The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX. No. 994, by Various.

“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XVI.

FRIENDS IN NEED.

“I want to look up a Mr. and Mrs. Curtis—a young artist and his wife. He was pointed out to me at appel. They were at Brussels on their wedding tour when the arrest took place, and I'm afraid it is a serious matter with them, in more ways than one. Mr. Kinsland asked me to call.”

“Then they've come here from Brussels?”

“Yes, with Major Woodgate and his wife, in an open cart.”

“Why?”

“Couldn't afford anything better.”

“What a beastly shame! Is Major Woodgate badly off too?”

“He was short of money. A good many are, naturally enough, under the present condition of affairs. Your father is going to call on Major Woodgate.”

“To help him?”

“Possibly. That is only between you and me. I am treating you as my friend—speaking in confidence.” Roy's glance bespoke comprehension. “If you were in temporary difficulties, and a friend gave you quietly a little help, you would not wish to have the fact published.”

“No. And, Den, are you going to help the Curtises?”

“That is as may be. I wish to find out how things are with them. And I am taking you because it may be a help. If you can keep Mrs. Curtis' attention engaged, that will give me a chance for a few words with her husband. You see? You will not have anything to do with what goes on between him and me.”

“Good thing papa has lots of money!”

“He is better off than many; but bills are only to be cashed here at a heavy loss; and it is very uncertain how often he may be able to get remittances from England. So it will not do to spend recklessly. Besides, after the way we have been treated, we are not anxious to enrich our captors.”

Roy's “No!” was energetic.

“And, with so many of our countrymen in want, we must save all we can, to be able to help them the more. See, Roy?”

“I think I won't ask mamma to get me a new waistcoat just yet,” was Roy's practical response. “I'll wait. Are you going to stop?”

“This is the house. Remember, you have to get Mrs. Curtis into a talk.”

Roy was deeply interested. Mr. Curtis proved to be a gentlemanly young fellow, with a keen clever face, much overshadowed by present care, while his wife, hardly more than a child in age, was kitten-like in small plump prettiness.

“Oh, it is quite dreadful!” she said, speedily fraternising with Roy. Having had six brothers of her own, she was much at home with boys in general. “We were to have gone back the very next week, and everybody said there could be no need to hurry. And we were so enjoying ourselves—you know”—with a blush. “And then that terrible order came, that we were to count ourselves prisoners. At least, my husband was a prisoner, and that, of course, meant the same for me. And our dear little home, where we meant to be so happy, has been waiting for us ever since—empty. And Hugh's studio, and the picture he had in hand, which was to have been finished this autumn. He”—lowering her voice and speaking with childish unreserve—“was to have had a hundred pounds for it. And now everything is at a standstill. But you are in the same trouble too.”

She stole a glance across at Ivor, who was speaking in an undertone to her husband.

“It is so good of Captain Ivor to call. Mr. Kinsland told us that he would ask him to come; but we never dreamt of seeing him so soon. We feel strange here, you know; and it is a help to see anyone come in.” Mrs. Curtis dropped her voice afresh. “What a pleasant-looking man he is—and so soldierly! Mr. Kinsland said he had never seen a handsomer face; and I don't think I ever did either. It is such a kind face too. Mr. Kinsland said you were desperately fond of him.”

Roy laughed. It was not his fashion to talk about being “fond” of people. “Den's just the very best fellow that ever lived!” he declared—his usual formula. “And I suppose you got here before we did.”

“Only three days ago. We had to come to these rooms. Not very homelike, are they? But the landlady is pleasant; and nothing else would matter much if only Hugh could get back to his work. It makes him so depressed not to be able, poor fellow. Men are very soon depressed—don't you think so?”

Roy said “No” promptly, and then remembered Denham on the preceding evening, but he did not take back the monosyllable. He exerted himself to keep her talking, and he also did his utmost not to see or hear, yet he could not help being aware of a suspicious little movement of Denham's hand, and then of a startled “No, no! How can I—from a stranger?”

“We are not strangers; we are brothers in misfortune,” Denham answered, with the smile which always drew people to him. “Call it a loan, if you like. For your wife's sake”—softly—“do not refuse.”

Roy did not hear all this, but he heard more than he was intended to hear. A move then was made, and Curtis replied huskily to some careless remark as the callers took leave.

“Den, I say, I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't quite help,” came outside as a confession.

“Then your next duty is to forget. Now for the ramparts,” Ivor said, dropping the subject. Roy knew him better than to put questions.

On this first arrival of the large body of English détenus in Verdun, they found a quiet town, with little going on in it, with few shops, and those second-rate in style. There were some small manufactories, as of coarse felt hats and sweetmeats, and also some tanneries. A limited number of “hôtels”[2] belonged to members of the old “noblesse,” who had been allowed since Revolution days to return to France, though in few cases had their confiscated property been restored to them. Those who were in Verdun lived in a very retired style. The bourgeoisie too were rural and unsophisticated. But this condition of things, unfortunately, was soon to be changed, and by no means for the better.

A sudden rush into the place of hundreds of strangers, many of them used to a luxurious style of living, many of them lavishly free with their money, could not but have a marked effect upon the inhabitants.

Among the détenus, it is true, a goodly number lived with close economy, refusing to keep horse or carriage or one single servant more than they counted strictly necessary. They only broke through this self-imposed rule on behalf of their poorer countrymen, dozens of whom were condemned to live, or rather to half starve, upon the wretched pittance, allowed by the French Government to those who had no other means of support, of three sous and half-a-pound of bread each day.

But the détenus, as a body, included men of various descriptions, not only those of high principle and loyal feeling. There were rich men, rendered reckless{243} by their captivity; and there were others, not rich, yet equally reckless and extravagant, who rushed into debt with complete indifference as to consequences. As may easily be supposed, they did much harm by their example and influence, more especially among young naval officers, who as time passed by were taken prisoners in the course of the war, and were sent to Verdun. When first Verdun was appointed to be a dépôt for prisoners, the commandant was a General Roussel, of whom no English prisoner had any complaint to make. He treated them well and justly, and such hardships as they had to endure were for the most part not his fault but the fault of the French Government.

Unhappily, before many months were past, General Roussel was sent elsewhere; and his successor, General Wirion, soon showed himself to be a man of a totally different stamp.

Wirion was a product of the Revolution; originally the son of a pork-dealer in Picardy; later an attorney's clerk, with a shady reputation; then an active terrorist, approved of by the villain Robespierre. He was, in fact, a low-born and ill-bred scoundrel, avaricious and grasping, who, under Napoleon, had risen to be a general of gendarmerie.

Prolonged captivity, with such a creature in authority, was likely to become even worse than it had been before; and so, to their cost, the captives at Verdun speedily found.

All indulgences allowed by the first commandant were removed. Prisoners and détenus alike, no matter what their grade or position, were compelled twice a day to report themselves at appel, unless they preferred by payment to escape the unpleasant necessity. Instead of being free to walk or drive as far as five miles from the town in any direction, they now might not leave the gates without payment of six francs. Incessant douceurs were demanded on every possible pretext, and oppressions, bribery, and rank injustice became the order of the day. Wirion and his gendarmes showed a shameless capacity for pocketing money—nay, for inventing opportunities to wring gifts from the English.

Again and again numbers of the détenus, on some false excuse or with no excuse at all, were closely imprisoned in the citadel, being set free only on the payment of heavy sums of money. This terror hung over them all, as a perpetual possibility. Worse still was the dread of being some day suddenly despatched to the grim fortress of Bitche, where numbers of British prisoners pined in close confinement. The tales of Bitche dungeons and of Bitche horrors, which from time to time filtered round to those who lived at Verdun, read now like stories of mediæval days.[3]

And Roy was still at Verdun. Every effort to get a passport for him had failed. In that direction Colonel Baron would thankfully have paid aught in his power, if thereby he might have sent his boy safe to England. But the time was gone by. Napoleon was very bitter against England; and passports were refused to almost all who requested them.

As a writer of the day states, France had become one huge prison, not only to such English as were compelled to stay there, but also to the French themselves. If a Frenchman wished to leave his country and to go elsewhere, leave would in most cases be refused. As conscripts in the army men might go; seldom otherwise.

In the autumn of 1805, not many weeks before the battle of Trafalgar, a fresh blow fell.

Roy had felt his captivity much, boyishly gay though he was and rarely to be seen out of spirits. But he had had Denham all through; and Denham, though commonly looked upon as a grave and dignified man, had been to Roy the most delightful of companions.

From the spring of 1803 to the autumn of 1805 the two had been seldom apart for a whole day. Denham had been Roy's tutor, friend, and playfellow. Roy had in the place one or two boy-friends; but, compared with Denham, he cared little for any other. His absolute devotion to Ivor somewhat resembled Jack Keene's adoration for John Moore, only it meant greater personal intimacy. Roy was known among friends as “Captain Ivor's shadow” and “Captain Ivor's echo.” What Denham thought, Roy thought; what Denham said, Roy said.

“I don't know what he would do without you,” Colonel Baron sometimes said gratefully to Ivor. “No use to say how much we owe to your kindness. You have been the making of the boy.”

Ivor would reply, “Roy is as much to me as I am to him.” And, in a sense this might be true, though not in all senses.

September came, and with it a fresh device of the pork-dealer's son. General Wirion decided to send a large number of the Verdun détenus away to Valenciennes, a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. No reasons were given, and the choice made of those who should go was entirely arbitrary. The wishes or convenience of anyone received not the slightest consideration.[4]

On Saturday, September 17th, the order went forth that about forty of them were to leave on the Monday, only two days later. Many had made their arrangements for the winter, even buying and laying by little stores; and now, no matter at what cost or loss, they had to leave. Some were artisans who had just begun to make a little headway, others were gentlemen hardly able to pay their way from the perpetual uncertainty as to remittances from England. But the autocratic order had to be obeyed.

Early on Monday morning the first batch started, being seen off at the gates by a crowd of their English friends. And that afternoon at appel forty more were desired to hold themselves in readiness to start on the Wednesday. Still no reasons, no explanations, were vouchsafed, no apologies were made; and every détenu in the place lived on tenterhooks of suspense, not knowing whether his turn might come next.

The second forty departed; and on Thursday another announcement was made to a third forty, that they too must prepare to go to Valenciennes on the Saturday.

Upon some who were concerned the blow fell a few hours earlier. Although Wirion curtly declined to inform the détenus themselves which among them would be despatched next, he did take the trouble to send lists of their names to some leading tradesmen in the town; and from those quarters information might be obtained, though many of the détenus proudly refused so to seek it.

“Roy, I want a word with you,” Denham said, towards the evening of Wednesday, putting his head into the salon. “Come here.”

“Just in a minute. May I get——”

“Never mind anything else. Come to my room.”

Roy obeyed at once.

“Shut the door. I have something to say to you.” Ivor motioned the boy to a chair. “I have just seen Curtis.”

The tone was unusual. Roy looked hard at Denham.

“Is something the matter?”

“Yes. Wirion——” significantly.

“Do tell me.”

“Mrs. Curtis was so anxious about this Valenciennes business that she persuaded her husband to see one of the shop-lists.”

“I know. Papa said he'd have nothing to do with that way of finding out.”

“No. But Curtis went—and he finds——”

“Are they ordered off? O I'm sorry. I like Mrs. Curtis. She's so jolly—like a boy, almost. I shall miss them ever so much. Are they really going? What a bother!”

“Yes.”

“Anybody else?”

“Yes.”

Denham's grave eyes met Roy's, with an expression which somehow sent Roy's heart down and down into his very shoes. The boy sat and stared—aghast and wordless.

“I want you to know beforehand, not to be taken by surprise. When a thing has to be, it's no use making a fuss. For your mother's sake you must bear it bravely.”

Roy had grown pale, and his gaze spoke of dismay and incredulity.

“But you don't mean—you! Not you!”

“Yes.”

“Den!”

{244}

“It is not difficult to find a cause. You see, we have held aloof from Wirion's set, and have declined his invitations. And I have managed to hold back one or two young fellows from those miserable gaming-tables. No doubt he prefers to have me out of the way for a while. It may be only for a few weeks. But——”

Roy walked to the window, and stood with his back to Denham. Silence lasted fully three minutes. Denham remained where he was, looking sadly enough towards the boy. He had much to do, but Roy was his first consideration; and he knew from his own sensations what the parting would be to the other.

