nosegay, to place in the sitting-room in honour of her father's return.
It seemed to her the only means she had of showing him how glad she was
to see him again.
While she was busy gathering Andreas crossed the meadow; he did not see
Anna stooping over the flowers, and she kept herself hidden; but the
sight of him brought back a haunting fear. What was it? What had Andreas
said that she had forgotten? He had said something which had startled
her at the time, and which now came pressing urgently on her for
remembrance, although she could not distinctly recall it.
What was it? Anna stood asking herself; the flowers fell out of her hand
on to the grass among their unplucked companions; she stood for some
minutes absorbed in thought.
Andreas had passed out of sight, and she could not venture to follow
him, for she did not know what she wanted him to tell her.
A raindrop fell on her hand, and she looked up. Yes, the rain had begun
again. Anna gave a sudden start; she left the flowers and set off
running towards the point at which she was accustomed to meet her
father.
With the raindrop the clue she had been seeking had come to her. Andreas
had said there might very likely be landslips, and who could say that
there might not have been one on the hillside above Malans? Anna had
often heard her father say that, though he could climb the steep ascent
with his burden, he should be sorry to have to go down with it. If the
track had been partly carried away, he might begin to climb without any
warning of the danger that lay before him. . . .
Anna trembled and shivered as she thought of the danger. It would be
growing dusk before her father began to climb, and who could say what
might happen?
She hurried on to the place at which she always met her father. When she
had crossed the brook that parted the field with the gap from the field
preceding it, Anna stood still in dismay. The hedge was gone, and so was
a good strip of the field it had bordered.
[Sidenote: A Landslip]
There had already been a landslip.
Anna had learned wisdom by her mischance yesterday, and she went on
slowly and cautiously till she drew near the edge; then she knelt down
on the grass, and, creeping along on her hands and knees, she peered
over the broken, slippery edge. The landslip seemed to have reached
midway down the cliff, but the rain had washed the earth and rubbish to
one side.
So far as Anna could make out, the way up, half-way, was as firm as
ever; then there came a heap of debris from the fall of earth, and then
the bare rock rose to the top, upright and dreadful.
Anna's head turned dizzy as she looked down the precipice, and she
forced herself to crawl backward from the crumbling edge only just in
time, for it seemed to her that some mysterious power was beckoning her
from below.
When she got on her feet she stood and wondered what was to be done. How
was she to warn her father of this danger?
She looked at the sun; it was still high up in the sky, so she had some
hours before her. There was no other way to Malans but this one, unless
by going back half-way to Seewis, to where a path led down to Pardisla,
and thence into the Landquart valley, where the high-road went on to
Malans, past the corner where the Landquart falls into the Rhine. Anna
had learned all this as a child from the big map which hung in the
dining-room at the inn. But on the map it looked a long, long way to the
Rhine valley, and she had heard her father tell her Aunt Christina that
she must take the diligence at Pardisla; it would be too far, he said,
to walk to Landquart, and Anna knew that Malans was farther still. She
stood wondering what could be done.
In these last four years she had become by degrees penetrated with a
sense of her own utter uselessness, and she had gradually sunk into a
melancholy condition. She did only what she was told to do, and she
always expected to be told how to do it.
Her first thought now was, how could she get help or advice? she knew
only two people who could help her--Gretchen and Andreas. The last, she
reflected, must be already at some distance. When she saw him, he was
carrying a basket, and he had, no doubt, gone to Seewis, for it was
market-day in that busy village. As to Gretchen, Anna felt puzzled.
Gretchen never went from home; what could she know about time and the
distance from the Rhine valley?
Besides, while the girl stood thinking her sense of responsibility
unfolded, the sense that comes to every rational creature in a moment
that threatens danger to others; and she saw that by going back even to
consult with Gretchen she must lose many precious minutes. There was no
near road to the valley, but it would save a little to keep well behind
the inn on her downward way to Pardisla.
