWSON
_A hunt that nearly ended in a tragedy_
A GIRL'S PATIENCE 317
C. J. BLAKE
_A difficult part well played_
THE TASMANIAN SISTERS 342
E. B. MOORE
_A story of loving service and changed lives_
THE QUEEN OF CONNEMARA 362
FLORENCE MOON
_An Irish girl's awakening_
ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR
ROSALIND'S RACE FOR LIFE _Frontispiece_
_Facing Page_
"THE SON OF MAN CAME NOT TO BE MINISTERED UNTO, BUT TO MINISTER" 44
"YOUR SISTER IS COMING?" HE SAID 80
MRS. MEADOWS' BROTHER ARRIVED 130
AT THE SHOW 184
"DO FORGIVE ME, MOTHER DARLING!" 232
HER HOSTESS HAD BEEN FEEDING THE PEACOCKS 308
IN BLACK AND WHITE
"I SHAN'T PLAY IF YOU FELLOWS ARE SO ROUGH!" 38
GERALD LOOKS PUZZLED 46
IT WAS UNDER A NOBLE TREE THAT MAX ASKED MARY TO MARRY HIM 64
"GALLANTS LOUNGING IN THE PARK" 98
LOOKING AT HIM, I SAW THAT HE WAS HAGGARD AND STRANGE 106
GOLF FOR GIRLS--A BREEZY MORNING 144
SELINA MARTYN GAVE HER ANSWER 158
"I SUPPOSE YOU'VE COME ABOUT THE GAS BILL" 170
THE ROCK SHE CLUNG TO GAVE WAY 200
SPRING CLEANING 203
HORRIBLE DREAMS OF MONSTERS AND DEMONS 216
HER VERY YOUTH PLEADED FOR HER 249
BARBARA'S VISIT 268
"AS HE KISSED HIS FIRSTBORN UNDER THE MISTLETOE" 340
"NOW I AM GOING TO FAN YOU," SHE SAID 348
EILY STOOD A FORLORN, DESOLATE FIGURE ON EUSTON PLATFORM 366
INDEX TO AUTHORS
PAGE
ARMITT, ANNIE 96
BENT, KATE BURNLEY 197
BLAKE, C. J. 317
BUCKLAND, A. R. 247
CANUCK, JANEY 114
CREIGHTON, MRS. 39
DAWSON, H. WILLIAM 310
ELIAS, FRANK 260
GIBERNE, AGNES 74
GIBNEY, SOMERVILLE 148
JACKSON, LUCIE E. 66
JOHNSON, KELSO B. 52
KENYON, EDITH C. 59
LEFUSE, M. 131
LESLIE, MARY 203
LING, M. 266
LONGMORE, M. E. 294
MACQUOID, MRS. 22
MADDICK, MAUD 230
MANWELL, M. B. 211
MILNES-GASKELL, LADY CATHERINE 183
MOON, FLORENCE 362
MOORE, E. B. 342
MURPHY, K. BALFOUR 204
O'CONNOR, EILEEN 120
OLD STAGER, AN 143
OYLER, LESLIE M. 45
OYLER, MADELINE 160
ORPEN, ADELA E. 285
PERKS, MRS. HARTLEY 165
PONDER, J. S. 89
SPETTIGUE, J. H. 238
VAIZEY, MRS. G. DE HORNE 9
WILLIAMS, HENRY 221
[Sidenote: A happy thought, a cross-country journey, a strange
discovery, another happy thought, and many still happier thoughts
hereafter!]
The Christmas Child
BY
MRS. G. DE HORNE VAIZEY
Jack said: "Nonsense! We are all grown up now. Let Christmas alone. Take
no notice of it; treat it as if it were an ordinary day."
Margaret said: "The servants have all begged for leave. Most of their
mothers are dying, and if they are not, it's a sister who is going to be
married. Really, it's a servants' ball which the Squire is giving in the
village hall. Mean, I call it, to decoy one's maids just when one needs
them most!"
Tom said: "Beastly jolly dull show anyhow, to spend the day alone with
your brothers and sisters. Better chuck it at once!"
Peg said firmly and with emphasis: "_Heathen!_ Miserable, cold-blooded,
materially-minded _frogs_! Where's your Christmas spirit, I should like
to know? . . . If you have none for yourselves, think of other people.
Think of _me_! I love my Christmas, and I'm not going to give it up for
you or any one else. My very first Christmas at home as a growed-up
lady, and you want to diddle me out of it. . . . Go to! Likewise, avaunt!
Now by my halidom, good sirs, you know not with whom you have to deal.
'Tis my royal pleasure the revels proceed!"
Jack grimaced eloquently at Margaret, who grimaced back.
"With all the pleasure in the world," he said suavely. "Show me a revel,
and I'll revel with the best. I like revels. What I do _not_ like is to
stodge at home eating an indigestible meal, and pretending that I'm full
of glee, when in reality I'm bored to death. If you could suggest a
change. . . ."
Margaret sighed; Tom sniffed; Peg pursed up her lips and thought.
Presently her eyes brightened. "Of course," she remarked tentatively,
"there are the Revells!"
