Whole book · 12 sections
Vol. XX.—No. 1022.]
[Price One Penny.
JULY 29, 1899.
[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]
THE ANGEL OF PROMISE!
THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.
ABOUT PERGOLAS, AND MISS JEKYLL’S “WOOD AND GARDEN.”
OUR PUZZLE POEMS: AN ACCIDENTAL CYCLE.
IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE.
FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.
THE COURTSHIP OF CATHERINE WEST.
SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.
WILL SHE GROW OUT OF IT?
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
OUR NEW PUZZLE POEM.
By EDWARD OXENFORD.
[Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich.
“ALL IN THE WORLD SHE LOVED WAS LOST.”
All rights reserved.]
By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.
CLEMENTINA GILLESPIE.
ucy could not honestly say to Miss Latimer that she had enjoyed herself at the Brands’ dinner, but she could frankly say that Miss Latimer had been right, and that her visit had “done her good.” For though she had not returned refreshed and re-invigorated, yet she felt a wonderful thankfulness to be once more enfolded in her own home-life. Somehow, too, she could see her own trials in a truer and brighter light. She herself might indeed be worn and nervous, but there was good reason, and a grand purpose to be fulfilled by the labours and endurance which made her so. Florence seemed not less worn and nervous, and why? For no end but vanity and irritating emulation. There floated through Lucy’s mind some lines she had learned in childhood:—
But was rubbing really better than rusting, if it were but a voluntary and needless friction? Lucy realised now that the deeper agonies and anxieties and the more strenuous efforts of the past few months had given her new standpoints, and had separated her from much which she would once have tolerated without question. She remembered having read the utterance of a certain writer, somewhat to this effect—“I have been through the furnace, and I have passed out too scorched to mingle freely with those who are not even singed.” Lucy could not quite see the matter in that aspect. Rather she would have expressed herself—“I have been out on God’s wolds, under His open sky with its storms and its starlight, and I cannot again relish close, artificially-lit rooms, sickly with manufactured perfumes.” Oh, when once Charlie was at home again, how much they would have to be thankful for, in their life grown at once wider and deeper! What a new meaning was given to the old words, “The Lord drew me out of many waters.... He brought me forth also into a large place.”
So Lucy’s long holiday from her classes at the Institute proved both restful and delightful. Nor were they barren of practical results. She found many picturesque “bits” to sketch near London. Work of this kind was such pure joy to Lucy that she was apt to forget that nevertheless it remained a strain upon the nerves. She might have been wiser, ay, and thriftier too, had she indulged herself in a little sheer idleness, in lying among the clover making daisy chains or cowslip balls for Hugh. As it was, when he grew tired of playing alone, he would nestle down beside mamma, watching her busy fingers and begging for “a story,” for which he never begged in vain.
Oh, those were happy days, peaceful in their present calm, radiant with big hopes dawning! Then the evening coming-home was always cheery, with Miss Latimer hovering over the teacups, Tom’s merry welcome, and the sighing Clementina’s conscientious preparations for their creature-comforts. If Lucy’s ceaseless industry did not permit her to gather up all the physical benefit she might have got, at least her nightly rest grew sweet and calm, and the troubled haunting visions vanished.
She herself found much satisfaction in regaining her healthy moral poise. It did not fret her now when Jane Smith openly gibed at her in the street. It did not worry her when Jessie Morison’s mysterious female ally was seen passing the house, and lingering in front of the gate, as if half inclined to call. Nay, she bore herself with courage and resolution when the policeman rang the bell in the middle of the night, and roused all the household to hear that a man was lying in the area, having evidently climbed over the locked gate and descended the stairs.
She and Miss Latimer and Tom went downstairs together, Tom being an incalculable blessing in such circumstances. The invader was intoxicated, not hurt, as Lucy at first suggested, to the policeman’s great amusement.
“He’s not been so bad when he was so spry getting over; he thought he’d got a nice corner to sleep himself square in,” said that functionary, as, with Tom’s disgusted assistance, he pulled the man nearer the wall and tried to make him “sit up.” Horrors! Where did Lucy know the smooth white face and red head thus revealed to view? Why, this was no other than the carpenter whom she had accredited as Jane Smith’s lawful “young man.”
“You come out of this, my man,” said the policeman. “You’re where you’ve no call to be. And if you don’t stir your stumps pretty quick, it’ll be the worse for you.”
The man had nearly “slept himself square.” He stared wildly around, and muttered something about “coming to visit one as had called herself a friend”—“a-wanting to give her a bit of his mind.”
“Take him away and let him go,” Lucy pleaded with the policeman. “I know who he is—he’s been employed at Shand’s works—he used to visit a servant of mine who is not with me now. I don’t think she behaved very well to him.”
The policeman looked up knowingly. “Is it that there woman that lives——” he paused, with a significant glance towards the closed windows of the Marvels’ house. “A bad lot she is. She behaves best to any fellow she treats badly. Come, come, young man, as the lady speaks for you, I’ll let you go this time. Your young ’ooman ain’t here now, d’ye understand? And if you take my advice, you’ll give her a wide berth, wherever she may be.”
The wretched youth rose, picking up his cap, and dashing it against the iron balustrade to beat off the dust.
“Thank you kindly, mum,” he mumbled thickly. “I begs your pardon. I did not know she’d left here. I on’y knew she gave me the go-by directly my back was turned, a-earnin’ money to make a home for her.”
“Well, well,” rejoined the policeman, pushing the shambling figure before him. “You be thankful she did give you the go-by, though you don’t deserve a better woman, if you ain’t more of a man than to let the likes of her get you into the mess you’re in to-night—or this morning, rather,” he added, looking up at the whitening sky. “Good day, mum, I’m sorry I had to disturb you.”
On their way back to their rooms, they met Clementina, who had been aroused by the movements within the house. Clementina, as she herself expressed it, “was trembling so that one could knock her down with a feather.” She had not descended below the first floor. Her breathless question was—
“Is he dead? Has it been a murder?”
She seemed so alarmed and agitated that Lucy, reminded that any such night disturbance, if occurring on Clementina’s Highland hills, would have meant something of tragic importance, proposed that they should all adjourn to the kitchen together and fortify themselves with cups of coffee. Dawn was already so bright that gas was a ghastly superfluity. Clementina, usually almost obsequious in her methods of attendance, was so shaken that she sat down and allowed the two ladies to make all the little preparations. Yet she suddenly became more communicative than she had ever been before, and also wonderfully interesting. She told of other night alarms of her life—of a wild shriek that went sounding over the moor in one black midnight hour, and was never explained till months afterwards, when a few whitened bones and wasted rags had been found among the heather. She whispered of the heavy knock which fell on her father’s cottage door one bright moonlit evening, though no step was heard on the footpath, and nobody was in sight when they looked forth. “But on the afternoon of that day my brother Niel was killed in India,” she went on in her monotonous mysterious voice, “and when we heard that, we knew what the knock had been. That’s Niel’s memorial,” she added, pointing to the melancholy little framed card. “It tells the date—June 25—and the moon was at the full. It was Rachel’s sweetheart who wrote and told us all about it,” she went on. “It was the year after Rachel had been up seeing her sweetheart’s mother and visiting us. And I mind, wicked sinner as I was, that I grudged that our lad should be taken and hers left. But after all, she was never to see hers again, for as long after as he lived. Eh, but life is short for any of us, whatever!”
