suggested the comparative repose of a croquet lawn on a hot summer's
day. But of course you only want good sense as your guide in this
matter. Ease without eccentricity should be your aim. Remember, too,
that whilst men like to play golf in old clothes, and often have a kind
of superstitious regard for some disgracefully old and dirty jacket, a
girl must not follow their example. Be sure, in any case, that your
boots or shoes are strong and water-tight.
[Sidenote: Keep your Heart up!]
Finally, keep your heart up! Golf is a game of moods and vagaries. It is
hard to say why one plays well one day and badly another; well, perhaps,
when in bad health, and badly when as fit as possible; well, perhaps,
when you have started expecting nothing, and badly when you have felt
that you could hit the ball over the moon. Why one may play well for
three weeks and then go to pieces; why one will go off a particular club
and suddenly do wonders with a club neglected; why on certain days
everything goes well--any likely putt running down, every ball kicking
the right way, every weak shot near a hazard scrambling out of danger,
every difficult shot coming off; and why on other days every shot that
can go astray will go astray--these are mysteries which no man can
fathom. But they add to the infinite variety of the game; only requiring
that you should have inexhaustible patience and hope as part of your
equipment. And patience is a womanly virtue.
[Sidenote: A mere oversight nearly wrecked two lives. Happily the
mistake was discovered before remedy had become impossible.]
Sunny Miss Martyn
A Christmas Story
BY
SOMERVILLE GIBNEY
"Goodbye, Miss Martyn, and a merry Christmas to you!"
"Goodbye, Miss Martyn; how glad you must be to get rid of us all! But I
shall remember you on Christmas Day."
"Goodbye, dear Miss Martyn; I hope you won't feel dull. We shall all
think of you and wish you were with us, I know. A very happy Christmas
to you."
"The same to you, my dears, and many of them. Goodbye, goodbye; and,
mind, no nonsense at the station. I look to you, Lesbia, to keep the
others in order."
"Trust me, Miss Martyn; we'll be very careful."
"I really think I ought to have gone with you and seen you safely off,
and----"
"No, no, no--you may really trust us. We've all of us travelled before,
and we will behave, honour bright!"
[Sidenote: Off for the Holidays]
And with a further chorus of farewells and Christmas wishes, the six or
seven girls, varying in age from twelve to seventeen, who had been
taking their places in the station 'bus, waved their hands and blew
kisses through the windows as the door slammed, and it rolled down the
drive of Seaton Lodge over the crisp, hard-frozen snow. And more and
more indistinct grew the merry farewells, till the gate was reached, and
the conveyance turning into the lane, the noisy occupants were hidden
from sight and hearing to the kindly-faced, smiling lady, who, with a
thick shawl wrapped about her shoulders, stood watching its departure on
the hall steps.
For some moments longer she remained silent, immovable, her eyes
directed towards the distant gate. But her glance went far beyond. It
had crossed the gulf of many years, and was searching the land of "Never
More."
At length the look on her face changed, and with a sigh she turned on
her heel and re-entered the house.
And how strangely silent it had suddenly become! It no longer rang with
the joyous young voices that had echoed through it that morning,
revelling in the freedom of the commencement of the Christmas holidays.
Selina Martyn heaved another sigh; she missed her young charges; her
resident French governess had left the previous day for her home at
Neuilly; and now, with the exception of the servants, she had the house
to herself, and she hated it.
A feeling of depression was on her, but she fought against it; there was
much to be done. Christmas would be on her in a couple of days, and no
sooner would that be passed than the bills would pour in; and in order
to satisfy them her own accounts must go out. Then there were all the
rooms to be put straight, for schoolgirls are by no means the most tidy
of beings. She had plenty of work before her, and she faced it.
But evening came at last, and found her somewhat weary after her late
dinner, and disinclined to do anything more, except sit in front of the
blazing fire in her own little room and dream. Outside, the frost
continued sharper than ever, and faintly there came to her ear the
sounds of the distant bells practising for the coming festival, and once
more for the second time that day her thoughts flew backwards over the
mist of years.