Jack flushed and bit his lips.
"Quite so! There are. Fifty miles away, and not a spare bed in the
house. Lot of good they are to us, to be sure! Were you going to suggest
that we dropped in for a quiet call? Silly nonsense, to talk of a thing
like that."
Jack was quite testy and huffed, for the suggestion touched a tender
point. The Revells were the friends _par excellence_ of the family of
which he was the youthful head. It seemed, indeed, as if the two
households had been specially manufactured so that each should fit the
wants of the other. Jack was very certain that, in any case, Myra Revell
supplied all that _he_ lacked, and the very thought of spending
Christmas Day in her company sent a pang of longing through his heart.
Margaret cherished a romantic admiration for Mrs. Revell, who was still
a girl at heart despite the presence of a grown-up family. Dennis was at
Marlborough with Tom; while Pat or Patricia was Peg's bosom chum.
What could you wish for more? A Christmas spent with the Revells would
be a pure delight; but alas! fifty miles of some of the wildest and
bleakest country in England stretched between the two homes, which,
being on different lines of railway, were inaccessible by the ordinary
route. Moreover, the Revells were, as they themselves cheerfully
declared, "reduced paupers," and inhabited a picturesquely dilapidated
old farmhouse, and the problem, "_Where do they all sleep?_" was as
engrossing as a jig-saw puzzle to their inquisitive friends. Impossible
that even a cat could be invited to swing itself within those crowded
portals; equally impossible to attempt to separate such an affectionate
family at Christmas-time of all seasons of the year.
[Sidenote: Peg Startles Everybody]
And yet here was Peg deliberately raking up the painful topic; and after
the other members of the family had duly reproached and abused, ready to
level another bolt at their heads.
"S--uppose we went a burst--hired a car, drove over early in the
morning, and marched into church before their very eyes!"
Silence! Sparkling eyes; alert, thoughtful gaze. Could they? Should
they? Would it be right? A motor for the day meant an expenditure of
four or five pounds, and though the exchequer was in a fairly prosperous
condition, five-pound notes could not be treated with indifference.
Still, in each mind ran the echo of Peg's words. It was Christmas-time.
Why should they not, just for once, give themselves a treat--themselves,
and their dear friends into the bargain?
The sparkle deepened; a flash passed from eye to eye, a flash of
determination! Without a word of dissent or discussion the proposal was
seconded, and carried through.
"Fifty miles! We can't go above twenty-five an hour through those bad
roads. We shall have to be off by nine, if we want to be in time for
church. What _will_ they think when they see us marching in?"
"No, no, we mustn't do that. Mrs. Revell would be in a fever the whole
time, asking herself, '_Will the pudding go round?_' It really wouldn't
be kind," pleaded Margaret earnestly, and her hearers chuckled
reminiscently. Mrs. Revell was a darling, but she was also an
appallingly bad housekeeper. Living two miles from the nearest shop, she
yet appeared constitutionally incapable of "thinking ahead"; and it was
a common experience to behold at the afternoon meal different members of
the family partaking respectively of tea, coffee, and cocoa, there being
insufficient of any one beverage to go round.
Margaret's sympathies went out involuntarily towards her friend, but her
listeners, it is to be feared, were concerned entirely for themselves.
It might be the custom to abuse the orthodox Christmas dinner, but since
it _was_ a national custom which one did not care to break, it behoved
one to have as good a specimen as possible, and the prospect of short
commons, and indifferent short commons at that, was not attractive.
_Who_ could be sure that the turkey might not arrive at the table singed
and charred, and the pudding in a condition of _soup_?
Schoolboy Tom was quick with a suggestion.
"I say--tell you what! Do the surprise-party business, and take a hamper
with us. . . . Only decent thing to do, when you march in four strong to
another person's feed. Dennis would love a hamper----"
"Ha! Good! Fine idea! So we will! A real old-fashioned hamper, full of
all the good things they are least likely to have. Game pie----"
"Tongue--one of those big, shiny fellows, with scriggles of sugar down
his back----"
"Ice-pudding in a tin----"
"Fancy creams----"
"French fruits----"
"Crackers! Handsome ones, with things inside that are worth having----"
"Bon-bons----"
Each one had a fresh suggestion to make, and Margaret scribbled them all
down on the ivory tablet which hung from her waist, and promptly
adjourned into the kitchen to give the necessary orders, and to rejoice
the hearts of her handmaidens by granting a day's leave all round.
On further consideration it was decided to attend early service at
home, and to start off on the day's expedition at eleven o'clock,
arriving at the Revell homestead about one, by which time it was
calculated that the family would have returned from church, and would be
hanging aimlessly about the garden, in the very mood of all others to
welcome an unexpected excitement.
Christmas Day broke clear and bright. Punctual to the minute the motor
came puffing along, the youthful-looking chauffeur drawing up before the
door with an air of conscious complaisance.
Despite his very professional attire--perhaps, indeed, because of it--so
very youthful did he appear, that Jack was visited by a qualm.
"Er--er--are you going to drive us all the way?" he inquired anxiously.
