in it, as Mr. Marriott came from India; but cook overruled me, saying it
was "such nasty hot stuff for this weather, and English curry wouldn't
be like Indian curry either."
When everything was in readiness for our guests Gerald and I went to
the Prescotts', who were giving the tournament.
We had some splendid games, and Gerald was still playing in an exciting
match when I found that the Marriotts' train was nearly due. Of course
he couldn't leave off, so I said that I would meet them and take them
home; we only lived about a quarter of a mile from the station, and
generally walked.
I couldn't find my racquet for some time, and consequently had a race
with the train, which luckily ended in a dead heat, for I reached the
platform just as it steamed in.
The few passengers quickly dispersed, but there was no sign of Jack; a
tall, elderly man, wrapped in a thick overcoat, in spite of the hot
evening, stood forlornly alone. I was just wondering if he could be
Jack's father when he came up to me and said, "Are you Margaret?"
"Yes," I answered.
"I have often heard my boy speak of you," he said, looking extremely
miserable.
[Sidenote: Jack does not Come]
"But isn't he coming?" I cried.
He replied "No" in such a hopeless voice and sighed so heavily that I
was beginning to feel positively depressed, when he changed the subject
by informing me that his bag had been left behind but was coming on by a
later train, so, giving instructions for it to be sent up directly it
arrived, I piloted him out of the station.
I had expected him to be eccentric, but he certainly was the oddest man
I had ever met; he seemed perfectly obsessed by the loss of his bag, and
would talk of nothing else, though I was longing to know why Jack hadn't
come. The absence of his dress clothes seemed to worry him intensely. In
vain I told him that we need not change for dinner; he said he must, and
wouldn't be comforted.
"How is Jack?" I asked at last; "why didn't he come with you?"
He looked at me for a moment with an expression of the deepest grief,
and then said quietly, "Jack is dead."
"_Dead?_" I almost shouted. "Jack dead! You can't mean it!"
But he only repeated sadly, "Jack is dead," and walked on.
It seemed incredible; Jack, whom we had seen a few weeks before so full
of life and vigour, Jack, who had ridden with us, played tennis, and
been the leading spirit at our rat hunts, it was too horrible to think
of!
I felt quite stunned, but the sight of the poor old man who had lost his
only child roused me.
"I am more sorry than I can say," I ventured; "it must be a terrible
blow to you."
"Thank you," he said; "you, who knew him well, can realise it more than
any one; but it was all for the best--I felt that when I did it."
"Did what?" I inquired, thinking that he was straying from the point.
"When I shot him through the head," he replied laconically, as if it
were the most natural thing in the world.
If he had suddenly pointed a pistol at _my_ head I could not have been
more astonished; I was absolutely petrified with horror, for the thought
flashed into my brain that Jack's father must be mad!
His peculiar expression had aroused my curiosity at the station, and his
next remark confirmed my suspicion.
"You see, he showed unmistakable symptoms of going mad----"
(I had heard that madmen invariably think every one around them is mad,
and that they themselves are sane.)
"----so I felt it my duty to shoot him; it was all over in a moment."
"Poor Jack!" I cried involuntarily.
"Yes," he answered, "but I should do just the same again if the occasion
arose."
And he looked at me fixedly.
I felt horribly frightened. Did he think I was mad? And I fell to
wondering, when he put his hand in his pocket, whether he had the
revolver there. We had reached our garden gate by this time, where, to
my infinite relief, we were joined by Gerald, flushed and triumphant
after winning his match.
After an agonised aside "Don't ask about Jack," I murmured an
introduction, and we all walked up to the house together. In the hall I
managed to tell Gerald of our dreadful position, and implored him to
humour the madman as much as possible until we could form some plan for
his capture.
"We'll give him dinner just as if nothing has happened, and after that
I'll arrange something," said Gerald hopefully; "don't you worry."
[Sidenote: A Knife Trick]
Never shall I forget that dinner! We were on tenterhooks the whole time,
and it made me shudder to see how Mr. Marriott caressed the knives. I
could scarcely prevent myself screaming when he held one up, and,
feeling the blade carefully with his finger, said:
"I rather thought of doing this little trick to-night, if you would like
it; it is very convincing and doesn't take long."