“Come,” he said at length. “It can't be helped. And—I don't know what you feel about it, but I have an objection to letting Wirion see that he can make us unhappy.”

Roy came back slowly.

“That—brute!” he burst out, choking over the word.

“Yes—I know. There's no sort of excuse for him. Roy, I want a promise from you.”

“What?”

“You know the sort of thing that is going on here. Promise me faithfully that, whatever happens, you will keep clear of the gaming-tables. You may be tempted, and I shall not be at hand to look after you.”

Roy was silent—perhaps because of those last words.

“Promise. I can depend upon your word.”

“I do—promise,” Roy said with difficulty.

“Faithfully?”

“Yes—faithfully.”

“And you will do your best to keep up your mother's spirits? You must be the same plucky fellow with them that you have been all along with me. Don't make any difference. They will need it now, more than ever.”

“It's so beastly hard,” muttered Roy.

“Yes—it is!”—and a pause. “There's one thought that always is a help to me, and I hope it will be to you. Whatever happens—remember, God is over all. By-and-by we shall see it to be so. Things won't go on always like this.”

The interview was getting to be too much for both of them, and Denham drew one hand across his forehead. “There!—that will do. No need to say more. You won't forget that I depend on you; and you'll be just the same as if I were here. The same—every way. I shall miss my——”

He was going to say “friend;” but he stopped in time. Roy could stand no more; and Ivor hardly felt as if he could himself. The boy's face worked painfully, and Denham's hand grasped his.

“Not for long, I hope,” he said in a cheerful tone. “Now I must go and tell your father.”

Three days later the third company of forty détenus quitted Verdun for Valenciennes. Roy and his father, with others, were at the gate, to see the detachment off upon their enforced pilgrimage. Denham had never held his head higher, or looked more sternly composed, and Roy did his best to imitate his friend; but he found it hard work. This was not like an ordinary farewell. He and Denham were alike in the power of an unscrupulous martinet, behind whom was another equally unscrupulous and quite irresponsible despot. Neither could guess what might become of the other, or whether they might hope again to meet before the close of the war: and each could be sure that every possible impediment would be thrown in the way of their communicating by letter one with another.

“Remember, Denham, you are always one of us. Wherever we may be, there is your home,” Colonel Baron said, in moved tones. “When you can join us again, your welcome is certain.”

“I could never doubt it, sir, after the past,” Denham answered.

Then he was gone, and Roy returned with his father to M. Courant's house, a heavy sense of blank weighing upon them both. Ivor's was a personality which never failed to make itself felt, and he had largely the power of winning affection, without apparent effort. The difference made in their little circle by his departure was more than could beforehand have been imagined.

Not in their own little circle only. Many in Verdun knew that they had lost a valued friend that day; and even downstairs Denham was strangely missed. Somebody else, besides Roy, shed at night a few quiet tears, when nobody could see. Lucille herself was perplexed at the acute consciousness which clung to her of Captain Ivor's absence.

Somehow, she had not of late thought a very great deal of that poor young De Bertrand, whose image once had filled her thoughts. Not that she forgot him, but that other thoughts and other interests had taken possession of the foreground of her mind.

(To be continued.)

FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.

PART III.

ENGAGING A DRAGOMAN.

A DRAGOMAN.

We had been strongly advised by our Jaffa friends to take as guide for our long journeys a young English-speaking man living in Jerusalem. He was represented as thoroughly trustworthy and intelligent, besides being willing to fall in with our plans, rather than insisting upon our falling in with his. This was exactly the man we needed, and as the travellers' season was at its height, one of our first duties must be to find him. With this object in view we started one morning in search of his home. Two rival dragomen, of whom we inquired the way, assured us that Ameen—for so I will call him—was in Damascus with a party, and would not return for forty days. As this gratuitous information was imparted to us with unnecessary vehemence and exaggerated regrets, we distrusted its veracity and continued our search. Ameen's dwelling seemed to be hidden away in some remote region “far from the madding crowd,” but after many false turnings, we at length espied a neat little house standing in a garden, and a neat little woman with a baby in her arms standing in the doorway. We opened the gate and walked up the path to the young woman. “Does Ameen live here, and is he at home?” we asked in English. For answer she smiled, pointed to a divan inside the house, and by signs invited us to go in and “sit.” We did so, and continued our conversation by smiling inanely at each other, for our hostess evidently understood no other language but her own barbarous Arabic, which was the more disappointing as no Ameen was visible. He might be in Damascus after all. We were not going, however, to give up the object of our visit so easily. We must try another method of rousing Mrs. Ameen's understanding. A bright thought flashed through our mind. There was that Saracen maiden who long ages ago travelled from Palestine to England in search of her lover Gilbert à Becket. She only knew two words of English, “Gilbert” and “London,” but they were the talisman which, after many adventures, brought success, and her lover to her side. Why should not we try the effect of two words on the little woman before us? The louder you shout to an Arab the more important does he consider your communication, so we shouted “Ameen—dragoman,” accompanying our duet with gestures expressive of our desire to see him. Our hostess redoubled her smiles, and we redoubled our shouts, until “Ameen—dragoman” became a monotonous chant, which grew more despairing at each repetition. When our efforts seemed most hopeless, Mrs. Ameen allowed the light of intelligence to dawn on her countenance, and murmuring some indistinct apologies, she suddenly darted through the door and disappeared.{245} Congratulating ourselves on our success, we waited patiently for ten minutes or so before the welcome sound of voices and footsteps sounded near at hand, and in walked our little friend, still carrying the baby, and proudly escorting the redoubtable Ameen, whose preposterous Turkish trousers gave him a swagger as consequential as that of a Highland piper. He greeted us courteously in excellent English, but as one who had been expecting us, and immediately inquired whether we had left his cousin in Jaffa in good health, and if he had told us any family news. Happily we had met the cousin, and were able to give the desired information, which was received simply and as a matter of course.

We were favourably impressed by Ameen's honest face and gentle manners, and though he looked delicate, he seemed capable. He told us that twice he had acted as guide to a celebrated English explorer and that he knew the country thoroughly. We were rather alarmed, on his producing an enormous sheaf of testimonials, and modestly requesting us to read them. If the few we glanced at were to be relied upon, our friend must be a Solomon in the matter of wisdom, a prince among guides, a servant with so many superlative qualities—we felt excessively small in his presence—while his record as a “provider” might have caused the cheek of the renowned Mr. Whitely to grow pale with envy.

Ameen was evidently a treasure (and such he afterwards proved himself to be), and must be secured, so we plunged at once into business, and for the next half-hour discussed routes and other minutiæ. The bargain was concluded by Ameen agreeing to take us for a four days' trip to Jericho, and a five or seven days' trip to Tiberias. The charges were to be a pound a day each. He was to provide everything, including good horses, and saddles, a muleteer, and when necessary an armed escort, which a thoughtful government—with an eye to backsheesh—insisted upon, lest the confiding traveller should fall among thieves. As the escort was invariably chosen from a tribe of raiders, the moral was obvious. We considered these terms very moderate for this time of the year, especially so, as the party was to consist only of Elizabeth and myself.

We further stipulated for the horses and saddles to be brought round for our inspection the evening before we started on our journey. Everything being now satisfactorily settled, we partook of coffee, said good-bye to the little wife, kissed the baby, who resented deeply the familiarity, and, preceded by our picturesque guide, who had already assumed an air of proprietorship, made our way into the city, where we dismissed him and continued our prowl unattended.

On one of our excursions we took part in an adventure which might have ended seriously to one of the party. Looking back now, it seems like a modern version of the story of the Good Samaritan.

It was a hot afternoon in April when Elizabeth and I, accompanied by Elias, Miss K.'s native servant, carrying a tea-basket, set out for Neby Samwîl, the ancient Mizpeh, where we intended picnicking.

As we were riding slowly down the hill in the direction of Jerusalem, we noticed afar off an unusual cloud of dust, out of which there presently emerged a horseman riding furiously. Almost before we could exclaim he had turned the sharp corner by the Pool of Hinnom and was tearing madly on towards us. In another moment the horse wheeled suddenly round and, flinging its rider to the earth, galloped back to the city gate.

We reined up near the unfortunate man, who lay stretched out unconscious in the middle of the road, a tropical sun beating fiercely on his uncovered head, and the blood slowly trickling from a nasty wound in the temple.

In an incredibly short space of time a crowd collected. White-sheeted women, like flocks of seagulls, scudded down the hill slopes, and were joined by dark-faced men, who seemed to spring from nowhere.

They stared with much curiosity at the little group below, but neither signs nor talking could induce them to approach nearer than the stone wall which bounded the road. They answered our appeals by jabbering among themselves like so many monkeys, pointing at us and gesticulating excitedly. Clearly we were each unintelligible to the other.

We next tried to awaken the sympathy of a family living close at hand; but, much to our indignation, they refused help though they showed considerable interest in us, wondering why we took so much trouble about a stranger who was nothing to us. We could only be sorry that with the knowledge of English had not come the knowledge of our Lord's answer to the question, “Who is my neighbour?”

Appeals to the passers-by met with the same heartless indifference. They stared at the unconscious cause of the commotion and looked at us with eyes which plainly said, “The English are mad, they are always minding other people's business.”

In the meantime the man was in great danger from the heat. He was too heavy for us to move, and Elias, with true Oriental timidity, refused to touch him. The case was becoming desperate when we saw a benevolent-looking priest coming along the road. He joined the circle, looked at the wounded man, and turned to resume his journey.

Elizabeth stopped him and eagerly accosted him in French, but he was evidently ignorant of that tongue. She then attacked him in German, but he shook his head deprecatingly. As a last resource she bombarded him in Italian, which language he did understand, for he immediately replied that he was at the signora's service.

“Then,” said Elizabeth, “will you kindly tell us, signor, what to do with that poor man? He was thrown from his horse a few minutes ago. He is wounded, and may be dying. Could you not get him carried to a place of safety and find out who he is?”

During this address the priest's countenance changed from courteous attention to grave disquietude. He scarcely waited for its conclusion before he gathered up his skirts and, murmuring that “he knew nothing—it was not his affair,” walked rapidly away.

We were more perplexed than ever. Could there be defilement in the touch of the wounded man? Or did the fact of his wearing European clothes proclaim him an infidel and one whom it was best to leave alone?

While we were deliberating on the best course to take, Elias shook off his fear and began talking to a big porter who was looking on. After what seemed to us an endless discussion, he came forward and intimated that the porter would carry the man to a hakeem (doctor) in Jerusalem.

It was not without a great deal of talking, appealing looks from the porter, and, I must add, evident reluctance on his part, that the wounded man was placed on his shoulders and the procession started for the city, Elizabeth riding on ahead in the hope of finding some intelligent person who would interpret for us, for we were still puzzled how to act for the best.

Among the motley crowds always assembled at the Jaffa Gate, we caught sight of a young clerk, with whom we had had dealings, and who spoke English fairly well. He was standing near his office. In response to Elizabeth's sign, he crossed the road with alacrity, and was all attention to her commands. When, however, he understood their extent, and grasped the fact that a stranger had met with an accident, and saw him apparently dead on the back of the brawny porter, he bolted into his office, shut the door with the words, “Excuse me, madame, but I am too busy to help.” There was no time to analyse our own feelings, for the procession had increased considerably, the babel of tongues was deafening, donkeys braying, camels grunting, men screaming and gesticulating; even the lepers rushed forward and added to the noise and confusion. The porter's face bore a look of unmistakable terror, as he caught a glimpse of the ragged uniform of a soldier, but on we went, hoping that the hakeem's house was not far off.

Happening to glance round we saw to our intense relief the swaggering form of Ameen approaching. In him we saw also an end to all our difficulties. We attacked him at once.

“Find a doctor, please, or do something for this poor man, and do, if you can, stop that awful noise!” we exclaimed. Alas, Ameen manifested the same extraordinary unwillingness to interfere, though his sympathy was excited. “Do look at him,” we urged, “perhaps you may know him, and why are all the people calling to him and shouting hakeem?”

