{161}

THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

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

“OUR HERO.”
HOUSEHOLD HINTS.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS COMPETITION.
THE FAIRY GOVERNESS.

IN DREAMLAND.

All rights reserved.]

“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 XI.

THE FRENCH FLEET SIGNALLED.

Mrs. Bryce
could seldom
be happy for
long together
in one place.
Before the
end of September
she
had decided
to quit Folkestone
for
Sandgate.
Polly, nothing
loath,
chimed in
with the plan
eagerly; and
Mr. Bryce,
whatever he
thought or
wished,
made no
objection.

“If Buonaparte
should
come, my dear, what then?” was all that
he ventured to suggest; and Mrs. Bryce
snapped her fingers, not at him, but at
the First Consul.

“Let him come, if he will. Pray, my
dear, do you consider that we are bound
to shape our course with a view to pleasing
old Nap?” demanded the vivacious lady.

Mr. Bryce disclaimed any such meaning.
He wondered privately what his
wife’s feelings would be, if one day a
round shot from a French ship should
rush through the room in which she
might be seated. But in that respect
Sandgate was no worse than Folkestone;
and since he never expected logic from
his wife, he made no effort to convince
her that she might be in the wrong.

To Sandgate therefore they went, on a
rainy autumn day, when the sea wailed
dismally, and the wind howled more
dismally still, and the lodgings which
Mr. Bryce had managed to secure wore
an aspect most dismal of all. Even
Mrs. Bryce’s spirits were affected by the
state of the atmosphere.

Books in their possession were few,
and had all been read. Jack failed to
appear so soon as they had expected.
Mr. Bryce sallied forth, despite the rain,
but the ladies could not think of following
his example. Mrs. Bryce, in despair,
turned to one or two old volumes
of the Gentleman’s Magazine, lying in a
corner, and in so doing, to her gratification,
she fished out two or three recent
numbers of the same serial, including
the current number for September, 1803.

“Ah, ha, my dear Polly, now we shall
do!” she declared cheerfully. “Now
we may defy the elements, and you shall
get on with your purse-netting, and I
will find something to read aloud for
your entertainment. I wonder much that
Jack does not come.”

“Jack is busy, or he would be here,”
Polly said confidently. Just as she had
her half-netted blue silk purse nicely
arranged between foot and knee, Mr.
Bryce walked in, carrying letters, at the
sight of which Polly dropped her work
and started up.

“Nay, not from France. Nothing
from France,” Mr. Bryce said, with
quick understanding; and Polly returned
to her seat languidly. “One from Bath
for you, and one from Norfolk for my
wife. Two letters in a day! You may
count yourselves fortunate.”

Mr. Bryce disappeared anew, and
Polly remarked—

“My grandmother has written to me.”

“Read it aloud, Polly. ’Twill serve
before the magazine,” quoth Mrs.
Bryce; and Polly complied, looking
ahead, lest she should stumble upon any
sentence meant only for herself. The
letter[1] ran as follows:—

“Bath. Oct. 28; 1803.

“My dear Polly,—Yours to Molly
has very seriously disquieted my mind, I
assure you. If General Moore, with his
g^t experience, considers that the French
landing may be apprehended as likely
soon to Take Place, ’tis sure the height
of imprudence for you to remain in that
neighbourhood, where the French Army,
if it lands, will doubtless Pillage and
Burn to the best of their Ability.

“Nor does it appear to me, my dear
Polly, that you will be greatly the better
off in Lonⁿ, where certainly the Invading
Army will immediately march, so soon
as it has effected a Landing.

“I am therefore about to Propose
what seems to me the wiser plan for all
concerned. Which is, that you and Mrs.
Bryce shou’d return again to Bath,
without Delay, leaving Mr. Bryce, as
Dou’tless he will desire, to take his
proper share in the Defence of our
Country. If Mrs. Bryce be willing to
act according to this plan. I most
gladly offer to her such Humble Accommodation
as is in my power to bestow.
The aspect of affairs is truly Alarming;
and if it be seriously apprehended that
Lonⁿ is like to be in greater danger of
Bustle and Trouble than Bath, there is
no Necessity for you all to remain in that
part of England. If Mrs. Bryce can
dispense for awhile with the Good Table,
to which she is used, and can put up
with more Humble Fare, then every
friendly Accommodation in my power is
at her Service.

“Last Saturday there appear’d before
the Market Place forty-three Blacks,
who said they had been prisoners to the
french, but had been retaken, and were
come to offer themselves volunteers to
King George. The Countrymen stared
at them, and the women cried out upon
them for ugly creatures. The next
morning here arrived a coach-full of the
same colour. They are all sent to
Marlborough, how to be disposed of I
don’t know.

“My love to Jack, who I hope will not
be spoiled by his many friends—alas,
too frequently the case in these days of
scarcity of Good Young Men. Molly is
well and behaves herself.

