{305}

THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

LINNÆA.
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.
SOCIAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN EAST END GIRL.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
ABSENCE.
THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.
VARIETIES.
OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES.
“OUR HERO.”
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

LINNÆA;

THE STORY OF A
FRIENDSHIP.

“‘I DESPISE YOU!’”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER III.

Linnæa’s first waking thoughts
carried with them the conviction that
life was different—why was it? Ah,
she remembered! Last night’s scene
came back to her with a rush of
feeling that brought the warm colour
to her face. Then came the colder
and more prosaic feelings which so
often come with the morning. Gwendoline
would soon be like the others—she
would go over to the popular
opinion, and Linnæa would be thrust
upon her own companionship as before.
These thoughts were passing
through her mind when she heard a
tap at the door, and a voice called,
“May I come in?”

Linnæa opened the door, and
there stood Gwendoline, her arms
full of knick-knacks of all sorts.

“You are only dressing! I have
been dressed for an hour. I awoke
early and thought I would rise and
deck my cubicle; but I haven’t room
for half the things I brought. As
you haven’t many things in yours, I
thought perhaps you might like a
few. Would you care for them?”

“Very much indeed! It was very
kind of you to think of me!”

“Oh, not at all, if you will let me
help you to put them up, for that is
the best fun! Here is rather a
pretty picture we might hang opposite
the bed. It has no frame,
but I suppose you won’t mind.
This is a bracket which you might
find convenient within reach of your
bed; I brought a pair, but will only
need one. I did wish I had had it
up last night. I lay awake a long
time during the night, and rose to
get my bon-bon box. First of all I
could find no matches to light my
candle, then I searched my trunk in
the dark for my box. I only found
it after sticking my fingers in a box
of ointment and nearly swallowing
some pills. This morning, as you{306}
may imagine, my trunk was a sight to behold.
The ointment has spoiled a pair of new gloves,
and I found a pill reposing restfully in the
toe of my slipper. Lisette, my maid, never
forgets to pack anything; but she puts things
in the most unlikely places. I possess two
bon-bon boxes—one she has filled with sweets,
the other with pills.”

Linnæa scarcely knew her cubicle when
Gwendoline’s things were arranged in it. She
could not have believed that a few knick-knacks
would make such a difference.

“Now there is one thing more I want you to
let me do.”

“What is that?”

“Let me dress your hair for you. Why do
you take it back so tightly from your face?
It is such a pretty colour, and, I believe,
might be quite wavy if you would allow it.”

“I never thought of it. It never seemed to
me that it mattered how my hair looked.”

“Oh, but that isn’t right; you should
make it as nice as you can. Lisette says I
have a talent for hairdressing; I have dressed
mine myself for more than a year, for Lisette
confesses she cannot do it so well as I can.
Come now, and we shall see what can be
done with yours.”

There was indeed a wonderful improvement
in Linnæa when she went downstairs that
morning; all the girls noticed it, and a few
complimented her on the improvement of her
hair. A few of them guessed who had done
it, and understood that Gwendoline was
proceeding with the work she had taken in
hand, but no remarks were passed on that
subject; for had not that been forbidden by
Gwendoline?—and already Gwendoline’s will
was law in that small community.

That night Gwendoline and Linnæa again
walked up to bed together and parted at
Linnæa’s door. Linnæa’s heart beat quickly
as they neared her door. Would Gwendoline
kiss her to-night? If so, the kiss should be
returned. She would at least make an effort
to keep this sweet friendship which had
entered into her barren life so suddenly.

“Let me come in for a minute,” said
Gwendoline. “We are to be friends, are we
not?” she said, slipping her arm round
Linnæa’s waist, and looking at her with her
large, lustrous eyes.

“I hope so, indeed,” Linnæa answered,
her voice husky with emotion.

“Very well, dear. Good night.”

She was gone, and Linnæa had kissed her—the
first schoolgirl she had ever kissed.

What a happy girl she was that night.
There was no doubt about it now; she had
a friend at last—and such a friend—the
loveliest, richest, most courted girl in the
school.

At the end of a week it was quite a noticeable
friendship. Teachers saw it and remarked
to each other on this strange freak of
the new pupil in attaching herself to the girl
who had kept herself so solitary hitherto.
This view of it was wonderful, but equally so
was it that Linnæa should return the affection;
and that she did so in thorough earnest, no
one could doubt. Her usually dull face
lighted up when her eyes fell on Gwendoline—but
indeed, her face was never so dull now,
as it had once been; her very step was more
elastic, and her voice had a different tone.

And what of Gwendoline?

She had fulfilled her vow, and awakened
the love which had hitherto been slumbering
in that lonely heart.

The girls said inwardly it was a splendid
piece of acting; anyone watching Gwendoline
would have said the love was as much on her
side as Linnæa’s. Her attitude towards
Linnæa was such that, if the girls had not
known it to be assumed, some of them would
have been intensely jealous. Gwendoline
Rivers, with her beauty and independence of
character, had taken the school by storm, and
a few would have given a good deal to have
got half of the attention lavished upon Linnæa.
Great were the talks which took place with
reference to it, when they thought themselves
fairly out of the hearing of both girls.

One evening six or seven were together in
the small schoolroom after preparation hours
were over, and their conversation turned upon
this ever-interesting topic.

“I never saw anything like it in my life.
Linnæa March simply worships her.”

“It is most amusing to see Gwendoline
single her out whenever she comes into the
room; you would really think, to watch her,
it must be real and not put on.”

“Well, for my part, I think it is a very
mean proceeding to pretend to be so fond of
the girl, all to show what she can do; and
very probably when she has led her far enough
she will cast her off!”

“Oh, she may never find out that it isn’t
genuine! Do you think she would mind very
much if she did? We all thought she had no
feelings of that kind. I wonder if we have
been mistaken?”

“I am beginning to think——”

At this moment the schoolroom door
opened and Linnæa March entered. But was
it Linnæa? She had never looked like this
before. She was transformed from the dull,
uninteresting girl, who had lived amongst them
for seven years—unknowing and unknown—to
a trembling, excited, and passionate being,
almost terrible in her rage and indignation.

Before she spoke she seemed to force back
the tumult of angry words that rushed to her
lips. She paused a moment in the doorway,
and then said, in a voice, calm though
piercing—

“Girls, I have heard what you said. It
may have been mean of me, but I heard what
Janet said about—Gwendoline—pretending to
love me—and—I could not help it—I listened
until now.”

The girls were dumb. What could they
say to this injured and justly indignant girl?
They could not retract what they had said;
alas, it was all too true! One and all pitied
her; and yet, pity was scarcely the word—they
almost feared her. Yes—feared Linnæa
March, whom before they had scarcely noticed.
But, as she stood there in her anger, she might
have struck them, and they would not have
been surprised. She stood for a moment,
then turned and shut the door.

Not a word was spoken until the sound of
her footsteps had died away. Then they
faced the situation.

Would it come to Miss Elder’s ears?
What would Gwendoline say? If Linnæa’s
anger were so terrible when roused, what
would Gwendoline’s be, who had seldom, or
never, been crossed in her life? What would
Linnæa say or do when she met Gwendoline?

These were some of the questions that
presented themselves to the girls’ minds.
They did not know whether they wanted to
witness the meeting or not.

“I don’t care,” said one, “it serves her
right, she had no business doing such a mean
thing, and it was right she should be found
out. She would not have kept it up much
longer in any case, she would soon have tired
of paying her such attention after she had
gained her object.”

“But she will blame us for it—she will say
we ought to have been more careful how we
talked about it.”

“Ought we to tell Gwendoline what she
has heard, do you think?”

“I think it would be better.”

“She will very likely be down soon. She
is studying hard to-night; she seems determined
to come out high in the exam. I
shouldn’t wonder if she beats even you,
Edith.”

“Do you notice how much better Linnæa
March learns her lessons since Gwendoline
came?”

“Yes. Gwendoline helped her with them,
and she takes ever so much more interest in
them now.”

“All in the plan, I suppose—really I am
very sorry for Linnæa.”

“Did you think she could ever have looked
as she did to-night? I always thought her
rather soft and stupid, but I can tell you there
was no softness about her then. I almost
admired her as she stood, so proud and
angry.”

The girls were not to have an opportunity
of preparing Gwendoline for her meeting
with Linnæa, for, as Linnæa went up to her
room, she met Gwendoline coming down from
hers.

Gwendoline’s face lit up as she saw Linnæa,
and she advanced towards her to put her arm
round her waist.

Linnæa drew herself back with a sudden
twitch, and turned on her with a face almost
livid with anger.

“Go!—don’t touch me!—don’t dare to
come near me!”

“Linnæa! what is it?”

“I have found you out! Do you need to
ask any more? I know the reason of all your
pretence of affection and friendship. Oh, it
was mean! mean!”

“But Linnæa——”

“No, I will hear no excuses; let me go.
Perhaps to-morrow I may be able to look on
you with a little less hatred. The others have
been kind to me compared to you; they, at
least, let me alone; you have drawn me on
with your false pretences, all to show your
dangerous powers of fascination. I despise
you! O that I might never see you again!”

Gwendoline walked away in the direction of
the small schoolroom, her head bowed. She
entered the room, and, sitting down near the
door, began to read a book she had in her
hand.

The girls noticed at once that something
was wrong. Her face was white and drawn
and she did not, as usual, make some bright
remark on entering the room; but they did
not guess that she had already met Linnæa.

“Have you a headache, Gwen?” said
Edith Barclay.

“Yes, I have a headache; and I want you
to tell Miss Elder I have gone to bed, as I
mean to go in a minute or two.”

“You are studying too hard,” said another,
“you won’t keep your position as beauty of
the school, if you carry on in this style. I
declare you look quite ill!”

“I think we ought to tell you something,
Gwendoline,” Janet Hillyards said, summoning
up courage to confess the havoc they
had just played.

“What is it?” asked Gwendoline, with
a vague idea of the confession about to be
made.

“We were talking—talking about the joke
you were playing upon Linnæa—and—and she
overheard us.”

“I know. I met her just now.”

Gwendoline kept her head down, and continued
to look at the book in her hand; but
the words had no meaning for her, if, indeed,
she saw them at all.

The girls were speechless. Where was the
anger and the indignation they had expected
to meet with when the knowledge of their
carelessness came to Gwendoline’s ears?
Was this white, subdued, quiet-looking girl
the proud and haughty Gwendoline, whose
wrath they had been afraid to encounter?
Surely they were dreaming, and had reversed
the two—Gwendoline for Linnæa, and Linnæa
for Gwendoline; there must be some mistake.
They heard the timepiece mark the seconds as
they passed, and not one could break the{307}
silence. Tick—tick—tick—tick—someone
must speak. Each one looked at another;
who was it to be?

Gwendoline rose. “Will you do as I asked,
and tell Miss Elder? I am going up now.”
The spell was broken, and Janet Hillyards
found her voice.

“Will you forgive me, Gwen? It was my
fault—I began it. I never thought of her
being near.”

Surely Gwendoline would speak to them
now; she could not mean to cut them all for this
mistake they had made. Surely their friendship
was of more value to her than Linnæa
March’s. They would much rather she would
scold them roundly, and be done with it.