"When I engaged the car, I saw . . . I thought I had arranged with----"
"My father, sir. It was my father you saw. Father said, being Christmas
Day, he didn't care to turn out, so he sent me----"
"You are a qualified driver--quite capable . . . ?"
[Sidenote: A Good Start]
The lad smiled, a smile of ineffable calm. His eyelids drooped, the
corners of his mouth twitched and were still. He replied with two words
only, an unadorned "Yes, sir," but there was a colossal, a Napoleonic
confidence in his manner, which proved quite embarrassing to his
hearers. Margaret pinched Jack's arm as a protest against further
questionings; Jack murmured something extraordinarily like an apology;
then they all tumbled into the car, tucked the rugs round their knees,
turned up the collars of their coats, and sailed off on the smooth,
swift voyage through the wintry air.
For the first hour all went without a hitch. The youthful chauffeur
drove smoothly and well; he had not much knowledge of the countryside;
but as Jack knew every turn by heart, having frequently bicycled over
the route, no delay was caused, and a merrier party of Christmas
revellers could not have been found than the four occupants of the
tonneau. They sang, they laughed, they told stories, and asked riddles;
they ate sandwiches out of a tin, and drank hot coffee out of a thermos
flask, and congratulated themselves, not once, but a dozen times, over
their own ingenuity in hitting upon such a delightful variation to the
usual Christmas programme.
More than half the distance had been accomplished; the worst part of the
road had been reached, and the car was beginning to bump and jerk in a
somewhat uncomfortable fashion. Jack frowned, and looked at the slight
figure of the chauffeur with a returning doubt.
"He's all right on smooth roads, but this part needs a lot of driving.
Another time----" He set his lips, and mentally rehearsed the complaints
which he would make to "my father" when he paid the bill. Margaret gave
a squeal, and looked doubtfully over the side.
"I--I suppose it's all right! What would happen if he lost control, and
we slipped back all the way downhill?"
"It isn't a question of control. It's a question of the strength of the
car. It's powerful enough for worse hills than this."
"What's that funny noise? It didn't sound like that before. Kind of a
clickety-clack. . . . Don't you hear it?"
"No. Of course not. Don't be stupid and imagine things that don't
exist. . . . What's the difference between----"
Jack nobly tried to distract attention from the car, but before another
mile had been traversed, the clickety-clack noise grew too loud to be
ignored, the car drew up with a jerk, and the chauffeur leaped out.
"I must just see----" he murmured vaguely; vaguely also he seemed to
grope at the machinery of the car, while the four occupants of the
tonneau hung over the doors watching his progress; then once more
springing to his seat, he started the car, and they went bumping
unevenly along the road. No more singing now; no more laughing and
telling of tales; deep in each breast lay the presage of coming ill;
four pairs of eyes scanned the dreary waste of surrounding country,
while four brains busily counted up the number of miles which still lay
between them and their destination. Twenty miles at least, and not a
house in sight except one dreary stone edifice standing back from the
road, behind a mass of evergreen trees.
"This fellow is no good for rough roads. He would wear out a car in no
time, to say nothing of the passengers. Can't think why we haven't had a
puncture before now!" said Jack gloomily; whereupon Margaret called him
sharply to order.
"Don't say such things . . . don't think them. It's very wrong. You ought
always to expect the best----"
"Don't suppose my thinking is going to have any effect on rubber, do
you?" Jack's tone was decidedly snappy. He was a lover, and it tortured
him to think that an accident to the car might delay his meeting with
his love. He had never spent a Christmas Day with Myra before; surely on
this day of days she would be kinder, sweeter, relax a little of her
proud restraint. Perhaps there would be mistletoe. . . . Suppose he found
himself alone with Myra beneath the mistletoe bough? Suppose he kissed
her? Suppose she turned upon him with her dignified little air and
reproached him, saying he had no right? Suppose he said, "_Myra! will
you give me the right?_" . . .
No wonder that the car seemed slow to the lover's mind; no wonder that
every fresh jerk and strain deepened the frown on his brow. The road was
strewn with rough, sharp stones; but in another mile or two they would
be on a smooth high-road once more. If only they could last out those
few miles!
[Sidenote: A Puncture]
Bang! A sharp, pistol-like noise rent the air, a noise which told its
own tale to the listening ears. A tyre had punctured, and a dreary
half-hour's delay must be faced while the youthful chauffeur repaired
the damage. The passengers leaped to the ground, and exhausted
themselves in lamentations. They were already behind time, and this new
delay would make them later than ever. . . . Suddenly they became aware
that they were cold and tired--shivering with cold. Peg looked down at
her boots, and supposed that there were feet inside, but as a matter of
sensation it was really impossible to say. Margaret's nose was a cheery
plaid--blue patches neatly veined with red. Jack looked from one to the
other and forgot his own impatience in anxiety for their welfare.
"Girls, you look frozen! Cut away up to that house, and ask them to let
you sit by the fire for half an hour. Much better than hanging about
here. I'll come for you when we are ready."
The girls glanced doubtfully at the squat, white house, which in truth
looked the reverse of hospitable; but the prospect of a fire being
all-powerful at the moment, they turned obediently, and made their way
up a worn gravel path, leading to the shabbiest of painted doors.
