exceptional case. Ethel Forrest is so poor, and----"
[Sidenote: "Each for Himself!"]
"Yes, yes. But, my dear girl, it is each for himself in this world."
"Is it?" Mary asked, and again there was a wistful, far-away look in her
blue eyes. With an effort, she pulled herself together, and went on
softly: "Shall I tell you what I saw as I returned home across the moor
from the station? The day was nearly over, and the clouds were gathering
overhead. The wind was rising and falling as it swept across the
moorland. The rich purple of the heather had gone, and was succeeded by
dull brown--sometimes almost grey--each little floret of the ling, as
Ruskin said, folding itself into a cross as it was dying. Poor little
purply-pink petals! They had had their day, they had had their fill of
sunshine, they had been breathed on by the soft breezes of a genial
summer, and now all the brightness for them was over; they folded their
petals, becoming just like a cross as they silently died away. You see,"
she looked up with a smile, "even the heather knows that the way of
self-sacrifice is the only way that is worth while."
There was silence for a few minutes. The crimson light from the shaded
candles fell softly on Mary's face, beautiful in its sincerity and sweet
wistfulness.
The doctor shook his head. "I should never have got on in life if I had
acted in that way," he said.
"You are quite too sentimental, Mary," remarked her sister harshly.
"Why, the world would not go on if we all did as you do. All the same,"
she added, almost grudgingly, "you are welcome to stay here till you get
another appointment."
Mary rose and kissed her. "You shan't regret it, Hetty," she said. "I
will try to help you all I can while I stay, but I may soon get another
appointment."
* * * * *
Fifteen months afterwards there was great rejoicing in Mrs. Forrest's
small and overcrowded house in Croydon, because her youngest brother had
returned from New Zealand with quite a large fortune, which he declared
gallantly that he was going to share with her.
"Half shall be settled on you and your children, Margaret," he said, "as
soon as the lawyers can fix it up. You will be able to send your boys to
Oxford, and give your girls dowries. By the by, how is my old favourite
Ethel? And what is she doing?"
"She teaches physical culture in a large ladies' college in the West
End. It is a good appointment. Her salary has been raised; it is now
£130, with board and lodging."
That did not seem much to the wealthy colonial, but he smiled. "And how
did she get the post?" he said. "I remember in one of your letters you
complained that her education had cost a lot, and that she was very
unlucky about getting anything to do."
[Sidenote: Uncle Max]
"Yes, it was so, Max. But she owed her success at last to the kindness
of a friend of hers, who won this appointment, and then stepped aside
for her to have it."
"Grand!" cried Max Vernon heartily. "What a good friend that was! It is
a real pleasure to hear of such self-sacrifice in this hard, work-a-day
world. I should like to know that young woman," he continued. "What is
she doing now?"
"I don't know," replied his sister. "But here comes Ethel. She will tell
you."
Ethel had come over from the college on purpose to see her uncle, and
was delighted to welcome him home. He was not more than ten years older
than herself, there being more than that between him and her mother. His
success in New Zealand was partly owing to his charming personality,
which caused him to win the love of his first employer, who adopted him
as his son and heir some six years before he died, leaving all his money
to him. Ethel had pleasant memories of her uncle's kindness to her when
a child.
When hearty greetings had been exchanged between the uncle and niece,
Margaret Forrest said to her daughter: "I have been telling your uncle
about your friend Mary Oliver's giving up that appointment for you, and
he wants to know where she is now, and what she is doing."
"Ah, poor Mary!" said Ethel ruefully. "I am really very troubled about
her. Her sister and brother-in-law lost all their money through that
recent bank failure, and Dr. Croft took it badly. His losses seemed to
harden him. Declaring that he could not carry on his practice in the
country without capital, he sold it and arranged to go to New Zealand,
though his wife had fallen into ill-health and could not possibly
accompany him. He went abroad, leaving her in London in wretched
lodgings. Then Mary gave up her good situation as teacher of physical
culture in a private school, and took a less remunerative appointment so
that she might live with her poor sister, and look after her, especially
at nights. I believe there is a lot of night nursing. It's awfully hard
and wearing for Mary, but she does it all so willingly, I believe she
positively enjoys it, though I cannot help being anxious lest her health
should break down."
"She must not be allowed to do double work like that," said the
colonial. "No one can work by day and night as well without breaking
down."