“There is no question of my forgiving you.
The fault was mine, and I must suffer for it.
I blame no one but myself.”

She was gone, and the girls were free to
talk it over—this strange and unexpected
development of affairs. To say they were
astonished would be to put the case very
mildly. They were perfectly thunderstruck.
It had been food for surprise that Linnæa
should betray a capacity for wounded pride
and anger they had not dreamed her capable
of, but that the quick-tempered Gwendoline
should receive fiery and contemptuous words
from Linnæa—for of this they had little doubt—and
also the information of their neglect
of her command, with such meekness and
evident sorrow and regret, was beyond their
comprehension.

If it were regret for the feelings she had
stirred and not returned, why did she do it
at all? She had done it with her eyes open—had
only attained the object she had
desired; the only thing for her to regret
seemed to them to be that her designs should
have been made known to Linnæa: and she
had as much as said it was not this that
troubled her. Altogether it was too deep for
them, and they gave it up. And the two girls
who had caused this unusual excitement, what
of them? Linnæa lay on her bed in a
passion of tears. Rage, wounded pride, love,
and hate, all strove for the mastery. What
had she done, she moaned, that everyone
should be against her? Was it not enough
that she should be naturally unattractive, but
this cruel siren must go out of her way to
find a refined system of torture for her?
How was she to live in the school with this
girl she had loved, and who had so basely
deceived her?

And Gwendoline?

She sat on a chair by her bed, her head
laid on the pillow, hot tears chasing one
another down her cheeks.

“Oh, Linnæa, Linnæa,” she moaned, “if
you only knew how I love you; but you will
never know now, you would never believe me,
and I don’t deserve you should! Would she
believe if someone were to tell her? No—why
should she? She would think it some
trumped-up story told to keep her quiet.”

She could see no way to undo the evil she
had wrought. Linnæa could never trust her
now, would have no more to do with her.

The facts of the case were these. Gwendoline
had tried to attract Linnæa, as we all
know, at first to fulfil her vow. From the
second day she had felt drawn to her for
her own sake. Linnæa was totally different
with Gwendoline from what she was with
anyone else. She seemed to get out of herself,
and to forget the reserve and awkwardness
which characterised her when with others.
The girls did not even see this, for the
presence of a third person was enough to
stifle any show of demonstrativeness on the
part of Linnæa. If they had seen it they
would not have wondered so much, for Linnæa
with Gwendoline was attractive and lovable.

Thus insensibly Gwendoline had come to
love Linnæa with as great ardour as she was
loved in return. We need not then be
astonished at her feelings now. Gwendoline’s
character was a strong one, but—surrounded
by luxury all her life, with scarcely
a wish ungratified—there had been little as
yet to develop it. She had never cared very
greatly for any of her companions; a great
many had taken a violent fancy to her, and
she had come to regard it as a matter of
course that she should be courted and made
much of. Her love for Linnæa was the first
which had touched her heart, and it was none
the less strong on that account. She had
tried to forget the way in which the friendship
had been begun and many a time had she
hoped that Linnæa would not hear of it.
Surely the girls must see, she thought, that it
was genuine now; and yet, she could not
forget having called upon them all to witness
the conquest she was about to make, and the
remembrance brought a flush of shame to her
face.

Now, what she had dreaded had taken
place, and in the most untoward way—in such
a way that it was almost impossible for
Linnæa now to learn the truth.

(To be concluded. )

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.

PART II.

In our last paper on this
subject we reduced the
word “culture” to its
simple and original
meaning, and used the
familiar illustration of
a plot of garden
ground, showing that
weeds would spring
up if cultivation were
neglected; that things
useful and beautiful
alike flourish in the
ideal garden; that the
quality of the soil and
other conditions
should be taken into
account by the wise
cultivator; and that,
culture being a process
as well as a result,
a little work in that
direction is better than
none at all. We might
follow the simile further; but we are now met
by a difficulty, and can imagine some critic
expostulating, “Your illustration of the garden
is all very well, but it breaks down at the most
important point. The ground cannot cultivate
itself, and needs an experienced gardener.
If let alone, it becomes, as you have said, a
tangle of weeds and deserves Hamlet’s words—

“So our mental faculties, our whole nature,
are like a garden susceptible of being properly
cultivated; but when there is no gardener,
no intelligence from without to direct the
process, what is to be done?”

The simile, it is true, does break down, as
similes are apt to do if pushed too far. And,
dear reader, we freely confess that in the
term “self-culture” all the difficulty is expressed.
It is a hard matter to be dependent
upon one’s unaided efforts in this matter. We
may even go further and confess that nothing
can quite make up for the contact with
people of culture, the student life in the
atmosphere of a college, the marvellous, enchanting
process of education received when
one is old enough to appreciate it.

We cannot perhaps wonder if those who
know the stimulus of University life at its
keenest, the delight of interchange of thought,
the unspeakable associations

look with serenest pity on any attempt at
“culture” outside that and kindred regions.

But it is exclusive and cruel to laugh down
the attempts of the partially educated to
attain farther; and certainly it is unreasonable
to tell them, “You must have all, or nothing.”

Much can be done by the most ignorant—no
one can say how much—and at any rate it
is worth the while of every reader who scans
this page to do something towards the process
of self-culture. For there are outside
helps within the reach of all. No girl, however
cut off she may be from people who can
help her to study, can be, especially in the
present day, altogether cut off from Books.

How much books may do, is a commonplace
often dilated upon. But have you, who
are glancing down this column, ever reflected
upon it as regards your own individual self?

How fine a thing you would think it if you
had the privilege of introduction to some great
author and could exchange a few words with
him! How great an honour if you could
enjoy his friendship, and spend an hour with
him from time to time in intimate conversation!
What a means of culture you would
consider it to be!

But the power of reading admits you to
the society of the wise and great without let
or hindrance, and to their society at their best
moments. It is often a very disappointing
thing to be introduced to the literary hero or
heroine of one’s adoration. One expects
an utterance equal to the author’s reputation,
and there comes instead some commonplace
suggested by the surrounding circumstances.
We have heard of a young lady
devotee taken down to dinner by a great poet,
whom to meet had been her dream for years.
She listened for his voice in breathless
silence, unable to eat for excitement, but he
said nothing during soup, fish, entrées; until
at length, on the appearance of a fresh course,
he remarked, “I like mutton cut in wedges.”

Whether the story be true or not, it is a
good illustration. On first meeting a stranger
it is impossible for the wisest man to drag up
from the depths of his being some remark
equal to his reputation. There is nothing to
call it forth, and it would probably sound
affected, or far-fetched, if he began instantly
to “talk like a book,” especially like his own
books. You cannot get at the inner nature of
the man without long friendship, and without
a likeness of disposition. But in his book you
find him at once, with no tedious preliminary
process, at his very best. As Mr. J. R. Lowell
has said, the art of reading is the talisman
that admits “to the company of saint and sage,
of the wisest and the wittiest at their wisest
and wittiest moments; that enables us to see
with the keenest eyes, hear with the finest ears,
and listen to the sweetest voices of all time.”

To the girl, then, who has aspirations, or even
a dim stirring of faint desire, after self-culture,
we may say, “Read; in the second place,
Read; and yet again, Read.”

{308}

In Matthew Arnold’s published Letters, he
gives a piece of excellent advice to a young
lady who is a relation of his:

“If I were you, I should now take to some
regular reading, if it were only an hour a day.
It is the best thing in the world to have
something of this sort as a point in the day,
and far too few people know and use this
secret. You would have your district still and
all your business as usual, but you would have
this hour in your day, in the midst of it all,
and it would soon become of the greatest
solace to you. Desultory reading is a mere
anodyne, regular reading, well chosen, is
restoring and edifying.”

It would be a good thing if every girl would
study Ruskin’s Sesame and Lilies, and follow
the advice therein contained. It has been so
often quoted that we hesitate again to
transcribe it; but it cannot be read too
frequently.

“Have you measured and mapped out this
short life and its possibilities? Do you know
if you read this that you cannot read that;
that what you lose to-day you cannot gain
to-morrow? Will you go and gossip with your
housemaid or your stable boy when you may
talk with queens and kings? Will you jostle
with the common crowd for entrée here and
audience there, when all the while this eternal
court is open to you, with its society wide as
the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen
and the mighty of every place and time?”

Time is precious and is fleeting fast. There
would be less poring over fashion-plates, fewer
pennies spent on miscellaneous collections of
tawdry scraps of useless information garnished
with comic anecdotes, if it were realised that
each hour spent in aimless, silly reading is an
hour lost, never to be regained.

This may seem “a counsel of perfection.”
We do not say, read nothing at all of the
ephemeral literature whose aim is to enliven
and amuse, but if you have any desire for
self-culture, read something else as well. If
you get into the habit of this light, disconnected,
desultory reading, you will find it
spoil your taste and your appetite for anything
else. The loss you will suffer will be simply
incalculable. Amuse a few spare minutes at
the railway station, on the tedious journey, by
all means: but do not let your reading stop
short at mere entertainment or information
about dress.

It is a terrible thing when this power of
reading—the instrument, almost the only
instrument, of self-culture—is turned so persistently
to other ends that it becomes a
warped and worthless tool.

“It is of paramount importance,” says
Schopenhauer, the German philosopher, “to
acquire the art not to read…. We should
recollect that he who writes for fools finds an
enormous audience, and we should devote the
ever scant leisure of our circumscribed existence
to the master spirits of all ages and nations—those
who tower over humanity, and whom
the voice of Fame proclaims; only such writers
cultivate and instruct us.”

Too stringent perhaps! and yet a truth lies
here which may well be taken to heart. A
more modern critic, Frederic Harrison, puts it
thus:

“Every book that we take up without a
purpose is an opportunity lost of taking up
a book with a purpose; every bit of stray
information which we cram into our heads
without any sense of its importance is for the
most part a bit of the most useful information
driven out of our heads and choked off from
our minds…. We know that books differ
in value as much as diamonds differ from the
sand on the seashore … and I cannot but
think the very infinity of opportunities is
robbing us of the actual power of using
them.”

What to read, will form the subject of
future articles; only let the girl who scans this
page make up her mind that she will follow
its advice and read something. “Studies
serve for delight, for ornament, and for
ability” is a familiar sentence of Lord Bacon.
Even the busiest girl can lay this to heart and
profit by it, as was shown by some articles
which appeared in The Girl’s Own Paper
on the life of working girls—“My Daily
Round.” Some of the most charming sentences
in those interesting papers were the
sentences where appreciation of literature as a
companion to the scant hour of freedom held
a conspicuous place.

Life is often a very hard and sordid thing,
and far too many women are forced to spend
their days in detail of a distasteful kind. We
must not extol a spirit of discontent with
“the trivial round, the common task,” and
must remember the French motto, “When
one cannot have what one likes, one must
like what one has.” Yet we all need a
resource. Every man or woman, young or
old, ought to have a refuge wherein to flee
from the worries and minute cares of “this
troublesome world”—a refuge that shall
prove

And for this self-culture is invaluable.