As Anna went along the day cleared again. The phantom-like mists drifted
aside and showed on the opposite mountain's side brilliant green Alps in
the fir-wood that reached almost to the top. The lark overhead sang
louder, and the grasshopper's metallic chirp was incessant under foot.
[Sidenote: Father must be Warned]
Anna's heart became lighter as she hurried on; surely, she thought, she
must reach Malans before her father had begun to climb the mountain. She
knew that he would have left his knapsack at Mayenfeld, and that he must
call there for it on his way home. Unless the landslip was quite recent
it seemed to her possible that some one might be aware of what had
happened, and might give her father warning; but Anna had seen that for
a good way above Malans the upward path looked all right, and it was so
perpendicular that she fancied the destruction of its upper portion
might not have been at once discovered, especially if it had occurred at
night. No, she was obliged to see that it was extremely doubtful whether
her father would receive any warning unless she reached the foot of the
descent before he did.
So she went at her utmost speed down the steep stony track to Pardisla.
New powers seemed to have come to her with the intensity of her
suspense.
* * * * *
George Fasch had every reason to be content with the way in which he had
managed his business at Zurich; and yet, as he travelled back to
Mayenfeld, he was in a desponding mood. All the way to Zurich his sister
had talked about Anna. She said she had tried her utmost with the girl,
and that she grew worse and worse.
"She is reckless and thoroughly unreliable," she said, "and she gets
more stupid every day. If you were wise you would put her into a
reformatory."
George Fasch shrugged his shoulders.
"She is affectionate," he said bluntly, "and she is very unselfish. I
should be sorry to send her from home."
Christina held up her hands.
"I call a girl selfish who gives so much trouble. Gretchen has to wash
out three skirts a week for Anna. She is always spoiling her clothes. I,
on the contrary, call her very selfish, brother."
George Fasch shrugged his shoulders again; he remembered the red and
green apron, and he supposed that Christina must be right; and now, as
he travelled back alone, he asked himself what he must do. Certainly he
saw no reason why he should place Anna in a reformatory--that would be,
he thought, a sure way of making her unhappy, and perhaps even
desperate; but Christina's words had shown him her unwillingness to be
plagued with his daughter's ways, and he shrank from the idea of losing
his useful housekeeper. He had been accustomed to depend on his sister
for the management of the inn, and he felt that no paid housekeeper
would be able to fill Christina's place. Besides, it would cost more
money to pay a stranger.
Yes, he must send Anna away, but he shrank from the idea. There was a
timid, pathetic look in the girl's dark eyes that warned him against
parting her from those she loved. After all, was she not very like her
mother? and his sweet lost wife had often told George Fasch how dreamy
and heedless and stupid she had been in childhood. He was sure that Anna
would mend in time, if only he could hit on some middle course at
present.
The weather had been fine at Zurich; and he was surprised, when he
quitted the train, to see the long wreaths of white vapour that floated
along the valley and up the sides of the hill. It was clearer when he
had crossed the river; but before he reached Malans evening was drawing
in, and everything grew misty.
He had made his purchases at Mayenfeld so as to avoid another stoppage;
and, with his heavy load strapped on his back, he took a by-path that
skirted Malans, and led him straight to the bottom of the descent
without going through the village. There was a group of trees just at
the foot of the path, which increased the gathering gloom.
"My poor child will be tired of waiting," he thought, and he began to
climb the steep ascent more rapidly than usual.
All at once a faint cry reached him; he stopped and listened, but it did
not come again.
The way was very slippery, he thought; his feet seemed to be clogged
with soft earth, and he stopped at last to breathe. Then he heard
another cry, and the sound of footsteps behind him.
Some one was following him up the dangerous ascent. And as his ears took
in the sound he heard Anna's voice some way below.
[Sidenote: "You cannot climb To-night!"]
"Father! father! stop! stop!" she cried; "there is a landslip above; you
cannot climb to-night."
George Fasch stopped. He shut his eyes and opened them again. It seemed
to him that he was dreaming. How came Anna to be at the foot of the pass
if it was not possible to climb to the top of it?
"What is it, Anna? Do you mean that I must come down again?" he said
wonderingly.