"But what is she to do?" queried Ethel. "She is obliged to earn money
for their maintenance."
"We might put a little in her way," suggested Vernon.
Ethel shook her head. "She is very sweet," she said, "but I fancy she
would not like to accept money as a gift."
Max Vernon assented. "Exactly," he said, "I know the sort. But she could
not object to take it if it were her right."
Margaret Forrest smiled, scenting a romance. "I will have her here to
tea on her next half-holiday," she said; "then you will see her."
But Vernon could not wait till then. He and Ethel made up a plan that
they would go to Mrs. Croft's rooms that very evening, in order that he
might personally thank Mary for her goodness to his niece.
Mary thought she had never seen such a kind, strong face as his, when he
stood before her expressing his gratitude for what she had done for
Ethel, and also his sympathy with her troubles, of which Ethel had told
him.
That was the beginning, and afterwards he was often in her home,
bringing gifts for the querulous invalid, and, better still, hope for
the future of her husband, about whom he interested a friend of his, who
was doing well out in New Zealand, and looking out for a partner with
some knowledge of medicine.
[Illustration: IT WAS UNDER A NOBLE TREE THAT MAX ASKED MARY TO MARRY
HIM.]
It was at a picnic, under a noble tree, that Max asked Mary to marry
him, and learned to his great joy how fully his love was returned.
Mary thought there was no one like him. So many had come to her for
help, but only he came to give with both hands, esteeming all he gave as
nothing if only he could win her smile and her approval.
So it happened that by the time Mrs. Croft had so far recovered as to be
able to join her husband, her departure was delayed one week, in order
that she might be present at her sister's wedding.
[Sidenote: Not so Foolish after all!]
"After all, Mary," she said, when at last she was saying goodbye, "your
happiness has come to you as a direct result of your kindness to Ethel
Forrest in stepping aside for her to have that appointment. You were
therefore not so foolish after all."
Mary laughed joyously. "I never thought I was," she said. "There's an
old-fashioned saying, you know, that 'it is more blessed to give than to
receive.'"
[Sidenote: How a plucky girl averted a terrible danger from marauding
Redskins.]
A Race for Life
BY
LUCIE E. JACKSON
The McArthurs were fortunate people. Everybody said that Mr. McArthur
must have been born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, for
though he had come to Tulaska with barely a red cent in his pocket,
everything he attempted succeeded. His land increased, his cattle
increased, his home grew in proportion to his land, his wife was a
perfect manager, and his only child was noted for her beauty and daring.
A tall, graceful girl was Rosalind McArthur, with her mother's fine skin
and Irish blue eyes, her father's strength of mind and fearless bearing.
At nineteen years of age she could ride as straight as any man, could
paddle her canoe as swiftly as any Indian, and could shoot as well as
any settler in the land.
Added to all this, McArthur was a good neighbour, a kind friend, a
genial companion, and a succourer of those in need of help. Thus when it
became reported that the Indians had been making a raid upon a small
settlement on the borders, and it was likely their next incursion would
be directed against McArthur's clearing, the owners of small holdings
declared their intention to stand shoulder to shoulder, and fight, if
need be, for their more prosperous neighbour.
"I think it must have been a false report. Here have we been waiting,
gun in hand, for the last two months, and not a sign of a Redskin's
tomahawk have we seen," said Rosalind cheerfully, as she and her parents
rose from their evening meal.
"Thank God if it be so," returned her mother.
"We'll not slacken our vigilance, however," was McArthur's answer.
At that instant a rapping at the house door was heard, and McArthur
rose.
"It must be Frank Robertson. He'll probably want a shake-down, wife."
"He can have it if he wants it," was Mrs. McArthur's cordial answer.
"Many thanks, but he won't trespass on your hospitality," said the
new-comer, a tall, handsome young settler, entering as he spoke. "No,
McArthur, I cannot stay. I have come but for five minutes on my way back
to the village."
"You can at least sit down," said McArthur, pulling forward a chair.
"What is the latest news?"
"Nothing, beyond the report that the Indians appear to have shifted
themselves elsewhere."
"Well, that is news," said Rosalind, looking up with a smile.
"You say, 'appear to have shifted themselves,'" said McArthur. "I shall
still keep on the defensive. I wouldn't trust a Redskin for a good
deal."