Walter Besant somewhere observes that
he often sees in London omnibuses, girls
returning from the work of the day, whose
lips are noiselessly moving. Their look is
harassed, and they are talking to themselves
in irritated fashion of what has gone wrong;
perhaps uttering imaginary repartees to unreasonable
employers. Some engrossment in
poetry or romance, some mental diversion
which should force them to turn away their
thoughts, would be a panacea, and they might
dwell with consolation, remembering such
employers, on one of the antitheta of Lord
Bacon—“In reading we hold converse with
the wise; in the business of life, generally
with the foolish.”

And study is a priceless relief and refuge to
women in any grade of society. A girl who
really loves reading possesses an inexhaustible
charm to lift her above the little worries of
daily life, in whatever sphere that life may be.

In Switzerland one finds a summer stay in
the valleys, beautiful and fertile as they are,
beset by certain annoyances, of which perhaps
the most dire and disturbing is a peculiar sort
of fly, like a horse-fly, that settles and stings
even through a thick glove. The most lovely
summer resorts beside the lakes are infested
by this creature, which comes everywhere with
slow, sleepy virulence, alighting upon face and
hands and thrusting in its poison. To escape
it, one must go to the mountains; far up on
the fragrant slopes where the pine trees hang
in air, and the torrent leaps down among
them, and the blue gloom of the valley lies
below, and the everlasting snows stretch far
away behind, up and up against the sky.
Here there are no poisonous insects to buzz
and sting; the wanderer has ascended too
high.

So in life we can escape the trivial vexations
and irritations of life by rising above them to
the height of some lofty thought, some beautiful
idea, whence we can view the plains of
daily existence with its petty cares and stings
far, far below.

Lily Watson.

(To be continued. )

SOCIAL INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AN EAST END GIRL.

PART II.

A WEDDING.

At one time my proposed expedition
seemed threatened
with extinction, for my
family strongly objected to
my running about the East
End with no more efficient
protector than Belinda Ann—on
a bank holiday too!
In vain I painted her character in glowing
colours; in vain I cited my hostess of the
club as an authority that I should come to no
harm. The family were obdurate. Either I
must find someone to go with me who could
look after me properly, or I must give up the
idea.

I was loath to do the latter so I set about
the former, and by great good luck discovered
a lady who spent most of her time amongst
Belinda Ann and her friends and knew the
bride and her family intimately.

I admit it robbed the expedition of some
of its fun to thus have a chaperon tacked on
to me, and there was a lurking doubt in my
mind as to how Belinda Ann herself would
regard the innovation. When, after a long,
hot omnibus ride, we arrived at the place
where we had appointed to meet her we
caught sight of her waiting, my eyes anxiously
sought her face to judge from its expression
whether or no she would resent the unexpected
addition to the party. Luckily she both knew
and liked the lady in question (who shall be
called Miss H.), and though for a moment
her face clouded over, it soon brightened again,
and, with a great air of importance, she bustled
us off to the tram.

On the way I had time to note that she had
evidently bestowed great pains on her person,
for the straight fringe was elaborately curled
and surmounted by a wonderful crimson plush
hat, à la Gainsborough, adorned with a profusion
of feathers to match shaded off to
palest pink.

“That must have cost her a lot of money,”
I whispered to Miss H.; but the latter
replied, “She belongs to a feather club, of
course.”

I did not understand what she meant, and
there was no opportunity of then asking; but
I resolved to inquire into this at some future
period.

Meanwhile Belinda Ann, by means of a
dexterous application of her thin sharp elbows
and a running fire of chaff, secured us an
entrance into the tram which was already
inconveniently crowded in my opinion; but
everyone was so heartily good-natured, no one
could possibly show temper at being a little
squeezed.

Belinda Ann ensconced herself near the
door, where she kept a lively look-out for
every fresh arrival, whom she greeted with
some choice specimen of wit which, if replied
to in the proper spirit, afforded her unbounded
satisfaction.

During this period of waiting I was able to
study, from the window of the tram, the fashionable
hand-shake as practised by a lady with a
market-basket taking leave of another matron
on the pavement. There was a sort of perpendicular
and horizontal movement combined
about it which was very difficult to catch but{309}
most effective, and I could not but admire the
elegance with which it was done. It is, I
believe, sacred to trams.

Presently the tram moved off, rather to my
relief, for it was decidedly warm waiting in
the sun, and we rolled smoothly along, Miss
H. ever and anon pointing out objects of
interest on the route.

“There’s the bridegroom!” she whispered
presently, clutching my arm; and, looking in
the direction of her glance, I espied a well
set-up young man emerging from a barber’s
shop.

Belinda Ann caught sight of him at the
same time, and in a sarcastic undertone
remarked, “My! Ain’t ’e done ’isself
proper?”

I suppose I looked mystified, and, indeed,
it was Greek to me until Miss H. silently
pointed to the sign over the door—“Shaving
done here. Fresh water for every person.”
And even then I didn’t quite see it till she
explained that the latter was by no means a
sine quâ non, but that the bridegroom on this
important occasion evidently thought it incumbent
on him to do the thing in style!

Next we passed a church with an inscription
outside to the effect that parties could be
married there for sevenpence halfpenny.

I was still lost in wonder at this legend
when a wedding-party emerged and made a
wild rush for the tram. The bride came
inside and the bridegroom went outside, and
I felt grieved to think they should be separated
so soon after their sevenpence-halfpennyworth.
Judging from the bride’s apparent age, I
concluded that the youthful bridesmaid of ten
was her eldest daughter.

At this moment a man plumped down next
to me carrying a trio of remarkably lively
puppies, and the remainder of the drive was
rendered extremely hilarious by the antics of
the small doggies, who persisted in swarming
on to the floor ever other minute, and then
abjectly licking our boots.

“They don’t allow live-stock inside the
trams on Sundays,” remarked Miss H., as she
hauled up a puppy for the twentieth time and
handed it over to its rightful owner. “Still,”
she added meditatively, “a man may get in
holding a sack, not by the neck, but round
the loins, so to speak, and if he lets go to get
his fare or his handkerchief, you see the sack
wriggle!”

I had not done laughing at this graphic
description when Belinda Ann, who had been
keeping a sharp look-out all this time, gave us
the signal to dismount, which we did in a
breathless scramble owing to the tram starting
on again before we were well off the step.

I found there was still some little distance
to walk before we arrived at the house, but
everything was so new to me that I did not
mind.

Thus, passing a second-hand clothier’s
window, my eye was at once caught by a
white dress in the window labelled, “A boon
to young ladies about to marry! Let out by
the day!”

It was made of some soft silky material in
the prevailing fashion and thoughtfully cut
large enough to accommodate any figure, as
of course any superfluity could be pinned over
should the hirer happen to be of a sylph-like
form!

“I s’pose I shall come ter that if any chap
ever says ‘Chairs’ ter me!” remarked Belinda
Ann, with a last glance at it as we tore
ourselves away.

“Says what?” I inquired, not very elegantly,
I fear.

“Chairs!” she replied shortly, for she took
the surprise in my voice to imply a doubt of
her ever wanting a wedding-dress.

“What in all the world has that to do with
it?” I asked, after a moment’s puzzled
silence.

She surveyed me for a second with a sort
of pitying scorn for my ignorance, and then
proceeded to enlighten me.

“Why, yer see, yer may walk out with a
feller fer months an’ never get no forrader, so
ter speak, or yer may chynge about with
another feller an’ no one think any harm of it;
but if any on ’em mentions ‘furniture’ to yer,
it’s a sign that he means bizness, an’ yer can
begin ter think about yer trossax.”

This tickled my fancy so much that I doubt
if I should ever have stopped laughing if
Belinda Ann had not shown signs of temper
by remarking huffily, “In coorse I knows as
’ow toffs don’t manage it that wy; but yer
arsked me about it, an’ it ain’t bad fer all
that.”

“I think it’s a perfectly charming plan,” I
put in hastily, smothering my mirth as well as
I could; but I nearly went off again at the
reflection that the innocent remark, “Can I
get you a chair?” would be construed by an
East End beauty into a proposal of marriage.

Belinda Ann did not quite recover her good
humour till we arrived at the bride’s mansion,
which fortunately was not far off, for once
there her smiles returned in full force, and she
quite forgot my ill-timed merriment.

We stepped straight from the court into the
banqueting-hall, without even the formality of
a doorstep, and the bride received us in
person, her mother being busy in the back
premises over her toilette.

The heroine of the occasion was of such
colossal proportions she might almost have
gone about in a show, and her complexion
matched her gown, which was of a warm
brickdusty red.

This was not, however, the wedding garment,
for, after having greeted us, she disappeared
with Belinda Ann and many apologies
to reappear later on in a really elegant grey
silk, presented by Miss H. and her sister in
fulfilment of a very old promise.

She had rather spoilt the effect by hanging
round her neck a string of iridescent beads,
so large that they looked like homœopathic
globules, and wearing the inevitable befeathered
hat, this time of a crude violet hue;
but otherwise she was all that could be
desired, and was immensely admired.

Belinda Ann had added to her attire a
huge lace collar and a silver chain, from
which hung a locket to match about the size
of a small warming-pan, and the party was
completed by the bride’s mother, also dressed
in an old gown of Miss H.’s.

Now Miss H. being tall and slim, while
Mrs. Hogg was of the same generous proportions
as her daughter, the dress proved
somewhat too scanty, so she had taken some
of the material from the waist to eke out the
bodice, and to hide this theft had donned a
black velvet apron. It looked a little odd,
perhaps, but on the whole was pronounced
very fair, and we set off for the church. Not
on foot, although the edifice was just round
the corner. That would, indeed, have been a
serious breach of etiquette on such an occasion.
No! Two four-wheeled cabs had been chartered
for the drive, and into these we packed,
the bride, her mother and father (who turned
up at the last minute in a fearful state of heat
and nervousness) going in the first, and
Belinda Ann, Miss H., and I taking the
second.

An enthusiastic crowd was hanging round
the porch cheering wildly when we alighted,
and at first I thought that Miss Hogg must
be the most popular girl in the East End;
but I was soon undeceived. She was not the
only expectant bride of the occasion, for Bank
Holiday is a favourite East End wedding-day,
for obvious reasons.

The crowd inside was so great, although
perfectly orderly and reverent, that I could
see little or nothing of the actual ceremony,
and was rather glad than not when, all formalities
having been complied with, our party
disentangled itself from the general mêlée, and
we drove back in the same order as we had
come, with the addition of the bridegroom, of
course.

In our absence the table had been elegantly
laid with wine-glasses of every shape, colour,
and size, borrowed right and left for the
occasion, each with half a sheet of clean
notepaper stuck in it. I puzzled over these
for some time, till I came to the conclusion
that possibly this was in imitation of the
serviettes placed in wine-glasses at restaurants.

As each guest appeared, he or she was
hospitably pressed to say what he or she
would take (“Give it a nyme!” was the
general form of invitation), and he or she
usually seemed quite prepared for the question
and quite ready with an answer, for without
any false delicacy they promptly replied,
“Drop o’ port!” This was immediately
handed them, and there they sat in a row,
never opening their mouths except to empty
into them the aforesaid “drop o’ port.”