"Yes, yes; the path above is destroyed."
And once more he wondered if all this could be real.
"Father, can you come down with the pack, or will you unfasten it and
leave it behind?"
George Fasch thought a moment.
"You must go down first," he said, "and keep on one side; the distance
is short, and I think I can do it; but I may slip by the way."
There were minutes of breathless suspense while Anna stood in the
gathering darkness, and then the heavy footsteps ceased to descend, and
she found herself suddenly hugged close in her father's arms.
"My good girl," he said, "my good Anna, how did you come here?"
Anna could not speak. She trembled like a leaf, and then she began to
sob. The poor girl was completely exhausted by the terrible anxiety she
had gone through, and by fatigue.
"I thought I was too late," she sobbed; "it looked so dark. I feared you
could not see; I cried out, but you did not answer. Oh, father!"--she
caught at his arms--"if I had been really too late!"
Her head sank on his shoulder.
George Fasch patted her cheek. He was deeply moved, but he did not
speak; he would hear by-and-by how it had all happened. Presently he
said cheerfully:
"Well, my girl, we must let Gretchen wonder what has happened to us
to-night. You and I will get beds at Malans. My clever Anna has done
enough for one day."
* * * * *
Three years have passed since Anna's memorable journey. Her Aunt
Christina has married, and she has gone to live in Zurich; Anna is now
alone with her father and Gretchen. She has developed in all ways; that
hurried journey to the foot of the mountain had been a mental tonic to
the girl. She has learned to be self-reliant in a true way, and she has
found out the truth of a very old proverb, which says, "No one knows
what he can do till he tries."
[Illustration: AT THE PICNIC: "I SHAN'T PLAY IF YOU FELLOWS ARE SO
ROUGH!"]
[Sidenote: Mrs. Creighton (the widow of one of the most brilliant men
who ever adorned the English episcopate) has herself been an ardent
worker in literary and social fields. Her appeal to the girls of the
Empire lays stress on the joy as well as the privilege of service.]
To Girls of the Empire
The Call to Service
BY
MRS. CREIGHTON
There are those who speak of patriotism as selfish, and bid us cultivate
a wider spirit, and think and work for the good of the whole world
rather than for the good of our own country. It is true that there is a
narrow and a selfish patriotism which blinds us to the good in other
nations, which limits our aspirations and breeds a spirit of jealousy
and self-assertion. The true patriotism leads us to love our country,
and to work for it because we believe that God has given it a special
mission, a special part to play in the development of His great purpose
in the world, and that ours is the high privilege of helping it to
fulfil that mission.
At this moment there seems to come a special call to women to share in
the work that we believe the British Empire is bidden to do for the good
of the whole world. If we British people fail to rise to the great
opportunity that lies before us, it will be because we love easy ways,
and material comfort, and all the pleasant things that come to us so
readily, because we have lost the spirit of enterprise, the capacity to
do hard things, and are content with trying to get the best out of life
for ourselves.
We need to keep always a high ideal before us, and as civilisation
increases and brings ever new possibilities of enjoyment, the
maintenance of that high ideal becomes always more difficult. Nothing
helps so much to keep us from low ideals as the conviction that life is
a call from God to service, and that our truest happiness is to be found
in using every gift, every capacity that we possess, for the good of
others.
Girls naturally look forward into life and wonder what it will bring
them. Those will probably be the happiest who early in life are obliged
or encouraged to prepare themselves for some definite work. But however
this may be, they should all from the first realise the bigness of their
position, and see themselves as citizens of a great country, with a
great work to do for God in the world.
It may be that they will be called to what seems the most natural work
for women--to have homes of their own and to realise their citizenship
as wives and mothers, doing surely the most important work that any
citizen can fulfil. Or they may have either for a time or for life some
definite work of their own to do. Everywhere the work of women is being
increasingly called for in all departments of life, yet women do not
always show the enterprise to embark on new lines or the energy to
develop their capacities in such a way as to fit them to do the work
that lies before them.