“Bath, it is expected, will soon be
crowded with Irish Company. A great
many large houses were engaged last
week. The Bristol people think that,
were the french to effect a landing on
some of the Welsh coasts, they might
soon expect to be troubled with them
there and at Bath. Several meetings
have been held on this subject. But ’tis
the opinion of most that Lonⁿ lies in
greater danger.

“Yesterday was a solemn day for
humiliation. The places of worship were
well attended; and the Clergy here
exerted themselves, I trust, to the best
of their Abilities.

“May God avert from old England so
great a Calamity as the presence of an
Enemy on her Soil.

“Adieu. Your affectionate Grandmother,

“C. Fairbank.”

Mrs. Bryce listened attentively, and
pronounced the writer’s mode of expression
to be “vastly old-fashioned.”

“But when you write, you may thank
her all the same, Polly. Mrs. Fairbank
means kindly, and if I thought old Nap
would come in truth—but ’tis all bluster
and empty boasting. For my part, I
put no sort of belief in no invasion of our
shores. But you may tell her that I am
most sincerely grateful, and that, should
occasion arise, I will not fail to avail
myself of her generous hospitality.”

With which Mrs. Bryce settled herself
comfortably in an apology for an easy-chair—real
easy-chairs had not yet been
evolved—and read her own letter.

“From my cousin in Norfolk. And if
you’ll believe it, Polly, they’re all in a
bustle and fright there too, lest Nap
should land first on the eastern coast.
He’ll have enough on hand, if he’s to go
everywhere that’s expected of him! And
if he goes there, they’ll get them away
into the fen country, where ’tis thought the
French Army won’t be able to follow.”

Presently the letter was put aside,
and Mrs. Bryce betook herself to the
Gentleman’s Magazine, not without
another passing allusion, contemptuously
worded, on the state of alarm into which
folks in general seem to have fallen.

“Listen now to this, Polly. ’Tis
vastly entertaining. ‘Human nature is
too fond of novelty…. Never did it
seem to be running so much from its
proper course as in the present age, when
we observe night turned into morning,
and the mornings change into night….
Where are the good days of old Queen
Bess? The sun-rise breakfast, the noon-tide
repast, and the twilight pillow of
repose?’”

Mrs. Bryce stopped, to indulge in a{163}
laugh. “But for my part I have no
especial wish to go back to the manners
of Queen Bess. Nor to change luncheon
into dinner once more.” Then she went
on reading:—

“‘But among the most prominent
foibles of the age is dress. Every breeze
(until the present war) wafted over some
new Parisian extravagance and impropriety,
and we had sufficient of our own
without any importation of such French
fashions, French manners, and French
ruinations.’ Then, my dear, the same
writer goes on to relate how, after an
absence of fifteen years, he returned to
his natal town, and on Sunday, when in
church, he could not resist observing
the dress of a certain young woman in
his front. She wore ‘the Spanish cloak,
the dome hat, the single thin muslin
petticoat, and the still thinner loose robe
that hung from her shoulders,’ all this
making him suppose her to be some
personage of no small importance. But,
to his amaze, he found the young female
to be—the butcher’s daughter! ’Tis a
paper dated ‘August,’ and signed ‘Old
Square Toes.’”

A pause, during which Polly’s thoughts
flitted away to Fontainebleau, and then
Mrs. Bryce started anew:—

“Listen next to this. ‘Definition of
old gentleman of a civil shopkeeper.
“His familiarity goes no farther than to
accept whatever kind of weather I am
pleased to bring, and to take in good
part my opinion of the invasion.”’
Vastly entertaining. And now do but
listen to somewhat else——”

But the “somewhat else” was never
read, for Jack walked in unannounced,
and with him a young fellow, Albert
Peirce by name, nephew to the Admiral,
and subaltern in a newly-arrived regiment
at Shorncliffe.

Introductions followed, Polly bestowing
one of her most graceful curtseys
upon the new-comer, in consideration
of his relationship to their old
friends, Admiral and Mrs. Peirce. No
doubt, too, Polly liked to be admired, as
was natural in so pretty a girl, and she
read instant appreciation of her charms
in Mr. Peirce’s rather good-looking face.
So she did her best to be agreeable to
him during the next two hours, and
seemed to be in tolerable spirits.
Whether those spirits remained equally
good, after she had disappeared from
general observation, retiring to her room
for the night, none about her could know.

Early the next morning Polly was
roused from profound slumber by agitated
sounds.

“Polly! Polly! Polly! Wake up this
instant, Polly! I vow and protest the
child is crazed! Wake up, Polly! Polly,
do you hear? Polly, they’re coming!”

Polly roused herself with great deliberation.
She was always a heavy sleeper
in the morning, though lively enough at
night, and she dragged herself to a
sitting posture, with half-shut eyes and
loosely-hanging hair, looking, it must
be conceded, not quite so lovely as when
generally visible to the world.