“Was your house quite lonely?” Tom asked in an awed whisper.
“Yes,” she said, “that house was. When my father first went there, there was only a one-roomed place, and he had to pick up the stones off the fields before he could plant. He said my mother put her life into that bit of land. That was why she died so young. I’ve heard him say he could never see a hayrick or a sheaf of ours without thinking her very heart was inside it. In time he built two rooms more, putting stone upon stone himself, and Niel helping him. And when, the summer after Niel was dead, the factor’s letter came, saying the rent was to be raised, I thought my father was struck for a dead man. I mind I lay waking through the night. I slept in the old part of the house that had been there from the beginning, and just when the light was peeping in, I heard a strange sound, like a spade howking in hard earth. I lay and listened, and I thought it was like the digging of a grave, and that it was a sign sent that my father’s time had come. I kept still, for it’s ill to pry where a sign is set. Then I heard something like a very heavy sigh and a cough. I thought ‘that’s human,’ and I ventured to peep. There was my old father himself, howking down the stones that he’d built up, one by one! And all that day he did it, and by nightfall no human creature could find a place there to lay its head. And it was the room where my mother had died, and where Niel had sat in the chimney corner. My father never said one word,” she concluded, “but I knew what was in his heart. And next day he took the rubble, and threw it over the fields. ‘And now,’ said he, ‘let the laird come and take his own again.’”
A fierce vindictive exultation thrilled through her wailing Celtic voice.
“But he that quarrels with the gentry is a miserable man,” she went on. “Trouble came of it. The ford is as deep as the pool. Yet we got another cot and croft close by, on another laird’s land. It was but a one-roomed place with a stony field. But my father did nothing to it this time. Weak is the grasp of the downcast! He was an old man, and I think he left the soul of his soul in the other place where his children had been born and his wife had died. My father never spoke out about the hardship he’d had, but he went about, muttering, and though he had been a godly man, it was the sound o’ curses that I heard. One was, ‘May he die in the poors’ house.’ I knew he meant the laird. And just one week after father himself was taken away, his prayer came true,” she added in a strange, hissing tone, which sent a shiver over her listeners.
They all bent forward, eagerly attentive. A strange light in her eyes seemed to draw their souls towards hers.
“It came true!” she said. “The laird was visiting the poors’ house; they say he had just been calling something—I think it was a cup of tea—an ‘unnecessary luxury,’ when he was struck down in a fit, and there, on a pauper bed, he died quickly, and never saw face of his own folk again. All the strath was talking of it. But father did not live to see it,” she went on, “so it did him no good. And naught but false hearts and evil tongues had been with us in that last place, and I couldn’t bide there.”
She added that with strong excitement. Lucy remembered Mrs. Bray’s hint about the unhappy love affair and the hated sister-in-law.
“You must find it a great change from the heather hills to muddy London streets,” said Mrs. Challoner, hoping to divert Clementina’s moody mind into gentler channels.
“You can’t give luck to a luckless man,” she answered rather enigmatically. Just then, the white dawn brightened into a sunbeam, and the little group arose, feeling that though still early, it was time they should separate and begin the tasks of the ordinary day.
“She’s an uncanny creature, that,” whispered Tom to Lucy, as they left the kitchen. “Sometimes, while she was talking, I could not believe it was our Clementina. It was like another person taking possession of her.”
“I noticed that, too,” was Lucy’s whispered reply. “And her story about the curse was awful!”
“You don’t believe it was the curse which did the thing, do you?” asked Tom.
Lucy hesitated. “No,” she answered, “not as the curse. But without that curse and the general impression that it was deserved, nobody would have seen any significance in the laird’s dying where he did. Had he been a kindly, good man, it would have been felt that his Master took him to Himself while he was doing his Master’s business among the poor. We must not forget that some terrible curses stand recorded in the Bible, possibly to let the evil and unjust see the feelings which they stir, and the fate they are making for themselves, and how it will be interpreted.”
Clementina really seemed so much more communicative and even cheerful after those untimely confidences that Lucy, fearing that she had not been considerate enough to a lonely and possibly land-sick woman, tried more persistently than ever to draw her into some conversation. But Lucy was careful that the name of Charlie—Clementina’s unknown master—should never get into the talk. She dreaded associating it with Clementina’s sighs and shakings of the head. She had a nervous horror lest Clementina should make it a point about which visions and dreams and omens should crystallise. If this should happen, Lucy felt that she herself was not now strong enough to shake off the gloomy impressions.
Tom, too, was evidently struck by the general bent of Clementina’s remarks, generally made when she was setting out the supper-table or removing it. He used to ask her why “second sight” could not foresee marriages as well as deaths, comings home as well as goings away, future occasions for joy as clearly as future woes?
Lucy was rather afraid Clementina might be hurt by Tom’s questions, but though she sighed and shook her head over his words, she smiled indulgently on the speaker.
Clementina seemed so unwilling to go out to take exercise in the open air that Lucy determined to suspend her usual orders to her tradespeople, and to send her servant out to shop in the evening, when she herself could keep guard at home.
She told Clementina why she made this new arrangement, remarking that she could not understand how one who had lived all her life in pure bracing mountain air could persist in being so much confined in a London kitchen. Clementina answered, shrewdly enough,
“There’s little bracing air to be had here, ma’am, however much one may go out for it, and on our hills we didn’t need to go out for the air, it came to us at our doors. That is why our people can live in such low, dismal houses. They have but to go to the threshold, and God Almighty’s glory meets them spread over earth and sky.”
Since Clementina had been with Mrs. Challoner she had not seen much of Rachel. For Mr. Bray was seriously ill, and he and his wife and their faithful attendant had gone to Bath, and communication between the two women was limited to one or two brief notes. Clementina showed Rachel’s notes to Mrs. Challoner, because they had tidings of the mistress’s friends. Clementina once opened one of her prim little screeds to add a message from Lucy in the postscript. Clementina was very lugubrious over her old acquaintance’s master. Perhaps it was this which first warned Lucy to give her no encouragement to weave fateful spells round the absent Charlie. That “the master” would be at home about Christmas time was all Clementina knew from Lucy herself. Of course Rachel might have made confidences, but the Highland woman was too well-bred either to trade on these or to ask any questions. Probably she but thought the more. Lucy posted her own letters, but Clementina saw her writing them, saw them lying addressed on the hall-table, waiting for Lucy’s out-going. And as Clementina took in all the letters, she must have known that no trans-Atlantic letters came. Undoubtedly she puzzled herself over this mystery, for once she ventured to say to Lucy—
“It’s sore, ma’am, to see you writing so much and so often. Sending letters across the world seems so like writing to the dead.”
“Oh, no, Clementina,” Lucy answered, “for we get answers.” And Clementina smiled an inscrutable smile.
“You don’t believe we get answers from the dead, ma’am?” she asked.
“No,” said Lucy, “certainly not! Not in that way. The dead have cast off their bodies, and if they do hold any communication with us, it must be as if we too were out of the flesh.”