I remembered his remark, "it was all over in a moment," and trembled;
but Gerald tactfully drew his attention to something else, and dinner
proceeded peaceably; but he had a horrible fondness for that knife, and,
when dessert was put on the table, kept it in his hand, "to show us the
trick afterwards."
I stayed in the dining-room when we had finished; I couldn't bear to
leave Gerald, and he and I exchanged apprehensive glances when Mr.
Marriott refused to smoke, giving as his reason that he wanted a steady
hand for his work later.
He worried ceaselessly about his bag (I began to think the revolver must
be there), and when, at last, it came he almost ran into the hall to
open it.
Then Gerald had a brilliant inspiration. Seizing the bag, he carried it
up to his room, which was at the top of the house. Mr. Marriott eagerly
followed, and when he was safely in we shut the door and bolted it
securely on the outside.
"That was a good move, Gerald," I cried, heaving a sigh of relief, "we
can keep him there till mother and father come home; they can't be very
long now; perhaps he won't notice he's locked in for some time."
But unfortunately he _did_ notice, for very soon we heard him rattling
the door handle, and when no one came (for we had had to explain matters
to the maids, whereat they had all rushed, panic-stricken, to the
servants' hall), he started banging and shouting louder than ever.
It was an awful time for us; every minute I expected him to burst the
door open and come tearing downstairs. Gerald wanted to go up and try to
pacify him, but I told him I was too frightened to be left, which, I
knew, was the only way of preventing him.
We walked down the garden to see if mother and father were in sight, and
then----
"Awfully sorry we missed the train," said a cheerful voice, and _Jack_,
followed by another figure, came through the gate!
"You aren't dead then?" was all I could manage to gasp.
"No, rather not! Very much alive. Here's the pater; but first, tell me,
why should I be dead?"
Gerald and I began to speak simultaneously, and in the midst of our
explanations mother and father arrived, so we had to tell them all over
again.
"The question is, who _is_ your lunatic?" said father, "and----"
But just at that moment we heard frantic shouts from Gerald's bedroom
window, and found the sham Mr. Marriott leaning out of it in a state of
frenzy.
He was absolutely furious; but we gathered from his incoherent remarks
that he was getting very late for a conjuring performance which he had
promised to give at a friend's house. He vowed that there was some
conspiracy to prevent him going there at all; first his bag was lost,
then some one pretended to be his friend's daughter, whom he had never
seen, and finally he was locked in a room with no means of escape!
[Sidenote: Our Little Mistake]
Then, and only then, did we realise our mistake! The others seemed to
find it very amusing and shrieked with laughter, but the humour of it
didn't strike Gerald and me any more than it did the irate conjuror, who
was promptly released with profuse apologies, and sent in our car to his
destination. It transpired that his conversation which had so alarmed me
referred only to a favourite dog of his, and I, of course, had
unconsciously misled Gerald.
Mr. Marriott proved to be most interesting and amusing, anything but
eccentric; but I shall _never_ hear the last of my mistake, and to this
day he and Jack tease me unmercifully about my "dangerous maniac!"
[Sidenote: A story of the Canadian North-West Mounted Police, founded on
fact.]
Jim Rattray, Trooper
BY
KELSO B. JOHNSON
"Our Lady of the Snows" resents the title. It is so liable, she
complains, to give strangers an utterly wrong idea of her climate. And
yet, at times, when the blizzard piles the swirling snow over fence and
hollow, until boundaries are lost, and the bewildered wayfarer knows not
which way to turn, he is apt to think, if he is in a condition to think
at all, that there is some justice in the description.
But there was no sign of the stern side of nature as Jim Rattray made
his way westward. The sun shone on the wide, rolling plains, the fresh
green of the pasture lands, and the young wheat; the blue sky covered
all with a dome of heaven's own blue, and Jim's heart rejoiced within
him.
A strapping young fellow was Jim, not long out from the Old Country--the
sort of young fellow whose bright eyes and fresh open face do one good
to look at. North-country farming in England was the life to which he
had looked forward; vigorous sports and hard work in the keen air of the
Cumberland fells had knit his frame and hardened his muscles; and his
parents, as they noticed with pride their boy's sturdy limbs, and
listened in wonder to the bits of learning he brought home from school,
had looked forward half-unconsciously to the days when he in his turn
would be master of the farm which Rattrays had held for generations.