Yielding to our entreaties Ameen examined the face of the object of our solicitude, added his contribution to the hubbub, and exclaimed—

“He's the Russian doctor from the hospital, the people say; he was riding into Bethlehem this afternoon, it is the day he sees patients among the pilgrims there. Poor man, we will carry you to the Russian hospital, that is,” continued he, turning to us, “if you will take all the responsibility, Miss N.”

“Of course I will take the responsibility!” was the impatient answer. “Be quick, unless you want him to die!”

Ameen now assumed leadership, issued his orders with much importance, using the English lady's name with great effect, we could see. The porter, however, kept close to us, talking earnestly.

“What is he saying?” inquired Elizabeth.

“He is afraid that he will be punished. He thinks he will be accused of the doctor's death and be put into prison; he begs of you to say that he is only acting under the English ladies' orders; he is their slave, and cannot help himself,” replied Ameen.

“Assure him that he need have no fear, he shall not get into trouble for helping us; we will see to that,” Elizabeth answered, looking down kindly on the man, who seemed as grateful as if he had been rescued from some terrible danger.

“You see, Miss N.,” said Ameen, “we are all afraid to help in an accident of this kind, the risk is too great. We might be seized and thrown into prison, accused of having murdered, or attempted to murder, the person we were only assisting. Certainly if he happened to die, we should be held responsible for his death, and could not escape prison unless a big backsheesh were constantly paid to the governor. You of the English nation are different, you are just, and do not understand our Government. Your word they will take, ours they would not believe. We are not naturally inhuman, we have to pretend to be.”

This explanation threw a new light on the indifference to suffering which we had witnessed. Under the circumstances it certainly required a very brave man to follow the dictates of ordinary humanity where a stranger was concerned. We were truly thankful that we were “of the English nation,” and free to exercise our privileges here.

But we had now reached our goal after being nearly forty minutes on the road. The poor porter's strength was giving out, but he managed to get up the steps of the hospital{246} and lay his burden down on the cool floor of the hall. The nurses gathered round the unconscious doctor, talking volubly in Russian, which none of us understood. There was a look of consternation on their faces as they carried him gently into an inner room. We could not explain what had happened, but we waited until we thought we heard sounds which indicated returning consciousness, then telling Ameen to reward the good porter with a liberal backsheesh, and bring us news of the patient on the morrow, we rode on our way to Neby Samwîl.

It was a glorious day, and we were glad to get away from the noise and dust of the city into the open country where quiet and beauty reigned.

The watch-tower on the top of Mizpeh, though three hours' distant, was plainly visible in the clear atmosphere. It thrilled us as we called to mind that it was on that spot Laban and Jacob made their covenant of amity and settled their differences for ever. There the judges had assembled the Israelites together in times of national danger or calamity. It was at Mizpeh the prophet Samuel anointed young Saul king of Israel. From its summit the Israelites, after humbling themselves before God, rushed into the plain, routed the host of the Philistines and discomfited them.

Through the very passes we were traversing and over those grey stony mountains had Samuel, Saul, David, and hosts of the famous men of old walked. If they could speak, what marvellous stories could those ancient hills tell of all they had heard and seen of triumph and defeat of great armies, of God's anger towards His stiff-necked people, of His unbounded love and forgiveness!

It was not easy riding. The flat smooth rocks were slippery footholds for our sturdy little horses; but they were hardy fellows and stepped over the most break-neck places with the ease and confidence of mountain goats.

We were enchanted with the gorgeous carpet of flowers spread out at intervals before us. Here was a patch of cyclamen, covering a space of about twelve feet, nestling under the eaves of a sullen brown rock. Masses of scarlet anemones, yellow flax, pheasant's eye, and many other lovely flowers disclosed their beauty to us, making up in their colouring and variety for the lack of trees and foliage.

The slopes of the hills were dotted with handsome, long-haired goats feeding side by side with the ungainly “fat-tailed” sheep. These sheep are far from pretty. Their tails, hanging like great bags, touch the ground as they move, giving them a most unsymmetrical appearance. The fat of the tail is considered a great luxury among the natives. It is made into “seminy”—a strongly-flavoured grease used in all native cooking and, to our taste, rancid and unpalatable.

The summit of Mizpeh was reached without further adventure. A few olive trees grew there, and the watch-tower seemed old; but, otherwise, there was nothing to remind us of the past.

We tied up our horses, and in a few minutes the kettle was singing merrily and we were enjoying a cup of tea, which was very refreshing after our long ride. Elias was made happy with a great piece of sugar, which he ate slowly, smiling upon us the while like a dusky cherub.

There was but little time to indulge our fancy, though the spot on which we sat teemed with memories. It was getting late—sunset would be upon us in an hour. If we did not wish to be benighted among those desolate mountains we must be up and going. So, as soon as tea was over, we mounted our horses and turned their heads homewards.

Before we were half way, the great sun left us suddenly (as if he were pressed for time and must make it up on his next journey), and we were plunged into darkness, for there is scarcely any twilight in the East.

It was a hard matter to keep Elias in sight; but, fortunately, the horses knew the way, and we rode with a loose rein. Soon the silver moon rose in the heavens and flooded the landscape with her brilliant light. A couple of hours later saw us cantering through the deserted streets of Jerusalem, throwing long shadows as we passed under the grey walls of David's Tower.

The ghastly Pool of Hinnom looked more ghastly in the moonlight; but the shining road gave no indication of the scene in which we had acted a few hours before. Ten minutes later we were dismounting at Miss K.'s hospitable door, well pleased to be back again among our friends.

S. E. Bell.

BEAUTY IN WOMAN: FROM A MAN'S POINT OF VIEW.

By “MEDICUS” (Dr. GORDON STABLES, R.N.).

“Shalt show us how divine a thing
A woman may be made.”

Wordsworth.

That I am an admirer of female beauty and loveliness goes without saying, nor would I care to take tiffin with a man who isn't.

Beauty likes to be Admired.

Yes—that is true, and I don't blame beauty a bit. Nevertheless ladies who are not gifted with this great glory, prim, demure women, with prim, demure ways, may look sadly sour and say, “That Miss So-and-so thinks she is entrancing, and maybe she is good-looking after a fashion, but I feel sure she spends quite a deal of her time indoors attitudinising and gavotting before the looking-glass, and she can't pass a shop window without using it as a mirror to note how she looks.” Well, for the life of me I cannot see any harm in Miss So-and-so's turning a shop window into a mirror if she chooses. Her mind is thus satisfied. That dress does hang nicely, and she carries herself well in it.

As to Miss So-and-so spending some time before the mirror at home, the Misses Prim can only be reasoning from analogy. They themselves doubtless do the same, but it is as a forlorn hope and in order to see if there be anything about their faces and figures analogous to beauty.

But Miss So-and-so is right again. What are mirrors made for, I wonder, if not to study before, to study attitude, the set of the head, the proper use of lips and eyes, and the contour of the neck. Indeed, indeed, I'm all on beauty's side.

But in this, as in all other matters, there is a danger of over-doing it. It is quite proper to assure yourself that you look your best, but it is unwise to think too much of the matter, or to allow yourself to become a piece of human vanity.

Every Woman has a Mission.

I should be sorry indeed to speak disparagingly about the Misses Prim.

There are a great many of them in this world, and they can do much to make the world better and happier. That is their mission. Some fulfil it, some don't. Some want to die right off the reel because nature has made them somewhat angular and gray and has, in fact, denied them beauty. They become sour in temper and sharp in tongue because of envy. Ah, but just see the happiness they could shed abroad among others were they only cheerful and always willing to assist their neighbours with good sound, solid advice. And this happiness would come back to their own hearts and take up its abode there, so that blessedness should shine in their faces. Women of this description ought to dress very neatly but not gaily. They often have good figures, and these may be attired to advantage without their making any attempt at dressing to kill, which would obviously be somewhat ridiculous. They should be neat also in hands and feet and hair, the arrangement of which lends itself to much that is artistic and beautiful.

The Misses Prim may be thirty or forty years old, or more. What matters it? Their mission lies chiefly among the young, and thoughtless though these may be, they are loving and have ten times more gratitude in their souls than grown-up people. Alas! though, I may be addressing some who have but little time to help those around them, little time even to read; theirs only to work, to long, and sometimes to weep. I do in my heart feel for such as these; but the very fact that they do long for something better to come shows, I think, that there is a better world than this, and that this life is but probationary.

It is their mission then to work, and to try to do so willingly, for methinks duty well performed is a reward in itself.

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Beauty's Mission.

Beauty's mission is a noble one, and if kept well apart from pride and frivolity, it is a self-ennobling one.

Beauty has been called a fatal gift. It is so only when the possessor thereof has no other attractions. Every beautiful girl should possess refinement, and by this I do not mean accomplishments that can be shown to advantage in a drawing-room. No, but refinement of mind or soul. She ought to be well read, though far indeed from being a blue-stocking. She ought to be herself a poet at heart, a lover of nature and of God's animals, His trees and His flowers. She ought to be a good but not a garrulous conversationalist; the sentences that leave her lips ought to flow like the murmur and ripple of a sparkling fountain. Forced conversation has no reality about it, and anyone can see it does not come from the heart.

Beauty should be musical. Alas! it is not always so. I may go further and say it is too often automatical. This is the result of a forced musical education. Beauty should never play what she cannot feel. If she feels, so shall others around her, and the chords will touch the heart.

A beautiful woman who can play the violin so as to bring tears to the listener's eyes, possesses a power that nothing on this dull earth of ours can excel.

And a beauty like that which I so feebly paint has a deal to be proud of, though she ought not to be vain. Vanity only proves narrowness of soul, a mind with no breadth of beam.

“She moves a goddess and she looks a queen.”

True enough, yet the greatest of beauties are not simply there for show. For her a nobler part is retained, and ere many years are over her head she ought to be as noble-minded and beautiful a matron as she now is a maiden.

Yes, and if health and beauty go hand-in-hand, with modesty and virtue in their train, this great kingdom of ours will never need to lower its flag to any combination in the world.

I say, then, to every girl-reader I have, “It is well to be beautiful.”

Growing Old Gracefully.

I cannot but respect and admire the women who grow old gracefully. Generally a little inclined to embonpoint are they, which but accords with their years. But there is a sincerity about them which is very creditable. A lady of this kind is never ashamed to own that she is getting up in years. No one would be rude enough to ask her age; but if anybody did, they would have a straightforward truthful answer. See, there is a sprinkling of silvery hairs on her head; she is, I believe, somewhat proud of them rather than otherwise, and if true religion dwells in her heart, she is altogether amiable. Some day she knows she will die. Some day—yes, some day; but this death will only just be going home. She is to be envied.

Should Art aid Beauty?

My answer is, “Yes, undoubtedly, if it be real art.”

Says the poet—

“Beauty unadorned is adorned the most.”

This is all nonsense. It is just as reasonable for beauty to call in the aid of science and art as it is for her to use soap with which to wash her hands and face. But on the other hand, a beauty that is all artificial is quite detestable. No man can stand a painted doll. We meet such in society all too often, but we soon find out that she is just as frivolous and heartless as she is artificial—a painted fraud, in fact, and I pity the poor fellow who is snared into marrying her.

But there are legitimate methods of securing greater beauty. The chief of these is health. Without good health there can be no real beauty, no beautiful complexion, no bright and sparkling eyes, and no power to please others or make others happy. One cannot bestow upon those around them that which they do not possess themselves. It is girls like this—girls who may be classed with that great army, the only middling—who, instead of endeavouring to set themselves right by the aid of judicious living and everything that conduces to health, are for ever hunting among the trashy advertisements of cheap ladies' papers for cosmetics that shall not only make them beautiful for a day, but keep them beautiful for all time.

Very catchy are many of those advertisements to the eyes of the simple and the ignorant, and they are always tastefully illustrated. In a country better governed than ours, those advertising quack-women, who charge such awful prices for specialities that are simply worse than want, would soon find themselves inside the four walls of a prison. Pray take my warning, girls, and keep your money in your purses.

Do not forget, however, that regularity in living, temperance in eating, daily pleasant exercise, no spurting if you ride, plenty of fruit, and the bath, using the mildest soaps are the passports to health and happiness; and beauty cannot exist without these latter.