“My father always said we had no call to have any dealings with the blessed dead,” remarked Clementina. “We never had any portrait of Niel. But after he was killed, Rachel’s sweetheart sent us home a little one in a case. It had been taken after Niel was in India. But when my father saw what it was, he wouldn’t take a second look. After the neighbours had been told about the death, my father never named Niel again. He never spoke of our mother.” And Clementina sighed and went about her business.
Lucy drew a long breath. The mere thought of such suppressed existence seemed to choke her. There may be danger of righteous indignation or strong emotion merely frittering itself away in the “soft luxurious flow” of too copious expression. A deep thinker has cautioned us.
But merely to smother and bury is not to control and direct. It is rather to deprive healthful force of its lawful function, and to screen fevered force from wholesome cure. Surely speech is to the mind as an opened window is to a chamber. If the chamber be fresh already, then its freshness but meets newer freshness. If it be filled with noxious vapours, they escape and fresh air enters.
It struck Lucy, too, as singular how this Highland father and daughter, unlike the Brands in every other respect, yet resembled them in one particular.
These Gillespies had clearly been gloomy people, narrow of creed, strict in life, staunch alike in love and in hatred. The Brands were frivolous, practically creedless, moving at the breath of every social wind, their emotions floating like bubbles on the surface.
Yet both the Brands and the Gillespies kept silence over “the dead.” They shut up their names and their memories in the tomb. It had often pained Lucy to realise that in her sister’s silence her own recollections of her early home were fading. When we so inevitably soon pass out of hearing of those who have shared a common past, Lucy felt much should be made of that treasury, while two remain to turn it over. Apart from the attractions of Mrs. Bray’s quaintness and elfishness, the old lady had for Lucy the supreme attraction that she remembered Lucy’s parents, and seldom saw her without making bright reference to some saying or doing of “your father” or “your mother.” But when Florence was forced to mention these parents, it was always in a whisper—such as Lucy would have used in naming a painful subject. And she invariably said “poor papa,” “poor mamma,” as if Death—as universal as birth—can, in itself, be a misfortune.
Winter was drawing on, as Clementina poetically expressed it, “fast as a stone rolls down the hillside.” No Pacific Island letter had ever come from Mr. Challoner, but Lucy said to herself that possibly his American letter would but come the sooner. Every morning she woke with the thought “Charlie’s letter may come to-day!” She knew the hope was still premature. So when she did not find Charlie’s letter, she always opened her other letters cheerily and read aloud any items of news which she thought might amuse the little breakfast party, Hugh generally having an interest in most of his mother’s friends, since those who cared for her did not forget to send a message to him, and one or two even added a bit of paper “all for himself,” covered with “O’s” for kisses.
One morning towards the end of November three letters lay by Lucy’s breakfast plate. The top one was a note from the picture dealer, the under one was but a type-written circular. But Lucy paused over the centre missive.
“Here is a funny-looking epistle,” she said, holding it up. The envelope was thin and poor and dirty, and the writing seemed to have been done by a pin-like pen wielded by a very heavy hand, which must have wrought sore damage on its instrument before it laid it down.
“I know what that is,” said Tom confidently; “it’s the bricklayer’s bill.” A few days earlier a bricklayer had been employed to relay a stone in the scullery floor, and Tom and Hugh had superintended the performance with great delight.
“Well, I don’t think he makes out many bills,” remarked Lucy, rather daintily tearing open the filthy wrapper and unfolding its contents.
As she did so, her contented smile changed to a look of bewilderment.
(To be continued.)
Miss Gertrude Jekyll’s Wood and Garden: Notes and Thoughts Practical and Critical by a Working Amateur (Longmans) would be welcome if it were only for the convincing way in which she preaches the true gospel of gardening—that there is no hard and fast line between wood and garden, wild and cultivated. She makes her garden melt into her strip of woodland; she plants her wood as well as her garden with flowers. The twelve calendar chapters with which her book opens detail the operations month by month of nature as well as of the gardener. These are followed by chapters on large and small gardens; beginning and learning; the flower-border and the pergola; the primrose garden; the colours of flowers; the scents of the garden; the worship of false gods; novelty and variety; weeds and pests; the bedding fashion and its influence; and masters and men—all of them delightfully illustrated from photographs taken by the author.
For most readers of The Girl’s Own Paper certain parts of the book have less value than others. Much of it is taken up with the gardens of the wealthy. Miss Jekyll’s own garden, which furnishes the backbone of the book, entails considerable expenditure, and is the ideal garden for a moderate-sized manor-house. But she treats her garden as a cottage garden is treated. She buys every plant herself, and puts it into the ground with her own hands, and she keeps her eye on every plant as if it were a child, doctoring it when it is weakly, and removing it when it is obviously unsuited to thrive under those conditions. She pays special attention to the cottage gardens in her neighbourhood, knowing that in them she will get her best object lessons in the survival of the fittest. A cottage wife, to be successful with her garden, has to use the flowers which experience shows will do best in the neighbourhood. Her space is limited; she cannot afford expensive protection against weather, or expensive manures; she cannot afford to renew her plants often. By paying special attention to the gardens of her poor neighbours, Miss Jekyll has secured some of the most luxuriant massings of blossom in her own.
Invaluable advice will be found in the book upon such ordinary subjects as flower-borders, villa gardens, and small town gardens, and Miss Jekyll complements her generalisations on the subject by descriptions of actual gardens of exceptional success and beauty. But I prefer to take for my example of her book something a little more out of the ordinary, which yet is within the reach of families of limited means—the formation of a pergola, especially since it is quite possible to make a pergola in the narrow strip of garden with which Londoners have to be content. What is a pergola? people will ask. Webster, in his great dictionary, defines it thus: “Pergola, n. (It.), Pergula, n. (Lat.) (ancient architecture), a sort of gallery or balcony in a house. Some suppose it to be an arbour in a garden or a terrace overhanging one.” Webster, severe New Englander, had not before his mind the kind of pergola which haunts the memory of the lover of Italy when he is back in prosaic London. To such, a pergola is part not of a house, but of a garden, the framework for an avenue-arbour covered usually with vines, but occasionally with gourds. This framework consists of a long colonnade of snow-white plaster columns which support the cross-rafters over which the vines are trained. And the prettiest ones are those which crown overhanging terraces. For pergolas a single row of columns and a wall are perhaps better suited to our more tempestuous climate. The Italians prefer a double row of columns. Nearly every monastery in the South of Italy has its pergola, as, for example, the often-pictured convent of the Cappuccini at Amalfi. In the winter, when their leaves are off, these pergolas give the effect of a peristyle in Pompeii. Here is Miss Jekyll’s recipe for a pergola.
STONE-BUILT PERGOLA WITH WROUGHT OAK BEAMS.