Bad days, however, had come for English farmers; the Cumbrian farm had
to be given up, and Jim's father never recovered from the shock of
having to leave it. Within a few years Jim was an orphan, alone in the
world.
[Sidenote: The Great New World]
There was nothing to keep him in England; why should he not try his
fortune in the great new world beyond the seas, which was crying out for
stout hearts and hands to develop its treasures? He was young and
strong: Canada was a land of great possibilities. There was room and a
chance for all there. His life was before him--what might he not
achieve!
"What do you propose doing?" asked a fellow-voyager as they landed.
"I really don't quite know," replied Jim. "As soon as possible I must
get employment on a farm, I suppose, but I hardly know how to set about
it."
"There won't be much difficulty about that. All you have to do is to let
it be known at the bureau that you want farm work, and you'll find
plenty of farmers willing to take you--and glad to get you," he added,
as his eyes roved over Jim's stalwart figure. "But have you thought of
the police?"
"The police? No--what have I done?"
His friend laughed.
"I mean the North-West Mounted Police. Why don't you try to join it? If
they'll take you, you'll take to the life like a duck to water. You
could join, if you liked, for a short term of years; you would roam
about over hundreds of miles of country, and get a general knowledge of
it such as you could hardly get otherwise; then, if you'd like to settle
down to farming or ranching, the information you had picked up would be
useful."
Jim pondered over the advice, and finally resolved to follow it. He
hoped to make his way in the world, and the more knowledge he could gain
the better.
A few days later saw him on his way westward, his heart bounding with
the exhilarating beauty of the scene. Already the life at home seemed
cramped; the wideness and freedom of this great new country intoxicated
him.
"Do we want a recruit? No, we don't!" said the sergeant at Regina, to
whom Jim applied. "Stay a bit, though; you needn't be in such a hurry.
Just out from the Old Country, I suppose. Do you know anything about
horses? Can you ride?"
"Yes," said Jim humbly.
"Let's try you," and the sergeant led the way into the riding-school.
"We call this one 'Brown Billy,'" he remarked, indicating a
quiet-looking horse. "Think you can sit on him?"
"I'll try," said Jim.
Riding Brown Billy seemed ridiculously easy at first. Suddenly, however,
without the slightest warning, Jim found himself gripping with his knees
the sides of an animal that was dancing wildly on its hind legs.
Jim caught a grin on the faces of the sergeant and some of the other
bystanders, and setting his teeth he held on grimly. This was evidently
a favourite trick of Brown Billy's, and the sergeant knew it. Well, they
should see that British grit was not to be beaten.
Seemingly conquered, Brown Billy dropped again on all-fours. Scarcely
had Jim begun to congratulate himself on his victory when Billy's head
went down between his forelegs, his hind-quarters rose, and Jim was
neatly deposited on hands and knees a few feet ahead.
The grins were noticeably broader as Jim rose, crimson with vexation.
"Thought you could sit him, eh?" laughed the sergeant. "Well, you kept
on longer than some I've seen, and you didn't try to hug him around the
neck, either. You're not the first old Billy has played that trick on,
by a long way. You'll make a rider yet! Come along and let us see what
else you can do."
[Sidenote: Enrolled]
As a result of the searching examination Jim underwent he found himself
enrolled as a recruit. He was glad to find that there were among his new
companions others who had fallen victims to Brown Billy's wiles, and who
in consequence thought none the worse of him for his adventure.
Into the work that followed Jim threw himself with all his might. Never
had instructors a more willing pupil, and it was a proud day for Jim
when he was passed out of the training-school as a qualified trooper.
Jim found himself one of an exceedingly small party located apparently a
hundred miles from anywhere. Their nearest neighbours were a tribe of
Indians, whose mixture of childishness and cunning shrewdness made them
an interesting study. These gave little trouble; they had more or less
accepted the fact that the white man was now in possession of the
domains of their forefathers, and that their best course was to behave
themselves. When the presence of the police was required, Jim was almost
amused at the docility with which his directions were generally obeyed.
He delighted in the life--the long rides, the occasional camping out on
the plains far from any dwelling, the knowledge that he must rely upon
himself. He felt more of a man; his powers of endurance increased until
he took a positive pleasure in exercising them to their fullest possible
extent. Meanwhile, nothing more exciting happened than the tracking and
capture of an occasional horse-thief.