I was sorely troubled as to what to do with
mine, which I would have gladly refused only
that I was warned that it was considered as
great an insult as to refuse in the real East to
drink the cup of black coffee offered at the
threshold; so there I sat with the rest,
occasionally raising it to my lips, till an
opportunity offered to stick it behind a flower-pot,
where it may remain to this day for all I
know.

The honeymoon was to be spent on
Hampstead Heath, and we were pressed to
accompany the party, but excused ourselves
as politely as possible and shortly after took
leave, as everyone was obviously aching to be
off, though far too polite to say so.

Our presence had added great éclat to the
proceedings in the opinion of our hosts, and
when we took leave the bridegroom insisted
on presenting each of us with seven Tangerine
oranges!

Now he was by profession a fruiterer, and
a kind Providence had thoughtfully endowed
him with hands so large that he could easily
hold seven oranges (or anything else for the
matter of that) in one. My hands, unluckily,
are not on the same liberal scale; consequently
when he dropped the seven oranges into them,
about six were bound to fall on the ground in
spite of all my efforts. Of course, they rolled
into all sorts of inaccessible corners, after their
perverse nature; but the company collected
them with unfailing good-humour, and my
secret hope that one or two of them at least
might be irrevocably lost was not realised.

We left Belinda Ann behind to share the
forthcoming trip, and soon found ourselves in
an omnibus rolling westwards.

“I never refuse little gifts of this kind,”
said Miss H., as she rescued an orange from
bounding out of the door, “for it seems more
friendly to accept. Besides, I know if they
send or give me sixpennyworth of lemons, I
can readily make it up to them later on by
something costing half-a-crown.”

I assented, and then remarked dreamily,
“Those hats are the most wonderful erections!”

“They may not be very artistic,” she
replied, “but they are a sign of self-respect.
The last thing a respectable woman parts
with, as a rule, is her headgear, and the last
thing a self-respecting man leaves off is
having his boots cleaned. When you see a
man with dirty boots, and a woman bareheaded,
you may know they have touched the
lowest depths.”

I was still meditating on this when the
omnibus stopped with a jerk, precipitating all
my oranges into the gutter, and thus settling
once for all the vexed question of how I was
to get them home.

{310}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XIX.

In consideration
of Arthur’s
presence
and of
the late
hours and
excitement
of
the night
before,
the next
day was
observed as a holiday in
the vicarage. Mrs.
Asplin stayed in bed until lunch time,
the boys went for a bicycle ride, and
Peggy and her brother had a delightful
chat together by the schoolroom fire,
when he told her more details about his
own plans than he had been able to
touch upon in a dozen letters.

“The preliminary examination for
Sandhurst begins on the 26th this
year,” he explained, “and so far as I can
make out I shall romp through it. I am
going to take all the subjects in
Class I.—mathematics, Latin, French,
geometrical drawing, and English composition;
I’ll astonish them in the last
subject! Plenty of dash and go, eh
Peggy,—that’s the style to fetch ’em!
In Class II. you can only take two
subjects, so I’m going in for chemistry
and physics. I rather fancy myself in
physics, and if I don’t come out at the
head of the list, or precious near the
head, it won’t be for want of trying. I
have worked like a nigger these last six
months; between ourselves I thought I
had worked too hard a few days ago; I
felt so stupid and dizzy, and my head
ached until I could hardly open my
eyes. If I had not come away, I believe
I should have broken down, but I’m
better already, and by Tuesday I shall
be as fit as a fiddle. I hope I do well,
it would be so jolly to cable out the
news to the old pater, and I say, Peg,
I don’t mean to leave Sandhurst
without bringing home something to
keep as a souvenir. At the end of
each Christmas term a sword is presented
to the cadet who passes out first
in the final exam.—‘The Anson Memorial
Sword.’ Mariquita!” Arthur
smote his breast, and struck a fierce and
warlike attitude. “That sword is
mine! In the days to come when you
are old and grey-headed, you will see
that rusty blade hanging over my
ancestral hearth, and tell in faltering
tones the story of the gallant youth who
wrested it from his opponents.”

“Ha, ha!” responded Peggy deeply.
There was no particular meaning in
the exclamation, but it seemed right
and fitting in the connection, and had
a smack of melodrama which was quite
to her taste. “Of course you will be
first, Arthur!” she added, “and, oh
dear! how proud I shall be when I see
you in all your uniform! I am thankful
all my men relations are soldiers, they
are so much more interesting than
civilians. It would break my heart,
Arthur, to think of you as a civilian!
Of course wars are somewhat disconcerting,
but then one always hopes there
won’t be wars.”

“I don’t,” cried Arthur loudly.
“No, no, active serve for me, and plenty
of it! ‘Come one, come all, this rock
shall fly from its firm base as soon as
I!’ That’s my motto, and my ambition
is the Victoria Cross, and I’ll get that
too before I’m done; you see if I don’t!
It’s the great ambition of my life,
Peg. I lie awake and think of that
little iron cross; I go to sleep and
dream of it, and see the two words
dancing before my eyes in letters of
fire, ‘For Valour,’ ‘For Valour,’ ‘For
Valour.’ Ah!”—he drew a deep breath
of excitement—“I don’t think there is
anything in the world I should envy if I
could only gain that.”

Peggy gazed at him with kindling
eyes. “You are a soldier’s son,” she
said, “and the grandson of a soldier,
and the great grandson of a soldier;
it’s in your blood; you can’t help it—it’s
in my blood too, Arthur! I give
you my solemn word of honour that if
the French or Germans came over to
invade this land, I’d”—Peggy seized
the ruler and waved it in the air with a
gesture of fiercest determination—“I’d
fight them! There! I’d shoot at them;
I’d go out and spike the guns; I’d—I’d
climb on the house-tops and throw stones
at them. You needn’t laugh, I tell you
I should be terrible! I feel as if I could
face a whole regiment myself. The
spirit, the spirit of my ancestors is in my
breast, Arthur Reginald, and woe betide
that enemy who tries to wrest from
me my native land!” Peggy went off
into a shriek of laughter, in which
Arthur joined until the sound of the
merry peals reached Mrs. Asplin’s ears
as she lay wearily on her pillow, and
brought a smile to her pale face.
“Bless the dears! How happy they
are,” she murmured to herself, nor
even suspected that it was a wholesale
massacre of foreign nations which
had been the cause of this gleeful
outburst.

Arthur left the vicarage on Tuesday
evening, seemingly much refreshed by
the few days’ change, though he still
complained of his head and pressed his
hand over his eyes from time to time as
though in pain. The parting from
Peggy was more cheerful than might
have been expected, for in a few more
weeks Christmas would be at hand,
when, as he himself expressed it, he
hoped to return with blushing honours
thick upon him. Peggy mentally expended
her whole ten pounds in a
present for the dear handsome fellow,
and held her head high in the consciousness
of owning a brother who was destined
to be Commander-in-Chief of the British
forces in the years to come.

The same evening Robert returned
from his visit to London. He had heard
of Peggy’s escapade from his father and
sister, and was by no means so grateful
as that young lady had expected.

“What in all the world possessed
you to play such a mad trick?” he
queried bluntly. “It makes me ill to
think of it. Rushing off to London on
a wet, foggy night, never even waiting
to inquire if there was a return train,
or to count if you had enough money to
see you through! Goodness only knows
what might have happened! You are
careless enough in an ordinary way,
but I must say I gave you credit for
more sense than that.”

“Well, but Rob,” pleaded Peggy
aggrieved, “I don’t think you need
scold! I did it for you, and I thought
you would be pleased.”

“Did you indeed. Well, you are
mightily mistaken; I wouldn’t have let
you do a thing like that for all the
prizes in the world. I don’t care a rap
for the wretched old microscope.”

“Oh! Oh!”

“In comparison, I mean. Of course
I should have been glad to get it if it
had come to me in an ordinary way, but
I was not so wrapped up in the idea
that I would not have been reasonable
if you had come to me quietly, and
explained that you had missed the
post.”

Peggy shook her head sagely. “You
think so now, because the danger is
over, and you are sure it can’t happen.
But I know better. I can tell you
exactly what would have happened.
You wouldn’t have stormed or raged,
it would have been better if you had,
and sooner over; you would just have
stood still, and—glared at me! When
I’d finished speaking, you would have
swallowed two or three times over, as
if you were gulping down something
which you dared not say, and then
turned on your heel and marched out
of the room. That’s what you would
have done, my dear and honourable
sir, and you know it.”

Robert hung his head and looked
self-conscious.

“Well, if I had! A fellow can’t hide
all he feels in the first moment of disappointment.
But I should have got over
it, and you know very well that I should
never have brought it up against you.
‘Glared!’ What if I did glare? There
is nothing very terrible in that, is
there?”

“Yes, there is. I could not have
borne it, when I had been trying so
hard to help you. And it would not
have been only the first few minutes.
Every time when you were quiet and
depressed, when you looked at your
specimens through your little old glass
and sighed, and pitched it away as I’ve
seen you do scores and scores of times,{311}
I should have felt that it was my fault,
and been in the depths of misery. No,
no, I’m sorry to the depths of my heart
that I scared dear Mrs. Asplin and the
rest, but it is a matter of acute satisfaction
to me to know that your chance
has in no way been hindered by your
confidence in me!” and Peggy put
her head on one side, and coughed in
a faint and lady-like manner, which
brought the twinkle back into Robert’s
eyes.

“Good old Mariquita!” he cried,
laughing. “‘Acute satisfaction’ is
good, Mariquita, decidedly good! You
will make your name yet in the world
of letters. Well, as I said before, you
are a jolly little brick, and the best
partner a fellow ever had! Mind you,
I tell you straight that I think you
behaved badly in cutting off like that;
but I’ll stand by you to the others, and
not let them sit upon you while I am
there.”

“Thanks!” said Peggy, meekly.
“But, oh, I beseech of you, don’t bring
up the subject if you can help it! I’m
tired to death of it all! The kindest
thing you can do is to talk hard about
something else, and give them a fresh
excitement to think about. Talk about—about—about
Rosalind if you will;
anything will do, only, for pity’s sake,
leave me alone, and pretend there is not
such a thing in the world as a calendar!”

“Right you are!” said Robert,
laughing. “I’ll steer clear of the rocks!
And as it happens I have got a piece of
news that will put your doings into the
background at one fell swoop. Rosalind
is going to give a party! The Earl and
Countess of B—— are coming down to
the Larches the week after next, and
are going to bring their two girls with
them. They are great, lanky things,
with about as much ‘go’ in the pair as
in one of your little fingers; but this
party is to be given in their honour. The
mater has asked everyone of a right
age within a dozen miles around, and
the house will be crammed with visitors.
Your card is coming to-morrow, and I
hope you will give me the honour of the
first round, and as many as possible
after that.”