“I do not like a mean pergola, made of stuff as thin as hop-poles. If means or materials do not admit of having anything better, it is far better to use these in some other simple way, of which there may be many to choose from—such as uprights at even intervals, braced together with a continuous rail at about four feet from the ground, and another rail just clear of the ground, and some simple trellis of the smaller stuff between these two rails. This is always pretty at the back of a flower-border in any modest garden. But a pergola should be more seriously treated, and the piers at any rate should be of something rather large—either oak stems ten inches thick, or, better still, of fourteen-inch brickwork painted with limewash to a quiet stone colour. In Italy the piers are often of rubble masonry, either round or square in section, coated with very coarse plaster, and limewashed white. For a pergola of moderate size the piers should stand in pairs across the path, eight feet clear between. Ten feet from pier to pier along the path is a good proportion, or anything from eight to ten feet, and they should stand seven feet two inches out of the ground. Each pair should be tied across the top with a strong beam of oak, either of the natural shape, or roughly adzed on the four faces; but in any case, the ends of the beams, where they rest on the top of the piers, should be adzed flat to give them a firm seat. If the beams are slightly curved or cambered, as most trunks of oak are, so much the better, but they must always be placed camber side up. The pieces that run along the top, with the length of the path, may be of any branching tops of oak, or of larch poles. These can easily be replaced as they decay; but the replacing of a beam is a more difficult matter, so that it is well to let them be fairly durable from the beginning.”
Miss Jekyll gives illustrations which are reproduced. She says that the climbers which she finds best are Vines, Jasmine, Aristolochia, Virginia Creeper, and Wistaria, and that Roses are about the worst, for they soon run up leggy, and only flower at the top out of sight. I am not familiar with the Aristolochia, but Vines, Jasmine, Virginia Creeper, and Wistaria, all of them grow well in the inner London suburbs such as Chelsea and Kensington much better than Roses. Nearly every London garden has its flower bed, two or three feet wide, running along its wall, and its gravel path, two or three feet wide, running outside that. All that remains therefore is to have brick piers seven feet high built on the outside edge of the gravel path and to have the roof framework carried across from them to the wall. With this a hideous London back garden can be converted into a thing of beauty.
Readers, who are fortunate enough to live in the country and have a strip of woodland adjoining their gardens, should read with great care Miss Jekyll’s admirable advice as to the exotic irises and other flowers which can be made to grow in English woods. A wood garden full of daffodils and irises, anemones and primroses, in their due seasons, is one of the most beautiful things in the world.
Douglas Sladen.
PERGOLA WITH BRICK PIERS AND BEAMS OF ROUGH OAK.
COMBINED SERIES.
First Prize (Three Guineas).
Second and Third Prizes Divided.
(One Guinea and a Half Each.)
These competitors also gained prizes in Series II. and III., and, according to the rules, we have made a further award of the amounts so won.
SERIES II.—Seventeen Shillings to Award.
Winners (Six Shillings Each).
SERIES III.—Nineteen Shillings and Sixpence to Award.
Winners (Four Shillings Each).
Correction—Series I.
The solution sent by M. A. C. Crabb was entirely overlooked. It was perfect, and entitled to a prize of ten shillings, which has now been sent. No complaint was received from the solver.
By RUTH LAMB.
AN ALL-IMPORTANT SUBJECT CONCLUDED.
“Her price is far above rubies.”—Proverbs xxxi. 10.
want to begin our evening talk, once more, by asking a somewhat searching question. I know I shall not offend my dear girl friends by so doing.
When you are looking forward to meeting the one on whose good opinion you place the greatest value, on what do you bestow most care and attention? Your higher nature, or your outward appearance? Is it not generally the latter? Do you not study what colour best suits your complexion, what style sets off your figure to the greatest advantage, or whether you have heard him express approval of one dress above all others?
To use the common phrase, you “want to look nice” in the eyes of that one who has done all but tell you that you occupy the first place in his heart, and to whom you have virtually given your own.
Do I blame you for wishing to be externally attractive? Assuredly not. It is your duty to try and be so at all times and under all circumstances.
Only, do not be too anxious about outside adornment. Let your life commend you, rather than your good looks or your tasteful dress. These may attract in the first instance, but they will not keep what is best worth having.
A friend once spoke to the mother of a large family of girls in regard to the anxiety she must feel about their future settlement in life.
She answered with a bright smile, which suggested anything but anxiety, “I try so to train my girls that they will be fit for the sacred duties that wives and mothers have to fulfil, and I leave the rest to God.”
One would like to see all girls actuated by the same spirit, that, without undervaluing anything that helps to make them externally attractive, they should cultivate every quality that will place them on a level with the best man in the best things.
In speaking to you, dear girl members of my Twilight circle, I assume that you desire in all your ways to acknowledge God, and pray that He will direct your paths. Can there be a more important matter on which you need guidance than that on which the happiness of your future life depends? And yet, how common it is for girls to be so carried away by flattering words and delicate attentions, which make them the envy of others, that they do not pause to think how small a part these things play in most married lives.
Are you accustomed to lay bare your heart to God in prayer, and to seek His aid in all things? If so, have you asked yourself whether the one to whose keeping you think of committing your future, will be likely to kneel by your side and join heart to heart with you in making your joint requests known to God?
Believe me, if husband and wife never pray together, they never taste the sweetest portion possible in the cup of wedded happiness.
If their ways diverge when the path leads to the House of God; if they neither worship together in the home nor the sanctuary, they are without the precious bond of union that makes their lives truly one here, and gives the assurance of an eternal reunion beyond the grave.
There are many indications of character which may seem trivial in the eyes of some of you, but which ought to be deemed danger signals in regard to married life in the future. For instance, an occasional giving way to intemperance. Jesting about sacred things or passages from the Bible. Breaches of faith in minor matters. Disregard of truth, duplicity or evasion. Lavish expenditure and indifference about incurring debts. Carelessness as to the comfort and convenience of other members of the family, and want of respect towards parents.
These are but a few of the tendencies which are almost certain to develop into habits later in life, and to bring anxiety and sorrow with them.
A girl can make no greater mistake than to think that, after marriage, her influence alone will suffice to conquer all such tendencies. A man naturally tries to present the best side of his character to the girl he seeks to win, and if the best is disfigured by serious blemishes, believe me, these will be more likely to grow than to disappear after marriage.
Not that I would underrate the possible influence of a good woman. But to a good girl I would say, “Let your suitor, who is ready to promise anything if you will say ‘yes’ to his suit, begin his work of reformation now. Tell him frankly that your heart inclines to favour him, but conscience warns you not to link your life with his until you feel that the habits which threaten your future happiness have been overcome by God-given strength. Say that you will wait, prayerfully and patiently, during the testing-time, but that you dare not consent to an unequal yoke. If he truly loves you he will receive your answer in a right spirit, and will value and respect you the more for it.”
If, on the contrary, he should prove unwilling to turn from the sin which so easily besets him, be assured that the test has been wisely applied, and thank God that you had the courage to use it. If we do right at all costs to our own inclinations, we may with confidence leave our future in God’s hands, and be sure that He will have some better thing in store for us in His own good time.
You, my dear ones, must, however, look within, as well as at all that can be discerned in the characters of those who come to woo you. A true heart should have its counterpart in exchange. If one is offered, see that you give an equivalent, and do not dare to accept that for which you can give no fair return.
To accept true affection only because of the money or position that comes with it, and to feign the love you do not feel in order to secure a share of the wealth you covet, is to commit a fraud of the worst and most contemptible kind. You cannot, it is true, be called to account before an earthly tribunal, but you will assuredly pay the penalty of deceit and selfishness in one way or another.
