THE GIRL’S OWN
PAPER

“WHEN HEAVEN IS
RAINING GOLD.”[1]

By CLARA THWAITES.

All rights reserved.]

{242}

“OUR HERO.”

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

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

CHAPTER XVI.

FRIENDS IN NEED.

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

“Then they’ve come here from
Brussels?”

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

“Why?”

“Couldn’t afford anything better.”

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

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

“To help him?”

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

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

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

“Good thing papa has lots of
money!”

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

Roy’s “No!” was energetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just in a minute. May I get——”

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

Roy obeyed at once.

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

The tone was unusual. Roy looked
hard at Denham.

“Is something the matter?”

“Yes. Wirion——” significantly.

“Do tell me.”

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

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

“No. But Curtis went—and he
finds——”

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

“Yes.”

“Anybody else?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“But you don’t mean—you! Not
you!”

“Yes.”

“Den!”

{244}

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

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

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

Roy came back slowly.

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

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

“What?”

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

Roy was silent—perhaps because of
those last words.

“Promise. I can depend upon your
word.”

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

“Faithfully?”

“Yes—faithfully.”

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

“It’s so beastly hard,” muttered Roy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS.

PART III.

ENGAGING A DRAGOMAN.

A DRAGOMAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is he saying?” inquired Elizabeth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

S. E. Bell.

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

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

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

Beauty likes to be Admired.

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

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

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

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

Every Woman has a Mission.

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

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

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

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

{247}

Beauty’s Mission.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing Old Gracefully.

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

Should Art aid Beauty?

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

Says the poet—

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

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

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

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

LETTERS FROM A LAWYER.

PART IV.

The Temple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your affectionate cousin,
Bob Briefless.

{248}

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

COTTAGE AT PINNER.

PART IV.

We will now describe a few examples of village architecture in
the immediate neighbourhood of London, with illustrations from
Pinner and Acton. The first, which is in “Post-and-pan” construction,
is a simple but pleasing example of Gothic work,
dating from the reign of Henry VIII., sketched at Pinner. The
second is a porch to a cottage in the same pretty village; it
is one of the most picturesque examples we know of, and the
lovely rose bush which shades it adds much to its beauty. When
we first saw it great clusters of these exquisite flowers clung
around the ancient timbers and spread themselves over the
ruddy tiles of the roof. It would be difficult to conceive a more
charming bower, but, although some mending has been recently
carried out, it will probably not last through many more winters;
some cruel wind may wreck it, or some tempest ruin it, but
when this catastrophe takes place it will have served its purpose
for nearly four centuries, and can a wooden porch be expected
to do more? As we heard an archæologist say, “it will have
earned a right to tumble down.” Alas, we fear that most of
the old village architecture in England has earned this right,
and will, before very long, take advantage of it.

In addition to this the wholesale “improving” away of picturesque
village architecture in the vicinity of the metropolis will
leave little for those who come after us to study or admire.

A few years back how beautiful a place was Willesden, with
its mediæval cottages, ancient wooden parsonage, inns and
country houses surrounded by gardens, farm-yards, barns, wooden
granaries, etc. All but one or two have lately
disappeared, and they are threatened.

What a pretty country village Acton was,
but now how changed! The old forge still
remains to speak to us of village life of the
past; it is sweet and charming, its walls
mantled with creepers and overshadowed with
great elms and poplars. A quaint little
garden with brick paths separates it from the
road. The building itself is of brick partly
framed in timber, though not of “Post-and-pan”
construction, as the wood is simply
introduced by way of bond, a kind of construction
which came in towards the end of the
seventeenth century. The chimneys are older
than the house, and look quite Elizabethan.
It is altogether a lovely village bit and
strangely out of gear with the smart suburban
villas growing up all around it.

COTTAGE PORCH, PINNER.