“Must I get up already, ma’am?
’Tis early.”

“Get up! And already, quotha!
’Tis time you bestirred yourself in right
earnest. Polly, Polly, I entreat of you
to make haste. For they’re coming;
they’re on their way hither.”

“Jack and Mr. Peirce?” Polly indulged
in a yawn.

“Jack and Mr. Peirce indeed! Why,
of course ’tis the French. Cannot you
understand, child? Will you awake?
We’ve not a moment to lose. I’ve
always said ’twas nonsense, and they’d
never truly come. But they’re off;
they’re on their way. And the wind is
favourable, and ’tis all up with us.”
Mrs. Bryce frantically wrung her hands,
standing beside the curtained bed, in
her flowered dressing-gown, her hair too
hanging loose, though not descending
so low as Polly’s abundant mane, while
her face was yellow-white with terror.
“And what we’re to do nobody knows.
Two French fleets of transports, and a
whole French army aboard! And bonfires
alight, and folks all astir, and there
will be fighting, and people will be
killed. And Mr. Bryce will sure be in
the front of everything, and he will get
shot, and I shall be left a widow, Polly.”
Mrs. Bryce collapsed on the foot of the
bed. “And we might have been safe
away out of it, if I hadn’t made such a
prodigious fool of myself, never thinking
for a moment that old Nap meant a
word of it all. I protest, ’tis enough to
drive one distracted. I’ll never in
my life go to the sea-coast again, not
for no sort of consideration. And they
say old Nap’ll be here in a few hours,
and there’s no way of getting off—not
a horse to be had for love or money!
If I’d had a notion of it, I’d never have
stopped here.”

By this time Polly had grasped the
situation, and her drowsiness was gone.
She sprang out of bed upon her little
white toes, and made a movement akin
to dancing, as she flung a pink wrapper
round her shoulders. This was being in
luck, she would have said, if she had
spoken out her first thought. To find
herself in the very thick of it all—as safe
as if a hundred miles away, with Moore
and his soldiers to protect her, yet able
to see everything—it was delightful.
Polly was a high-spirited girl, not easily
alarmed, and fear found no corner
in her mind this morning. She was
simply eager and excited, whereas Mrs.
Bryce, who, from sheer perversity had
refused to believe in even the possibility
of an invasion, and who from sheer lack
of imagination had failed to realise
beforehand what such an invasion might
mean if it ever came, was overwhelmed
with terror.

“Has Jack been?” asked Polly.

“Jack! No! How should Jack be
spared? He is wanted, of course.
They’ll all be wanted,” moaned Mrs.
Bryce. “And they’ll all be killed.
And we shall be taken prisoners, and be
carried away to France, and put into
dungeons, and never see England again.”

“I shouldn’t mind going to France,
if they would let me be where somebody
is!” murmured Polly. “But they won’t—they
won’t. Napoleon has no such
easy task before him. They’ll never get
past our soldiers. Why, think—General
Moore is here!”

“Nay, but he’s not; that’s the worst.
He away at Dungeness Point. And the
French may land before ever he can get
back. Everything is gone wrong. Alack!
Oh, dear!”

“Where is Mr. Bryce?”

“Gone off to see what’s being done.
There was no keeping him back. I protest,
he’d no business to leave me. If the
French came in here, I declare I should
die of terror on the spot.”

Polly executed another dainty pas on
the bare boards.

“Hadn’t we best make ready, ma’am,
before they come?” she cheerfully asked.

“It’s no manner of use, child. They
may arrive any moment. Any moment,
I tell you! And what on earth shall we
do then?”

Polly suggested a preference for seeing
the French in her frock, rather
than in a condition of undress, and
after much coaxing she managed to get
Mrs. Bryce into the next room. With
all possible expedition, she made her
morning toilette, flitting lightly about,
and wondering what would happen next.
Then, discovering that Mrs. Bryce’s
maid had fallen into a fit of hysterics
over the prospect of “them mounseers
a-comin’,” she took the maid’s place.

By the time that they both were
dressed, Mr. Bryce returned, with a
good deal to tell. The whole place was
in a grand commotion. An express had
been despatched to General Moore at
Dungeness Point, telling him of the
news received from Folkestone, and
informing him that the brigade was
already under arms. The volunteers
had turned promptly out, also the sea
fencibles; and one and all were prepared
to do and dare each his utmost in
defence of home and country.[2]

“Not a dull face to be seen, nor a
frightened one, except——” declared
Mr. Bryce, rubbing his hands, with a
glance at the wan cheek of his usually
lively wife. “All the world in high
spirits, specially the soldiers. Jack only
hopes that nothing may turn back the
fleet. ’Tis time Napoleon should have a
sharp lesson, he says. Heigho, Polly,
you are as fresh as a rose this morning.
Come, we’ll have our breakfast while we
may. I see no need to starve out of
compliment to the First Consul.”