There are some girls, dear good girls too, who get a little carried away by the sense of power and proprietorship that comes with an engagement.
Does it not seem delightful to look up at the fine, strong sample of humanity, whom love has made your captive, and to think to yourself, “He is ready to give his strength, his means, his time, all that he has, to promote my happiness”?
Does the thought of such honest devotion make you proud or humble; anxious to display your power or to repay and deserve such devotion?
Who has not heard such words as these from girlish lips? “I can twist him round my little finger.” “He almost worships the ground I tread on.” And forthwith the speaker proceeds to prove the truth of her assertion by little, teasing, coquettish ways that are unworthy to have a place where true love is concerned. These airs and graces and tantalising ways are only like pin pricks, but they wound and leave scars which do not easily wear away.
The more tender and sincere is the nature with which you have to do, the more likely is it to retain the painful impression produced by such methods. I am not going to describe them exactly. You all know what I mean, and, in your hearts, acknowledge that they are unworthy accompaniments even to your self-respect, to say nothing of the esteem which should always go with love for your future mate.
If you believe in your fiancé’s truth, be content without compelling him to make a perpetual show of his devotion for the gratification of your vanity. Good men are pained by such experiments; men of lower natures are apt to retaliate, though, it may be, not immediately.
A husband of many years’ standing once told me that a few words, half jesting, half taunting, from the girl to whom he was engaged, had nearly caused a final parting. They did not, for the girl, finding that she had gone too far, expressed her regret and was forgiven. But the effect of her stinging words did not soon pass away. The girl forgot them. The man’s memory was too faithful, and after a long married life he could not think of them without a renewal of the old pain. “I would give anything to blot out the memory of that girlish taunt,” he said, “but I cannot, and it hurts me after all these years!”
A good man I knew said to the girl who had just promised to be his wife, “I have asked you to share my home and my life because you are dearer to me than all the world besides. Your consent has made me very happy. Now, dear, I want you to trust me fully, and never to stoop to test my affection, as I have seen some girls do, in order to display their power over a man. I have perfect confidence in you, and, though we shall be parted for some months to come, I shall be cheered by the thought that at the end of them our real life union will begin. If at any time you should not receive a letter just when you look for it, or my coming should be delayed, be sure that I have not willingly disappointed you. Wait patiently, and trust me under all circumstances, as I trust you.”
The girl promised. The quiet, simple words and the look of love and faith in the speaker’s face went to her heart. “Come what may, I shall always trust you,” she said, “whether in great or little things.”
Circumstances followed—quite unforeseen at the time the pair became engaged—which tested to the utmost the affection and trust of both. But they stood the test, and when at length difficulties were overcome, their union was not the less happy, because, if they had trodden a somewhat thorny road before reaching the bright home they shared together, neither doubt nor waning affection had helped to darken the way.
Sweethearts and wives have such grand opportunities for showing their power that they need not stoop from the high standpoint, at which every truly noble-minded woman aims, in order to gratify petty vanity.
The girl fiancée and the wife are alike unequal to lover or husband in mere physical strength. That is natural, and therefore right. But in time of trouble many a man, ready to sink under the weight of it, has gained new strength and courage from her whom he has hitherto deemed the weaker vessel. Her words may have been few, but they have always been suggestive of hope and cheer, and said at the right moment.
There has been no “I told you how it would be,” no allusion to mistakes made or the ignoring of advice which would have prevented them, but pity for him who is only too acutely conscious of all that has been wrong. Yet, when gloom and despair were about the man’s path and in his heart, both have fled before a wife’s devoted ministry and the light of love on her face. Perhaps she has told him that she knows their changed circumstances trouble him more on her account than on his own, but that, with him, she is strong to face them, and she proves it by patient endurance and by making the best of all things. He sees that she resolutely turns her face to the bright side—and I truly believe there always is a bright side—and thus she induces him to open his despairing eyes to the light, though as yet it may be only a distant glimmer hard to discern.
A man with such a helper to cheer him on will be heartened to try again, though he had given up hope. Her courage will make him a coward in his own eyes, so he will raise his listless hands and shoulder his load anew for her dear sake. He has felt that it would be impossible for him to hold up his head again amongst his fellows, but with the knowledge that a good girl or woman loves and trusts him, despair is impossible. She believes that the one defeat has taught him to mistrust himself, and that he will seek strength from God to fight again and to conquer.
Can you not, my dear girls, imagine a man ready to face, dare, or do anything in order to prove himself worthy of such whole-hearted affection and trust?
I have been asked whether the early or later years of married life are the happier. I think, nay, I am sure the later ones ought to be, if the union was first founded on love, faith, and respect. All these feelings should grow stronger as time goes on, and, just like the fair flowers that need the gardener’s care to perfect them, they should be carefully cultivated.
We show our love far more by the little things that go to make up the sum of happiness in everyday life, than by occasional great sacrifices.
The engaged girl carefully notes the likings and dislikes of her intended husband. She ministers to the one and will not provoke a manifestation of the other. She watches for a chance of doing something for him and giving him pleasure. Does she ever leave him abruptly, or allow him to leave her without an affectionate farewell?
Ah, no! We all know that the farewells of an affianced pair are apt to be long drawn out. The girl thinks that nothing can be too good for him who is dearest of all. No effort seems too great when it is seasoned by love.
If such is the case before marriage, how much more should the practice of all sweet observances and courteous habits, care in little things to avoid giving pain and to minister pleasure, be in constant evidence after marriage!
Little things are often the means of drawing people together in the first instance. It is much easier to win affection than to keep it, and, better still, to be conscious that it has grown and strengthened through the long years of married life. And it is only in the sanctuary of their home that husband and wife learn truly to know each other, and to grow into that perfect unity so rarely attained even by those whom we call happy couples.
It so often happens that people who are most scrupulous as to their “society manners,” forget to render ordinary courtesy to their own belongings. They seem to think anything is good enough for the home circle. Can there be a greater mistake? Those who are joined to us by the dearest of ties are surely the ones to whom everything we have of the best should be scrupulously rendered.
I was charmed a while ago, when I was talking with a mother of grown-up sons about her father. I had known her from her early teens, and we have been great friends always. It was beautiful to see her face light with pleasure as she said, “I was telling him only the other day that I never receive from anyone such perfect courtesy and attention as I do from my own dear father, and now he is eighty years old. But he has always, everywhere, and to every person, been the same.” And I, who had long experienced this, could endorse her words.
So, dear ones, keep your very best manners for home, and they will not fail you in other circles.
Dear girl wives, be as thoughtful for your husbands as you were for your lovers—and more. Do not let them miss the loving farewell when they go out to their daily battle with the world, whether it be in the field of commerce, the learned professions, art, or behind the counter.
In the humbler but no less useful fields of toil, the farm or the mill, the man will be cheered by the memory of loving words and the prospect of your welcoming face and kiss when he comes home weary, toil-worn, perchance downhearted.
And knowing how you will meet him, he will quicken his tired feet, that he may the sooner receive the greeting for which his heart longs. If he has good news to bring, the way will seem doubly long because of his eagerness to share it with you.