It is so easy after schooldays are ended to enjoy all the pleasant
things that lie around, to slip into what comes easiest, to wait for
something to turn up, and so really to lose the fruits of past education
because it is not carried into practice or used as a means for further
development.
This is the critical period of a girl's life. For a boy every one
considers the choice of a definite profession imperative; for a girl,
unless necessity compels it, the general idea is that it would be a pity
for her to take to any work, let her at any rate wait a bit and enjoy
herself, then probably something will turn up. This might be all very
well if the waiting time were used for further education, for
preparation for the work of life. But in too many cases studies begun at
school are carried no further, habits of work are lost, and intellectual
development comes to a standstill.
We are seeing increasingly in every department of life how much depends
upon the home and upon the training given by the mother, and yet it does
not seem as if girls as a rule prepared themselves seriously for that
high position. The mother should be the first, the chief religious
teacher of her children, but most women are content to be vaguely
religious themselves whilst hardly knowing what they themselves believe,
and feeling perfectly incapable of teaching others.
[Sidenote: How to Begin]
Yet how are they to fulfil the call which will surely come to them to
teach either their own children or those of others if they have not
troubled to gain religious knowledge for themselves? The Bible, which
becomes each day a more living book because of all the light thrown upon
it by recent research, should be known and studied as the great central
source of teaching on all that concerns the relations between God and
man. But sometimes we are told that it is less well known now than
formerly, when real knowledge of it was much more difficult.
Women are said to be naturally more religious than men, but that natural
religion will have all the stronger influence the more it is founded on
knowledge, and so is able to stand alone, apart from the stimulus of
beautiful services or inspiring preaching. Women who follow their
husbands into the distant parts of the earth, and are called to be
home-makers in new lands, may find themselves not only compelled to
stand alone, but called upon to help to maintain the religious life in
others. They will not be able to do this if, when they had the
opportunity, they neglected to lay sure foundations for their own
religious life.
These thoughts may seem to lead us far away from the occupations and
interests of girlhood; but they emphasise what is the important
thing--the need to recognise the years of girlhood as years of
preparation. This is not to take away from the joy of life. The more we
learn to find joy in all the beauty of life, in books, in art, in
nature, the more permanent sources of joy we are laying up for the
future. We must not starve our natures; we should see that every part of
ourselves is alive and vigorous.
It is because so many women really hardly live at all that their lives
seem so dull and colourless. They have never taken the trouble to
develop great parts of themselves, and in consequence they do not notice
all the beautiful and interesting things in the world around them. They
have not learnt to use all their faculties, so they are unfit to do the
work which they might do for the good of others.
Many girls have dreams of the great things they would like to do. But
they do not know how to begin, and so they are restless and
discontented. The first thing to do is to train themselves, to do every
little thing that comes along as well as they can, so as to fit
themselves for the higher work that may come. It is worth while for them
to go on with their studies, to train their minds to habits of accurate
thought, to gain knowledge of all kinds, for all this may not only prove
useful in the future, but will make them themselves better instruments
for any work that may come to them to do. It is very worth while to
learn to be punctual and orderly in little things, to gain business-like
habits, even to keep accounts and to answer notes promptly--all these
will be useful in the greater business of life. We must be tried in
little things before we can be worthy to do big things.
Meanwhile doors are always opening to us whilst we are young, only very
often we do not think it worth while to go in at the open door because
it strikes us as dull or unimportant and not the great opportunity that
we hoped for. But those who go in at the door that opens, that take up
the dull little job that offers, and do it as well as they can, will
find, first that it is not so dull as they thought, and then that it
leads on to something else, and new doors open, and interests grow
wider, and more important work is offered. Those who will not go in, but
choose to wait till some more interesting or inviting door opens, will
find that opportunities grow fewer, that doors are closed instead of
opened, and life grows narrower instead of wider.