“And pray, sir, take me out after,”
implored Polly.

“Nay, child, you’re safer in here.
Perchance you’d be hurt in the bustle.
Besides, it maybe, Jack will run in for a
word, and he would be vexed to find you
gone.”

This was a cogent argument, and
Polly submitted. She roved about the
room, looking much out of the window,
and singing under her breath scraps
from ballads of the day. First came—

Polly made a break here before her
sweet voice took up another strain, more
softly uttered:—

She had altered it slightly, half by
instinct, dropping the surname in the
last verse.

“In truth, Polly, you seem mighty
indifferent to Napoleon’s doings,”
objected Mrs. Bryce; after which she
inquired of her husband how they were
to escape inland.

“Why, that I do not precisely see,”
Mr. Bryce answered, with exasperating
satisfaction. “Every man in the place
will be wanted, and not a horse can be
spared. Doubtless General Moore will
arrange matters. I think ’tis needful
that we should wait a while, and see
what may happen. Depend on’t, Nelson
has his eye upon the French fleet, and
’tis a question in my mind whether they
ever can get so far as e’en to the coast
of England.”

Mrs. Bryce recurred hysterically to
her former assertion that the French
might arrive at any moment.

“Hardly that, since ships must take
time to go. But ’tis true they’ve
signalled from Folkestone that the
enemy’s boats had left Calais, and that
the transports and ships at Ostend were
also out and steering westerly. So, with
this wind, they’ll probably be here in a
few hours, if Nelson doesn’t cut them
out on their way with his fleet. And I
promise them, they’ll have a right good
reception if they come. Eh, Polly?
We’re making ready for ’em.”

“I can’t have you leave us again,
not for no sort of consideration,”
objected Mrs. Bryce. “Your duty, my
dear, is to protect us. If the French
come, what may Polly and I do?”

“They’ve a few small difficulties to
surmount first,” Mr. Bryce remarked
drily. “’Tis no case of walking quietly
on shore. I’ll be back in good time, my
dear, to protect you both, though, indeed,
should the French arrive, my place
would be in the ranks with others.”

Mr. Bryce had not been in such
excellent spirits for many a day. He
was a quiet and meek-mannered little
man commonly, but the prospect of a
fight made him feel quite young again.
When next he returned he carried a
musket with supreme satisfaction. Few
middle-aged men have not some remnants
of boyhood in them, and all the
boyhood in Mr. Bryce came that day to
the surface. He studied his new weapon
with glee, talking much to Polly of “firelocks,”
fingering daintily the touch-hole,
showing her how the spark from
the flint would set the gunpowder on fire,
and foretelling the certain death of some
unfortunate French conscript, forced to
fight for Boney against his will.

“Nay, sir, but you need not kill him,”
remonstrated Polly. “Only fire at his
limbs, pray, and we will nurse him till
he is well again.”

“I have writ a letter to your grandmother,
Polly,” Mrs. Bryce said, in
quavering tones. “Where is the wax?
I wish it fastened at once. I protest I’ve
scarce strength to lift a penholder. But
I’ve informed her we will go to Bath so
soon as ever we may. I trust only that
we’ll not be made prisoners for life,
before ever we’re away from this.”

Somewhat later, no further news having
reached them, Mr. Bryce again sallied
forth, and this time he consented to take
Polly, both of them promising to return
to Mrs. Bryce, on the very first intimation
that the invading fleet had been
sighted. They had not walked far,
when a man on horseback drew near at
a quick trot.

“’Tis himself!” Polly exclaimed,
with enthusiasm. Both she and Mr.
Bryce knew well the soldierly figure,
with its peerless ease and grace of
bearing, and every line of those fine
features was familiar to them.

“All will now go well,” murmured
Mr. Bryce.

“The General! ’Tis the General,
sir.”

They stood still, and Moore, drawing
rein sharply, sprang to the ground. He
was well bespattered with mud, and he
had the look of having ridden hard and
fast.

“So,” he said, breaking into a smile
which lighted up his whole face, “so,
’tis a false alarm this time!”

Polly’s exclamation contained a note
of something like disappointment. Mr.
Bryce seemed more gratified than
astonished. The General’s keen glance
went from the one to the other.

“Due to a mistaken signal,” he
remarked briefly, “which the signal-officer
at Folkestone understood to mean
what it did not mean. The French
transports have not left their stations,
either at Calais or at Ostend.”

“And you, sir, were at Dungeness
Point,” observed Mr. Bryce. “You must
have ridden thence at a great speed.”

“At full gallop the entire distance.
My horse, poor fellow, is, I fear, the
worse. Not this one; I have mounted
another. But the alarm is scarce a
subject for regret. The spirit displayed
on all sides has been of the best.”

“Will Napoleon really come, think
you, sir?” asked Polly, half shy, half
brave.