She was a lonely old woman, she told herself; and so she was, as far as
relatives went, but miserable she was not. She was as bright and sunny
as many of us, and a great deal more so than some. Her life had had its
ups and downs, its bright and dark hours; but she had learnt to dwell on
the former and put the latter in the background, hiding them under the
mercies she had received; and so she became to be known in Stourton as
"sunny Miss Martyn," and no name could have been more applicable.
And as the flames roared up the chimney this winter night, she thought
of the young hearts that had left her that morning and of their
happiness that first night at home. She had known what that was herself.
She had been a schoolgirl once--a schoolgirl in this very house, and had
left it as they had left it that morning to return to a loving home. Her
father had been well off in those days; she was his only child, and all
he had to care for, her mother dying at her birth. They had been all in
all to each other, and the days of her girlhood were the brightest of
her life.
He missed his "little sunbeam," as he called her, when she was away at
Seaton Lodge--for it was called Seaton Lodge even then; but they made up
for the separation when the holidays came and they were together once
more, and more especially at Christmas-time, that season of parties and
festivities. Mr. Martyn was a hospitable man, and his entertainments
were many, and his neighbours and friends were not slow in returning
his kindnesses; so that Christmas-time was a dream of excitement and
delight as far as Selina was concerned.
[Sidenote: A Bank Failure]
But a break came to those happy times: a joint stock bank, in which Mr.
Martyn had invested, failed, and he was ruined. The shock was more than
his somewhat weak heart could stand, and it killed him.
His daughter was just sixteen at the time, and the head pupil at Seaton
Lodge. She was going to leave at the end of the half-year; but now all
was changed. Instead of returning home to be mistress of her father's
house, she would have to work for her living, and the opportunity for
doing so came more quickly than she had dared to hope.
With Miss Clayton, the mistress, she had been a favourite from the first
day she had entered the school, and the former now made her the offer of
remaining on as a pupil teacher. Without hesitation the girl accepted.
She had no relatives; Seaton Lodge was her second home; she was loved
there, and she would not be dependent; and from that hour never had she
to regret her decision.
When her father's affairs were settled up there remained but a few
pounds a year for her, but these she was able to put by, for Miss
Clayton was no niggard towards those that served her, and Selina
received sufficient salary for clothes and pocket-money.
After the first agony of the shock had passed away, her life was a happy
if a quiet one. Her companions all loved her; she was to them a friend
rather than a governess, and few were the holidays when she did not
receive more than one invitation to spend part of them at the homes of
some of her pupil friends.
She had been a permanent resident at Seaton Lodge some three years when
the romance of her life took place.
Among the elder pupils at that time was Maude Elliott, whose father's
house was not many miles distant from her friend's former home. She had
taken a great fancy to Selina, and on several occasions had carried her
off to spend a portion of the holidays with her, and it was at her home
that she had made the acquaintance of Edgar Freeman, Maude's cousin. A
young mining engineer, he had spent some years in Newfoundland, and had
returned to complete his studies for his full diploma at the School of
Mines, spending such time as he could spare at his uncle's house.
Almost before she was aware of it, he had made a prisoner of the lonely
little pupil-teacher's heart, and when she was convinced of the fact she
fought against it, deeming herself a traitor to her friend, to whom she
imagined he was attached, mistaking cousinly affection for something
warmer.
Then came that breaking-up for the Christmas holidays which she
remembered so well, when she was to have followed Maude in a few days to
her home, where she and Edgar would once more be together; and then the
great disappointment when, two days before she was to have started, Miss
Clayton was taken ill with pneumonia, and she had to stay and nurse her.
How well she remembered that terrible time! It was the most dreary
Christmas she had ever experienced--mild, dull, and sloppy, the rain
falling by the hour, and fog blurring everything outside the house,
while added to this was the anxiety she felt for the invalid.
Christmas Day was the worst of the whole time; outside everything was
wet and dripping, and even indoors the air felt raw and chilly,
penetrating to the bones, and resulting in a continual state of shivers.
There was no bright Christmas service for Selina that morning: she must
remain at home and look after her charge, for, save the invalid, the
servants and herself, the house was empty.