Margaret knocked; Peg rapped; then Margaret knocked again; but nobody
came, and not a sound broke the stillness within. The girls shivered and
told each other disconsolately there was no one to come. Who _would_
live in such a dreary house, in such a dreary, solitary waste, if it
were possible to live anywhere else? Then they strolled round the corner
of the house, and caught the cheerful glow of firelight, which settled
the question, once for all.
"Let's try the back door!" said Margaret, and the back door being found,
they knocked again, but knocked in vain. Then Peg gave an impatient
shake to the handle, and lo and behold! it turned in her hand, and swung
slowly open on its hinges, showing a glimpse of a trim little kitchen,
and beyond that a narrow passage leading to the front door.
"Is any one there? Is any one there?" chanted Margaret loudly. She took
a hesitating step into the passage--took two; repeated the cry in an
even higher key; but still no answer came, still the same uncanny
silence brooded over all.
The girls stood still, and gazed in each other's eyes; in each face were
reflected the same emotions--curiosity, interest, a tinge of fear.
What could it mean? Could there be some one within these silent walls
who was _ill_, helpless, in need of aid?
"I think," declared Margaret firmly, "that it is our duty to look. . . ."
In after days she always absolved herself from any charge of curiosity
in this decision, and declared that her action was dictated solely by a
feeling of duty; but her hearers had their doubts. Be that as it might,
the decision fell in well with Peg's wishes, and the two girls walked
slowly down the passage, repeating from time to time the cry "Is any one
there?" the while their eyes busily scanned all they could see, and drew
Sherlock Holmes conclusions therefrom.
[Sidenote: What the Girls found]
The house belonged to a couple who had a great many children and very
little money. There was a cupboard beneath the stairs filled with shabby
little boots; there was a hat-rack in the hall covered with shabby
little caps. They were people of education and culture, for there were
books in profusion, and the few pictures on the walls showed an artistic
taste; they were tidy people also, for everything was in order, and a
peep into the firelit room on the right showed the table set ready for
the Christmas meal. It was like wandering through the enchanted empty
palaces of the dear old fairy-tales, except that it was not a palace at
all, and the banquet spread out on the darned white cloth was of so
meagre a description, that at the sight the beholders flushed with a
shamed surprise.
That Christmas table--should they ever forget it? If they lived to be a
hundred years old should they ever again behold a feast so poor in
material goods, so rich in beauty of thought? For it would appear that
though money was wanting, there was no lack of love and poetry in this
lonely home. The table was decked with great bunches of holly, and
before every seat a little card bore the name of a member of the family,
printed on a card, which had been further embellished by a flower or
spray, painted by an artist whose taste was in advance of his
skill--"Father," "Mother," "Amy," "Fred," "Norton," "Mary," "Teddums,"
"May." Eight names in all, but nine chairs, and the ninth no ordinary,
cane-seated chair like the rest, but a beautiful, high-backed,
carved-oak erection, ecclesiastical in design, which looked strangely
out of place in the bare room.
There was no card before this ninth chair, but on the uncushioned seat
lay a square piece of cardboard, bordered with a painted wreath of
holly, inscribed on which were four short words.
Margaret and Peg read them with a sudden shortening of the breath and
smarting of the eyes:
"_For the Christ Child!_"
"Ah-h!" Margaret's hand stretched out, seized Peg's, and held it fast.
In the rush and bustle of the morning it had been hard to realise the
meaning of the day: now, for the first time, the spirit of Christmas
flooded her heart, filled it with love, with a longing to help and to
serve.
"Peg! Peg!" she cried breathlessly. "How beautiful of them! They have so
little themselves, but they have remembered the old custom, the sweet
old custom, and made _Him_ welcome. . . ." Her eyes roamed to the window,
and lit with sudden inspiration. She lifted her hand and pointed to a
distant steeple rising above the trees. "They have all gone off to
church--father and mother, and Amy and Fred--all the family together!
That's why the house is empty. And dinner is waiting for their return!"
She turned again to the table, her housekeeper's eye taking in at a
flash the paucity of its furnishings. "Peg! can this be _all_? _All_
that they have to eat . . . ? Let us look in the kitchen. . . . I must
make quite sure. . . ."
There was no feeling of embarrassment, no consciousness of impertinent
curiosity, in the girls' minds as they investigated the contents of
kitchen and larder. At that moment the house seemed their own, its
people their people; they were just two more members of a big family,
whose duty it was to look after the interests of their brothers and
sisters while they were away; and when evidences of poverty and
emptiness met them on every side, the two pairs of eyes met with a
mutual impulse, so strong that it needed not to be put into words.
In another moment they had left the house behind and were running
swiftly across the meadow towards the car. The chauffeur was busily
engaged on the tyre, Jack and Tom helping, or hindering as the case
might be. The hamper lay on the ground where it had been placed for
greater security during the repairs. The girls nipped it up by its
handles, and ran off again, regardless of protests and inquiries.