“If his intention be to come before the
winter, he has little time to lose,” Moore
answered courteously, also with a touch
of reserve, for privately he had not much
faith in the threatened invasion.

“And you think he may do so, sir,
in very truth?”

“He may doubtless make the attempt,
if he choose. The question is rather,—what
will he gain by it? It would seem
that Government has greater apprehension
of invasion now than awhile
since. Three more regiments join me
next Tuesday.”

“’Tis better to be over-careful than
under-careful,” suggested Mr. Bryce.

“And the stronger front we present,
the less likely are we to be attacked.
But I must away. Sir David Dundas
will be arriving soon. My compliments
to Mrs. Bryce. She is not, I hope, the
worse for this alarm.”

“Somewhat shaken, sir; but we will
return to cheer her up. She proposes
flight to Bath for safety.”

“She might perhaps go to a worse
place,” remarked the General, as he
mounted and rode off, with a parting
salute.

“Well, Polly?” said Mr. Bryce, when
they had watched him out of sight.

“Well, sir?” echoed Polly, in arch
tones.

“The false alarm, at least has served
to show of what metal some folks are
made,” said Mr. Bryce drily.

(To be continued.)

HOUSEHOLD HINTS.

Bread and milk for invalids should be
made by crumbling the bread into a basin,
pouring the boiling milk over it and warming
it through on the fire in an enamelled saucepan.
Care should be taken that there are no
lumps or hard crusts.

When a head of long hair has to be
washed, the hair should be first plaited and
the scalp washed carefully, then the hair
washed separately unplaited. This saves
many tangles and loss of both hair and
temper.

Flowers cut or picked in the early morning
last much longer than those gathered later in
the day, and, if they are to be sent by post,
should be placed in water for a short time
before being packed.

When having hair shampooed at a hairdresser’s,
be careful to shut your mouth and
breathe as little as possible while stooping
over the marble basin. Otherwise you run
great risk of illness by inhaling sewer gas from
the waste pipe which should not be, but is
sometimes, connected with a drain.

Stair-carpets should occasionally be taken
up, the steps cleaned, and the carpet replaced
so that what was on the edge of a step before
should be now in the middle. Carpets treated
this way will last much longer and not look
shabby so soon.

A coal-scuttle should be kept by the
kitchen fireplace to hold sifted cinders, and if
these are damped and put on where there is a
good coal fire, they make a fierce hot fire and
save the coals; but they should be well damped
with clean water just before using.

{165}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER X.

Although Fräulein
had charge
over the girls’
education, Mr.
Asplin reserved
to himself the
right of superintending
their
studies and
dictating their
particular direction.
He
was so accustomed
to training
boys for a
definite end
that he had no
patience with
the ordinary
aimless routine
of a girl’s
school course,
and in the case
of his daughters
had carefully
provided for their different abilities
and tastes. Esther was a born student,
a clear-headed, hard-thinking girl, who
took a delight in wrestling with Latin
verbs and in solving problems in Euclid,
while she had little or no artistic faculty.
He put her through much the same
course as his own boys, gave her half
an hour’s private lesson on unoccupied
afternoons, and cut down the two hours’
practising on the piano to a bare thirty
minutes. Esther had pleaded to give
up music altogether, on the ground that
she had neither love nor skill for this
accomplishment, but to this the Vicar
would not agree.

“You have already spent much time
over it, and have passed the worst of
the drudgery; it would be folly to lose
all you have learnt,” he said. “You
may not wish to perform in public, but
there are many other ways in which
your music may be useful. In time to
come you would be sorry if you could
not read an accompaniment to a song,
play bright airs to amuse children, or
hymn tunes to help in a service. Half
an hour a day will keep up what you
have learned, and so much time you
must manage to spare.”

With Mellicent the case was almost
exactly opposite. It was a waste of
time trying to teach her mathematics,
she had not sufficient brain power to
grasp them, and if she succeeded in
learning a proposition by heart like a
parrot, it was only to collapse into
helpless tears and protestations when
the letters were altered, and, as it
seemed to her, the whole argument
changed thereby.

Fräulein protested that it was impossible
to teach Mellicent to reason,
but the Vicar was loath to give up his
pet theory that girls should receive the
same hard mental training as their
brothers. He declared that if the girl
were weak in this direction, it was all
the more necessary that she should be
trained, and volunteered to take her
in hand for half an hour daily to
see what could be done. Fräulein
accepted this offer with a chuckle of
satisfaction, and the Vicar went on with
the lessons several weeks, patiently
plodding over the same ground without
making the least impression on poor
Mellicent’s brain, until there came one
happy never-to-be-forgotten morning
when Algebra and Euclid went spinning
up to the ceiling, and he jumped
from the table with a roar of helpless
laughter.