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART IV.

The Temple.

My dear Dorothy,—Before going away for your summer holiday, I should advise you to put all your valuables, such as your silver tea-set, etc., into a strong iron box and get Gerald to deposit the same at his bank, where it will be perfectly safe.

The bank will not give you a receipt for the contents of the box, because they will not make themselves responsible for property which they are taking care of gratuitously; but they will give you an acknowledgment for the box itself, which is quite sufficient for your purpose.

The landlady at Southsea had no justification for writing and telling you that you could not have the rooms, which you had previously engaged, for another week yet, because her present lodgers were staying on in them. She has broken her contract with you—which was to let her rooms to you from a certain date for a specified amount—so that if you find it more convenient to leave town at the date you originally fixed, you need not wait upon the Southsea landlady's pleasure. The contract to take her rooms is at an end, and you need not go to her at all unless it suits you to do so.

From a strictly legal point of view, you have a right of action against her, which I do not advise nor suppose you would care to exercise, although it is most annoying to have your plans upset in this manner, and more especially too when you went to the trouble and expense of going down to Southsea so as to make certain of securing comfortable quarters.

I would not advise your friend to have anything to do with those attractive advertisements which appear in the newspapers, offering home employment to gentlewomen at the rate of ten to thirty shillings a week. The dodge is little better than a swindle; perhaps not a swindle in a strictly legal sense, but a swindle all the same.

The way it is worked is this: you are asked to send two or three shillings in the first instance and in return you get a quantity of rubber stamps which you have to sell to your friends at a profit, and when you have disposed of them all (a most unlikely event) you buy more rubber stamps at wholesale prices and sell them at retail ones; or else you receive a packet of wool, which you have to knit into an impossible number of socks and comforters, and for which you will be paid a small sum for so many dozen pairs.

It is a particularly heartless swindle to my mind, because the unfortunate ladies who answer these advertisements can ill afford to waste even two or three shillings, and, of course, they are quite unable to sell the rubber stamps or similar rubbish received in return for their money.

I have received frequent complaints from ladies who have been taken in by this trick, and I should like to see all such advertisements expunged from the newspapers. The advertisement columns contain a good many traps for the unwary. For instance, there is the “lady” who is offering silver fish-knives for sale at an immense sacrifice, unused, and less than half the original value.

You will observe that the word is “value” not “cost”; but she omits to state that the value put upon them is that given to them by herself, and, curiously enough, she is offering a similar sacrifice every day in the year.

I do not suggest that there is any swindle in the above style of advertisement. It is a trick of the trade, and if you are sharp enough you will find that the same “lady” is offering other articles for sale also at a sacrifice in another part of the paper.

The fact also that nearly all these articles are advertised as “unused” ought to be sufficient to warn people that it is a dealer and not a private individual who is advertising; but people, especially ladies, my dear Dorothy, are so anxious to make a bargain that they cannot resist the temptation to purchase an article, with a fictitious value attached to it, at half price.

A similar article, if bought at a shop in the ordinary way, costs less and lasts longer; but then it would not profess to be a bargain—wherein lies the charm.

I am afraid that I cannot give you any comfort as regards the bill sent in by your stationer, whom you say you have already paid. If you cannot find or did not get a receipt from him you are powerless and will have to pay it over again.

When tradespeople know your name and address, it is always advisable to ask for a receipt if they do not offer to give you one. Even when dealing with shops which profess to sell on cash terms only, I always make a point of asking for a receipt if the goods are to be sent to my address; and, for the future, I advise you to follow the example of

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

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{250}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.

CHAPTER XV.

For the next week conversation was more strictly centred on Rosalind than ever, and the gloomy expression deepened on Peggy's face. She was, in truth, working too hard for her strength, for, as each day passed, the necessity of hurrying on with the calendar became more apparent; and as Robert was no longer master of his own time she was obliged to come to his aid in writing out the selected quotations.

At every spare moment of the day she was locked in her room scribbling away for dear life or searching for appropriate extracts, and, as a consequence, her brain refused to rest when she wished it to do so. She tossed wakefully on her pillow, and was often most inclined for sleep when six o'clock struck, and she dragged herself up, a white-cheeked weary little mortal to sit blinking over the fire, wishing feebly that it was time to go to bed again instead of getting up to face the long, long day.

Robert was not more observant than most boys of his age, and Peggy would have worked herself to death before she had complained to him. She was proud to feel that he depended on her more than ever, that without her help he could not possibly have finished his task, while his words of gratitude helped to comfort a heart which was feeling sore and empty.

In truth, these last few weeks had been harder for Peggy than those immediately following her mother's departure. Then, each one in the house had vied with the other in trying to comfort her, whereas now, without any intention of unkindness, her companions often appeared to be neglectful.

When Rosalind was present Esther hung on one arm and Mellicent on the other, without so much as a glance over the shoulder to see if Peggy were following. Instead of a constant “Peggy, what would you like?” “What does Peggy say?” her opinion was never even asked, while Rosalind's lightest word was treated as law.

It would have been hard for any girl under the circumstances, but it was doubly hard when that girl was so dependent on her friends, and so sensitive and reserved in disposition as Peggy Saville. She would not deign to complain or to ask for signs of affection which were not voluntarily given, but her merry ways disappeared, and she became so silent and subdued that she was hardly recognisable as the audacious Peggy of a few weeks earlier.

“Peggy is so grumpy!” Mellicent complained to her mother. “She never laughs now, nor makes jokes, nor flies about as she used to do! She's just as glum and mum as can be, and she never sits with us! She is always in her bedroom with the door locked, so that we can't get in! She's there now! I think she might stay with us sometimes! It's mean, always running away!”

Mrs. Asplin drew her brows together and looked worried. She had not been satisfied about Peggy lately, and this news did not tend to reassure her. Her kind heart could not endure that anyone beneath her roof should be ill or unhappy, and the girl had looked both during the last few days. She went upstairs at once and tapped at the door, when Peggy's voice was raised in impatient answer.

“I can't come! Go away! I'm engaged!”

“But I want to speak to you, dear! Please let me in!” she replied in her clear, pleasant tones, whereupon there was a hasty scamper inside, and the door was thrown open.

“Oh-h! I didn't know it was you; I thought it was one of the girls. I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”

Mrs. Asplin gave a glance around. The gas fire was lit, but the chair beside it stood stiffly in the corner, and the cushion was uncrushed. Evidently the girl had not been sitting there. The work-basket was in its accustomed place, and there were no cottons or silks lying about—Peggy had not been sewing at Christmas presents, as she had half hoped to find her. A towel was thrown over the writing-table, and a piece of blotting-paper lay on the floor. A chair was pushed to one side as if it had been lately used. That looked as if she had been writing letters.

“Peggy, dear, what are you doing all by yourself in this chilly room?”

“I'm busy, Mrs. Asplin. I lit the fire as soon as I came in.”

“But a room does not get warm in five minutes. I don't want you to catch cold and be laid up with a sore throat. Can't you bring your writing downstairs and do it beside the others?”

“I would rather not. I can get on so much better by myself.”

“Are you writing to India—to your mother?”

“N—no, not just now.”

“Then really, dear, you must come downstairs! This won't do! Your mother wished you to have a fire in your room so that you might be able to sit here when you wanted to be alone, but she never meant you to make it a habit, or to spend all your spare time alone. It isn't healthy to use a room night and day, and to burn so much gas, and it isn't sociable, Peggy dear. Mellicent has just been complaining that you are hardly ever with them nowadays. Come along, like a good girl; put the writing away and amuse yourself downstairs. You have done enough work for one day. You don't do me credit at all with those white cheeks.”

Peggy stood with her eyes fixed on the carpet without uttering a word. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to say, “Oh, do let me stay upstairs as much as I like for a day or two longer. I have a piece of work on hand which I am anxious to finish. It is a secret, but I hope to tell you all about it soon, and I am sure you will be pleased.” If she had done so she knew perfectly well how hearty and pleasant would have been Mrs. Asplin's consent; but there are some states of mind in which it is a positive pleasure to be a martyr, and to feel oneself misunderstood, and this was just the mood in which Peggy found herself at present. She heard Mrs. Asplin sigh, as if with anxiety and disappointment, as she left the room, and shrugged her shoulders in wilful indifference.

“She thinks I like sitting shivering here! I slave, and slave, from morning till night, and then people think I am sulky! I am not working for myself. I don't want the wretched old ten pounds; I could have ten pounds to-morrow if I needed it. Mother said I could. I am working to help Rob, and now I shall have to sit up later, and get up earlier than ever, as I mayn't work during the day, Mellicent said I was never with them, did she! I don't see that it matters whether I am there or not! They don't want me; nobody wants me now that Rosalind has come! I hate Rosalind—nasty, smirking, conceited thing!” and Peggy jerked the towel off the writing-table and flicked it violently to and fro in the air, just as a little relief to her over-charged feelings.

She was crossing the hall with unwilling steps when the postman's knock sounded at the door, and three letters in long, narrow envelopes fell to the ground. Each envelope was of a pale pink tint with a crest and monogram in white relief; one was addressed to the Misses Asplin, another to Oswald Elliston, and a third to Miss Mariquita Saville.

“Invitations!” cried Peggy, with a caper of delight. “Invitations! How scrumptious!” Her face clouded for a moment as the sight of the letters, “R.D.,” suggested the sender of the letters, but the natural girlish delight in an unexpected festivity was stronger even than her prejudices, and it was the old, bright Peggy who bounced into the schoolroom holding up the three letters, and crying gleefully, “Quis, Quis, something nice for somebody! An invitation!”

“Ego, Ego!” came the eager replies, and the envelopes were seized and torn open in breathless haste.

“From Rosalind! Oh, how very funny! ‘Requests the pleasure—company—to a pink luncheon.’ What in the world is a ‘pink luncheon?’—‘on Tuesday next, the 20th inst....{251}’”

“A p-p-pink luncheon? How wewwy stwange!” echoed Mellicent, who had been suddenly affected with an incapacity to pronounce the letter “r” since the arrival of Rosalind Darcy on the scene, a peculiarity which happened regularly every autumn, and passed off again with the advent of spring. “How can a luncheon possibly be pink?”

“That's more than I can tell you, my dear! Ask Rob. What does it mean, Rob!” asked Peggy curiously, and Robert scowled, and shook back his shock of hair.

“Some American fad, I believe. The idea is to have everything of one colour—flowers, drapery, and food, china—everything that is on the table. It's a fag and an awful handicap, for you can't have half the things you want. But let us be modern or die, that's the motto nowadays. Mother is always trying to get hold of new-fangled notions.”

“‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Jane Smith's company to a magenta supper.’—‘Peggy Saville requests the pleasure of Mr. Jones's company to a purple tea.’ It's a splendid idea! I like it immensely,” said Peggy, pursing her lips, and staring in the fire in meditative fashion. “Pink—pink—what can we eat that is pink? P-prawns, p-pickles, p-p-pomegranates, P-aysandu tongues (you would call those pink, wouldn't you—pinky red?). Humph! I don't think it sounds very nice. Perhaps they dye the things with cochineal. I think I shall have a sensible brown and green meal before I go, and then I can nibble elegantly at the pinkies. Would it be considered a delicate mark of attention if I wore a pink frock?”

“Certainly it would. Wear that nice one that you put on in the evenings. Rosalind will be in pink from head to foot, you may depend on it,” said Robert confidently, whereupon Mellicent rushed headlong from the room to find her mother, and plead eagerly that summer crepon dresses of the desired tint should be brought forth from their hiding-place and freshened up for the occasion. To accede to this request meant an extra call upon time already fully occupied, but mothers have a way of not grudging trouble where their children are concerned. Mrs. Asplin said, “Yes, darling, of course I will!” and set to work with such good will that all three girls sported pink dresses beneath their ulsters when they set off to partake of the mysterious luncheon a few days later.