There are times when the best of men are almost too sad and weary to bear sympathy of the demonstrative sort, when everything seems to have gone wrong, and all they want is just to be left in peace for a while.
Real sympathy is many-sided, as you all know. It may be of the fussy sort, which cannot be satisfied without incessant expression, either in word or deed. Kindly meant, it is apt to jar on its object.
There may be more wisdom and no less sympathy shown by silence than by words. Thoughtful loving actions will not be lost on the weary, worried man of business, who has found it impossible to leave all his cares outside the threshold of home. I knew a man who used to say to his almost too sympathetic wife, “Let me be quiet a little, my dear, I want to think things out. I shall be all right by and by.”
Then the wife knew that kind words or the touch of a loving hand was better withheld, and possessed her soul in patience until the thinking out was done, and her husband was his bright self again.
The wife’s character should be great enough to grasp the greatest things that come within her province, yet comprehensive enough to stoop to the least. Do you wish to look upon a picture which represents a perfect wife? There is one drawn in words by an inspired writer. Turn to Proverbs xxxi., and read from the tenth verse to the end.
Note, first, her value. “Her price is far above rubies.” Her faithfulness. “The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her.”
Her devotion is of no fitful sort. “She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.”
She is clever and far-seeing, and able to turn the means with which she has been entrusted to good account in her purchases of land and of goods.
She is industrious. “She riseth also while it is yet night.” “She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff.”
She thinks and cares for those she rules for. “She giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.” “She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all ... are clothed with scarlet.”
In the midst of wealth and abundance she seeks out, and blesses by her bounty, those who are less favoured. Note the expression. “She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.”
No niggardly giving here. She seeks rather than is sought by the poor. She is the cheerful giver whom God loveth.
She does not despise rich and beautiful clothing, becoming to her position. “Her clothing is silk and purple,” which she may well wear with satisfaction, seeing that she has cared for the needs of others both near and afar off. But she has better garments than the silk and purple, for “strength and honour are her clothing” also.
With all her strength, riches, commercial shrewdness and industry, she combines wisdom and kindness in deed and word. “In her tongue is the law of kindness.”
Good mistress! Good wife! Good mother! “She looketh well to the ways of her household.” “Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.”
Note the summing up of the whole matter. “Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.... Let her own works praise her.”
What, save a life spent in the faith and fear of God, could furnish such a picture? What, save the grace of God and the guidance of the Holy Spirit, could be sufficient for such things?
And these must have been sought by prayer, and God’s blessing on the study of His Word.
I have said much to you, dear girl friends, of my own happy married life. Shall I tell you what made it so?
It was the being of one heart and one mind in the highest and best things. We knelt, prayed, worshipped, and worked as one, and love, trust, and true respect were the foundation of our union which grew ever closer and dearer with the years we spent together.
Of all the precious memories I retain of my wedded life, one stands out beyond the rest.
It was on the last day of it that he bade me lie down by his side. Drawing me close to him, he held me in those dear, worn arms, as if he could not bear to loose the clasp, kissing me tenderly and repeatedly. Then, when he could no longer hold me for very weakness, he said, “Oh, my darling, my darling! Even you do not know how much I have loved you.”
Have I done right in drawing aside the veil, and showing to you, my dear girl friends, this picture of what was truly his farewell?
I hope it will not have been done in vain. People may talk as they will about the first whispered words of love and their sweetness. I can recall such to mind.
Think you that any or all of them are worth naming in comparison with those precious last words from dying lips, after so many years of wedded life and happiness together?
(To be continued.)
By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”
One sign of high summer in London is an odd one, and that is the presence of handsome furs in the West-End shop-windows, where they may be seen any day after June has once begun. I used to think people bought them, even when the thermometer was registering 68° in the shade; but I have found cause to think that they are simply displayed in the window as a measure of safety, for light, sunshine, air, and dryness are the chief enemies of the moth, and both May and June are the worst of months in which they do their deadly work on the costliest of our raiment. In the shops where furs are kept, they are beaten with tiny canes, and exposed as much to the air and light as possible. So we may take a leaf from this open book, and perhaps save ourselves loss and disappointment. Of course, I do not mean that furs should be faded by exposure to the sun; but if they were really good and undyed, a little sunshine would not hurt them, though too much may do them harm.
This year furs were used up to June, as the weather remained cold till then; but there was not enough sun to do them harm. Nevertheless, I lean to the idea that they are best left off early, both for the health of the furs and of ourselves, many people being inclined to wear them too long. In the present month they will need attention—shaking, airing, and beating, and a general careful looking-over.
THREE NEW GOWNS.
One of the most frequently remarked peculiarities of the present day is the kind of wobbling way adopted by many women and girls when they walk. They go from one foot to the other just like a duck. Now, I know I have said this before, but I am desirous of saying it again, because I am told that the matter is even more serious than I fancied, and that there are many more operations in the hospitals now than there were for various foot troubles. Also I have been informed that the number of chiropodists has trebled in London during the past three or four years—really since the pointed-toe shoes came into fashion. There is no doubt, as we look at one of these ungraceful walkers, that the reason lies either in their present or their past foot-gear. One of the most usual sources of trouble is our universal fashion of wearing too heavy shoes or boots, with too thick soles. In fact, they are altogether too thick and heavy for warm weather. A lighter shoe would be equally good and serviceable, and even if it did get damp and need changing, we could manage this easily on our return home. Follow two rules in the choice of your shoes. Choose those which do not compress nor curl your toes under when wearing them, and remember that a shoe is as bad when too large as when too small. A thin stocking is better than a thick one; and I have seen many people recently who have obtained ease and comfort by dismissing merino, wool, and spun silk, and adopting cotton for winter, and thread for summer. I think a thick cotton stocking quite as warm as a thick woollen one.
TWO LONG TUNICS.
The linen collar is far less used this season with blouses than it was last year. Instead we see lace ties, and lace and silk scarfs. It is wonderful how pretty an effect is produced by using a lace scarf and one or two paste brooches or pins, which look so well in the filmy folds of the lace. The lace has a far softer effect than the plain severe collar, and this is a question that every girl must consider for herself. An easy way is to have a long lace scarf, not more than five inches wide, and to put it on from the front to the back, crossing it there, and bringing the ends to the front, where they should be long enough to be tied under the chin in a lightly-knotted bow, in which may be placed some paste pins, or the tiny brooches so much used at present.
A POINTED TUNIC.
If I were asked what was the favourite colour, I should very certainly respond “Blue” to that question. But there are blues and blues; and I have seen so many that it is difficult to say which is the ruling hue. A very bright shade is certainly much liked, which is quite of the old Royal-blue description. Plaids and stripes are much on the increase, and I should not be surprised if we were to see a winter of them. These very narrow skirts are well suited to the cutting of striped materials, which are arranged with a seam in front and one at the back, the stripes meeting in points like arrow-heads at both these seams. There are also many spotted materials, and any number of ribbed and smooth cloths, of varying degrees of thickness. Serge, too, is much in evidence, and is as popular as ever, and so is woollen poplin and Venetian cloth. Satin is as much used, and as fashionable as it was; but fancy silks of all kinds seem to have been less liked than muslins were during the warmest days of the summer; while the satin-faced foulards were very pretty, but were not so popular as they promised to be.