“Oh, baby! baby! this is past all
bearing! We might try for a century,
and never get any further. I cannot
waste any more time.” Then, seeing
the large tears gathering, he framed the
pretty face in his hands, and looked
at it with a tender smile. “Never mind,
darling! there are better things in this
world than being clever and learned.
You will be our little house-daughter;
help mother with her work, and play
and sing to father when he is tired in
the evening. Work hard at your music,
learn how to manage a house, to sew
and mend, and cook, and you will have
nothing to regret. A woman who can
make a home has done more than many
scholars.”

So it came to pass that Mellicent
added the violin to her accomplishments,
and was despatched to her own room to
practise exercises, while her elder sister
wrestled with problems and equations.

When Peggy Saville arrived, here was
a fresh problem, for Fräulein reported
that the good child could not add five
and six together without tapping them
over on her finger; was as ignorant of
geography as a little heathen, and had
so little ear for music that she could not
sing “Rule Britannia” without branching
off into “God save the Queen.”
But when it came to poetry!—Fräulein
held up her hands in admiration. It
was absolutely no effort to that child to
remember, her eyes seemed to flash
down the page, and the lines were her
own, and as she repeated them her
face shone, and her voice thrilled with
such passionate delight that Esther and
Mellicent had been known to shed tears
at the sound of words which had fallen
dead and lifeless from their own lips. And
at composition, how original she was!
What a relief it was to find so great a
contrast to other children! When it was
the life of a great man which should
be written, Esther and Mellicent began
their essays as ninety-nine out of a
hundred school-girls would do, with a
flat and obvious statement of birth,
birth-place, and parentage, but Peggy
disdained such commonplace methods,
and dashed headlong into the heart of
her subject with a high-flown sentiment,
or a stirring assertion which at once
arrested the reader’s interest. And it
was the same with whatever she wrote;
she had the power of investing the
dullest subject with charm and brightness.
Fräulein could not say too much
of Peggy’s powers in this direction, and
the Vicar’s eye brightened as he listened.
He asked eagerly to be allowed to see
the girl’s MS. book, and summoned his
wife from pastry-making in the kitchen
to hear the three or four essays which it
contained.

“What do you think of those for a
girl of fourteen? There’s a pupil for
you! If she were only a boy! Such
dash—such spirit—such a gift of words!
Do you notice her adjectives? Exaggerated,
no doubt, and over-abundant,
but so apt, so true, so strong! That
child can write: she has the gift. She
ought to turn out an author of no mean
rank.”

“Oh, dear me! I hope not. I hope
she will marry a nice, kind man who
will be good to her, and have too much
to do looking after her children to waste
her time writing stories,” cried Mrs.
Asplin, who adored a good novel when
she could get hold of one, but harboured
a prejudice against all women-authors
as strong-minded creatures, who lived
in lodgings, and sported short hair, inky
fingers, and a pen behind the ear.
Mariquita Saville was surely destined
for a happier fate. “When a woman
can live her own romance, why need
she trouble her head about inventing
others!”

Her husband looked at her with a
quizzical smile.

“Even the happiest life is not all
romance, dear. It sometimes seems
unbearably prosaic, and then it is a
relief to lose oneself in fiction. You
can’t deny that! I seem to have a
remembrance of seeing someone I know
seated in a big chair before this very fire
devouring a novel and a Newtown
pippin together on more Saturday afternoons
than I could number.”

“Tuts!” said his wife, and blushed
a rosy red, which made her look ridiculously
young and pretty. Saturday
afternoon was her holiday-time of the
week, and she had not yet outgrown her
school-girl love of eating apples as an
accompaniment to an interesting book,
but how aggravating to be reminded
of her weakness just at this moment of
all others! “What an inconvenient
memory you have,” she said complainingly.
“Can’t a poor body indulge in
a little innocent recreation without
having it brought up against her in
argument ever afterwards. And I
thought we were talking about Peggy!
What is at the bottom of this excitement?
I know you have some plan in
your head.”

“I mean to see that she reads good{166}
books, and only books that will help,
and not hinder her progress! The rest
will come in time. She must learn
before she can teach, have some experience
of her own before she can
imagine the experiences of others; but
writing is Peggy’s gift, and she has
been put in my charge. I must try to
give her the right training.”

From that time forward Mr. Asplin
studied Peggy with a special interest,
and a few evenings later a conversation
took place among the young people
which confirmed him in his conclusion
as to her possibilities. Lessons were
over for the day, and girls and boys
were amusing themselves in the drawing-room,
while Mr. Asplin read the
Spectator, and his wife knitted stockings
by the fire. Mellicent was embroidering
a prospective Christmas present, an
occupation which engaged her leisure
hours from March to December; Esther
was reading, and Peggy was supposed
to be writing a letter, but was, in reality,
talking incessantly, with her elbows
planted on the table, and her face
supported on her clasped hands. She
wore a bright pink frock, which gave a
tinge of colour to the pale face, her hair
was unbound from the tight pig-tail
and tied with a ribbon on the nape of
her neck, from which it fell in smooth
heavy waves to her waist. It was one
of the moments when her companions
realised with surprise that Peggy could
look astonishingly pretty upon occasion,
and Oswald, from the sofa, and Max
and Bob, from the opposite side of the
table, listened to her words with all the
more attention on that account.