Winter set in early and hard. Snow fell until it lay feet deep, and
still the stormy winds brought more. One day the sergeant came in with a
troubled face.
"Wightman's horses have stampeded," he announced. "They'll be gone coons
if they're not rounded up and brought in."
"Let me go, sergeant!" said Jim.
The sergeant shook his head. "It's no work for a young hand. The oldest
might lose his bearings in weather like this."
"Let me go, sergeant!" Jim repeated. "If those horses are to be brought
in I can do it." There was a world of pleading in his tone, and the
sergeant guessed the reason.
"I meant no reflection on you, my lad," said he. "It's no weather for
anybody to be out in. All the same, if those horses aren't to be a dead
loss, somebody's got to round them up."
Finally Jim got his way. In a temporary lull about midday he set out on
his stout horse, well wrapped up in the thick woollen garments provided
for such times as these, and determined to bring in those horses, or
perish in the attempt.
"They went off sou'-west," shouted the sergeant. "I should----" A
furious blast as the gale recommenced carried away whatever else he
might have said, and Jim was alone with his good horse on the prairie.
There was no hesitancy in his mind. South-west he would push as hard as
he could go. The animals had probably not gone far; he must soon come up
with them, and the sooner the better.
Gallantly his steed stepped out through the deepening snowdrifts. Fain
would the sensible animal have turned and made his way back to his
stable, but Jim's credit was at stake, and no turning back was allowed.
Mile after mile was covered; where could those animals be in this storm?
Ha! a sudden furious rush of wind brought Jim's horse nearly to its
knees. How the gale roared, and how the snow drove in his face! Up and
on again, south-west after those horses!
But which _was_ the south-west? The daylight had completely faded; not a
gleam showed where the sun had set. Jim felt for his pocket-compass; it
was gone! The wind, blowing apparently from every quarter in
succession, was no guide at all. Nothing was visible more than a yard
away; nothing within that distance but driving snowflakes. Any tracks of
the runaways would be covered up in a few moments; in any case there was
no light to discern them.
[Sidenote: Lost!]
However, it was of no use to stand still. By pressing on he might
overtake his quarry, and after fright had driven them away, instinct
might lead them home. That was now the only chance of safety. Would he
ever find them?
Deeper and deeper sank his horse into the snow; harder and harder it
became to raise its hoofs clear for the next step. Snorting with fear,
and trembling in every limb, the gallant beast struggled on. He _must_
go on! To stop would be fatal. Benumbed as he was by the intense cold,
bewildered by the storm, with hand and voice Jim cheered on his steed,
and nobly it responded.
Suddenly it sank under him. A hollow, treacherously concealed by the
snow, had received them both into its chilly depths.
"Up again, old boy!" cried Jim, springing from the saddle, and tugging
at the rein, sinking to the waist in the soft snow as he did so. "Now
then, one more try!"
The faithful horse struggled desperately to respond to the words. But
its strength was spent; its utmost exertions would not suffice to
extricate it. The soft snow gave way under its hoofs; deeper and deeper
it sank. With a despairing scream it made a last futile effort, then it
stretched its neck along the snow, and with a sob lay down to die.
Further efforts to move it would be thrown away, and Jim knew it. In a
few minutes it would be wrapped in its winding-sheet.
With a lump in his throat Jim turned away--whither? His own powers had
nearly ebbed out. Of what use was it to battle further against the gale,
when he knew not in which direction to go?
With a sharp setting of the teeth he set himself to stimulate into
activity his benumbed faculties. Where was he? What was he doing there?
Ah, yes, he was after those stampeded horses. Well, he would never come
up with them now. He had done his best, and he had failed.
Taking out his notebook, as well as his benumbed powers would let him,
Jim scrawled a few words in the darkness. The powers of nature had been
too strong for him. What was a man to set himself against that tempest?
But stay! there was One stronger than the gale. Man was beyond hearing,
but was not God everywhere? Now, if ever, was the time to call upon Him.
No words would come but the familiar "Our Father," which Jim had said
every night for longer than he could remember. He had no power to think
out any other petition. "Our Father," he muttered drowsily, "which art
in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done. . . ."
The murmur ceased; the speaker was asleep.