Rosalind came to the bedroom to receive them, and looked on from an armchair, while Lady Darcy's maid helped the visitors to take off their wraps. She herself looked like a rose in her dainty pink draperies, and Peggy had an impression that she was not altogether pleased to see that her guests were as appropriately dressed as herself. She eyed them up and down, and made remarks to the maid in that fluent French of hers which was so unintelligible to the schoolgirls' ears. The maid smirked and pursed up her lips, and then meeting Peggy's steady gaze, dropped her eyes in confusion. Peggy knew, as well as if she had understood every word, that the remarks exchanged between mistress and maid had been of a depreciatory nature, not as concerned her own attire—that was as perfect in its way as Rosalind's own—but with reference to the home-made dresses of the Vicar's daughters, which seemed to have suddenly become clumsy and shapeless when viewed in the mirrors of this elegant bedroom. She was in arms at once on her friends' behalf, and when Peggy's dignity was hurt she was a formidable person to tackle. In this instance she fixed her eyes first on the maid, and then on Rosalind herself with a steady, disapproving stare which was not a little disconcerting.

“I am sorry,” she said, “but we really don't know French well enough to follow your conversation! You were talking about us, I think. Perhaps you would be kind enough to repeat your remarks in English?”

“Oh-h, it doesn't matter! It was nothing at all important!” Rosalind flushed, and had the grace to look a trifle ashamed of her own ill-breeding, but she did not by any means appreciate the reproof. The girls had not been ten minutes in the house, and already that aggravating Peggy Saville had succeeded in making her feel humiliated and uncomfortable. The same thing happened whenever they met. The respect, and awe, and adoring admiration which she was accustomed to receive from other girls of her own age, seemed altogether wanting in Peggy's case, and yet, strange to say, the very fact that she refused to fall down and worship invested Peggy with a peculiar importance in Rosalind's eyes. She longed to overcome her prejudices and add her name to the list of her adorers, and to this end she considered her tastes in a way which would never have occurred to her in connection with Mrs. Asplin's daughters. In planning the pink luncheon Peggy had been continually in her mind, and it is doubtful whether she would have taken the trouble to arrange so difficult an entertainment had not the party from the vicarage included that important personage, Miss Mariquita Saville.

From the bedroom the girls adjourned to the morning-room, where Lady Darcy sat waiting, but almost as soon as they had exchanged greetings, the gong sounded to announce luncheon, and they walked across the hall aglow with expectation.

The table looked exquisite, and the guests stood still in the doorway and gasped with admiration. The weather outside was grey and murky, but tall standard lamps were placed here and there, and the light which streamed from beneath the pink silk shades gave an air of warmth and comfort to the room. Down the centre of the table lay a slip of looking-glass on which graceful long-necked swans seemed to float to and fro, while troughs filled with soft, pink blossoms formed a bordering. Garlands of pink flowers fell from the chandelier and were attached to the silver candelabra in which pink candles burned with clear and steady flare. Glass, china, ornaments were all of the same dainty colour, and beside each plate was a dainty little buttonhole nosegay, with a coral-headed pin, all ready to be attached to the dress or coat of the owner.

“It's—it's beautiful!” cried Mellicent ecstatically, while Peggy's beauty-loving eye turned from one detail to another with delighted approbation. “Really,” she said to herself in astonishment, “I couldn't have done it better myself! It's quite admirable!” and as Rosalind's face peered inquiringly at her beneath the canopy of flowers she nodded her head, and smiled in generous approval.

“Beautiful! Charming! I congratulate you! Did you design it, and arrange everything yourself!”

“Mother and I made it up between us. We didn't do the actual work, but we told the servants what to do, and saw that it was all right. The flowers and bon-bons are easy enough to manage; it's the things to eat that are the greatest trouble.”

“It seems to be too horribly prosaic to eat anything at such a table, except crumpled rose-leaves like the princess in the fairy tale,” said Peggy gushingly, but at this Mellicent gave an exclamation of dismay, and the three big lads turned their eyes simultaneously towards the soup tureen as if anxious to assure themselves that they were not to be put off with such ethereal rations.

The soup was pink. “Tomato!” murmured Peggy to herself, as she raised the first creamy spoonful to her lips. The fish was covered with thick pink sauce; tiny little cutlets lurked behind ruffles of pink paper; pink baskets held chicken souffles; moulds of pink cream and whipped-up syllabus were handed round in turns, and looked so tempting that Mellicent helped herself at once, and nearly shed tears of mortification on finding that they were followed by distracting pink ices, which were carried away again before she could possibly finish what was on her plate. Then came dessert-plates and finger-glasses, in which crystallised rose-leaves floated in the scented water, as if in fulfilment of Peggy's suggestion of an hour before, and the young people sat in great contentment, eating rosy apples, bananas pared and dipped in pink sugar, or helping themselves to the delicious bon-bons which were strewed about the table.

While they were thus occupied the door opened and Lord Darcy came into the room. He had not appeared before, and he shook hands with the visitors in turn, and then stood at the head of the table looking about him with a slow, kindly smile. Peggy watched him from her seat, and thought what a nice face he had, and wondered at the indifferent manner in which he was received by his wife and daughter. Lady Darcy leant back in her chair and played with her fruit, the sleeves of her pink silk tea-gown falling back from her white arms. Rosalind whispered to Max, and neither of them troubled to cast so much as a glance of welcome at the new-comer. Peggy thought of her own father, the gallant soldier out in India, of the joy and pride{252} with which his comings and goings were watched; of Mr. Asplin in the vicarage with his wife running to meet him, and Mellicent resting her curly head on his shoulder, and the figure of the old lord standing unnoticed at the head of his own table assumed a pathetic interest. It seemed, however, as if Lord Darcy were accustomed to be overlooked, for he showed no signs of annoyance; On the contrary, his face brightened, and he looked at the pretty scene with sparkling eyes. The room was full of a soft rosy glow, the shimmer of silver and crystal was reflected in the sheet of mirror, and beneath the garlands of flowers the young faces of the guests glowed with pleasure and excitement. He looked from one to the other—handsome Max, dandy Oswald, Robert with his look of strength and decision; then to the girls—Esther, gravely smiling, wide-eyed Mellicent; Peggy, with her eloquent, sparkling eyes; Rosalind, a queen of beauty among them all; finally to the head of the table where sat his wife.

“I must congratulate you, dear,” he said heartily. “It is the prettiest sight I have seen for a long time. You have arranged admirably, but that's no new thing; you always do. I don't know where you get your ideas. These wreaths—eh? I've never seen anything like them before. What made you think of fastening them up there?”

“I have had them like that several times before, but you never notice a thing until its novelty is over, and I am tired to death of seeing it,” said his wife with a frown, and an impatient curve of the lip as if she had received a rebuke instead of a compliment.

Peggy stared at her plate, felt Robert shuffle on his chair by her side, and realised that he was as embarrassed and unhappy as herself. The beautiful room with its luxurious appointments seemed to have suddenly become oppressive and cheerless, for in it was the spirit of discontent and discord between those who should have been most in harmony. Esther was shocked, Mellicent frightened, the boys looked awkward and uncomfortable. No one ventured to break the silence, and there was quite a long pause before Lady Darcy spoke again in quick, irritable tones.

“Have you arranged to get away with me on Thursday, as I asked you?”

“My dear, I cannot. I explained before. I am extremely sorry, but I have made appointments which I cannot break. I could take you next week if you would wait.”

“I can't wait. I told you I had to go to the dentist's. Do you wish me to linger on in agony for another week? And I have written to Mrs. Bouverie that I will be at her ‘At Home’ on Saturday. My appointments are, at least, as binding as yours. It isn't often that I ask you to take me anywhere, but when it is a matter of health, I do think you might show a little consideration.”

Lord Darcy drew his brows together and bit his moustache. Peggy recalled Robert's description of the “governor looking wretched” when he found himself compelled to refuse a favour, and did not wonder that the lad was ready to deny himself a pleasure rather than see that expression on his father's face. The twinkling light had died out of his eyes and he looked old, and sad, and haggard, far more in need of physical remedies than his wife, whose “agony” had been so well concealed during the last two hours as to give her the appearance of a person in very comfortable health. Rosalind alone looked absolutely unruffled, and lay back in her chair nibbling at her bon-bon as though such scenes were of too frequent occurrence between her parents to be deserving of attention.

“If you have made up your mind to go to-morrow, and cannot go alone, you must take Robert with you, Beatrice, for I cannot leave. It is only for four days, and Mr. Asplin will no doubt excuse him if you write and explain the circumstances.”

Lord Darcy left the room and Robert and Peggy exchanged agonised glances. Go away for nearly a week, when before two days were over the calendar must be sent to London, and there still remained real hard work before it was finished! Peggy sat dazed and miserable, seeing the painful effort of the last month brought to naught, Robert's ambition defeated, and her own help of no avail. That one glance had shown the lad's face flushed with emotion, but when his mother spoke to him in fretful tones, bidding him be ready next morning when she should call in the carriage on her way to the station, he answered at once with polite acquiescence.

“Very well, mater, I won't keep you waiting. I shall be ready by half-past ten if you want me.”

(To be continued.)

THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.

By FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

CHAPTER IV.

JANE MAKES HERSELF USEFUL.

“I met Norah Villiers yesterday, girls,” said Ada Orlingbury to her sister and Marion as they all took their seats at the breakfast-table on a gusty February morning.

“I wonder you had the audacity to speak to anyone so grand!” laughed Jane.

Norah Villiers was an old school friend who had married a very wealthy man.

“Oh, Norah is very sensible! She never had any nonsense about her! Her money has not turned her head, as happens to some people. She looked perfectly charming in a sweet little toque all over violets, and she was so pleased to see me. But I could not help laughing to myself to find how very elderly and staid she had grown. Not in appearance, you know, but in manner.”

“I suppose she gave a great deal of motherly advice for the benefit of three young things living together in an unprotected condition!” said Jennie. “What did she advise? Burglar-proof window fasteners, or cork soles, or what?”

“Don't talk nonsense, Jane!” said Ada severely.{253} “She has made some excellent discoveries in the course of her housekeeping, and now that she is so wealthy she hails any very economical discovery with glee, as so many do when there is no longer any reason to restrict oneself within narrow limits. We talked for ten minutes on the subject of Australian meat, and she charged me solemnly to deliver the glorious news to you.”

“What news?” asked Marion smiling.

“Norah declares that hardly anybody knows how to cook Australian meat properly; but that when it is treated in the right way, it is as good as any meat for which one could wish. And as it is much cheaper, that is good news to us if it be true.”

“What does she recommend should be done to it?” asked Jane. “It has always been tough whenever I have tasted it.”

“She says it should be properly thawed,” went on Ada. “You see one forgets that as it is frozen meat it must be thawed before it can be cooked. The consequence is that as a rule when the meat is supposed to be cooking, it is only thawing. Norah says that the meat should hang in the kitchen for the whole of the day before it is wanted, and then should be put quite near the fire for an hour before ever you attempt to cook it at all.”

“Well, we will certainly try it,” said Marion. “I think Mrs. Villiers might be able to afford herself English-fed beef, but I have few prejudices, and I am glad to hear of anything economical.”

“Well, let us then,” said Ada; “for Norah was so urgent in the matter that I should not like to have to face her again unless I could assure her with a clear conscience that I have taken her advice.”

“Well, on Thursday, then,” Marion agreed. “I will get in the mutton on Wednesday morning, and it shall hang in our spacious kitchen all the day before. All meat is better for hanging, and I often regret our delicious country joints.”

“You certainly always had splendid meat at Hawthornburrow,” said Ada. “I remember hearing one of the curates from Fosley admiring it to my father. But I thought it was because of those black-faced little sheep that your father always buys.”

“Partly that,” answered Marion, “but principally on account of the long hanging of all the meat. We often have joints hanging for a fortnight if the weather is cold—hanging with the thick end upwards, I mean, so that the juices shall not run out. Consequently the flavour of the meat is infinitely improved.”

“Marion talks like an elderly farmer!” cried Jane. “So much solid wisdom is overpowering to my giddy brain. Never mind, dear,” she went on, patting Marion's head, “we all appreciate it very much. I can't imagine what we should do if we had to go and live in a boarding-house now that we have become accustomed to your nice cosy little ways. Oh,” she cried suddenly as she helped herself to some marmalade, “to-day is Shrove Tuesday, and we must have some pancakes! I will fry them all if you will make the batter for them. No, I shall be home early and I will perform the whole operation. Gare aux crêpes!”