“The first with pleasure; I won’t
promise any more until I see how we
get on. It doesn’t seem appropriate to
think of your dancing, Bob; there is
something too heavy and serious in
your demeanour. Oswald is different;
he would make a charming dancing-master.
Oh, it will be an excitement!
Mellicent will not be able to eat or sleep
for thinking of it; and poor Mrs. Asplin
will be running up seams on the sewing-machine,
and making up ribbon bows
from this day to that. I’m glad I have
a dress all ready and sha’n’t be bothered
with any trying on! You don’t know
what it is to stand first on one leg and
then on the other, to be turned and
pulled about as if you were a dummy,
and have pins stuck into you as if you
were a pin-cushion! I adore pretty
clothes, but every time I go to the
dressmaker’s I vow and declare that I
shall take to sacks. Tell them at dinner,
do, and they will talk about it for the
rest of the evening!”

Peggy’s prophecy came true, for the
subject of Rosalind’s party became a
topic of such absorbing interest as
left room for little else during the next
few weeks. New dresses had to be
bought and made for the girls, and
Peggy superintended the operations of
the village dressmaker with equal satisfaction
to herself and her friends.

Rosalind appeared engrossed in preparations,
and two or three times a
week, as the girls trudged along the
muddy roads, with Fräulein lagging in
the rear, the jingle of bells would come
to their ears, and Rosalind’s two white
long-tailed ponies would come dashing
past, drawing the little open carriage in
which their mistress sat, half-hidden
among a pile of baskets and parcels.
She was always beautiful, and radiant,
and, as she passed, she would turn her
head over her shoulders and look at the
three mud-bespattered pedestrians with a
smile of pitying condescension which
made Peggy set her teeth and draw
her eyebrows together in an ominous
frown.

One day she condescended to stop
and speak a few words from her throne
among the cushions.

“How de do? So sowwy not to have
been to see you! Fwightfully busy,
don’t you know. We are decowating
the wooms, and don’t know how to
furnish in time. It’s going to be quite
charming!”

“We know! We know! Rob told
us. I’m dying to see it. You should
ask Peggy to help you if you are in
a hurry. She’s s—imply splendid at
decorations! Mother says she never
knew anyone so good at it as Peggy!”
cried Mellicent, with an outburst of
gushing praise, in acknowledgment of
which she received a thunderous frown
and such a sharp pinch on the arm as
penetrated through all her thick winter
wrappings.

Rosalind, however, only ejaculated,
“Oh, weally!” in an uninterested
manner, and whipped up her ponies
without taking any further notice of the
suggestion; but it had taken root in
her mind all the same, and she did not
forget to question her brother on the first
opportunity.

Mellicent Asplin had said that Peggy
Saville was clever at decoration. Was
it true, and would it be the least use
asking her to come and help in the
decorations?

Robert laughed, and wagged his head
with an air of proud assurance.

Clever! Peggy? She was a witch!
She could work wonders! If you set
her down in an empty room, and gave
her two-and-sixpence to transform it
into an Alhambra, he verily believed
she could do it. The way in which she
had rigged up the various characters
for the Shakespeare reading was nothing
short of miraculous. Yes, indeed,
Peggy would be worth a dozen ordinary
helpers. The question was, would she
come?

“Certainly she will come. I’ll send
down for her at once,” said Rosalind
promptly, and forthwith sat down and
wrote a dainty little note, not to Peggy
herself, but to Mrs. Asplin, stating that
she had heard great accounts of Peggy
Saville’s skill in the art of decoration, and
begging that she might be allowed
to come up to the Larches to help with
the final arrangements, arriving as
early as possible on the day of the party,
and bringing her box with her so as
to be saved the fatigue of returning
home to dress. It was a prettily-worded
letter, and Mrs. Asplin was dismayed at
the manner of its reception.

“No, Peggy Saville won’t!” said
that young person, pursing her lips and
tossing her head in her most high and
mighty manner. “She won’t do anything
of the sort! Why should I go?
Let her ask some of her own friends!
I’m not her friend! I should simply
loath to go!”

“My dear Peggy! When you are
asked to help! When this entertainment
is given for your pleasure, and you
can be of real use——”

“I never asked her to give the party!
I don’t care whether I go or not! She
is simply making use of me for her own
convenience!”

“It is not the first or only time
that you have been asked, as you
know well, Peggy. And sometimes you
have enjoyed yourself very much. You
said you would never forget the pink
luncheon. In spite of all you say, you
owe Rosalind thanks for some pleasant
times; and now you can be of some
service to her—— Well, I’m not going
to force you, dear. I hate unwilling
workers, and if it’s not in your heart
to go, stay at home, and settle with your
conscience as best you can.”

Peggy groaned with sepulchral misery.

“Wish I hadn’t got no conscience!
Tiresome, presuming thing that it is—always
poking itself forward and
making remarks when it isn’t wanted.
I suppose I shall have to go, and run
about from morning till night, holding
a pair of scissors and nasty little balls
of string, for Rosalind’s use! Genius
indeed! What’s the use of talking about
genius? I know very well I shall not be
allowed to do anything but run about
and wait upon her. It’s no use staring
at me, Mrs. Asplin. I mean it all—every
single word.”

“No, you don’t, Peggy! No, you
don’t, my little kind, warm-hearted
Peggy! I know better than that! It’s
just that foolish tongue that is running
away with you, dearie. In your heart
you are pleased to do a service for a
friend, and are going to put your whole
strength into doing it as well and tastefully
as it can be done.”

“I’m not! I’m not! I’m not! I’m
savage, and it’s no use pretending——”

“Yes, you are! I know it! What
is the good of having a special gift if
one doesn’t put it to good use? Ah,
that’s the face I like to see! I didn’t
recognise my Peggy with that ugly
frown. I’ll write and say you’ll come
with pleasure.”

“It’s to please you, then, not Rosalind!”
said Peggy obstinately. But
Mrs. Asplin only laughed, dropped
a kiss upon her cheek, and walked
away to answer the invitation forthwith.

(To be continued. )

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ABSENCE.

By INA NOEL.

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

By FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

CHAPTER V.

THE MARCH WIND BLOWS.

“Well, Jane, tell us something interesting,”
said Ada, as the trio sat toasting their toes
before the fire on a gusty evening in March.

Jane yawned, and the wind whistled eerily
round the house.

“I can’t think of anything,” she said, after
a minute or two. “My head feels as if it were
stuffed with cotton wool. I wish this wind
would go down.”

“You have not told us any anecdotes of
your children for ever so long. How are the
little things getting on?”

“A detachment of volunteers came to drill
in the school yard this afternoon, and they
were all longing to look out of the windows
and watch.”

“Why could you not let them?”

“Oh, they never settle down to their work
properly if interruptions like that are allowed,”
said Jane, getting more wide awake.

“Are your classes full?”

“There is a great deal of illness about, and
that keeps some of them at home. The people
are terribly poor. I wish I could persuade
some of the better class people about to give
me orders for dinners for the poor people. It
would cost so little, and I would be very
careful to give it to those who most needed
it. I ask this of everyone who happens to
come in to see the children at work, but
except for a chance order now and then, it is
very difficult to get rid of the food.”

“Who buys the things that the children
make?” asked Marion.

“The children are supposed to buy the
things themselves; and they generally do buy
rock cakes and gingerbread and things that
are of no practical use to them. But more
sensible dishes, such as stews and soup, are
very difficult to sell without outside help.
There are one or two people in some workmen’s
buildings just near who buy from time
to time, and when the beef-tea lesson comes
round, the vicar is very kind in buying it for
anyone who is sick. It is very difficult to get
along sometimes,” added Jane, gazing
dolefully into the depths of the fire.

“I was just thinking,” said Ada meditatively,
after a minute or two’s thought; “I
was just thinking if there was no one to whom
we could mention the matter, who would be
glad to help. Of course, one can understand
that there are certain objections. For
instance, if it became widely known that food
was given away at the cookery school, people
would be always coming in to beg, and it
would be very inconvenient. Besides, there
would be so much jealousy amongst those
who did not get it, and it would be impossible
to satisfy all. But I should think a few
private orders might be managed, and they
would certainly be a great help to you, Jennie,
and if you told the people who came for
dinners not to mention it to others, I should
think it would be all right.”

“They would not do that, I am sure,” said
Jane. “They do not like it known that they
are taking charity, unless it is some widely
recognised institution like a soup-kitchen. I
have often noticed that.”

“There are the Baddeleys, now; they live
near your school in Warrington Road. Do
you ever see them?”

“No; I had forgotten about them. I do
not think they know that I teach up there. I
will write to-night and ask them to come and
see me.”

“I will write,” said Ada, patting her sister’s
nut-brown head, “you are so tired.”

“The wind has made my eyes ache.”

So Ada wrote to Mrs. Baddeley, knowing
her to be a philanthropic woman, and her
appeal was warmly answered.

Mrs. Baddeley called to see Jane at her
school two days after, to her great delight.
The lady in question was an old friend of their
mother’s, but they had not seen her for some
time. She had heard that the girls had come
to live in London, but had not yet been to see
them, and she had had no idea that Jane was
teaching so near to her.

“I had heard that cookery was taught to
the children in the schools, but I did not
know exactly where. I am so pleased to
come and see the cookery kitchen, and still
more to find you in it,” said the sympathetic
lady, as she sat down in a chair by the dresser
and looked round admiringly at the gleaming
pots and pans which Jane’s little scholars kept
in order.

Jennie explained her difficulty to her genial
friend.

“You do not have to spend your own
money on the food for the classes, do you?”
asked Mrs. Baddeley.

“No; I have some given me to start the
lessons with, but if I do not sell anything for
a day or two it is difficult to get along.”

{314}

“Of course, it must be, but I think I see a
way out of your difficulty. I shall be only too
glad if you can manage to prepare three
dinners twice a week for some poor old people
whom I try to help. I will give you the
names, and they shall call for the dishes. But
I hope the dinners will be quite plain and
simple but very nourishing.”

Jane assured Mrs. Baddeley that she taught
no dishes that were not plain and simple, and
mentioned such items as Exeter stew, Irish
stew, beef skirt pie, liver and bacon, and for
puddings fruit in batter, milk puddings, baked
ginger puddings, and so on.

And so the compact was made; Mrs.
Baddeley’s protégées came for their dinners
punctually every other day at the appointed
time, and the arrangement proved equally
satisfactory to all concerned.

It was now near the end of March. On
looking through her dinner lists, which she
kept by her to avoid a too frequent repetition
of any one thing, Marion noticed that the
time for pork would soon be at an end, for
she believed in the old saying that pork is not
wholesome in any month that has not an “r”
in it. So as April was the last “r” month,
she treated her household to a nice little piece
of roast loin, which they appreciated very
much. It was allowed plenty of time to
cook; about half an hour longer than a piece
of beef or mutton of the same weight would
have been, and it was so well basted that the
crackling was beautifully crisp and very unlike
the tough leathery pieces that are occasionally
served only to be left on the plates of those to
whom they are given. On the following day
she cut up the remains into dice, and, having
purchased half a pound of chuck steak and
cut it up small, made it into a curry to which
she added the remains of the pork.

This is her list for the week—

Sunday.

• Roast Ptarmigan.
• Artichokes.
• Baked Potatoes.
• Lemon Sponge.
• (Supper. ) Sardines. Brown Bread and Butter.
• Cocoa.