It was very heavy, delightfully heavy: the bearers rejoiced in its
weight, wished it had been three times as heavy; the aching of their
arms was a positive joy to them as they bore their burden into the
little dining-room, and laid it down upon the floor.
[Sidenote: What shall we do with it?]
"Now! What shall we do now? Shall we lay out the things and make a
display on the table, or shall we put the pie in the oven beside that
tiny ghost of a joint, and the pudding in a pan beside the potatoes?
Which do you think would be best?"
But Margaret shook her head.
"Neither! Oh! don't you see, both ways would look too human, too
material. They would show too plainly that strangers had been in, and
had interfered. I want it to look like a Christmas miracle . . . as if it
had come straight. . . . We'll lay the basket just as it is, on the Christ
Child's chair. . . ."
Peg nodded. She was an understanding Peg, and she rose at once to the
poetry of the idea. Gently, reverently, the girls lifted the basket
which was to have furnished their own repast, laid it on the carved-oak
chair, and laid on its lid the painted card; then for a moment they
stood side by side, gazing round the room, seeing in imagination the
scene which would follow the return of the family from church . . . the
incredulity, the amaze, the blind mystification, the joy. . . . Peg beamed
in anticipation of the delight of the youngsters; Margaret had the
strangest, eeriest feeling of looking straight into a sweet, worn face;
of feeling the clasp of work-worn hands. It was imagination, she told
herself, simple imagination, yet the face was alive. . . . Its features
seemed more distinct than many which she knew in the flesh. She shivered
slightly, and drew her sister from the room.
"Now, Peg, to cover up our tracks; to leave everything as we found it!
This door was shut. . . . Have we moved anything from its place, left
any footmarks on the floor? Be careful, dear, be careful! . . . Push
that chair into place. . . ."
* * * * *
The tyre was repaired. The chauffeur was straightening his back after
the long stoop. Jack and Tom were indignantly demanding what had been
done with the hamper. Being hungry and unromantic, it took some little
time to convince them that there had been no choice in the matter, and
that the large family had a right to their luxuries which was not to be
gainsaid. They had not seen the pitiful emptiness of the Christmas
table; they had not seen the chair set ready for the Christ Child. The
girls realised as much and dealt gently with them, and in the outcome no
one felt the poorer; for the welcome bestowed upon the surprise party
was untinged by any shadow of embarrassment, and they sat around a
festal board, happy to feel that their presence was hailed as the
culminating joy of the day.
* * * * *
It was evening when the car again approached the lonely house, and
Margaret, speaking down the connecting tube, directed the chauffeur to
drive at his slowest speed for the next quarter of a mile.
Jack was lying back in his corner, absorbed in happy dreams. Never so
long as he lived could he forget this Christmas Day, which had seen the
fulfilment of his hopes in Myra's sweetness, Myra's troth. Tom was fast
asleep, dreaming of "dorm." suppers, and other escapades of the last
term. The two sisters were as much alone as if the only occupants of the
car.
They craned forward, eager for the first glimpse of the house, and
caught sight of a beam of light athwart the darkness of the night.
The house was all black save for one window, but that was as a
lighthouse in a waste, for the curtains were undrawn, and fire and lamp
sent out a rosy glow which seemed the embodiment of cheer.
Against the white background of the wall a group of figures could be
seen standing together beneath the lamp; the strains of a harmonium
floated sweetly on the night air, a chorus of glad young voices singing
the well-known words:
"The King of Love my Shepherd is!"
With a common impulse the two girls waved their hands from the window as
the car plunged forward.
"Good-night, little sisters!"
"Good-night, little brothers!"
[Sidenote: How He comes]
"Sleep well, little people. The Christ Child is with you. You asked Him,
and He came----"
"And the wonderful thing," said Peg, "the most wonderful thing is, that
He came _through us_!"
"But that," answered Margaret thoughtfully, "is just how He always
_does_ come."
[Sidenote: The story of a girl's adventure for a father's sake that may
help girls who are at all like Anna.]
Anna
BY
KATHARINE S. MACQUOID
Three thousand feet up the side of a Swiss mountain a lateral valley
strikes off in the direction of the heights that border the course of
the Rhine on its way from Coire to Sargans. The closely-cropped,
velvet-smooth turf, the abundant woods, sometimes of pine-trees and
sometimes of beech and chestnut, give a smiling, park-like aspect to the
broad green track, and suggest ideas of peace and plenty.
As the path gradually ascends on its way to Fadara the wealth of wild
flowers increases, and adds to the beauty of the scene.
A few brown cow-stables are dotted about the flower-sprinkled meadows; a
brook runs diagonally across the path, and some freshly-laid planks show
that inhabitants are not far off; but there is not a living creature in
sight. The grasshoppers keep up their perpetual chirrup, and if one
looks among the flowers one can see the gleam of their scarlet wings as
they jump; for the rest, the flowers and the birds have it all to
themselves, and they sing their hymns and offer their incense in
undisturbed solitude.
When one has crossed the brook and climbed an upward slope into the
meadow beyond it, one enters a thick fir-wood full of fragrant shadow;
at the end is a bank, green and high, crowned by a hedge, and all at
once the quiet of the place has fled.