"True enough," was the answer. "McArthur, whom could you send to the
village for need at a critical time?"
"I doubt if I could spare a man. Every hand would be wanted, every rifle
needed, for I know not in what numbers the Redskins might come."
[Sidenote: "I could go!"]
"I could ride to the village," announced Rosalind calmly. "Golightly and
I would cover the ground in no time."
"You, my darling!" Mrs. McArthur ejaculated in horror.
McArthur waved his daughter's words aside.
"You do not know, my child, what danger you would court."
"Of course, Miss McArthur is out of the question," said the young man,
and smiled as Rosalind darted an indignant glance at him.
"At any rate, I am at your service if you need me," he continued. "I
trust I may not be called out for such a purpose, but if I am, I and my
rifle are at your disposal."
"Thanks, Robertson, you are a good fellow," returned McArthur heartily,
grasping the young man's hand.
In a few minutes he rose to go. Rosalind accompanied him to the house
door.
"Mr. Robertson," she said abruptly, as soon as they were out of hearing,
"which would be the shortest cut to the village? By the woods or by the
river?" He looked keenly at her.
"You meant what you said just now?"
"Of course I meant it. I--I would do anything to save my father's and
mother's lives, and their property, which father has secured by dint of
so much labour."
He took her hand in his.
"Rosalind," he said softly, "if anything happened to you, my life would
be of no worth to me."
She flushed all over her fair skin.
"It is better to be prepared for an emergency," she answered gently,
"and I do not think I would run such a great risk as you and my father
think."
"You do not know the Redskin," was the grave answer.
"You heard my father say he couldn't spare a man. How much more use I
would be if I brought help than stayed here and perhaps shot a couple of
Indians, who might overpower us by their numbers. I was wondering if
Golightly and the woods would be a shorter way than my canoe and the
river?"
He had both her hands in his, and was looking down into her eyes.
"The woods and Golightly would be the swiftest way to communicate with
us in the village."
"Then if need be I shall do it."
"Take the right-hand track straight through the wood, and God protect
you, Rosalind. My house will be the first one you will come to. Let me
be the first to spring to your aid. No man will step into the stirrup
with greater alacrity than I. But, please God, there may be no need for
you to go."
He lifted her hands to his lips and was gone.
Two days passed and nothing of moment happened. But on the evening of
the third, two men in McArthur's employ entered the house breathless
with excitement. Feathertop--an Indian chief noted for the number of
scalps which adorned his person--had been seen in the vicinity of the
small settlement.
McArthur, with a grim fixedness of countenance, saw to the priming of
his rifle for the fiftieth time; and Rosalind, with her father's
courage, examined her own weapon, which she had resolved to take with
her for safety if Golightly had to be requisitioned.
"Rosalind, those chaps will be on us to-night or to-morrow morning."
It was McArthur who spoke, and Rosalind knew that her own misgivings had
taken root also within her father's mind.
"Because of Feathertop?" she asked bravely.
"Yes. He is never lurking about unless he means business."
"Could David and Jim have been misinformed?"
"I don't think so."
"Then, father, I shall ride to the village."
[Sidenote: Rosalind's Resolve]
McArthur looked at his daughter. He saw her face, he saw her figure.
Both were alive with determination and courage.
"Rosalind, you will kill your mother if you attempt to do such a
thing."
"Don't tell her unless you are obliged. It is to save her that I do it.
Give her a rifle--keep her employed--let her think I am with some of the
neighbours. Father, we do not know if we shall be outnumbered. If we
are, what will happen? All your cattle will go--your whole property will
be ruined, and, worse than all put together, we shall probably lose our
lives in a horrible manner."
"I acknowledge all that you say, but one of the men must go. You with
your rifle can take his place, and do just as much execution as he
can----"
David put his head in at the door.
"We've brought all the live-stock as close to the house as possible. Jim
has been stealing round the plantation by the river, and says he has
distinctly seen three Redskins on the other side of the river. We must
be prepared for an attack this evening."
"David, can you get me Golightly without attracting attention? I am
going to ride him at once to the village."
"Mercy on us!" exclaimed David. "Is there no one but you to do that?"
"No. You and all the rest must defend my father and mother. I shall keep
on this side of the river, and will go through the wood. If I go at once
I may prevent an attack. David, every minute is of value. Fetch me
Golightly. Father, I am not of such importance as the men here, but I
can ride, and I can defend myself with my rifle if need be."