The shoe most worn this season has been the Cromwell shoe, having a buckle for ordinary daily use with afternoon attire. But where evening dress is concerned, there has been a great development in luxury, and they are now made of brocade and velvet; and as to the buckles, you may expend any amount you like upon them, for they are sometimes set with precious stones, and are really beautiful. As yet, these shoes are exotics, and only worn by a few, but no doubt the brocaded ones have been copied from those of the time of Elizabeth, which have been shown at the various exhibitions held of late years.
There has been rather a revival in the fashion of cycling, which has recently suffered rather an eclipse, and there is a very great improvement in the style and cut of skirts for this exercise, and also in the general appearance of women a-wheel. The new method is to sit high and straight, with the handle-bars within easy reach; and there seems much less exertion in the management of the machine than when the seat was lower. The cut of the new skirts is so good that they hang down on either side of the machine quite straight, and there is plenty of room for pedalling without any of that ungraceful drawing up of the knees and of the skirt as well that used to be seen and is noticeable even yet when some careless rider passes us by. We have all, I suppose, read the Prime Minister’s speech about the ungracefulness of the attire used in wheeling, and I for one feel quite grateful to him for his plain speaking. So far as in each of us lies, we should strive to be graceful, and as pretty as possible, while on our favourite iron steed. The pattern of these skirts is sold at several paper pattern depôts, so they can be cut and made at home.
The seated figure in our illustration, which shows a simulated tunic trimming on the skirt, wears a pretty gown of pale grey summer-cloth, the bands on the skirt and on the gown bodice being of embroidered purple silk, while the vest in front is of pale green silk, and bands of cream-coloured silk embroidery on cream silk. The same embroidery heads the flounce at the bottom of the skirt. The lining of this gown is of purple silk; and it has a grey hat and grey and purple ostrich feathers to wear with it.
The group of “Three New Gowns” begins to show some slight evidences of autumnal styles, especially the lady in the centre, who wears a light fawn-coloured braided jacket, with a skirt of light brown cloth, which is scalloped with velvet of a darker shade, the lower flounce being embroidered also in silks of a darker brown. This is a charming autumnal costume for short visits and journeys in England. The hat is a sailor one, trimmed as these hats generally are at present, with more or less elaboration. The present one has trimmings of yellow chiffon, with wheatears laid over it.
The figure on the left hand wears an embroidered and ribbon-trimmed gown of black satin, the front of the skirt and vest being of pale lemon-coloured silk, with chiffon of the same hue, and bands of ribbon. The hat is of the new burnt straw, and is trimmed with white chiffon, with poppies and bunches of oats arranged amongst it. The right-hand figure wears one of the new scarf bodices, crossed over in front, a shirt-front of white silk, and a light green tie. The dress is of figured poplin, with bands of green silk on the skirt. The toque is of crinoline, with green and black chiffon, and black ostrich feathers.
The newest style is to have a neck and waist-band of a different colour from the rest of the dress. For instance, if the gown be mauve, the velvet at the neck or waist may be of pale blue or pale green, and with a black gown orange is much worn. There has been a great feeling towards mixed colours, and it is quite wonderful how we have got over the old idea that it was both vulgar and ugly to wear many colours, or to mix two incongruous materials in one gown.
The third illustration shows two charming gowns. The one on the extreme right wears one of the new satin foulards of dark blue, with a small white pattern on it. It is trimmed with light blue ribbon in scallops round the skirt and up the side, the sleeves, and the yoke. The last-named is of white silk, and so is the under-skirt. The second figure wears a dress of white figured muslin, the bodice trimmed with ruffles, and the vest is of tucked muslin. Straps of ribbon are on the top of the sleeve and round the points of the tunic and waist. The under-skirt is of muslin flounced, and with folds of muslin between each. This model would be suitable for a coloured muslin, as well as a white one.
The bolero has retained its popularity throughout the whole of the season, and has quite superseded the longer jacket for afternoon and dress wear. There are also revers to nearly all dresses. But I am assured that our autumn novelties will be minus both these items, and that the long three-quarter coat is likely to be the garment of the winter.
Granville Gray was sitting in the library of Lord Mayne’s town house. He was very busy, for though it was the recess, and his lordship was away shooting in Scotland, and all the political and fashionable world was dispersed in different directions, this was just the time that he could devote to his own pursuits, and to certain important investigations regarding the industrial life of the country by which he hoped some day to make his name. But his attention was not as undivided as usual. He would suddenly interrupt his work to walk up and down the room, or to gaze absently out of the window at the dusty lime trees that shaded the iron railing. For his work at the present moment was not an aim, but a distraction. Catherine’s sudden flight and the simultaneous appearance of Lady Blanche had made him realise how strong and genuine was his passion for the former. How precise, and commonplace, and conventional did the heiress appear beside the glorified recollection of the girl he loved, as she had stood trembling and clinging to him on the hillside. So when he read her little note, with its tender farewell, which convinced him of her affection for him at the same time as he became fully conscious of his own devotion, he resolved that no other woman should be his wife, and determined to set out in search of her at once. In spite, therefore, of Margaret’s remonstrances, he excused himself to Lady Blanche on the plea of urgent business, but he did not attempt to conceal the real state of the case from his sister. Margaret was really very much disappointed, and blamed herself exceedingly. She knew her brother well enough to realise that when he had once made up his mind, persuasion was useless; she was obliged to acquiesce, and to console herself with the thought that if she had been unwise in bringing her brother and friend together, Catherine was a very charming girl who could do him no possible discredit.
So leaving the two women at the hotel, Granville had set out for the address given on Catherine’s card. He hardly hoped to find her in so obvious a retreat, yet supposed that he would at least be able to learn something about her movements there. Great was his disappointment, therefore, when he discovered that though the object of his pursuit had been there only two days before, nothing was known of her present address. The landlady, who scented a romance the moment this interesting-looking gentleman inquired for Miss West, advised him to write to the head-mistress of the High School. Granville had at once acted on this, but as this lady was abroad, and her exact address was doubtful, he was not surprised that he had not yet received an answer. Three weeks had passed away in suspense and fruitless inquiry. He had traced Catherine to Euston, where she had changed for Victoria, on her way to St. John’s, but all further effort had been useless. Even now, he thought, she might be within a few miles of him, somewhere in this vast city; for what better hiding-place than London could anyone want?
His musings were interrupted by a sudden sound of wheels, and the shrill ringing of the electric bell. Presently the door opened, and a man brought in a card.
“A lady to see you, sir. She asked for his lordship’s address, but when she heard you were in, she said she would like to see you.”
Granville was annoyed; he did not feel in the least inclined for an interview with an unknown lady. Why should the man be so officious? Then as he looked at the card his heart gave a sudden bound. Had Catherine sought him out? But what an unlikely idea; West is not an uncommon name. Nevertheless, it was with a quickened step that he crossed the hall to the room where the visitor was waiting.
His heart sank when the little old lady, almost old enough to be his grandmother, rose to meet him.
“I must explain my business,” she said, looking at him with a keen scrutiny that would have confused a less self-possessed person. “I asked for Lord Mayne, but I have come on a matter connected with yourself.”