Making pancakes was Jane's favourite occupation as far as cooking was concerned. So the others laughingly acquiesced.

“How did they teach beginners to toss pancakes at the cookery school?” asked Marion.

“Oh, the teacher did the first one, and then we tried! There is no need to toss them really, you know; they are equally nice if you just slide a hot knife underneath when they are cooked on one side and turn it gently over. But, of course, no one was satisfied until she could toss them. I have seen an enthusiast work away with one long-suffering pancake until she could toss it and catch it again with ease, and each time it missed the pan, the blacker grew the pancake and the redder her face. How we laughed when it spun across the floor into a bowl of water! There is a great deal in not jerking the pan to the right or left, but just lifting your arm straight up when you toss it.”

“Very well, you shall give us a practical demonstration to-night and work off your superfluous energy,” said Marion as she helped Jane on with her jacket. “Ada and I will sit in state at the table and wait for relays.”

So a little before dinner-time Jennie went into the kitchen, first donning her professional apron and sleeves.

As she wanted the pancakes to be extra good, she allowed herself two eggs. She put four ounces of flour in a basin and stirred in the two eggs one by one with the back of a wooden spoon (first removing the tread and keeping the mixture very smooth). Then she stirred in half a pint of milk by degrees and beat all well with the front of the spoon. She then melted about two ounces of butter in a small saucepan and took off the scum and poured it off into a measure. This was to prevent the pancakes from sticking to the pan, as they would have done if she had left the scum (which is the salt) on. Before each pancake was made, a little of this was poured into the frying-pan to grease it well, and then poured off again.

For each pancake she poured about a tablespoonful and a half of the batter into the pan, doing this off the fire as, if it is done on the stove, the batter sets quickly and cannot be run over the bottom of the pan quickly enough to make nice thin pancakes.

She ran the batter round the edge of the pan, and then tilted it quickly so that the bottom was quite covered. Then putting the pan over the stove she shook it briskly, loosening it at the edges with a knife; and as soon as it was a light golden brown she lifted it off the stove and tossed it deftly in the air, so that it fell in the pan with the cooked side uppermost. A few seconds more over the fire and it was done. Now to turn it on to a warm plate, squeeze lemon-juice and sift castor sugar over, and roll up is short work. She had two hot plates; one to turn the pancakes out on to, and the other to put them on when folded over. When the last pancake had been made there was a goodly pile of twelve upon the dish which Jane carried triumphantly to the sitting-room, first sifting them with castor sugar. It was as well that Abigail did not care much for pancakes, for alas! there were none left.

True to her promise, Marion provided some Australian mutton in the course of the week, and treated it according to Mrs. Villiers's directions. She bought the thick half of a leg of mutton on Wednesday morning, and all that day it hung in the kitchen on a hook. The hook went into one of the joists, and so was perfectly firm. She cut a fillet of about a third of an inch thick to keep for Friday's dinner, and cut it as for veal cutlet in round pieces about the size of the top of a tea-cup. These she egged, and fried a golden-brown, and served round a pile of mashed potatoes. On Thursday they had the rest of the joint boiled to a turn, surrounded by turnips cooked with the meat. Marion was too practical a cook to fall into the usual error of letting a so-called “boiled” joint actually boil for more than a minute or two, and so become hard. The joint, which weighed four pounds when the fillet was removed, was put in the fish-kettle, with enough cold water to cover it, and was brought very slowly to the boil. It was allowed to boil for two minutes, and then was well skimmed; then the turnips were put in, the lid put on again, the heat was lowered, and the joint kept barely at simmering-point for an hour. All this was done in the morning. An hour before dinner the joint was put on the stove again to finish cooking and re-heat; it was then put quickly on a hot dish, and parsley sauce poured over. The joint was beautifully tender, and the water in which it was cooked was used for making a delicious carrot soup on the following day, and which preceded the fillets, fried as we have described. Marion always arranged her dinners at the beginning of the week, and she found it would be more convenient to have the boiled joint on the day before the fillet, as the soup made from the stock would come in so nicely before a little meat dish like the fried fillets.

The small amount of mutton that remained was minced finely and made into some meat patties for Sunday's supper.

This is the dinner list for the week. They had fried bacon for breakfast on the mornings on which they did not take porridge.

Monday.

Milk Soup.
Toad in the Hole.
Artichokes.
Baked Potatoes.
Apple Dumplings.

Tuesday.

Lentil Soup.
Fried Lemon Sole.
New Carrots à la Flamande.
Pancakes.

Wednesday.

(High Tea.) Curried Scallops and Rice.
Dough Nuts.

Thursday.

Boiled Mutton and Turnips.
Parsley Sauce.
Welsh Rare Bit.

Friday.

Carrot Soup.
Fried Mutton Cutlets.
Mashed Potatoes.
Rice Pudding.

Saturday.

Fried Steak and Onions.
Boiled Potatoes.
Steamed Marmalade Pudding.

Sunday.

Roast Fowl.
Baked Potatoes.
Oranges in Snow.

The last-named dish is such a pretty one, and so exceedingly nice, that as Marion does not mind we will give the recipe in full.

Oranges in Snow.—Make a syrup of half a pint of water and half a pound of loaf sugar. Pare six oranges very carefully and put them in the syrup; let them simmer very gently until they are perfectly tender but quite whole. Lift them carefully out with a fish-slice, and put in two ounces of tapioca. Let the tapioca cook until clear and soft in the syrup, by which time most of the syrup will be absorbed. Pour this into a glass dish and let it get cold, stand the oranges upon it, sweeten some whipped cream and pile it upon them, and decorate with a few hundreds and thousands sprinkled over.

Now follows the food account for the week.

	£	s.	d.
1¼ lb. rump steak	0	1	3
5 lb. mutton at 7d. (Australian)	0	2	11
¼ lb. suet	0	0	1½
1 lb. fat for rendering	0	0	2
1 lb. apples	0	0	3
½ pint lentils	0	0	1½
Flavouring vegetables	0	0	2
Turnips	0	0	3
Carrots for soup	0	0	3
New carrots	0	0	4
Onions	0	0	1½
Lemon sole	0	0	10
15 eggs	0	1	3
2 lbs. bacon	0	1	4
Fowl	0	2	6
1 lb. cheese	0	0	7
9 scallops	0	0	9
1 lb. marmalade	0	0	6
1 lb. tea	0	1	8
Tin of cocoa	0	0	6
1 lb. Demerara	0	0	1¾
1 lb. loaf	0	0	2
8 loaves	0	2	2
Milk	0	1	9
Cream	0	0	6
8 lbs. potatoes	0	0	6½
1 lb. artichokes	0	0	1½
1 quartern household flour	0	0	5½
	£1	1	8¾

(To be continued.)

{254}

THE RULING PASSION.

CHAPTER II.

The next morning was clear and bright. It was one of those mornings that sometimes come in February to tell even Londoners that spring has really started on her journey northward, and that she may be expected to arrive some time soon.

The sun shone, a fresh, but not cold, wind blew from the south-west, hurrying the soft golden clouds across the sky, and the sparrows had actually begun their spring quarrels.

The Professor, contrary to his usual habit, took no notice of these nice things. He felt very old and weary as he set off on his journey to the city with the same undefined feeling of misfortune that had haunted him all night.

He went straight to the stockbroker's office, expecting simply to have to sign a paper or two, receive his quarterly cheque for £6 5s., cash it at the bank, and then go quietly home again. He was surprised when the clerk asked him to sit down.

“I think Mr. Surtees wants to see you, Mr. Crowitzski,” he said, more politely than usual. “He will be disengaged in a few minutes, if you don't mind waiting. Oh, he's ready now”—as an electric bell rang three times.

The old man followed the clerk upstairs to the first floor, where they paused outside a door marked “Private.” The clerk knocked softly.

“Come in,” said a voice, and the clerk ushered the Professor into his master's presence.

“Good morning, Professor Crowitzski!” said the stockbroker cheerily. “Come and sit down by the fire. You look cold. It's a fresh morning, though the wind is sou'-west!”

He drew a leather-covered arm-chair forward as he spoke, gently pushed the Professor into it, and stationed himself on the hearthrug with his back to the fire and his hands behind his back.

He was a fresh-faced, kindly-looking man of middle age, with humorous grey eyes, and gold spectacles, which gave him a benevolent expression. He had undertaken the management of the poor Professor's small investment for many years out of pure kindness of heart after hearing his tragic history from a common friend, since dead; but he had a task this morning that he did not relish.

“Have you seen to-day's paper?” he began, looking keenly at his client.

“No,” said the Professor. “I do not often see the paper. Is there any special news?”

“Well—er—yes, I think so. News of some importance to a good many people, I'm afraid.”

The old man looked up in a mildly inquiring way, and the stockbroker continued—

“Fact is, those beastly South Americans are kicking up a row amongst themselves again—quarrelsome beggars! They can't keep themselves quiet for long! And the worst of it is, they disturb us peaceful citizens here who only wish to lend them money to get on with!”

A faint expression of interest began to dawn in the Professor's face.

“I suppose,” he said, “you mean that the money market is influenced by this kind of thing. Does it make any difference to my little income?”

Mr. Surtees turned round and poked the fire vigorously—an unnecessary proceeding; but the sight of that mild old face, and the knowledge of what he had to say, made it imperative that he should relieve his feelings somehow.

“It's hard on the poor old chap,” he muttered to himself. “But it can't be helped!”

He straightened himself, looked at his client, then out of the window, then into the fire.

“Well, Professor,” he said slowly, “I am very sorry to say that all South American stocks and securities are very low in the market just now—in short, some of them have gone altogether. Clean gone!”

Professor Crowitzski sat upright in his chair. A mist seemed to float before his eyes; his heart began to beat as if it would choke him. He felt as if the room were spinning round, and he grasped the arms of the chair tightly to try to steady himself. When, after a few moments, he spoke, his voice sounded faint and far away.

“And—and—my—money?” he gasped, with pauses between each word.

John Surtees looked down into the fire and gave his head a little shake.

“Is it all gone?” said the old man in a kind of breathless voice.

There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the cries of the paper boys in the street. Then the stockbroker turned round.

“I am exceedingly sorry to have to tell you,” he said, speaking rather hurriedly. “It is all gone, and there is no help for it. No one—nothing could have saved it; the panic was too sudden and too violent. If I could have done anything, I would; but it was hopeless. It is hard—very hard—not only on you, but on lots of other people too. Not that that's much consolation to you!”

The Professor sat perfectly still, as if turned to stone, gazing straight into the fire, but seeing nothing. He was so still and silent that Mr. Surtees began to feel alarmed as to the possible results of the shock. He moved a step forward and gently laid his hand on the old man's shoulder.

“Look here, Professor,” he said kindly, “don't take it so much to heart; your friends will be sure to look after you. If I can be of any service to you in the way of a little loan for present use—no hurry as to repayment, you know, just as between friends—I shall be most happy, most happy.”

The poor Professor drew a long breath and looked up into his face with a vacant, unseeing expression in his eyes as of one struck blind.

“Friends!” he said slowly and brokenly. “My friends are long dead. I have no one left.”

He attempted to rise, but the stockbroker pressed him down again.

“Don't hurry away,” he said. “Stop here and rest a bit. You won't be in my way. I'm going to give you a small brandy and soda—capital thing for you just now.”

He went across the room to get it out of a cupboard near the window and was taking the stopper out of the little brandy decanter when the sound of the Professor's voice arrested him. He had risen from the big arm-chair and stood in the middle of the room, leaning heavily on his stick.

“I cannot take it,” he said, more firmly than he had yet spoken. “I cannot take it! It is years since I tasted wine or spirits, and my head is not clear enough. I must go home to rest and think—if I can.”

He moved towards the door, and the stockbroker saw it was useless to try to detain him. However, he made one more little effort.

“You'll let me advance you five pounds for the present, at any rate,” he said, “just as a matter of convenience, you know, till we can think what can be done for you.”

The old man shook his head.

“I thank you for your kindly thought,” he said; “but I do not at present see how I am to raise money to repay you. I have always kept out of debt, and I am too old to work.”