Such a variety of sounds come down the green bank! A cock is crowing
loudly, and there is the bleat of a young calf; pigs are squeaking one
against another, and in the midst of the din a dog begins to bark. At
the farther corner, where the hedge retreats from its encroachments on
the meadow, a grey house comes into view, with a signboard across its
upper part announcing that here the tired traveller may get dinner and a
bed.
Before the cock has done crowing--and really he goes on so long that it
is a wonder he is not hoarse--another voice mingles with the rest.
It is a woman's voice, and, although neither hoarse nor shrill, it is no
more musical than the crow of the other biped, who struts about on his
widely-spread toes in the yard, to which Christina Fasch has come to
feed the pigs. There are five of them, pink-nosed and yellow-coated, and
they keep up a grunting and snarling chorus within their wooden
enclosure, each struggling to oust a neighbour from his place near the
trough while they all greedily await their food.
[Sidenote: "Come, Anna!"]
"Come, Anna, come," says the hard voice; "what a slow coach you are! I
would do a thing three times over while you are thinking about it!"
* * * * *
The farmyard was bordered by the tall hedge, and lay between it and the
inn. The cow-house, on one side, was separated from the pigstyes by a
big stack of yellow logs, and the farther corner of the inn was flanked
by another stack of split wood, fronted by a pile of brushwood; above
was a wooden balcony that ran also along the house-front, and was
sheltered by the far-projecting eaves of the shingled roof.
Only the upper part of the inn was built of logs, the rest was brick and
plaster. The house looked neatly kept, the yard was less full of the
stray wood and litter that is so usual in a Swiss farmyard, but there
was a dull, severe air about the place. There was not a flower or a
plant, either in the balcony or on the broad wooden shelves below the
windows--not so much as a carnation or a marigold in the vegetable plot
behind the house.
A shed stood in the corner of this plot, and at the sound of Christina's
call a girl came out of the shed; she was young and tall and
strong-looking, but she did not beautify the scene.
To begin with, she stooped; her rough, tangled hair covered her forehead
and partly hid her eyes; her skin was red and tanned with exposure, and
her rather wide lips drooped at the corners with an expression of misery
that was almost grotesque. She carried a pail in each hand.
"Do be quick!" Christina spoke impatiently as she saw her niece appear
beyond the wood-stack.
Anna started at the harsh voice as if a lash had fallen on her back; the
pig's food splashed over her gown and filled her heavy leather shoes.
"I had better have done it myself," cried her aunt. "See, unhappy child,
you have wasted food and time also! Now you must go and clean your shoes
and stockings; your gown and apron are only fit for the wash-tub! Ah!"
She gave a deep sigh as she took up first one pail and then the other
and emptied the wash into the pig-trough without spilling a drop by the
way. Anna stood watching her admiringly.
"Well!" Christina turned round on her. "I ask myself, what is the use of
you, child? You are fifteen, and so far it seems to me that you are here
only to make work for others! When do you mean to do things as other
people do them? I ask myself, what would become of you if your father
were a poor man, and you had to earn your living?"
Anna had stooped yet more forward; she seemed to crouch as if she
wanted to get out of sight. Christina suddenly stopped and looked at her
for an answer. Anna fingered her splashed apron; she tried to speak, but
a lump rose in her throat, and she could not see for the hot tears that
would, against her will, rush to her eyes.
"I shall never do anything well," she said at last, and the misery in
her voice touched her aunt. "I used not to believe you, aunt, but now I
see that you are right. I can never be needful to any one." Then she
went on bitterly: "It would have been better if father had taken me up
to the lake on Scesaplana when I was a baby and drowned me there as he
drowned the puppies in the wash-tub."
Christina looked shocked; there was a frown on her heavy face, which was
usually as expressionless as if it had been carved in wood.
[Sidenote: "Go, you unlucky child!"]
"Fie!" she said. "Think of Gretchen's mother, old Barbara; she does not
complain of the goître; though she has to bear it under her chin, she
tries to keep it out of sight. I wish you would do the same with your
clumsiness. There, go and change your clothes, go, you unlucky child,
go!"
* * * * *
You are perhaps wondering how it comes to pass that an inn can exist
placed alone in the midst of green pasture-land, and only approached by
a simple foot track, which more than once leads the wayfarer across mere
plank bridges, and which passes, only at long intervals, small groups of
cottages that call themselves villages. You naturally wonder how the
guests at this lonely inn fare with regard to provisions. It is true
that milk is sent down every day from the cows on the green Alps higher
up the mountain, and that the farm boasts of plenty of ducks and fowls,
of eggs and honey. There are a few sheep and goats, too; we have seen
that there are pigs. Fräulein Christina Fasch makes good bread, and she
is famous for her delicate puddings and sauces; the puzzle is, whence
come the groceries, and the extras, and the wines that are consumed in
the inn?
A mile or so beyond, on a lower spur of the mountain ridge that
overlooks the Rhine, a gap comes in the hedge that screens an almost
precipitous descent into the broad, flat valley. The descent looks more
perilous than it is, for constant use has worn the slender track into a
series of rough steps, which lead to the vine-clad knoll on which is
situated Malans, and at Malans George Fasch, the landlord of our inn,
can purchase all he needs, for it is near a station on the railway line
between Zurich and Coire and close to the busy town of Mayenfeld in the
valley below.