"Then God go with you, my child."
Only McArthur, and David, and the moon saw Rosalind spring to her seat
on Golightly's back. Only the moon saw her with flushed cheeks and
beating heart riding for life through the trees of the forest. If only
she could get clear of the first two or three miles, she was safe to
reach her destination in time.
The track was clearly discernible except when the swiftly-flying clouds
obscured the moon's light. The soughing of the wind in the tree-tops,
together with the soft springy turf, helped to somewhat deaden the
sound of Golightly's hoofs. The good horse scented danger in the air and
in the tone of his mistress's voice, and with true instinct galloped
through the wood, conscious of the caressing finger-tips which ever and
anon silently encouraged him.
"Bang!"
It was unexpected, and Golightly sprang into the air, only to gallop on
again like lightning. Rosalind's heart was going pretty fast now. She
could see two or three dark forms gliding serpent-like through the
trees, but Golightly's rapid progress baulked their aim. Ah, there are
some figures in advance of her! Courage, Rosalind, courage! Her rifle is
ready.
"Golightly, dear Golightly, save us both," she whispers. And Golightly
tosses up his head with a little whinny of comprehension, and, bracing
up every nerve, prepares for a rush through that ominous path blocked as
it is by two dark figures.
[Sidenote: Rosalind's Rifle speaks]
"Bang!"
It is Rosalind's rifle this time, and a scream, shrill and piercing,
rends the air. One form drops like a stone right across the path. But
there is another to dispose of. His rifle is raised. Either Golightly or
his mistress will receive the contents of that barrel. But Rosalind's
hand never wavers as she points at that upraised arm.
"Bang!"
"Bang!"
The two shots resound almost simultaneously, but Rosalind's is first by
half a second. Again a scream rends the air, and yet another, coming
this time from the rear. Rosalind's palpitating heart prevents her from
glancing about to learn the cause. She knows she has shot the Indian in
the right arm, but she does not know, and will never know, that her
opportune shot has saved herself and her steed from being fired at from
behind as well as in front. For when the Indian's arm was struck, it
directed the contents of his rifle away from the point he aimed at. He
shot half a second after Rosalind's fire, and killed his chief
Feathertop, who was lurking in the background, grinning horribly at his
good fortune in taking aim at the back of the paleface and her flying
steed.
Over the body of the dead Indian Golightly springs, paying no heed to
the savage Redskin who stands aside from the trampling hoofs with his
right arm hanging broken at his side. He is helpless, but he may yet do
damage to Rosalind's cause. She lifts her rifle in passing him, and aims
once more at his retreating form. He springs into the air, and, without
a groan or cry, meets his death.
Rosalind has cleared her path from further danger. Ride swiftly though
she does, no lurking forms are seen, no gliding figures block her way.
But the danger she has gone through has taken all her strength from her.
She leans her cheek on Golightly's sympathetic head and sobs out her
gratitude to him.
When a foam-flecked steed dashed up to the first house in the village
there was great commotion. Frank Robertson, with his mother and sisters,
rushed out to find a white-faced Rosalind, spent and nearly fainting,
sitting limply on Golightly's back. She had no words to explain her
presence. She could only look at them with lack-lustre eyes. But
Golightly turned his head as the young man lifted her gently off, and
his eloquent eyes said as plainly as any words could say--
"Deal gently with her; she has gone through more than you will ever
know, and has played her part bravely."
His comfort was looked after in as great degree as was Rosalind's. For
while Rosalind lay on a couch, faint but smiling, and listening to the
praises which the women-folk showered upon her, Golightly was stabled
and rubbed down by two of Robertson's hired men, and caressed and given
a good feed of corn with as many admiring words thrown in as ever his
mistress had.
No time was lost in collecting a good body of mounted men, and away they
rode with Frank Robertson at their head, arriving in good time to save
McArthur's home and family from savage destruction by the Redskins.
[Sidenote: Their Last Visit]
With the knowledge that their chief Feathertop was killed, the Indians'
enthusiasm cooled, and those who could saved their lives by flying to
their homes in the mountains. McArthur was never again troubled by a
visit from them, and lived to rejoice in the marriage of his brave
daughter to Frank Robertson.