“Oh, never mind, never mind! Don't trouble yourself about that,” began the other, but a look of such determination came back to the old man's face that he thought it unwise to press the matter further, and continued, “Well, we'll speak of that some other time. You'll always find me here and glad to see you. Can you manage to get home all right? Shall one of my clerks go with you?”

But the Professor strenuously refused all offers of help, so Mr. Surtees had to be contented with seeing his aged client downstairs himself. And he stood for a moment watching his feeble progress down the narrow court that led into busy Broad Street.

“Poor old chap!” he said to himself. “No wonder he is hard hit if that was his whole living. I wonder why he always would keep it in those South American stocks?” And he returned to his own room, feeling dissatisfied with everything in general and the money market in particular.

Professor Crowitzski got back to his little room in Green Street rather before one. He sat down in his old chair near the fireplace, leaned back, and closed his eyes with a sense of weariness and despair that made him half wish the end might come then and there. He was utterly crushed by the weight of his misfortune, and he felt quite unable to think of any means by which he might be able to live out the small remnant of his life outside the workhouse.

He had not taken off his old Inverness cloak, and as he put his hands into the deep pockets to try to get them a little warm he felt a folded sheet of paper. He drew it out mechanically and looked at it absently; it was the programme for the next Monday's concert.

Instantly his whole mental attitude changed. Music, the ruling passion and great love of his whole life, asserted itself once more. Cold, hunger, the need of money, the workhouse, and starvation, all faded from his mind, and he was in the world of glorious sound.

What a fine programme! Quartett, Beethoven in E minor, Op. 59. Ah, what a beauty that was, with the glorious Adagio that no one could play like Joachim. Ballade in F, Chopin: he glanced at his piano and smiled. Who had ever written for the piano as an instrument like Chopin? Songs by Schubert, divinest of song writers, and—last and best, the Clarinet Quintett of Brahms. That would be a feast. His eyes shone as he went to his pile of music and fished out a little well-worn volume of Beethoven's Quartetts and a book of Schubert's songs. Then he went back to his chair to enjoy himself for the afternoon, quite oblivious of the fact that he had had no dinner. But the strain of the{255} morning had been too great, combined with the want of proper food: the sight and mental sound of the music soothed him, though he could not long respond to its stimulus. Little by little his head drooped, and he sank into a gentle sleep.

When he woke it was dusk and he bethought himself of some tea. The old music spell was still on him, but he remembered with a shiver the events of the morning. He realised that he must see how much money he really possessed, and calculate how long it would last; but he made up his mind, should it be much or little, one shilling of it must be saved for that concert.

He found he had ten shillings and a few coppers, five shillings being due to his landlady for rent and sundries, and with the rest he would have to live till Monday. He remembered that he should see Herbert Maxwell then or on Tuesday, and he might be able to help him to something.

On the Monday he was at St. James's Hall at seven o'clock, but it took him much longer than usual to climb the gallery stairs. He had to stop to get his breath several times on the way up, and when he reached his seat he could only sink down into it, close his eyes and remain in a state of half stupor till the music began. He had not even the energy to look round for Herbert, who, however, did not come.

The first notes of the Quartett roused him to his general state of keen, nervous, interest; indeed it seemed to him that his musical perceptions were more sensitive than usual, and he felt as if he were some fine instrument that was being played on, that throbbed and vibrated in response to every chord sounded by the players on the platform.

The performance of the Brahms Quintett was a magnificent one, led by that great German clarinet player Mühlfeld, who comes to England too seldom; and at its close the players received an ovation in which the Professor joined with all his old fire and energy: he felt quite strong and himself again.

It was not until he got out of his omnibus that he realised his weakness. It was a bitter night, with a strong north-east wind blowing, bringing with it blinding showers of sleet and hail, though the moon shone brightly between the storms. A furious gust almost blew the frail old man off his feet as he alighted, and the icy air made him gasp painfully for breath, and pierced through his worn clothing to his bones as he crawled slowly to the door of No. 9.

He dragged himself wearily up to his room; his body felt numbed and sluggish, but his brain was still vibrating with the music he had just heard. He threw his hat and stick on the bed and sank down into the little chair beside it: he must rest a little before undressing; no need to light the lamp, the moon would break through directly—she always shone into his room.

Ah, that Brahms Quintett! What a heavenly thing it was. He could hear it still; how haunting the Adagio with its mournful, pleading melody, and then that wild fantasia for the clarinet—why—surely they are playing it in the room beneath. Yes, there can be no mistaking the tone of the clarinet, no one but Mühlfeld can play like that. Louder and louder grows the passionate strain, like some agonised cry, with the dull wailing of the muted strings beneath it. The sound fills the whole house—louder and still louder.

“Yes, sir, the Perfesser is at 'ome, sir, though I don't rightly know if 'e's got up yet,” said a plump, kindly-faced woman in answer to Herbert Maxwell's question the next morning. “My daughter took 'is milk up at nine o'clock and he wasn't movin' then. Will you walk up, sir? Top floor on the right 'and.”

Herbert went gaily upstairs. He felt in exuberant spirits. Things had gone well with him beyond his wildest dreams. His career was pretty well assured. The great singing master had undertaken to make himself responsible for his Academy fees, to find him means of earning money during his years of study and to help him in every possible way. Professor Crowitzski's five pounds had not been needed, and Herbert had it with him to return to the old man.

He knocked softly at the door without receiving any answer, so he knocked again a little louder, and yet again; but all was still.

“He must sleep soundly,” thought Herbert, “or——”

A sudden cold fear shot through him, and he opened the door and looked in.

The Professor was dressed in his ordinary clothes and Inverness, and sitting on the low wooden chair at the head of his bed, which had not been slept in. His right arm was flung across the pillow, his head rested on his arm, his left hand lay on his knee.

At the first glance Herbert thought he was asleep, but the stillness of the figure and the marble whiteness of the face filled him with an awful dread. He went swiftly across the room and gently touched his old friend's hand, only to find the dread was a reality: he was too late.

[THE END.]

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VI. No addresses of firms, tradesmen, or any other matter of the nature of an advertisement, will be inserted.

MEDICAL.

Eileen.—Your troubles maybe due to any number of causes. The great number of symptoms having but little connection with each other, which you describe, strongly suggest that a large part, if not the whole, of your trouble is due to nervousness. There is a disease which, from the number and complexity of its symptoms, is called the protean disease, or, in common parlance, hysteria. This affection varies from the slightest forms of nervousness to absolute mental and physical perversion. It is in the slighter grades of this affection that you will find your own malady. Whether there is anything else besides this the matter with you is impossible for us to tell. It has been our experience that cocoa is quite as indigestible as tea or coffee, though it produces a form of indigestion differing considerably from that produced by tea. Drink nothing but warm milk, and take a liberal diet of easily-digestible food.

Priscilla.—Trichinosis is a very rare disease produced by eating underdone pork. One of the tapeworms (Tænia solium) is far more commonly obtained from the same cause. Both diseases are uncommon in England, for the English eat little pork, and always cook it well first. There is no danger of either disease from eating well-done pork. Where pork is eaten raw—as it is in some hams and sausages—the danger of tapeworms and trichinosis is very considerable; but it must always be remembered that sound meat cannot produce either disease.

Indigestion.—You are on the right track to treat indigestion, but you have made one or two errors. You should not drink “plenty of water.” The less water you drink the sooner you will be well again. You must not take anything to digest your meals for you. Of course you are referring to pepsin, etc. These may be taken by dyspeptics only when they are incurable or gradually starving to death. Dyspeptics are rendered worse by their use in the long run. You must relieve your constipation. A teaspoonful of liquorice powder will do this very well. Six miles daily is quite sufficient exercise.

Anxious.—If you suffer from flatulence you must attend very carefully to your digestion and guard against constipation. The pain of wind may often be relieved by taking half a teaspoonful of spirit of ginger or compound tincture of cardamom in a little water.

In Need of Advice.—Nothing save the surgeon's knife will remove moles from the face without great danger. The operation for removing moles is practically free from danger; but it is not always advisable. The best way to remove the hair which grows upon moles is to shave it off or bleach it with peroxide of hydrogen. Electrolysis is sometimes used to destroy hairs on moles, but it is infinitely inferior to, and more dangerous than, excision of the whole mole. Moles very rarely grow quickly; indeed, usually they grow less rapidly than does their bearer. If you have a mole which suddenly begins to grow rapidly, go to a surgeon at once, for in all probability it has altered its character and become a serious disease.

Brunette.—Dandruff and falling hair are usually present together, for the former is one of the commonest causes of the latter. Wash your head once a week in warm water and borax (one teaspoonful of borax to a pint of water). Wash the scalp particularly well, and thoroughly dry both the scalp and the hair afterwards. When the hair is quite dry, rub a very little sulphur ointment into the scalp. It is no good applying this to the hair itself. It is the scalp and hair-roots which need the ointment. Use a hair-wash of cantharides and rosemary.

Iris.—1. If you use peroxide of hydrogen to bleach your hands, do not put it in the water you wash in. Get from your chemist “hydrogen peroxide 10 vols.” Dilute this with three parts of water, and dip your hands in the solution once a day. This can do you no harm. Whether it will do what you want it to do is another question. Sometimes it serves its purpose; usually it fails.—2. Orris-root is the root of the iris, and not of the violet as is so commonly thought.

M. O.—You suffer from the double complaint of indigestion and feeble circulation. You must be very careful what you eat, avoid excess of starchy foods, sugar, alcohol, tea, coffee, and cocoa. But take a good nourishing diet. The pills will do you good; but you must be very careful to guard against constipation. Take a fair amount of exercise. Take a small dose of bicarbonate of soda when you are troubled with fulness after meals.

An Old Reader.—We think it quite improbable that your brother will derive any benefit from smoking. In fact, we think that it will simply make him worse.

Emily.—It is very difficult for us to advise you what to do, for the information that you give us is too scanty to enable us to form a just idea of your condition. You should have told us your age, and occupation, and habits of life, for it is necessary to know these before treating any complaint. The stiffness in your arms may be due to rheumatism or it may not. You might try gentle massage and friction with camphor or soap liniment over the joints of your arms. For your other troubles we cannot help you without information as to what they are and how they originated.

Gladys.—The chief causes of somnolence are overwork, insufficient sleep, underfeeding, overfeeding, indigestion, anæmia and other forms of physical weakness; and lastly hysteria and nervous exhaustion. From which of these are you suffering? Seven and a half hours' sleep daily is sufficient; but, if you could, we advise you to give yourself another hour. Do you eat properly? Do you eat sufficient, or do you eat inordinately? Do you have indigestion or fulness after meals? All these make you feel sleepy. Are you in any way unwell? Do you feel the cold severely, or have any symptom which would suggest that your circulation was not what it should be? Are you at all nervous, or do you belong to a nervous family? This last more commonly causes wakefulness than sleepiness. Lastly, are you worse in the morning or the evening? If you are all right in the morning, but tire and get sleepy as the day wears on, then we must look for a physical cause of your trouble. If you are worse in the morning than you are later in the day, then the cause is probably nervous. To cure yourself of your trouble you must find out and remove the cause. Take an extra hour's sleep if you can manage it. Look carefully to your digestion; many forms of dyspepsia give rise to scarcely any symptoms except sleepiness.

Alice.—Read the advice we gave to “Anxious.” You must be very careful about your digestion, and take the minimum amount of fluid that you can. Let your diet be as solid but as digestible as possible.

Sufferer.—You had far better see a physician, for you may be seriously ill, and it is quite beyond our power to help you. As regards hot-bottles, they should never be filled with boiling water, and should always be provided with jackets or wrapped in flannel. You are not the only person whose legs have been burnt through ignorance of the proper use of hot-bottles.

{256}

STUDY AND STUDIO.

Country Lass.—By far your best course would be to enter some small ladies' school, where you would associate with well-educated women. We do not think the scheme you mention would be very feasible. It is difficult for us to mention any one school; the fees (unless under special arrangements) would vary from £50 to £100 a year. Would you like to go on the Continent? If so, we should advise Lausanne. Perhaps you can give us a few more particulars.