But there was one glad moment for her--the arrival of the postman. He
was late, of course, but when he did come he brought her a budget of
letters and parcels that convinced her she was not forgotten by her
absent schoolgirl friends. With a hasty glance over them, she put them
on one side until after dinner, when, her patient having been seen to,
she would have a certain amount of time to herself.
But that one glance had been sufficient to bring a flush of pleasure to
her cheeks, and to invest the gloomy day with a happiness that before
was absent. She had recognised on one envelope an address in a bold,
firm writing, very different from the neat, schoolgirl caligraphy of the
rest; and when her hour of leisure arrived, and over a roaring fire she
was able to examine her presents and letters, this one big envelope was
reserved to the last.
[Sidenote: Romance]
Her fingers trembled as she opened the still damp covering, and saw a
large card with a raised satin medallion in the centre, on which were
printed two verses, the words of which caused the hot colour to remount
to her cheeks, and her heart to redouble its beats.
There was no mistaking the meaning of those lines; love breathed from
every letter, and, with a hasty look round to make sure she was alone,
the happy girl pressed the inanimate paper, satin, printer's ink, and
colours to her lips as though in answer to the message it contained.
The feeling of loneliness had vanished; there was some one who loved
her, to whom she was dearer than all others, and the world looked
different in consequence. It was a happy Christmas Day to her after all,
in spite of her depressing surroundings; and Miss Clayton noticed the
change in her young nurse, and in the evening, when thanking her for all
she had done for her, hoped she had not found it "so very dull."
That night Selina Martyn, foolish in her new-found happiness, placed the
envelope, around which the damp still hung, beneath her pillow, and
dreamed of the bright future she deemed in store for her.
He would write to her, or perhaps come and see her; yes, he would come
and see her, and let her hear from his own lips what his missive had so
plainly hinted at. And in her happiness she waited. She waited, and
waited till her heart grew sick with disappointed longing.
The days passed, but never a word came from the one who had grown so
dear to her, and as they passed the gladness faded from her face, and
the light went out from her eyes.
At last she could but feel that she had been mistaken. It was only a
foolish joke that had meant nothing, and her heart grew hot within her.
How could she have been so weak and silly as to have imagined such a
thing? She put the envelope and its contents away, and, saddened and
subdued, fought bravely to return to her former self.
Miss Clayton made a slow recovery, and when convalescent went for a
change to the sea, carrying off Selina with her, for she had noticed the
change in the girl, and put it down to her labours in the sick-room.
School-time commenced again, but without Maude Elliott as a pupil; she
had gone to be "finished" to a school in Lausanne, and it was months
before Selina received a letter from her, and then she only casually
mentioned that her cousin Edgar had left them directly after Christmas
for a good appointment in Brazil, where he expected to remain for some
years.
With that letter the last traces of Selina Martyn's romance ended. It
had crossed her life like a shooting star, and had only left a
remembrance behind.
But that remembrance never entirely died; its sharp edge was dulled, and
as the years went on--and in time she took Miss Clayton's place as the
head of Seaton Lodge--she came to regard the unrequited bestowal of her
young affections as an incident to be smiled over, without any
vindictive feelings.
And now, when the silver hairs were beginning to make their appearance
among the ruddy gold, she would each Christmas take out from its
hiding-place in the old-fashioned, brass-bound writing-desk the
time-stained envelope, and compare the old-world design within with the
modern and more florid cards, and in her heart of hearts she found more
beauty in the simple wreath of holly with the couple of robins perched
above and the bunch of mistletoe hanging below than in its more ornate
followers of the present time.
[Sidenote: Christmas Morning]
It was Christmas morning--an ideal Christmas morning. The frost had been
keen the previous night, and the branches of the trees had donned a
sparkling white livery. The sun shone brightly, but there was little
warmth in its rays, and the snow had crunched and chittered as "sunny
Miss Martyn" had made her way over it to the church, smiling and sending
bright glances to right and left of her, for there were few in Stourton
with whom she was not acquainted. And now, her lunch over--she was going
out to dinner that evening--she sat by the fire with a big pile of
envelopes and parcels beside her. Her pupils never forgot her, and the
day would have seemed incomplete to each one of them without a card
despatched to Miss Martyn.