Just now there are no visitors at the inn, so the landlord only makes
his toilsome journey once a fortnight; but when there is a family in the
house he visits the valley more frequently, for he cannot bring very
large stores with him, although he does not spare himself fatigue, and
he mounts the natural ladder with surprising rapidity, considering the
load he carries strapped to his shoulders.
The great joy of Anna was to meet her father at the top of the pass, and
persuade him to lighten his burden by giving her some of it to carry;
and to-day, when she had washed her face and hands, and had changed her
clothes, she wished that he had gone to Malans; his coming back would
have helped her to forget her disaster. Her aunt's words clung to the
girl like burs; and now, as they rang in her ears again, she went into
the wood to have her cry out, unobserved.
She stood leaning against a tree; and, as the tears rolled over her
face, she turned and hid it against the rough red bark of the pine. She
was crying for the loss of the dear, gentle mother who had always helped
her. Her mother had so screened her awkwardness from public notice that
Anna had scarcely been aware of it. Her Aunt Christina had said, when
she was summoned four years ago to manage her brother's household,
"Your wife has ruined Anna, brother. I shall have hard work to improve
her."
Anna was not crying now about her aunt's constant fault-finding; there
was something in her grief more bitter even than the tears she shed for
her mother; it seemed to the girl that day by day she was becoming more
and more clumsy and stupid; she broke the crockery, and even the
furniture; she spoiled her frocks; and, worst of all, she had more than
once met her father's kind blue eyes fixed on her with a look of sadness
that went to her heart. Did he, too, think that she would never be
useful to herself or to any one?
At this thought her tears came more freely, and she pressed her hot face
against the tree.
"I wonder why I was made!" she sobbed.
There came a sharp crackling sound, as the twigs and pine-needles
snapped under a heavy tread.
Anna caught up her white apron and vigorously rubbed her eyes; then she
hurried out to the path from her shelter among the trees.
In another minute her arms were round her father, and she was kissing
him on both cheeks.
[Sidenote: A Startling Face]
George Fasch kissed her and patted her shoulder; then a suppressed sob
caught his ear. He held Anna away from him, and looked at her face.
It was red and green in streaks, and her eyes were red and inflamed. The
father was startled by her appearance.
"What is the matter, dear child?" he said. "You are ill."
Then his eyes fell on her apron. Its crumpled state, and the red and
green smears on it, showed the use to which it had been put, and he
began to guess what had happened.
Anna hung her head.
"I was crying and I leaned against a tree. Oh, dear, it was a clean
apron! Aunt will be vexed."
Her father sighed, but he pitied her confusion.
"Why did you cry, my child?" he said, half-tenderly, half in rebuke.
"Aunt Christina means well, though she speaks abruptly."
He only provoked fresh tears, but Anna tried so hard to keep them back
that she was soon calm again.
"I am not vexed with Aunt Christina for scolding me," she said; "I
deserved it; I am sorry for myself."
"Well, well," he said cheerfully, "we cannot expect old heads on young
shoulders." His honest, sunburned face was slightly troubled as he
looked at her. "You will have to brush up a bit, you know, when
Christina goes to Zurich. You are going to be left in charge of the
house for a week or so."
Anna pressed her hands nervously together. She felt that the house would
suffer greatly under her guidance; but then, she should have her father
all to herself in her aunt's absence, and she should be freed from those
scathing rebukes which made her feel all the more clumsy and helpless
when they were uttered in her father's presence.
George Fasch, however, had of late become very much aware of his
daughter's awkwardness, and secretly he was troubled by the prospect of
her aunt's absence. He was a kind man and an affectionate father, but he
objected to Gretchen's unaided cookery, and he had therefore resolved to
transact some long-deferred business in Zurich during his sister's stay
there. This would lessen the number of his badly-cooked dinners at home.
"I shall start with Christina," he said--"some one must go with her to
Pardisla; and next day I shall come home by Malans, so you will have to
meet me on Wednesday evening at the old place, eh, Anna?"
She nodded and smiled, but she felt a little disappointed. She
reflected, however, that she should have her father alone for some days
after his return.
Christina was surprised to see how cheerful the girl looked when she
came indoors.
* * * * *
Rain fell incessantly for several days, and even when it ceased masses
of white vapour rose up from the neighbouring valleys and blotted out
everything. The vapour had lifted, however, when Fasch and his sister
started on their expedition, and Anna, tired of her week's seclusion,
set out on a ramble. A strange new feeling came over the girl as soon as
she lost sight of her aunt's straight figure. She was free, there would
be no one to scold her or to make her feel awkward; she vaulted with
delight, and with an ease that surprised her, over the fence that parted
the two meadows; she looked down at her skirt, and she saw with relief
that she had not much frayed it, yet she knew there were thorns, for
there had been an abundance of wild roses in the hedge.
A lark was singing blithely overhead, and the grasshoppers filled the
air with joyful chirpings. Anna's face beamed with content.