Monday.

• Roast Pork. Apple Sauce.
• Boiled Potatoes.
• Stewed Prunes.
• Rice Shape.

Tuesday.

• Curry and Rice.
• Boiled Batter Pudding.

Wednesday.

• (High Tea. ) Sausages.
• Oat Biscuits.

Thursday.

• Pea Soup.
• Baked Whitings with Brown Sauce.
• Sea-kale.
• Cauliflower with Cheese Sauce.

Friday.

• Stuffed Sheep’s Heart with Forcemeat Balls.
• Loch Lomond Pudding.

Saturday.

• Fried Liver and Bacon.
• Cabbage.
• Baked Potatoes.
• Semolina Pudding.

Lest my readers should be startled to see
sea-kale on the list, and think that our housekeeper
was forgetting her economy, I will
explain at once that it was not the expensive
sea-kale at eighteenpence the basket that one
sees wrapped in blue paper in the green-grocers’
shops. It was some sold at twopence
the pound—a quite small kind—that Marion
had discovered at some local “stores” which
she occasionally frequented. It was not as
delicate as the expensive kind, but it was very
nice. The salesman told her that they were
the siftings of the finer kind. The ptarmigan
she bought on a day when they were for sale
very cheap, as there had been a large supply
in the market, and they hung for a day or two
until they were wanted. They took so little
time to cook—about twenty-five minutes, that
it was hardly more trouble to cook them than
to warm up a pie or stew as they often did on
a Sunday. The oat biscuits and the Loch
Lomond pudding were both made from recipes
given some years before to Marion’s mother
by a Highland lady famous for her good things.
Here they are:—

Oat Biscuits. —Mix a teaspoonful of baking
powder with six ounces of flour; mix in four
ounces of fine oatmeal with two ounces of
brown sugar; mix with beaten egg to a
dough. Roll out, stamp into rounds with a
wineglass, lay on a greased tin and bake in a
rather slow oven about twenty minutes.

Loch Lomond Pudding. —Beat a quarter of
a pound of dripping to a cream, stir in two
tablespoonfuls of brown sugar, two tablespoonfuls
of raspberry jam, and half a teaspoonful
of carbonate of soda; add four
ounces of flour, and lastly beat in two eggs
one by one. Bake in a buttered pie-dish
about three-quarters of an hour.

The food bill for the week was certainly
economical. The breakfasts on the alternate
mornings, when they did not take porridge,
were dried haddocks, Monday and Wednesday,
and bacon on Friday. The haddocks were
left to soak in milk and water all night and
then cooked in a frying-pan in the milk and
water until quite tender, skimmed carefully,
drained on a fish-slice, put on a hot dish that
had first been rubbed with a little piece of
butter, and another bit was put on the top of
the fish. Then they were peppered and
brought quickly to table.

Food account:—

Towards the end of the month, as oranges
were getting much sweeter, and were very
cheap, they made some excellent marmalade.
Jane, Marion and Abigail cut up the oranges
one Saturday morning, put them in a large
earthenware pan with the right quantity of
water, covered the pan and let the contents
soak all Sunday. On Monday Marion cooked
it until it was sufficiently firm and put it in
jars, which she tied down on the following
day. This is her recipe—

Orange Marmalade. —Shred finely sixteen
Seville oranges, twelve sweet ones and four
lemons, carefully removing the pips as you do
so, and put them to soak in an earthenware
pan with six quarts of water, cover the pan
and let it soak for forty-eight hours. Put in
a stewpan or fish-kettle with eight pounds
of loaf sugar. As soon as the sugar has
melted, boil the marmalade, quickly skimming
all the while for twenty minutes, and then let
it simmer until the marmalade jellies.

(To be continued. )

[From photo: Copyright 1896, by Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich.

“MY SPIRIT CALLING THROUGH THE DARK.”

CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.

By MARGARET INNES.

CHAPTER V.

OUR FIRST DAYS IN THE BARN.

The route we had chosen, a drive of about
eighteen miles, was supposed to be the least
steep in its ups and downs; an important
consideration, with our heavy load. When
we crept round the last turning and could see
our hill, with its little patch of brown earth
turned up, and the barn which looked like
a small wooden box, we felt that our difficulties
for the day were conquered. At that moment
we were passing a ranch which was just being
enclosed with a fence made of narrow laths
wired together; these were lying in large
bundles at intervals all along the road for a
distance of about a quarter of a mile. To our
dismay, when Dan reached the first of these
bundles, he put back his ears and gave a
sudden and most violent shy, almost lurching
the surrey over, and then stood trembling,
his legs planted apart in an obstinate manner,
and absolutely refused to move an inch
further.

We tried coaxing, then whipping, till Dan
showed us his heels in a series of most vicious
kicks, higher and higher, till we feared he
would break some part of the harness, or the
surrey itself.

Eventually he did allow himself to be slowly
coaxed past, I making myself as broad as
possible to try and screen that side of the
road, and leading him, and my husband
checking his evident desire to bolt after each
separate bundle was left behind. By this time
it was grey twilight, and when we reached
our haven, we had to be satisfied with the
simplest arrangements possible for the night.

As we were occupying the rooms which by
rights belonged to the horses, they had to be
staked out on the open hillside, and during
the night Joe managed to get loose and went
careering off, up and down and round the barn,
so that we were awakened by the clattering of
his hoofs. It was a brilliant starlit night, perfectly
still and mild, and all the family turned
out in their night gear to help to catch him and
fasten him up again. It was a curious sensation
to be so absolutely alone, and free, with
nothing but the great ranges of big bare mountains
lying spread out into the far distance.

The absolute stillness was very weird; the
smallest sound from miles around reached us
in the calm quiet. The plaintive call of the
little brown owls had a sad uneasy ring in it,
and the coyote’s mocking yelp seemed most
uncomfortably near.

{315}

The mountain ranges looked so calm and
stately and unreachable in the cold clear moonlight,
and we felt horribly lonely.

There was one cañon some four miles away,
across the Silvero Valley, called Mexican
Cañon, and we wondered uneasily whether
Indians and Mexicans lived there; for we
seemed to be on the very borders of civilisation.
When we got to know the neighbourhood
better, we found nothing but peaceable
ranches, and more ranches far back into the
hills.

Returning to the barn we were rather glad
to roll the big door to, and close it fast.
We crept into our makeshift beds and were
asleep before long. But we were awakened
with a disagreeable start, hearing right inside
the barn a strange cry, which, in our sleepiness
and ignorance, might well have been the call
of a Red Indian, straight from the Mexican
Cañon, intent on securing the scalps of us
“tenderfeet.” The cry was repeated, as we
sat up listening eagerly, and then we all
laughed to see a little squatty figure sitting
on one of the open windows, and recognised
a harmless little brown owl.

In the morning we made some kind of order
and comfort around us. The one large room
in the barn (viz., the hayloft) we had divided
into two with a temporary screen, one half for
our bedroom, the other for sitting- and dining-room.
A small shanty had been added
outside for kitchen, and a shed which was
to receive the cow, when we had one, served
meanwhile as bedroom for our “coloured
lady.” There was a lower floor which was
divided into stalls for the horses, and which
was entered by a lower road, as the barn stood
on a steep slope.

The fifty cases of furniture, which had been
stored at San Francisco till we sent for them,
were strewn all about the hill top on which
the barn stood, and our first task was to open
most of these, take a few things out, and
pack away all the rest safely before the rains
came.

For days and days we worked away busily
at this, my husband and I, and our boys,
standing out in that hot glaring Californian
sun, with the dry dust of the soil getting into
our shoes and stockings and soaking all our
clothes. Our ranchman was busy with the
trees, and the coloured lady looked on when
she was not cooking; looked on with a
disdainful air, showing by many signs a great
contempt for people who could be so foolish
as to carry about such quantities of “stuff,”
as she called it.

To English eyes many Californian houses
look very empty, and no doubt our possessions
did seem ridiculously unnecessary to this
darky, who thought only of the bother they
would be to keep clean.

As we packed away case after case into
every available corner, stringing up chairs
and sofas, and all manner of things on to the
rafters, we began to wonder where we ourselves
were to be housed. We have always
since considered that it was a proof positive of
great sweetness of temper that we got through
a time of such terribly close quarters without
doing any violence to each other.

But with all our contriving there were a
number of cases for which we could find no
room, and these we covered with bits of
oil-cloth, and left them out of doors. They led
us a dreadful life, those seven cases; our
ranchman was for ever predicting rain, which
did not come, but kept us anxiously on the
watch. Finally, when it did come, it was
unexpected, and we had to rush out one night
to see if the high wind, which had risen with
the rain, had dislodged the oil-cloth. That
was a lively night, for the rain came running
down the inside walls of our barn in little
streams on the windward side, and pictures
and other things hung there for safety had to
be hurriedly removed.

It was the first night, too, that a large,
handsome kangaroo rat paid us a visit, running
about like an acrobat among the chairs on the
rafters, and when I carried a candle quite near
to him, to see what he was like, he looked
down at me with the greatest coolness and
impudence, with his brilliant black eyes. The
place seemed to suit him, for he became a
constant visitor. Another intimate guest was
a particularly large lizard, who darted in and
out under the big door.

We were a little uneasy lest some less
harmless visitors should invite themselves.
We knew that there were scorpions and
tarantulas; the men who had built our barn
had unwittingly pitched their tent the first
night just over a nest of tarantulas, and had
discovered them in the early evening, and
spent the rest of the night in searching for and
killing them with their hammers.

Ugly, wicked-looking things they are, with
their enormous hairy legs and body and cruel
nippers; they are very aggressive, too, and
would much rather fight than run away.

But most of all we dreaded the rattlesnakes.
Our ranchman had killed thirty on the adjoining
land, and several had already been found
on ours. Everyone told us they were very
easy to kill, but that did not reassure us.

Our first introduction to snakes was more
alarming than dangerous. We had put all
our umbrellas and sticks into a corner of the
barn behind a large corner seat. One day
whilst we were quietly resting after dinner,
our youngest boy, Gip, asleep on his couch,
my husband chanced to be looking at these
umbrellas, thinking sleepily that he did not
recognise one of the handles, which seemed
to stand out from the rest, when he was
suddenly made wide awake by seeing it move
quietly round, first to one side then to the
other, and knew that it was a snake. He
reached out his hand quietly for something to
strike it with, but it darted out of sight at
once behind the couch, and though we
searched long for it, we did not find it. We
found, however, a large notch hole through
which it had probably crept in, and we lost
no time in closing this securely. It was not a
rattlesnake, however, and was probably quite
harmless, as numbers of the snakes are, some
of them being considered valuable as destroyers
of vermin.

Some of these try to pass themselves off as
rattlers, however, and we often wondered
how they knew that the faint sound of the
rattle is so strangely horrible and frightening,
that they should try to imitate it as a means of
defence.

Another fright which we had, while still in
the barn, was very thrilling. It was in the
night, and we had been fast asleep, when all
at once we became wide awake, straining our
ears for the repetition of a horrible sound that
we seemed to have heard in our sleep. It is
impossible to describe the cold horror and fear
which that curious dry rattle gives one.