The young couple settled within a couple of miles of McArthur's
homestead, and as each anniversary of Rosalind's ride came round, it was
a familiar sight to see old McArthur standing up amongst the great
gathering of friends to praise the brave girl who jeopardised her life
that moonlight night to save the lives and property of those dearest to
her.
[Sidenote: Mittie's love of self might have led on to a tragedy. Happily
the issue was of quite another kind.]
Which of the Two?
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
"It's going to be a glorious day--just glorious! Joan, we must do
something--not sit moping indoors from morning till night!"
Mittie never did sit indoors from morning till night; but this was a
figure of speech.
"I'm all alive to be off--I don't care where. Oh, do think of a plan!
It's the sort of weather that makes one frantic to be away--to have
something happen. Don't you feel so?"
She looked longingly through the bow-window, across the small, neat
lawn, divided by low shrubs from a quiet road, not far beyond which lay
the river. The sisters were at breakfast together in the morning-room,
which was bathed in an early flood of sunshine.
Three years before this date they had been left orphaned and destitute,
and had come to their grandmother's home--a comfortable and charming
little country house, and, in their circumstances, a very haven of
refuge, but, still, a trifle dull for two young girls. Mittie often
complained of its monotony. Joan, eighteen months the elder, realised
how different their condition would have been had they not been welcomed
here. But she, too, was conscious of dulness, for she was only
eighteen.
[Sidenote: "Think of Something!"]
"Such sunshine! It's just _ordering_ us to be out. Joan, be sensible,
and think of something we can do--something jolly, something new! Just
for one day can't we leave everything and have a bit of fun? I'm aching
for a little fun! Oh, do get out of the jog-trot for once! Don't be
humdrum!"
"Am I humdrum?" Joan asked. She was not usually counted so attractive as
the fluffy-haired, lively Mittie, but she looked very pretty at this
moment. The early post had come in; and as she read the one note which
fell to her share a bright colour, not often seen there, flushed her
cheeks, and a sweet half-glad half-anxious expression stole into her
eyes.
"Awfully humdrum, you dear old thing! You always were, you know. How is
Grannie to-day?" Mittie seldom troubled herself to see the old lady
before breakfast, but left such attentions to Joan.
"She doesn't seem very well, and she is rather--depressed. I'm afraid we
couldn't possibly both leave her for the whole day--could we?" There was
a touch of troubled hesitation in the manner, and Joan sent a quick
inquiring glance at the other's face.
"No chance of that. We never do leave her for a whole day; and if we did
we should never hear the end of it. But we might surely be off after
breakfast, and take our lunch, and come back in time for tea. She might
put up with that, I do think. Oh dear me! Why can't old people remember
that once upon a time they were young, and didn't like to be tied up
tight? But, I suppose, in those days nobody minded. I know I mind
now--awfully! I'm just crazy to be off on a spree. What shall we do,
Joan? Think of something."
"Mittie, dear----"
"That's right. You've got a notion. Have it out!"
"It isn't--what you think. I have something else to say. A note has come
from Mrs. Ferris."
"Well--what then?"
"She wants me--us--to go to her for the day."
Mittie clapped her hands.
"Us! Both of us, do you mean? How lovely! I didn't know she was aware of
my existence. Oh, yes, of course, I've seen her lots of times, but she
always seems to think I'm a child still. She never asked me there before
for a whole day. How are we to go? Will she send for us?"
"Yes, but--but, Mittie--we can't both leave Grannie all those hours. She
would be so hurt."
"So cross, you mean. You don't expect _me_ to stay behind, I hope!
_Me_--to spend a long endless day here, poking in Grannie's bedroom, and
picking up her stitches, and being scolded for every mortal thing I do
and don't do, while you are off on a lovely jaunt! Not I! You're very
much mistaken if that is what you expect. Will Mrs. Ferris send the
carriage or the motor?"
"She is sending the boat. And her son----"
"What! is he going to row us? That nice fellow! He rows splendidly, I
know. I shall get him to let me take an oar. It's as easy as anything,
going down the stream. Oh, we must do it, Joan--we really, really
_must_! Grannie will have to put up for once with being alone. Is he
coming by himself?"
"Yes--no--I mean, he will drop his sister Mary at The Laurels and come
on for us, and then take her up as we go back."