She was discussing the heroine of a
book which they had been reading in
turns, pointing out the inconsistencies
in her behaviour, and expatiating on
the superior manner in which she—Mariquita—would
have behaved had
positions been reversed. Then the boys
had described their own imaginary
conduct under the trying circumstances,
drawing forth peals of derisive laughter
from the feminine audience, and the
question had finally drifted from “What
would you do?” to “What would you
be?” with the result that each one was
eager to expatiate on his own pet
schemes and ambitions.

“I should like to come out first in all
England in the Local Examinations,
get my degree of M.A., and be a teacher
in a large High School,” said Esther
solemnly. “At Christmas and Easter I
would come home and see my friends,
and in summer time I’d go abroad and
travel, and rub up my languages. Of
course, what I should like best would be
to be head mistress of Girton, but I
could not expect that to come for a good
many years. I must be content to work
my way up, and I shall be quite happy
wherever I am, so long as I am
teaching.”

“Poor old Esther! and she will wear
spectacles, and black alpaca dresses,
and woollen mittens on her hands!
Can’t I see her!” cried Max, throwing
back his head with one of the cheery
bursts of laughter which brought his
mother’s eyes upon him with a flash of
adoring pride. “Now there’s none of
that overweening ambition about me.
I could bear up if I never saw an
improving book again. What I would
like would be for some benevolent old
millionaire to take a fancy to me, and
adopt me as his heir. I feel cut out to
be a country gentleman and march
about in gaiters and knickerbockers,
looking after the property, don’t you
know, and interviewing my tenants. I’d
be strict with them, but kind at the
same time; look into all their grievances,
and put them right whenever I could.
I’d make it a model place before I’d
done with it, and all the people would
adore me. That’s my ambition, and a
very good one it is too; I defy anyone to
have a better.”

“I should like to marry a very rich man
with a big moustache, and a beautiful
house in London with a fireplace in the
hall,” cried Mellicent fervently. “I
should have carriages and horses, and
a diamond necklace and three children;
Valentine Roy—that should be the boy—and
Hildegarde and Ermyntrude, the
girls, and they should have golden hair
like Rosalind, and blue eyes, and never
wear anything but white, and big silk
sashes. I’d have a housekeeper to look
after the dinners and things, and a
governess for the children, and never do
anything myself except give orders and
go out to parties. I’d be the happiest
woman that ever lived.”

Lazy Oswald smiled in complacent
fashion.

“And the fattest! Dearie me,
wouldn’t you be a tub! I don’t know
that I have any special ambition. I
mean to get my degree if I can, and
then persuade the governor to send me
a tour round the world. I like moving
about, and change and excitement, and
travelling is good fun if you avoid the
fag, and provide yourself with introductions
to the right people. I know a
fellow who went off for a year and had
no end of a time; people put him up at
their houses, and got up balls and
dinners for his benefit, and he never
had to rough it a bit. I could put in a
year or two in that way uncommonly
well.”

Rob had been wriggling on his chair
and scowling in his wild-bear fashion
all the while Oswald was speaking,
and at the conclusion he relieved his
feelings by kicking out recklessly
beneath the table, with the result that
Peggy sat up suddenly with a “My foot,
my friend! Curb your enthusiasm!”
which made him laugh, despite his
annoyance.

“But it’s such bosh!” he cried
scornfully. “It makes me sick to hear
a fellow talk such nonsense. Balls and
dinners—faugh! If that’s your idea of
happiness, why not settle down in
London and be done with it! That’s
the place for you! I’d give my ears to
go round the world, but I wouldn’t
thank you to go with a dress suit and a
valet; I’d want to rough it, to get right
out of the track of civilisation and taste
a new life; to live with the Bedouin in
their tents as some of those artist
fellows have done, or make friends with
a tribe of savages. Magnificent! I’d
keep a note-book with an account of all
I did, and all the strange plants and
flowers and insects I came across, and
write a book when I came home. I’d a
lot rather rough it in Africa that lounge
about Piccadilly in a frock coat and tall
hat.” Robert sighed at the hard prospect
which lay before him as the son of
a noble house, then looked across the
table with a smile: “And what says the
fair Mariquita? What rôle in life is she
going to patronise when she comes to
years of discretion?”

Peggy nibbled the end of her pen and
stared into space.