Here was the thing we had so dreaded—a
rattlesnake in the room. As we sat up in the
dark the sound was repeated, seemingly from
the middle of the room. Someone whispered,
“Do you hear,” and we answered, “Do not
move.” We reached cautiously for matches
and candle, and of course these poor, wretched
Californian matches—the worst surely in the
world—did nothing but break off or go
out. For some minutes the sound continued
with an angry crescendo, till we began to
wonder if the dreadful thing had got itself
wedged in somewhere between the piles of
furniture.

At last a feeble, uncertain light and four
pairs of strained eyes searched the dim room.
And there, sitting nicely balanced on his hind
legs, with his sharp black eyes shining brightly,
was a small field mouse with a long rattle
between his teeth, shaking it about vigorously
every few minutes, then running a few paces
and rattling it again.

We had cut off a number of rattles from the
snakes killed on our ranch to keep them as
curiosities, and this was one of them which
the mouse had got hold of and seemed to find
such a good plaything.

(To be continued. )

VARIETIES.

How He grew Rich.

A man who had by his own unaided
exertions become rich, was asked by a friend
the secret of his success.

“I accumulated,” said he, “about one-half
of my property by attending to my own
business and the other half by letting other
people’s entirely alone.”

Toil on.—If you want knowledge you
must toil for it; if food you must toil for it;
if pleasure you must toil for it. Toil is the
law. Pleasure comes through toil, and not by
self-indulgence and indolence. When a girl
gets to love work her life is a happy one.

I Don’t Care!—When you say “I don’t
care!” see that your tone of voice doesn’t
indicate that you do.

No, not Heavy.

A little girl was wandering in an Edinburgh
street, dragging about a great baby boy
almost as big as herself.

A clergyman who was passing stopped and
said, “Why, my little lass, can you carry that
boy? He must be heavy.”

The child looked up in his face and gasped,
“No, sir, he’s no heavy. He’s my brither.”

Surely a whole sermon in itself!

With his Friend.

In a London mission school near a “settlement,”
the teacher asked, “Where does
Jesus live?”

A small boy spoke up: “Some of His
friends have come to live in our alley, and I
think He lives with them.”

A Poet’s Marriage.

Robert Browning, the famous poet, and
Elizabeth Browning, one of the sweetest
and truest of our poetesses, were married on
the 12th of September, 1846, in the parish
church of St. Marylebone.

The poet proved a model husband, intensely
devoted to his wife, proud of her genius, and
watchful over her happiness. In his “Life” we
read that in 1851, and indeed “on each succeeding
visit paid to London with his wife, he
commemorated his marriage in a manner all
his own. He went to the church in which it
had been solemnised and kissed the paving-stones
in front of the door.”

Time for Everything.—There is time
enough for everything in the day if you do but
one thing at once.

{316}

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

PART V.

In our last paper upon this subject we
described some examples of cottages in the
immediate neighbourhood of London, and we
propose devoting this one to a continuation of
the same subject.

Close to the Church of Ryslip, and opposite
to its western end, is a group of cottages,
one of which is undoubtedly of early date,
probably 16th century. It is long and low,
the ground floor storey being of brick, and
the upper portion of “Post-and-pan,” so that
it is what is architecturally known as a “half
timber” structure; one end has been plastered
over in later times, and the whole forms a
row of small cottages. We are in some doubt
whether, as originally arranged, it may not
have formed one single dwelling-house, the
whole, or, at any rate, the centre portion of
which was the parsonage. It has some
curious features about it. A large black
cross of brick is built into the wall, it is of the
form known in heraldry as a “Cross Calvary”
that is, it stands upon three steps. We do
not, however, suggest that it has any heraldic
signification, as its position seems to point
to a different purpose. This cross is not in
the centre of the building, but is placed
exactly opposite to the western door of the
church, and immediately over it are three
windows, the centre one of which is much
longer than the other two, and is now
blocked up, showing that it was unnecessary
for giving light to the room. These peculiarities
seem to point out the fact that in former
times this was the residence of the rector or
vicar of the parish. The cross was placed
there to mark out the house to any who
might need his ministrations, and the long
window over it to give light to his “study,”
where he might write or read, and at the
same time look out upon the church door to
see who went in or came out of the sacred
edifice. All the other windows are very small
and high up, because those who resided in the
other cottages, not requiring to read and
write, and having no special interest in
watching the church door, could do well
enough without extra light in their rooms.
The whole group of cottages is very interesting.
The oak beams are well moulded, and
have stood the test of time admirably. If our
suggestion is correct, these buildings have a
peculiar interest, as there are so very few
mediæval parsonages in existence. Some
thirty years back an interesting one was to be
seen at Willesden, but in improving the
churchyard they “improved” this venerable
relic of church history off the face of the
earth. It was of the same homely but
substantial and picturesque character as the
building at Ryslip.

Our second sketch represents some of those
thatched and whitewashed cottages which are
common all over the home counties. They
are for the most part built of wattle clogged
with clay, and covered over with a thin coating
of lime mortar, whitewashed all over, and
roofed with thatch composed of rushes or
straw; they are comfortable and cheerful
little abodes, cool in summer and warm in
winter, with a thorough look of home about
them. They, however, have two great drawbacks:
they are liable to fire, and are less
durable than buildings constructed of more
solid materials. Consequently we rarely come
across examples which are above a century
old, though we not unfrequently find portions
of the timber framing considerably more
ancient, especially the angle posts and
“spurs,” which have been protected by that
judicious arrangement, followed in all ancient
timber buildings in England, of making the
upper storeys of the structure project over the
lower. Some writers tell us that this was
done to save ground space! This, however,
cannot be the case because land in a country
village could never have been of sufficient
value to have caused such a peculiarity in
construction. The idea undoubtedly was to
protect the ends of the upright beams from
wet, because when wood is cut “with the
grain,” as it should always be when used for
constructive purposes, the ends of the beam
absorb the moisture, but the sides are little
affected. Now by making the storeys overlap
as they ascend, and the roof overlap the top
storey, however lofty a house may be, its
timbers are thoroughly protected from the
rain.

The general effect of a village consisting of
thatched and whitewashed cottages is very
pleasing, especially when there is an ancient
stone or flint-built church in their midst.
The clean bright whitewash forms a lovely
contrast to the soft velvety look of the
thatch. The red brick chimneys, grey lichen-covered
walls of the old church, the lofty elms,
and brilliant patches of garden, combine
together to form a charming scene of peaceful
and homely life.

Up to within some five years back an old
thatched cottage stood at Shepherd’s Bush
green, and another close to Paddington
churchyard; both have now disappeared, and
we do not know of the existence of any old
thatched cottages within four miles of Charing
Cross. Don’t let our readers imagine that
we should suggest the building of thatched
houses in London or any great city. Such
structures would be contrary to all architectural
propriety in such localities, and
dangerous in case of fire.

(To be continued. )

COTTAGE HOMES AT RYSLIP.

{317}

THATCHED AND WHITE-WASHED COTTAGES, ESSEX.

“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 XX.

A GLIMPSE OF LOVELY POLLY.

“Now, my dear Polly, I pray you
make the very most this evening of your
charms. For somebody will be there
whom you little think to see.”

Polly and Molly, both on a visit to
the Bryces in London, looked up
sharply.

“Yes, indeed, and you may guess,
but I vow you’ll never guess the truth.
Two young maidens to have such good
fortune! Had it come to me in my
young days, why, I think ’twould have
driven me out of my senses with joy.
But you may conjecture—you may conjecture,
Polly. Who in the world can
it be?”

Polly was seated upright on a straight-backed
chair, looking as usual exceedingly
pretty. Her eyes, softer and more
than ever like brown velvet, took a faraway
expression, and the delicate tinting
of her cheeks grew roseate. She
said demurely, after a pause—

“If I might conjecture that which my
desires would prompt, ma’am, I would
say—Captain Ivor!”

Mrs. Bryce tapped the floor impatiently
with her slippered and sandalled foot.

“Pish-pshaw! To be sure, that is
proper enough, my dear. But now you
may rest satisfied that you have said
what propriety demands. And since
Captain Ivor is a prisoner in foreign
parts, and likely so to remain for many
a long year to come, being therefore
out of the question, we’ll e’en dismiss
the thoughts of him, and I’ll ask Molly
whom she would most desire to meet at
the dance to-night.”

Molly sat upon a second high-backed
chair, busily netting. At sixteen—close
upon seventeen, indeed—she was more
altered from the child of twelve than her
twin-brother in the same lapse of time.
She had not grown tall, and she was
more rounded than in earlier years.
Her black eyes looked less big and less
anxious, partly because the face had
lost its peakiness. A healthy complexion
and an expression of straightforward
earnestness served in place of
good looks. Molly Baron would never
be a “belle,” but she might become
a woman to whom men and women alike
would turn, with a restful certainty of
finding in her what they wanted. Her
reply was more prompt than Polly’s had
been, and it consisted of one single
syllable.

“Roy!”

“But Roy, like Captain Ivor, is a
prisoner, child. Like to remain so also.
Who next?”

“Jack!” Molly said, with equal
rapidity.

“Nay, Jack is nobody. Jack is one
of ourselves, and is in and out perpetually.
Jack’s a genteel young fellow
enough, I make no question, but somewhat
better than Jack awaits you
this evening. Eh, Polly—what if it be—no
other than Captain Peirce?”

“Captain Peirce better than Jack!
Nay!” Molly said indignantly.

Polly’s colour went up again, as it
was wont to do on slight provocation,
delicately and prettily. Polly also
tossed her head, and arranged the light
scarf, which covered her shoulders.

“Captain Peirce is welcome enough,
ma’am,” she made answer carelessly.

“I do not like Captain Peirce,”
murmured Molly.

“Nobody desired you to like Captain
Peirce, my dear Molly. ’Tis vastly
more to the point whether Polly likes
him, since of a certainty Captain
Peirce’s affections are engaged in a
certain direction, which may be named
without difficulty. Captain Peirce is a{318}
prodigious favourite with everybody,
especially, I can assure you, with all the
young women of mode. And he has
eyes for none of ’em except Polly.”

Polly looked studiously down, offering
no remark; and Molly frowned.

“If Captain Peirce were what a man
should be, he would never come after
Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is
engaged to another, and he out of
reach!”

“Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish!
Pshaw! What know you of such
matters? A chit of a young female of
sixteen! I’m positively ashamed of
you! Why, you’re scarce out of the
nursery, child. And here’s Polly, the
prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one,
and not yet married. No, nor no
chance to be married, while old Nap
lives; and depend on’t, he’ll not die
yet, for many a long year. Is Polly to
wait and wait, till her prettiness goes,
and she turns into an elderly maiden,
whom no man of ton will ever deign to
cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor
spends perhaps fifteen or twenty years
in France, and forgets his past fancy,
and marries some beauteous young
Frenchwoman?”

Molly gazed at Polly’s downcast face.
“But Polly knows Captain Ivor better!”
she suggested.