They found him a few days later, when the snow had ceased to fall, and
the wind swept over the prairie, stripping off the deadly white
covering, and leaving the khaki jacket a conspicuous object. The
sergeant saw it, and pointed--he could not trust his voice to speak.
Eagerly the little band bent over the body of their comrade.
"Why, he's smiling! And see here! he's been writing something in his
notebook. What is it?"
Reverently they took the book from the brown hand, and the sergeant read
the words aloud:
"Lost, horse dead. Am trying to push on. Have done my best."
"That he did. There was good stuff in him, lads, and perhaps he was
wanted up aloft!"
A solemn hush held the party. "'I did my best,'" said a trooper softly
at length. "Ah, well, it'll be a good job for all of us, if when our
time comes we can say that with as much truth as he!"
[Sidenote: Mary sacrificed herself to help another. The renunciation in
time brought reward.]
Mary's Stepping Aside
BY
EDITH C. KENYON
"How very foolish of you! So unbusinesslike!" cried Mrs. Croft angrily.
"I could not do anything else, Hetty. Poor Ethel is worse off than we
are. She has her widowed mother to help; they are all so poor, and it
was such a struggle for Mrs. Forrest to pay that £160 for Ethel's two
years' training in the Physical Culture College. You know, when Ethel
and I entered for training, there was a good demand for teachers of
physical culture, but now, alas! the supply exceeds the demand, and it
has been such a great trouble to Ethel that she could not get a post,
and begin to repay her mother for the outlay. She failed every time she
tried to secure an appointment; the luck seemed always against her. And
now she was next to me, and I had only to step aside to enable her to
receive the appointment."
"And you did so! That is just like you, Mary. You will never get on in
the world. What will people say? They are already wondering why my
clever sister is not more successful."
"Does it really matter what people think?" questioned Mary, and there
was a far-away look in her blue eyes, as she glanced through the window
at the wide stretch of moorland to be seen from it.
She had been to London to try to secure an appointment as teacher of
physical culture at a large ladies' college. There were several
applicants for the appointment, which was worth £100 a year and board
and lodging, not bad for a commencement, and she was successful.
The lady principal came out to tell her so, and mentioned that Ethel
Forrest, her college friend, was the next to her, adding that the latter
appeared to be a remarkably nice girl and very capable. In a moment, as
Mary realised how terrible poor Ethel's disappointment would be, she
resolved to step aside in order that her friend might have the
appointment.
The lady principal was surprised, and a little offended, but forthwith
gave Ethel Forrest the post, and Mary was more than repaid by Ethel's
unbounded gratitude.
"I can't tell you what it is to me to obtain this good appointment," she
said, when they came away together. "Poor mother will now cease to
deplore the money she could so ill afford to spend on my training. You
see, it seemed as if she had robbed the younger children for me, and
that it was money thrown away when she could so ill spare it, but now I
shall repay her as soon as possible out of my salary, and the children
will have a chance."
"Yes, I know. That is why I did it," Mary said. "And I am happy in your
happiness, Ethel darling."
"But I am afraid it is rather irksome for you, living so long with your
sister and brother-in-law, although they are so well off," Ethel
remarked, after a while.
"That is a small matter in comparison," Mary said lightly. "And I am so
happy about you, Ethel, your mother will be so pleased."
It seemed to Mary afterwards, when she left Ethel and went by express to
York, where she took a slow train to the little station on the moors
near her sister's home, that her heart was as light and happy as if she
had received a great gift instead of surrendering an advantage. Truly
it is more blessed to give than to receive, for there is no joy so pure
as "the joy of doing kindnesse."
But on her arrival at the house which had been her home since her
parents died, she found herself being severely blamed for what she had
done.
In vain Mary reminded her sister that she was not exactly poor, and
certainly not dependent upon her. Their father had left a very moderate
income to both his daughters, Hetty the elder, who had married Dr.
Croft, a country practitioner, and Mary, who, as a sensible modern young
woman, determined to have a vocation, and go in for the up-to-date work
of teaching physical culture.
Finding she could make no impression upon her sister, Mrs. Croft
privately exhorted her husband to speak to Mary about the disputed
point.
That evening, therefore, after dinner, as they sat round the fire
chatting, the doctor remarked: "But you know, Mary, it won't do to step
aside for others to get before you in the battle of life. You owe a duty
to yourself and--and your friends."