Her bundle was a large one, and took some time to get through; and then
the cards had all to be arranged on the mantelpiece. But at length her
task was done, and as her custom was, she went to the brass-bound desk
standing on a table in the corner, and, taking out the now worn
envelope, resumed her seat by the fire.
She had gazed on its contents on many a Christmas day before, but on
this particular day--she never knew why--the memory of the sorrow it had
caused her seemed keener, and she found the tears were gathering in her
eyes, and that one of them had fallen on the edge of the satin medallion
bearing the verses.
With her handkerchief she wiped it away, but in doing so a fold of the
cambric caught the filagree, and she learnt what she had never known
before--that the medallion opened like a little door, and that below it
a folded scrap of paper lay concealed.
What could it mean?
With fingers that trembled so much that they almost refused their task
she took it out, unfolded it, and, spreading it flat, read the words
that long years ago would have meant all the world to her.
How cruel had Fate been to her to have hidden them for so long! But the
thought only remained in her mind a moment, being blotted out by the
remembrance that he was not heartless, as she had grown to believe.
The faded lines before her laid a strong man's heart at her feet, and
begged for her love in return, stating that he had been suddenly called
to a distant post, and asking for an answer before he sailed. The writer
felt he was presumptuous, but the exigencies of the case must be his
excuse. If he had no reply he should know his pleading was in vain, and
would trouble her no more; but if, on the other hand, she was not
entirely indifferent to him, a line from her would bring him to her side
to plead his cause in person. There was more in the letter, but this was
its main purpose.
And this was the end of if: two loving hearts divided and kept apart by
a damp day and an accidental drop of gum.
No wonder the tears flowed afresh, and "sunny Miss Martyn" belied her
character.
She was still bending over the sheet of paper spread out on her knee
when, with a knock at the door, the servant entered, saying:
"A gentleman to see you, Miss."
Hastily brushing away the traces from her cheeks, Miss Martyn rose, to
see a tall, grey-haired man standing in the doorway, regarding her with
a bright smile on his face.
She did not recognise him; he was a stranger to her, and yet----
The next moment he strode forward with outstretched hand.
"Selina Martyn, don't you know me? And you have altered so little!"
A moment longer she stood in doubt, and then with a little gasp
exclaimed:
[Sidenote: "Edgar!"]
"Edgar! Mr. Freeman--I--I didn't know you. You--you see, it is so long
since--since I had that pleasure."
And while she was speaking she was endeavouring with her foot to draw
out of sight the paper that had fallen from her lap when she had risen.
He noticed her apron, and with an "Excuse me" bent down, and, picking it
up, laid it on the table. As he did so his eyes fell for a moment on the
writing, and he started slightly, but did not refer to it.
"Thank you," she said, and her cheeks had suddenly lost their colour,
and her hand trembled as she indicated an armchair on the other side of
the fireplace, saying, "Won't you sit down?"
He did so, easily and naturally, as though paying an ordinary afternoon
call.
"Selina Martyn, you're looking remarkably well, and nearly as young as
ever," he continued.
She raised her eyes shyly, and smiled as she replied, "Do you really
think so, Mr. Freeman?"
"Call me Edgar, I like it better; and we've known each other long enough
to account for your doing so." He did not give her a chance of
objecting, but continued, "I only landed in England yesterday, and you
are the first person I've called on. I got your address from my cousin,
Mrs. Perry--Maud Elliott that was; she's living in Monte Video, you
know; I saw her for a few hours as I passed through. Really, Selina,
you're looking prettier than ever, I declare!"
"You mustn't flatter an old woman, Mr. Freeman--well--Edgar, if you wish
it. I don't think perhaps there is anything unmaidenly in my using your
Christian name. We've known each other a great many years now, as you
say."
"We have indeed, my dear lady. And we might have known each other a
great deal better if--if--well, if you had only seen your way to it. But
there--that's all passed now. And yet----"
"Yes, that's all passed now." And Selina gave a little sigh, yet loud
enough for her visitor to hear it, and he moved his chair from the side
to the front of the fire as she continued, "Do you know--Edgar--just
before you came in I made a discovery--I found something that reached me
a day or two before you sailed, and that I had never seen till half an
hour ago," and she looked down at her fingers that were playing with the
end of the delicate lace fichu she was wearing.