“Knows Captain Ivor better! And
how may that be?” demanded the
vivacious lady. “Since Polly has seen
him but from time to time, and that at
long intervals, and I have been acquainted
closely with him since he was
left an orphan at the age of seven. Nor
have I a word to speak against Captain
Denham Ivor, save only that to expect
Polly to wait for him twenty years, losing
her bloom and growing old, would be
altogether unreasonable. And I have
said the same before, Molly.” Which
certainly she had.

“Polly is still a long way off from
growing old,” persisted Molly.

“Well, well, that’s as may be. But
you’ve not divined my secret yet,”
pursued Mrs. Bryce. “Jack will be at
my Lady Hawthorn’s to-night; and ’tis
not Jack of whom I speak. Captain
Peirce will be there; and ’tis not Captain
Peirce. The Admiral will be there;
and ’tis not the Admiral. Somebody
else also will be there—and ’tis he.”

Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the
table. “Who was it that read last
week the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel,’
and that said she would give half she
was possessed of to set eyes on the
writer of that most elegant poem?”

“Mr. Walter Scott!” The rapture
on Molly’s girlish face fully repaid Mrs.
Bryce, who, whatever her faults might
have been, did dearly love to give
pleasure. Polly too smiled, but more
quietly, having her mind greatly preoccupied.

“Mr. Walter Scott is now in London,
and will be at Lady Hawthorn’s assemblage.
So now, Miss, what say you to
my promise of somebody that shall be
worth seeing?”

“Really and truly?” questioned
Molly, half incredulously. “May we in
truth hope to see Mr. Walter Scott
himself to-night? That will be worth
going for, were there naught else.
Think, Polly, Mr. Walter Scott himself,
that writ all about William of Deloraine
and the ‘Fair Ladye Margaret of
Branksome Hall.’”

“You may count yourself a fortunate
young woman, Molly,” complacently
observed Mrs. Bryce. “At the early
age of sixteen, not only to have a
personal acquaintance with so distinguished
a martial hero as Sir John
Moore, but also to have had a sight of
Mr. Southey, the author of ‘Thalaba,’
as well as of Mr. Southey’s friend, Mr.
William Wordsworth, and now to be
brought face to face with Mr. Scott
himself—I give you joy of such good
fortune.”

“And the last will be the best,” remarked
Molly. “For I love the ‘Lay
of the Last Minstrel’ infinitely more
than I love ‘Thalaba.’ Sure, ma’am,
so great a poet as Mr. Scott has never
yet been known.”

“If the public voice be true, ’tis even
so. Mr. Southey complains sorely of
his ill-luck in the poor sale of his
poems, and I know not that Mr. Wordsworth
has much to boast of. Whereas
Mr. Scott’s poems go off by the myriad,
and are read of all. I’m informed that
Mr. Constable is this year paying him
one thousand pounds in advance for a
poem not yet completed—a poem about
a place that is called ‘Rokeby.’ And
ten thousand people are on the look-out
for its appearance. But now ’tis full
time you began to prepare yourselves;
and Polly must look her best this
night.”

Polly was in no wise unwilling. It
was as natural to her to adorn her dainty
self as to a wren to preen and perk.
Molly, being no professed beauty, made
shorter work of her toilette. Her white
muslin gown was of the simplest; and
her short black hair was all but hidden
under a turban of white silk. But every
strand of Polly’s abundant mane needed
attention, though crowned with a fantastic
hat, which carried lofty white
feathers; and her embroidered white
gown, made with its waist under the
arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders
bare. The skirt was clinging and
scanty; and a large white muff completed
her ball-room equipment, except
that a light scarf was wound round the
said shoulders, and that the dainty feet
bore satin slippers.

Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her
skin was like ivory; the blush-rose tinting
was just where it ought to have
been; and the smile in her velvet eyes
was in itself a sunbeam.

She could never enter a crowded
room, without becoming at once a
centre for all glances. Molly, close
behind, was neglected by comparison,
and was quite content to have it so.
While amused with the scene, she did
not expect admiration.

The one thing on which her heart was
set was the promised sight of Mr.
Walter Scott, the future “Wizard of
the North.” His real work in life, the
writing of the “Waverley Novels,” had
not then been so much as begun; but
he was already well known as the very
successful author of divers historical
ballads, which had taken the fashionable
world by storm. When he came
from his Scotch home to London, he
was fêted and made much of to any
extent.

Molly pictured him to herself as a
quite ineffable individual, with fathomless
dark eyes and flowing locks of
ebony, such as should befit an immortal
poet. And “immortal” Scott doubtless
is, in the literary sense, with still
no peer, but hardly as a poet. Popular
judgment made a mistake there—not
for the first or the last time in its
existence.

This is not a quotation; it is merely
a specimen of the kind of thing that our
great-grandmothers and grandmothers
in their early youth admired and doted
on. The bump of veneration must have
been more highly developed on people’s
heads in those days than in these.
And how they did admire and did dote,
the dear young things! Just as Molly
Baron did that evening. She sat upon
her quiet seat, neglected, yet perfectly
happy at the thought of the glorious
poet-form, which her gaze was soon to
rest upon. She did not care to talk.
She did not wish to dance. She was
wrapped in a dream, from which Mrs.
Bryce’s decisive finger-tips aroused her.

“Wake up, my dear. Are you
asleep, Molly? Here he comes.”

Molly looked rapturously around and
about in eager quest. But she saw no
wondrous human form to correspond to
the image in her mind. A lame man,
of good height, rather robust in make,
healthy, but scarcely “elegant,” with
brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a long
upper lip, and a frank genial expression—no,
that was not Molly Baron’s
ideal of an immortal poet. His eyes
were only light grey in colour, not dark
and wild, as a poet’s should have been.
Yet the gleams of arch brightness
which lighted up his face, as he talked,
went a long way towards redeeming it
from homeliness.

Then Molly was called up to be presented
to the poet; and he said a few
kind words to the young girl—she could
not afterwards remember what they were.
In later years she would be glad to
know always that she had seen and
spoken with him; but at the moment
her mind was full of its sudden disillusionment.

Mr. Walter Scott passed on, surrounded
by a host of friends; and Molly
retreated again to her seat. Plenty
was going on to amuse and interest her.
She had danced twice, and now a
rather long pause had come, no fresh
partners turning up. Molly was of
course under Mrs. Bryce’s wing, but
that lady had too many irons in the fire
to spare much time for the quiet country
girl at her side. Molly cared little.
She liked to look and listen, indulging
in cogitations of her own. Mrs.
Bryce’s gay talk was entertaining{319}
enough, as the good lady expatiated on
this person and that, flirted her fan at
one elderly gentleman and captured
another, dissected theoretically one
lady’s “bewitching gown,” and descanted
on the “superb equipage”
possessed by another, reverting then to
the “London Particular Madeira”
which had been served at a recent
grand dinner-party, and hoping for some
of the same at supper.

Growing surfeited with this, Molly
turned her attention elsewhere, and
descried Admiral Peirce close at hand,
button-holing another gentleman, and
holding forth to him in a loud voice on
the advantages of London as a place of
residence.

“Why, sir,” he was saying, “why,
sir, there’s nothing after all like old
Thames. Give me the blue ocean and
tossing waves. But for a landsman—why,
the Thames is as good as he may
look to find. And I tell you what, sir,
the water of the river Thames is the
finest drinking-water in the world!
Only has to stand and ferment a little,
and then it’ll keep as long as ever you
want it.[1] Yes, sir, it will indeed.”

Molly, being sublimely indifferent to
the qualities of London drinking-water,
which in those days was not considered
a question of pressing interest, wandered
farther afield. A slight pucker came
between her brows, as she made out
Polly at a short distance, with Captain
Albert Peirce in close attendance. He
was bending towards Polly, saying
something in a low and confidential
voice; and it was impossible from
Polly’s look to know whether she were
pleased or displeased.

The gay scene around faded from
Molly’s vision. She was looking down,
thoughtfully, at her own half-furled fan;
but she did not see the fan, or the
crowds of gay women around in their
low dresses and hats or turbans, scarves
and muffs and satin shoes. Another
scene had risen before her mental eyes.
She seemed again to be in a day long
gone by; and Roy was giving her a
boisterous kiss.

“All right, Molly!” he was calling
gaily. “It’s only for two weeks, you
know, and then we shall be back again.”
And as Roy ran off, in high glee, she
had looked up, and had seen Denham
Ivor holding Polly’s hands in a firm
clasp, while Polly’s sweet face was
downward bent and blushing. But it
was not Polly who in one moment had
left an indelible impression upon Molly’s
childish memory. When she thought
of that day it was always Ivor’s face—the
young Guardsman’s look of silent
grave devotion—which unbidden came
up.

“How can Mrs. Bryce say such
things? He will never, never forget!”
murmured Molly, her lips unconsciously
moving with the energy of her own
thoughts.

“Molly, this is sure scarce a place
for audible meditation,” a voice said at
her side.

“Jack!”

Molly’s whole face grew bright. Now
she had all, or nearly all, that she
wanted. She was extremely fond of
Jack, and Jack of her. They were
exactly like brother and sister, so Molly,
not Jack, often stated. He was quite
next to Roy in her estimation. Roy
held inviolate the first place in his twin-sister’s
affections; but Jack came
closely after.

“Were you spouting Mr. Scott’s
last new poem, Molly?” demanded
Jack, as he deposited himself in an
empty chair by her side.

“You love to plague me, Jack! Why
should I be spouting aught?”

Jack gave her a quizzical look.

“’Tis dull work for a young maiden
to be seated here. What may Mrs.
Bryce be after, not to find you
partners?”

“Jack, be cautious, she is near.
See!”—with a motion of her fan.
“And I am not dull. I am never dull.
I have danced two whole dances, Jack.”

“And three with me to come. You
do not forget.”

“Two,” corrected Molly. “And
they will be the best of all”—with
childish frankness. “But my grandmother
desired me to dance no more
than two with any one man. And what
news of Sir John?” Molly had a quick
womanly instinct, which not all women
possess, as to what people would like to
speak about, and she generally managed
to hit the mark, whence her quiet popularity
in the little circle of those who
knew her well.

“I went to Cobham but a week since,
and saw his mother. She fears Sir
John is sorely worried by these Sicilian
complications. The Queen of Sicily
must be a strange personage. She detests
the English, and gives all her
confidence to Frenchmen—so says Sir
John—yet our government fights in
defence of the King, her husband, and
pays him too a subsidy.”

“And ’tis but a year since Sir John
was all on the alert to be sent to India.”

“Ay; so he told me, and his mother
speaks of it still. She says that Sir
John deems India to be by far the most
important colony our nation has ever
had. He thought then that he might
well be spared for a while from Europe,
matters being somewhat at a standstill.
Since Trafalgar there can be no further
dread of an invasion, and little was
doing or is doing on the Continent, to
check the Emperor’s advance. For my
part, I doubt not that Sir John would
prefer above all to be at the head of
affairs in India. I have heard him say
that that was the greatest and most important
command which could fall to a
British officer. But Mr. Fox refused to
spare him, saying that England could
not do without him in Europe.”

Jack had always plenty to say, when
once he got upon the subject of his
Hero.

(To be continued. )

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