It is strange that in times within the
memory of the writer the villages closely
surrounding London were so countrified.
Hampstead, Highgate, Acton, Fulham,
Barnes, Kew, Richmond, Bow, Stratford,
Bromley were quite separated from the
metropolis and surrounded by pleasant fields,
approached by lanes shaded by elms and tall
hawthorn hedges, full of good old-fashioned
houses shut in with lofty red brick walls, over
which fruit trees might be seen, laden in
autumn, with ruddy apples, golden pears or
purple plums, offering a temptation to the
passer-by. Fields of cabbages or fragrant
beans, (can anything surpass the scent of a
bean-field in full bloom with the sun upon
it?) market gardens, orchards, and acres of
more delicate vegetables, cucumbers, etc.,
grown under glass; great waggons laden with{249}
the produce of the land jolting and jingling
along the road or stopping for refreshment for
man and beast in front of some well-shaded
wayside inn. A four-wheeled cab might be
seen occasionally, when folks would look at
one another, and say, “What can be the
matter? Here’s a cab going to the Smiths’.
Can it be a lawyer going to draw up the old
man’s will, or has his son, after so many years,
come back again from India?” See the
neighbourhoods now with their huge warehouses,
manufactories or smart suburban
streets and rows of shops, omnibuses, motor
cars, etc. How few years, comparatively
speaking, it has taken to effect these changes,
and one wonders whether any country at all
will be left in the days of our grandchildren.

VILLAGE FORGE AT ACTON.

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

A Fable for Critics.

A lamb strayed for the first time into the
woods, and excited much discussion among
the other animals. In a mixed company, one
day, when he became the subject of a friendly
gossip, the goat praised him.

“Pooh!” said the lion, “this is too absurd.
The beast is a pretty beast enough,
but did you hear him roar? I heard him
roar, and, by the manes of my fathers, when
he roars he does nothing but cry ba—a—a!”
And the lion bleated his best in mockery, but
bleated far from well.

“Nay,” said the deer, “I do not think so
badly of his voice. I liked him well enough
until I saw him leap. He kicks with the
hind legs in running, and with all his skipping
gets over very little ground.”

“It is a bad beast altogether,” said the
tiger. “He cannot roar, he cannot run, he
can do nothing—and what wonder? I killed
a man yesterday, and, in politeness to the new-comer,
offered him a bit, upon which he had
the impudence to look disgusted and say,
‘No, sir, I eat nothing but grass.’”

So the beasts criticised the lamb, each in
his own way; and yet it was a very good
lamb nevertheless.

Taking down the Clothes-Line.

“We had at one time in our service,” says
a modern housekeeper, “a very simple young
woman, who came to us through one of the
registry offices in our town.

“She showed the quality of her intelligence
on the very day she came. She was told to
go out into the yard and take down the
clothes-line, which was stretched upon half-a-dozen
posts set up for that purpose.

“Bridget was at the task so long that we
began to wonder what on earth had become
of her. We went out to see what she was
doing, and found her working away vigorously
with a spade. She had dug up three of the
posts and had almost completed the work
upon a fourth. She did not stay with us
long.”

Truth is always Easiest.—It is hard to
personate and act a part long; for, where
truth is not at the bottom, nature will always
be endeavouring to return and will peep out
and betray herself one time or other.

The Gifts of Fortune.—“I generally
divide my favours,” says Fortune, “by giving
a gift to one and the power to appreciate it to
another.”

Natural Barometers.

From the earliest times observations have
been made on the signs exhibited by members
of the animal world indicative of changes in
the weather.

Rain and storms have been predicted by
asses frequently shaking and agitating their
ears; by dogs rolling on the ground and
scratching up the earth with their forefeet;
by oxen lying on their right side; by animals
crowding together; by moles throwing up
more earth than usual; by bats sending forth
their cries and flying into houses; by sea-fowl
and other aquatic birds retiring to the
shore; by ducks and geese flying backwards
and forwards and frequently plunging into the
water; by swallows flying low, etc.

Fine weather, on the other hand, has been
foretold by the croaking of crows in the morning;
by bats remaining longer than usual
abroad and flying about in considerable numbers;
by the screech of the owl; and by cranes
flying very high in silence and ranged in order.

Courage.—There is nothing like courage
even in ordinary things. Let us be willing
to try at anything we wish to accomplish. It
often happens that those who try at it do it.

{250}

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

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

CHAPTER XV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t come! Go away! I’m
engaged!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N—no, not just now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

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

By FLORENCE SOPHIE DAVSON.

CHAPTER IV.

JANE MAKES HERSELF USEFUL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What news?” asked Marion smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday.

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

Tuesday.

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

Wednesday.

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

Thursday.

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

Friday.

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

Saturday.

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

Sunday.

• Roast Fowl.
• Baked Potatoes.
• Oranges in Snow.

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

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

Now follows the food account for the week.

(To be continued.)

{254}

THE RULING PASSION.

CHAPTER II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[THE END.]

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{256}

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