Iris.—1. You might procure Creighton's First History of France, published at 3s. 6d., or Smith's Student's History, published at 7s. 6d. There is a book by Charlotte Yonge—Aunt Charlotte's Stories from French History—but we do not know it.—2. A thunderbolt, in the sense of a metallic substance, or bolt, hurled through the air by a thunderstorm, does not exist. The term is properly applied to the stream of electrical fluid passing from the clouds to the earth. Aërolites, or meteoric stones, have no connection with thunderstorms. Two questions are our limit.

Emerald.—We are sorry we cannot tell you of a good grammar of the Irish language. Perhaps some correspondent, noting your wish to obtain one, may help you.

Pateeth.—1. Write to the publishers of any of Jerome K. Jerome's works, and inquire for the recitation in question.—2. We do not know of any way of disposing of silver paper. Inquire at a confectioner's.

Dorothy will find the poem “Nothing to Wear” in Alfred Mile's American Reciter, price 6d.

“The Eldest Girl.”—Certainly we do not object to our girl-readers “writing about the articles and stories in the paper, saying what they like and dislike in them,” so long as the letters are as pleasant and courteous as your own.

Felicia.—Your quotation—

“The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree,”

is from Alexander's Feast, by Dryden.

Arithmetician.—Many thanks for your solution of the problem in our August number.

Amateur Society.—We have received a notice of “The Budget” Manuscript Magazine Club; subjects optional; good criticism; two prizes yearly. Address, Miss Louise M. Larner, 22, Ladbroke Road, Notting Hill, W.

Zingara.—1. We do not recommend books on fortune-telling by cards.—2. We have observed in one or two of the larger weekly illustrated ladies' papers that character is described in the correspondence column from handwriting. A glance through these papers at any public library will inform you where to apply.

Bessie Matthews.—Your letter is beautifully written, and the white ink on the blue paper is very pretty, if a little too dazzling for ordinary use. We thank you for your information, which we repeat elsewhere.

Cissie (Southend).—You do not give us your Christian name, which we require for International Correspondence. “R.” is not enough.

Phœbe Wilson.—There is a picture in the National Gallery, we believe, of the first title you mention, but it is quite impossible for us to tell you either the painter or the value of your pictures by the names alone. You should let a local picture-dealer see them in the first instance, and if they are thought to be of value, you might send photographs or a rough sketch of them to “Christie, Manson & Woods,” or “Agnew's,” New Bond Street, London, asking for information.

Mercia.—We do not consider you at all too old to begin to study at a school of art. With perseverance and diligence you will doubtless make rapid progress. These are the great requisites; a very youthful age is a secondary consideration.

E. W. H.—The teacher who trains your voice will tell you whether it is a contralto, mezzo, or soprano. We should consider that F or G was about the lowest note for a contralto; but it is for the master who teaches you to judge of the compass of your voice, not for you to inform him of its range.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

Miss Dorothea Knight, Keswick Old Hall, Norwich, wishes us to say that if any reader of The Girl's Own Paper who collects postage stamps cares to send her some duplicates, she will send some in exchange by return of post.

Briar Rose informs “Last Hymn” that the recitation of that name is in one of Buchanan's “Penny Pathetic Readings,” and is also published under another title—“The Haven”—in the Victorian Reciter, edited by Bernard Batigan, of Hull, price 1s.

Bessie Matthews, 3, High Street, Cheltenham, offers to send “Last Hymn” a copy of the poem on application, and informs Saxifraga that “The False Light of Rosilly” is in the Prize Reciter for May, 1897, to be obtained from the office of Great Thoughts. It is also contained in Childe Pemberton's Poems, published by Messrs. Ward, Lock & Co. We commend this information to Briar Rose.

GIRLS' EMPLOYMENTS.

Margaret Marshfield (Civil Service).—Please read our reply to “Wood Violet” last week. The examination fee is only a shilling, so there is no obstacle in that part of the matter. But there are other difficulties. You could only now offer yourself for appointment as a female sorting clerk, or telegraph learner in the provinces; and to do this you must obtain a nomination from a local postmaster to be sent to the Postmaster-General. You have then to pass the examination. You ask what we think of your writing and composition. The writing is very neat and clear, but composition is a trifle shaky. To say “mother's helps (our only other resource) seems to be so overstocked” is not first-rate English, though we understand what is meant. But why should your only other resource be to become a mother's help? Can it be because you think it would be derogatory to you to fill one of the more recognised positions in household service? If so, we would persuade you to reflect on the superior advantages enjoyed by a children's nurse, a cook and a parlourmaid. All these persons, as soon as they have obtained a fair amount of experience, can command good wages and an ample choice of situations. No doubt there is some little trouble in obtaining a first place; nevertheless, many ladies are willing to teach an active, hardworking woman, if the latter, on her side, will accept a small amount of payment during the period of apprenticeship. It really seems to us best that you should turn your thoughts towards domestic service; though, if you could afford to spend a little time and money, we should also have recommended you to learn laundry-work.

Azalea (Teaching in France or Germany).—It is almost impossible for an English teacher to obtain employment in France; but in Germany there is less difficulty, provided that the teacher has high qualifications. We recommend you to apply to the Foreign Registry of the Girls' Friendly Society, 10, Holbein Place, Sloane Square, S.W.; Miss Nash, Superintendent of the Home for British and American Governesses, 22, Kleinheerenstrasse, Berlin, might also be able to advise you, but you ought to furnish the fullest account of your general education and professional training.

Sincerity (Rural Nursing).—If you could go to a large London hospital training-school and remain there a year, so as to qualify you to become a Jubilee District Nurse, you would, from a professional point of view, be doing the best for yourself; but we think the work of cottage nurse on the Holt-Ockley system would probably be quite as congenial to you, and the likelihood of your obtaining an engagement would be greater. You should apply for further particulars to the Hon. Secretary, Mrs. Lee Steere, The Cottage, Ockley.

Freda (Evening Employment).—Such work, especially if it is only addressing envelopes, is peculiarly hard to obtain. You might consult the Secretary for Promoting the Employment of Women, 22, Berners Street, W., but we fear she will only be able to say the same.

Anxious to know (Missionary Work).—You had better make known your wish to become a missionary to the Women's Mission Association, 19, Delahay Street, Westminster, S.W., or to the Society for Promoting Female Education in the East, 267, Vauxhall Bridge Road. You would probably be required to undergo a course of preparation. Missionaries are supported by the societies which employ them, but only of course in a simple manner.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Inquisitive.—You should read Charles Kingsley's Heroes. That would give you all information about the heathen mythology, or system of myths, and ancient hallucinations respecting their false gods. Apollo was the reputed son of Jupiter and Latona, also called Phœbus, supposed to be the god of the fine arts and originator of poetry, music, and elocution. Besides the names already given, he was called Delius, Cynthius, Pæan, and Delphicus. He is represented as a handsome young man, with an almost feminine face, and beardless, holding a bow from which an arrow has been discharged. This refers to the fable that the Serpent Python had been destroyed by his arrows. Evil foreboded is represented by the “Sword of Damocles,” who was set down to a splendid banquet by the tyrant Dionysius (the elder), a sword being suspended over his head by a hair or thread. Thus the miserable courtier dared not to stir lest the slightest draught or vibration should bring it down upon his head.

Anxious Maria.—Because you may be full of faults, and weak in times of temptation, feeble in faith and too lukewarm in love and zeal, you would not be thereby justified in adding a fresh act of disobedience by drawing back from the Lord's Table and neglecting to obey one of His last commands. If you were to wait till really worthy in reference to sanctification, you would “draw back to perdition,” it is to be feared. Remember that, however faulty you may justly feel yourself to be, you can go to your divine Redeemer, “washed, sanctified, and justified” in His Name.

“All the fitness he requireth
Is to feel your need of Him,”

and with that feeling to pray for His grace, and to “strive to enter in by the straight gate.” A battle has to be fought. Do not forget that.

Carnation inquires, “Are tomatoes healthy?” We fancy but very few of them are diseased. Those that lie long on the ground during wet weather do not remain so long. That, as an article of food, they conduce to our health is absolutely proved. Few vegetables are more wholesome. Ladies do not rise, if seated, when men address them.

Dot.—You should say, “It is I” (not “me”). The former is used in the nominative case, and the latter the accusative. But you should not say, “between you and I,” but “between you and me.” If you wish to speak correctly, be careful how you employ adjectives. You misapply the word “beautiful” when you say “beautiful butter,” or jam, or fat; but you may use it very correctly as regards a landscape, a flower, a rainbow, or any work of art. Also the word “delicious” is often unsuitably employed, such as when applied to a joint of meat, or a book. To apply it to fruit would be more suitable. The words which should often be employed as a substitute for “delicious” are “excellent,” “nice,” or “good.” The word “beautiful” is correctly used with reference to form, and colouring, and combinations of the latter. Another very commonly misused word is “expect,” “I expect she is,” etc. The word “expect” has reference to the future, and the speaker's anticipations in connection with it; “she is,” denotes the present and already existing condition, and the two cannot be used together. This misapplication of the term has come from over the Atlantic. You will find much to assist you as to right and wrong employment of words in that useful book Enquire Within. See pages 163-174.

Ignoramus.—All invitations are given by the mistress of the house, though she should include her husband's name in giving them; and all replies should be directed to her, although, inside, you thank for their united invitation. The house is the woman's domain, and she “guides” it.

Joan.—The beneficial influence, or the reverse, of allowing ivy to grow over the walls of a house has been a question of difference of opinion. Formerly it was condemned as harbouring moisture, and liable to injure the health of the occupants. Now it is said that the overlapping leaves preserve the walls from the rain, and they are found to be quite dry beneath them. It is also said that it renders a house cool in summer, and warm in winter. But there is a drawback, and that is that it brings insects of all kinds into the rooms—spiders, flies, earwigs, and woodlice. Whatever you may prefer to do in reference to its growth on your house, it is an unmitigated evil on trees, and it should always be sawn through, and then rooted up.

Mora.—Much depends on the species of palm, as to the watering they require. Also, they must not be exposed to a draught. Perhaps yours is not one that would grow tall under any circumstances. As we know nothing about it (for you give no particulars), we cannot help you.

Brownie.—We cannot do better than refer you to the articles on the care of the hands by “Medicus.” See vol. xiii., page 358. Doubtless you have been out without gloves, and the sun has tanned them. The very narrow rim of insensible skin that surrounds the nail preserves the true skin from being torn and made sore at its termination at the quick. Of course it will not bear rough usage, for if cut or cracked, the tender skin behind it, which it is designed to protect, will naturally become sore. Wear gloves until quite healed.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Oriental Proverb.—“Hold out your skirts when heaven is raining gold.”

[2] The word, used thus, means simply “mansion.”

[3] “Bitche, of which place I had received such accounts, as left scarce a doubt of death being preferable.” Quoted from Major-General Lord Blayney, Prisoner of War at Verdun, from 1810-1814.

[4] The Commandant of Verdun had power, as he willed, to transfer détenus and prisoners of war from one dépôt to another.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 994, January 14, 1899

THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

“WHEN HEAVEN IS RAINING GOLD.”[1]

“OUR HERO.”

CHAPTER XVI.

FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.

PART III.

BEAUTY IN WOMAN: FROM A MAN'S POINT OF VIEW.

Beauty likes to be Admired.

Every Woman has a Mission.

Beauty's Mission.

Growing Old Gracefully.

Should Art aid Beauty?

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART IV.

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,
VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE DAYS.

PART IV.

VARIETIES.

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

CHAPTER XV.

THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.

CHAPTER IV.

THE RULING PASSION.

CHAPTER II.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

RULES.

MEDICAL.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

GIRLS' EMPLOYMENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 994, January 14, 1899

THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

CHAPTER XVI.

PART III.

Beauty likes to be Admired.

Every Woman has a Mission.

Beauty's Mission.

Growing Old Gracefully.

Should Art aid Beauty?

PART IV.

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES; OR, VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE DAYS.

PART IV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER II.

RULES.

MEDICAL.

STUDY AND STUDIO.

OUR OPEN LETTER BOX.

GIRLS' EMPLOYMENTS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;
OR,
VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE DAYS.