[Sidenote: All the Difference]
It is of course the motive that inspires us that makes all the
difference. To have once realised life, not as an opportunity for
self-pleasing, but as an opportunity for service, makes us willing to do
the small tasks gladly, that they may fit us for the higher tasks. It
would seem as if to us now came with ever-increasing clearness the call
to realise more truly throughout the world the great message that Christ
proclaimed of the brotherhood of men. It is this sense of brotherhood
that stirs us to make the conditions of life sweet and wholesome for
every child in our own land, that rouses us to think of the needs of
those who have never heard the Christian message of love. As we feel
what it means to know God as our Father, we learn to see all men as our
brothers, and hence to hear the call to serve them.
It is not necessary to go far to answer this call; brothers and sisters
who need our love and help are round our doors, even under our own roof
at home; this sense of brotherhood must be felt with all those with whom
we come in contact. To some may come the call to realise what it means
to recognise our brotherhood with peoples of other race and other
beliefs. Even within our own Empire there are, especially in India,
countless multitudes waiting for the truth of the gospel to bring light
and hope into their lives. Do we feel as we should the call that comes
to us from our sisters the women of India? They are needing teachers,
doctors, nurses, help that only other women can bring them. Is it not
worth while for those who are looking out into life, wondering what it
will mean to them, to consider whether the call may not come to them to
give themselves to the service of their sisters in the East?
But however this may be, make yourselves ready to hear whatever call may
come. There is some service wanted from you; to give that service will
be your greatest blessing, your deepest joy. Whether you are able to
give that service worthily will depend upon the use you make of the time
of waiting and preparation. It must be done, not for your own
gratification, but because you are the followers of One who came, "not
to be ministered unto, but to minister."
[Illustration: "THE SON OF MAN CAME NOT TO BE MINISTERED UNTO, BUT TO
MINISTER."]
[Sidenote: A very singular adventure befell two young people, who
entertained a stranger unawares.]
My Dangerous Maniac
BY
LESLIE M. OYLER
It was a glorious July morning, the kind of morning that makes you feel
how good it is to be alive and young--and, incidently, to hope that the
tennis-courts won't be too dry.
You see Gerald, my brother, and I were invited to an American tournament
for that afternoon, which we were both awfully keen about; then mother
and father were coming home in the evening, after having been away a
fortnight, and, though on the whole I had got on quite nicely with the
housekeeping, it _would_ be a relief to be able to consult mother again.
Things have a knack of not going so smoothly when mothers are away, as I
daresay you've noticed.
I had been busy making strawberry jam, which had turned out very well,
all except the last lot. Gerald called me to see his new ferret just
after I had put the sugar in, and, by the time I got back, the jam had,
most disagreeably, got burnt.
That's just the way with cooking. You stand and watch a thing for ages,
waiting for it to boil; but immediately you go out of the room it
becomes hysterical and boils all over the stove; so it is borne in on
me that you must "keep your eye on the ball," otherwise the saucepan,
when cooking.
However, when things are a success it feels quite worth the trouble.
Gerald insisted on "helping" me once, rather against cook's wish, and
made some really delicious meringues, only he _would_ eat them before
they were properly baked!
The gong rang, and I ran down to breakfast; Gerald was late, as usual,
but he came at last.
"Here's a letter from Jack," I remarked, passing it across; "see what he
says."
Jack was one of our oldest friends; he went to school with Gerald, and
they were then both at Oxford together. He had always spent his holidays
with us as he had no mother, and his father, who was a most brilliant
scholar, lived in India, engaged in research work; but this vac. Mr.
Marriott was in England, and Jack and he were coming to stay with us the
following day.
[Illustration: GERALD LOOKED PUZZLED.]
Gerald read the letter through twice, and then looked puzzled.
"Which day were they invited for, Margaret?" he asked.
"To-morrow, of course, the 13th."
"Well, they're coming this evening by the 7.2."
I looked over his shoulder; it _was_ the 12th undoubtedly. "And mother
and father aren't coming till the 9.30," I sighed; "I wish they were
going to be here in time for dinner to entertain Mr. Marriott; he's sure
to be eccentric--clever people always are."
"Yes," agreed Gerald, "he'll talk miles above our heads; but never mind,
there'll be old Jack."