“I’ve not quite decided,” she said
slowly. “I should like to be either an
author or an orator, but I’m not sure
which. I think, on the whole, an orator,
because then you could watch the effect
of your words. It is not possible, of
course, but what I should like best
would be to be the Archbishop of
Canterbury, or some great dignitary of
the Church. Oh, just imagine it! To
stand up in the pulpit and see the dim
cathedral before one, and the faces
of the people looking up, white and
solemn…. I’d stand waiting until the
roll of the organ died away and there
was a great silence; then I would look
at them, and say to myself—‘A thousand
people, two thousand people, and
for half an hour they are in my power.
I can make them think as I will, see
as I will, feel as I will. They are
mine! I am their leader.’—I cannot
imagine anything in the world more
splendid than that! I should choose to
be the most wonderful orator that was
ever known, and people would come
from all over the world to hear me, and
I would say beautiful things in beautiful
words, and see the answer in their faces,
and meet the flash in the eyes looking
up into mine. Oh—h! if it could only—only
be true; but it can’t, you see. I
am a girl, and if I try to do anything in
public I am as nervous as a rabbit, and
can only squeak, squeak, squeak in a tiny
little voice that would not reach across
the room. I had to recite at a prize-giving
at school once, and, my dears, it
was a lamentable failure! I was only
audible to the first three rows, and
when it was over, I simply sat down
and howled, and my knees shook. Oh,
dear, the very recollection unpowers
me! So I think, on the whole, I shall
be an authoress, and let my pen be my
sceptre. From my quiet fireside,” cried
Peggy, with a sudden assumption of the
Mariquita manner, and a swing of the
arms which upset a vase of chrysanthemums,
and sent a stream of water
flowing over the table—“from my
quiet fireside I will sway the hearts of
men——”

“My plush cloth! Oh, bad girl,—my
new plush cloth! You dreadful
Peggy, what will I do with you!”
Mrs. Asplin rushed forward to mop with
her handkerchief and lift the dripping
flowers to a place of safety, while Peggy
rolled up her eyes with an expression of
roguish impenitence.

“Dear Mrs. Asplin, it was not I, it
was that authoress. She was evolving
her plots…. Pity the eccentricities of
the great!”

(To be continued.)

{167}

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

MEDICAL.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE GIRL’S OWN QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS COMPETITION.

The sixth and last instalment of questions
in this instructive Competition is given below.
Full details as to prizes and certificates of
merit appeared on page 14.

Questions 61-72.

61. Is what is known as the poisonous upas
tree of Java a fact or a hoax?

*     *     *     *

62. What is the best way of treating a
fainting fit?

*     *     *     *

63. What public punishment was once in
use in England for scolding women?

*     *     *     *

64. What was the origin of the phrase
“The Wise Fools of Gotham?”

*     *     *     *

65. Is length of life greater now than it
used to be?

*     *     *     *

66. Of what literary work has it been said
that it is “perhaps the only book about which
the educated minority has come over to the
opinion of the common people?”

*     *     *     *

67. Who was the young Fellow of Oxford
who, during the latter half of last century,
eloped with a banker’s daughter and came in
the end to be Lord Chancellor of England?

*     *     *     *

68. What plant was introduced early in the
seventeenth century into this country as an
ornamental plant but is now a favourite
vegetable?

*     *     *     *

69. Who was the father of English Cathedral
music?

*     *     *     *

70. What may fairly claim to be the greatest
work of imagination in the world?

*     *     *     *

71. What Scottish sovereign, looking out
of the window of the prison in which he was
once confined, caught sight for the first time
of the lady whom he afterwards married?

*     *     *     *

72. How many different kinds of clouds may
be seen floating in the sky?

The answers to the above questions, Nos.
61-72, together with the answers to questions
49-60, which appeared on page 135, must be
sent in on or before February 24, 1899.

Address to The Editor, The Girl’s Own
Paper Office, 56, Paternoster Row, London,
E.C., and at the left-hand top corner of the
envelope or wrapper write the words “Questions
Competition.”

{168}

A WORKING PARTY.

{169}

THE FAIRY GOVERNESS.

A MUSICAL STORY.

Written and Composed by Herbert Harraden.

[Transcriber’s Note: Click on the [Listen] links to download and
listen to MP3 files of the music, and on the [XML] links to download
the notation in MusicXML format. Click the [Larger version] links to
see larger images of the notation. If you are reading this e-book in a
format other than HTML, you may not be able to use these links.]

Characters:

Introduction: Play the Accompaniment of No. 3 for the Introduction.

Scene: A Dell.

Enter Fairy Governess.

[Listen] [XML] [Larger version]

Enter Flibbie.

[Listen] [XML] [Larger version]

Exeunt Governess and Flibbie.

Enter Alice.

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{173}

Enter Governess. Alice retires to the back and listens.

Enter Flibbie.

Enter Hyacinthia with Attendants.

Flibbie seats himself at the side and silently expresses his delight
during the following Trio.

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Hyacinthia waves her wand and a change comes over the Fairy
Governess. She is now young looking, and she wears a glittering
dress.

{176}

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