"If life could be always like to-day!" she thought, "oh, how nice it
would be!"
[Sidenote: In the Marsh]
Presently she reached the meadow with the brook running across it, and
she gave a cry of delight; down in the marsh into which the brook ran
across the sloping field she saw a mass of bright dark-blue. These were
gentian-flowers, opening blue and green blossoms to the sunshine, and in
front of them the meadow itself was white with a sprinkling of grass of
Parnassus.
Anna had a passionate love of flowers, and, utterly heedless of all but
the joy of seeing them, she ran down the slope, and only stopped when
she found herself ankle-deep in the marsh below, in which the gentian
grew.
This sobered her excitement. She pulled out one foot, and was shocked to
find that she had left her shoe behind in the black slime; she was
conscious, too, that her other foot was sinking deeper and deeper in the
treacherous marsh. There was nothing to hold by, there was not even an
osier near at hand; behind the gentian rose a thicket of rosy-blossomed
willow-herb, and here and there was a creamy tassel of meadowsweet, but
even these were some feet beyond her grasp.
Anna looked round her in despair. From the next field came a clicking
sound, and as she listened she guessed that old Andreas was busy mowing.
He was old, but he was not deaf, and she could easily make him hear a
cry for help; but she was afraid of Andreas. He kept the hotel garden in
order, and if he found footmarks on the vegetable plots, or if anything
went wrong with the plants, he always laid the blame on Anna; he was as
neat as he was captious, and the girl shrank from letting him see the
plight she was in.
She stooped down and felt for her shoe, and as she recovered it she
nearly fell full length into the bog; the struggle to keep her balance
was fatal; her other foot sank several inches; it seemed to her that she
must soon be sucked down by the horrible black water that spurted up
from the marsh with her struggles.
Without stopping to think, she cried out as loud as she could, "Help me,
Andreas! Help! I am drowning!"
At the cry the top of a straw hat appeared in sight, and its owner came
up-hill--a small man, with twisted legs, in pale clay-coloured trousers,
a black waistcoat, and brown linen shirtsleeves. His wrinkled face
looked hot, and his hat was pushed to the back of his head. He took it
off and wiped his face with his handkerchief while he looked round him.
"Pouf!" He gave a grunt of displeasure. "So you are once more in
mischief, are you? Ah, ah, ah! What, then, will the aunt, that ever to
be respected Fräulein, say, when she hears of this?"
He called this out as he came leisurely across the strip of meadow that
separated him from Anna.
She was in an agony of fear lest she should sink still farther in before
he reached her; but she knew Andreas far too well to urge him even by a
word to greater haste. So she stood shivering and pale with fear while
she clasped her bog-stained shoe close to her.
Andreas had brought a stake with him, and he held this out to Anna, but
when she tried to draw out her sinking foot she shook her head, it
seemed to be stuck too fast in the bog.
Andreas gave a growl of discontent, and then went slowly up to the plank
bridge. With some effort he raised the smaller of the two planks and
carried it to where Anna stood fixed like a statue among the flowering
water-plants. Then he pushed the plank out till it rested on a hillock
of rushes, while the other end remained on the meadow.
"Ah!"--he drew a long breath--"see the trouble you give by your
carelessness."
He spoke vindictively, as if he would have liked to give her a good
shaking; but Anna smiled at him, she was so thankful at the prospect of
release.
[Sidenote: Rescued]
The mischievous little man kept her waiting some minutes. He pretended
to test the safety of the plank by walking up and down it and trying it
with his foot. At last, when the girl's heart had become sick with
suspense, he suddenly stretched out both hands and pulled her on to the
plank, then he pushed her along before him till she was on dry ground
once more.
"Oh, thank you, Andreas," she began, but he cut her thanks very short.
"Go home at once and dry yourself," he said. "You are the plague of my
life, and if I had been a wise man I should have left you in the marsh.
Could not your senses tell you that all that rain meant danger in boggy
places? There'll be mischief somewhere besides this; a landslip or two,
more than likely. There, run home, child, or you'll get cold."
He turned angrily away and went back to his work.
Anna hurried to the narrowest part of the brook and jumped across it.
She could not make herself in a worse plight than she was already; her
skirts were dripping with the black and filthy water of the marsh.
Heavy rain fell again during the night, and continued throughout the
morning, but in the afternoon there was a glimpse of sunshine overhead.
This soon drew the vapour up again from the valley, and white
steam-clouds sailed slowly across the landscape.
Gretchen had been very kind and compassionate about Anna's disaster; she
made the girl go to bed for an hour or two, and gave her some hot broth,
and Anna would have forgotten her trouble but for the certainty she felt
that old Andreas would make as bad a story of it as he could to her Aunt
Christina. But this morning the girl was looking forward to her father's
home-coming, and she was in good spirits; she had tried to make herself
extra neat, and to imitate as closely as she could her Aunt Christina's
way of tidying the rooms; but one improvement suggested itself to Anna
which would certainly not have occurred to her tidy aunt; if she had
thought of it, she would have scouted the idea as useless, and a
frivolous waste of time.