A smile came over her visitor's face, but he only said:
"'Pon my word, Selina, you're a very beautiful woman! I've carried your
face in my memory all these years, but I see now how half-blind I must
have been."
"You mustn't talk nonsense to an old woman like me. I want to tell you
something, and I don't know how to do it."
"Don't try. Let me guess, and you tell me if I'm right."
Miss Martyn did not answer in words, only bowed her head, and he
continued, with a glance at the paper lying on the table:
"You once received what you considered a very impertinent letter from
me?"
"I don't think impertinent is the right term," replied Selina, not
raising her eyes.
"Then, my dear lady, why did you not let me have an answer?"
"Oh, Edgar, I only discovered it a few minutes before you came," and
casting aside all reserve, she told him of the unfortunate combination
of the damp Christmas morning and the drop of gum that had so
disastrously separated them.
Long before the recital was complete her visitor had shifted his
chair again and again until it was close beside her own.
"You poor, dear woman!" he exclaimed, as his arm stole quietly round her
waist, and Miss Martyn suffered it to remain there.
"Why did you hide your letter inside, Edgar?" she asked quietly.
"I suppose because I didn't want to startle you, and thought you should
see the verses first. May I see it now?" he continued. "It's so long
since I wrote it, you see."
"Yes, you may see it," replied Selina, without raising her eyes; "but
it's all passed now," with another little sigh.
His disengaged hand had secured the letter, and hastily glancing over
the writing, he exclaimed with sudden fervour:
[Sidenote: "I'm Waiting!"]
"No, Selina! Every word I wrote then I mean to-day. When I left England
years ago it was with your image in my heart, and with the determination
that when I was rich I would come back and try my luck again. And in my
heart you, and you alone, have reigned ever since. And when after long
years I heard from my cousin that you might still be found at Seaton
Lodge, you don't know what that meant to me. It made a boy of me again.
It blotted out all the years that have divided us, and here I am waiting
for my answer."
"Oh, Edgar, we mustn't be silly. Remember, we're no longer boy and
girl."
"I remember nothing of the kind. All I remember is that it's Christmas
Day, that I've asked you a question, and that I am waiting for the
answer you would have given me years ago but for the damp and a drop of
gum. You know what it would have been then; give me it now. Dearest, I'm
waiting."
And Selina Martyn gave her answer, an all-sufficient one to both.
[Illustration: SELINA MARTYN GAVE HER ANSWER.]
[Sidenote: Young people, read and take warning by this awful example.]
Whilst Waiting for the Motor
BY
MADELINE OYLER
Her name was Isabel, and she really was a very nice, good little
girl--when she remembered. But you can't always remember, you know; you
wouldn't be a little girl if you could, and this happened on one of
those days when she didn't remember.
Of course Peter forgot too; but then you would expect him to, for he was
only a boy, and boys, as I suppose you know, cannot use their brains in
the way that girls can.
The two had spent their morning in the usual way, had breakfast, fed the
rabbits, said "Good-morning" to the horses, got mother a bunch of
flowers from their own gardens (Isabel's turn this morning), seen daddy
off, and then had lessons.
You wouldn't have guessed for a moment that it was going to be a bad
day; everything had gone well. Peter had actually remembered that Madrid
was the capital of Spain, always a rather doubtful question with him;
and Isabel had said her eight times with only two mistakes, and they
were slight ones.
So you may imagine they were feeling very happy and good, because it was
a half-holiday, and, best of all, because Auntie May was coming over
with her big motor at three o'clock, to take them back to tea with
grandpapa.
I should like you to understand that it was not just an ordinary tea,
but a special one; for it was grandpapa's birthday, and, as perhaps you
know, grandpapas don't often have birthday parties, so it was a great
occasion.
[Sidenote: Presents]
It had taken a long time to choose his presents, but at last they were
decided.
Isabel had made him a blue silk shaving tidy, with "Shaving" worked in
pink across it. The "h-a-v" of "Shaving" were rather smaller than the
other letters, because, after she had drawn a large "S," she was afraid
there would not be room for such big letters. Afterwards she found there
was plenty of room, so she did "i-n-g" bigger to make up for it.