“With me? I am afraid——”
“Of course, you do not know me. Now will you tell me why I have had the good fortune to find you in London at this unseasonable time?”
Granville felt more and more astonished, and began to think that his visitor was mad, and must be humoured.
“I have come here on urgent private business,” he answered. “But you wished to see Lord Mayne; is it on any matter that I can answer?”
“As I said before, you can probably satisfy me better than anyone else. But before I put any more questions, let me tell you a story.”
And forthwith she poured out to him all the history of her quarrel with Catherine’s father, and of her reconciliation with his daughter, carefully avoiding the mention of the latter’s name. But Granville, listening attentively, soon solved the enigma. He could hardly wait with patience till she concluded, saying—
“I am naturally anxious about my niece’s future. She will inherit a larger fortune than she has any idea of. I may die at any moment, and she will be left alone in the world, a prey to fortune-hunters, and quite unprepared to grapple with such difficulties as are sure to meet her.”
“But why have you told me this?” he asked. “I cannot pretend not to understand to whom you refer. But has Miss West——”
“Catherine, who, as you have guessed, is my niece, has told me very little. But, apparently, you are almost the only man she knows. I believe that I can trust you, for in a long life my powers of intuition have seldom played me false. What I want to know is whether you would be prepared to be one of the executors of my will, and to look after her interests when I am gone?”
“You place me in a very difficult position,” answered he. “Whatever may be Miss West’s feeling towards me, I tell you plainly that no other woman shall ever be my wife. But though I am glad for her sake that she has found you, your news is a personal disappointment to me. I have spent the last three weeks in a ceaseless search for her. I had hoped in a few days to go to her and offer all I have—which, if not much, would at least have been something. How can I do so now? And if I accept the executorship I shall be placed in the painful position of seeing her continually without feeling at liberty to declare my affection.”
“But why should you not declare it? Catherine may return your affection, and she is quite without fortune at present. If you honestly care for her now, why not follow up your acquaintance. Come and see her as my visitor, and win her by a gradual courtship?”
“I cannot do it,” he said. “Simply because I love her, I will not owe anything to her. I will not expose myself to the imputation of interested motives, nor her to the humiliating suspicion of having been sought for her money.”
“Really! Were ever two people more contrary?” exclaimed Aunt Cicely. “But suppose she already——”
“Stop, I beg of you,” he interrupted. “You have no right to betray your niece’s confidences.”
“Well,” said his visitor, standing up, “I see that you are unmanageable. I will give you a week to think it over. You say you love her, and you have the opportunity of doing her a great service. Will you not sink these quixotic ideas in the desire to help her?”
And with these words she departed, congratulating herself on having discovered the state of Granville’s mind without hopelessly compromising Catherine, or doing anything at the discovery of which her niece need blush. She drove off in high spirits to her lawyer, planning a scheme which would inevitably bring the two lovers together without sacrificing the pride of either. And after spending some time with her solicitor, she took the last train home, feeling very tired, but with the pleasant consciousness of having performed a good day’s work.
Meanwhile Catherine had spent a miserable day. She had lain awake most of the previous night, planning a reconciliation with her aunt; but towards morning she had fallen asleep, and did not wake till the maid entered her room at nine o’clock. Her aunt had gone, had taken the 7.30 train to London, they said. At first Catherine had wild thoughts of following her thither; she was not in a fit state of health to travel alone, but ignorance of her destination was a hopeless obstacle. So after spending the morning in vain attempts to read and practise, the girl set out for the station, where she met every down train that afternoon. Her patience was at length rewarded by the appearance of her aunt, looking so pale and tired that Catherine was seized with sudden alarm. She saw that Miss West was almost too much exhausted to speak, so, hurrying her into the carriage, she drove quickly home, and persuaded her to go to bed at once. Little was said on either side, but the kisses that were exchanged as her niece left her for the night satisfied Catherine that she was forgiven.
But the exertion and excitement had been too much for Aunt Cicely. There was a sudden alarm in the night, the sound of hushed and hasty footsteps on the stairs, a hurried consultation between Catherine and the housekeeper. The former stood by the bedside, holding her aunt’s hand, and feeling as if her last earthly support were slipping from her. Then came the doctor, only to pronounce that the sufferer was past his skill; even if he had come earlier he could not have helped her. The grey September dawn found Catherine once more alone in the world, and feeling more desolate than ever.
Catherine and her aunt’s lawyer were sitting together in the vast drawing-room with the big bay windows. He was an elderly man, with daughters of his own, and felt sorry for this girl, who had apparently no relations to look after her interests. And he shrank, too, from telling her the state of affairs. She had every reason to suppose that she was an heiress; if her aunt had died a day sooner that anticipation would have been realised; but now she had to be informed that she was left with only a small income, while the bulk of the property had gone to an entire stranger.
“Your aunt,” said Mr. Cheadle, “was—er—a lady of some eccentricity. On your father’s death she made a will in your favour, and this remained unaltered till the day before her decease. But last Wednesday she called on me and made another in favour of this strange gentleman. Your legacy consists of various investments, which altogether produce an annual income of £150, enough to ensure your comfort, but a mere trifle compared to what you might have expected.”
Catherine brought her mind with an effort to the business before her.
“It is very good of you—of her, I mean,” she answered. “The last time my aunt spoke about the matter, she threatened to leave me without anything. I had displeased her, and this is far more than I had any right to expect.”
Mr. Cheadle rose. “I am glad that you are satisfied,” he said, with an air of relief. “You will let me know your further movements, and if I can do anything for you?”
“Thank you,” she answered. “I am quite undecided at present, but I am sure that I shall settle down quite well. But I will let you know.”
The lawyer departed, and Catherine, putting on her hat and cape, went out to walk along the shore. The autumn evening, with its chilly wind, and the grey sea, flecked with white patches of foam, seemed to harmonise curiously with her sad thoughts. The shore was quite deserted, and she hurried on, striving to overpower by physical fatigue the restless pain at her heart.
All at once, amidst the sighing of the wind and waves, she heard footsteps behind her; the smooth track that led over the beach was only wide enough for one, and standing aside to let this other pedestrian pass, she found herself face to face with Granville Gray.
She uttered a little involuntary exclamation of joy, which she instantly smothered. His face was worn and grey, and reflected none of her own pleasure.
“I have come to see you on business,” he said. “May I walk a little way with you?”
Catherine turned, and led the way from the beach to the carriage road that ran above it.
“It is connected with your aunt’s will,” he said. “The whole affair is preposterous.”
“Preposterous?” said Catherine. “How do you mean? She has left me what seems almost a fortune, and I certainly had no right to expect more.”
“You were her natural heiress, and she has robbed you to give the money to me—me, whom she only saw once in her life—practically an utter stranger to her.”
“To you!” cried Catherine in delight. “Oh, I am so glad!”
“Please do not congratulate me. I have no intention of keeping it. The money is yours by right, and shall be yours in fact.”
“But I do not want it!” exclaimed Catherine. “Do you know how rich I am already? £150 a year! £30 more than my salary used to be!”
“A fortune, indeed,” he replied. “But I beg of you to listen to me. Last Wednesday your aunt called on me and told me definitely that she had left all her property to you. She even asked me to act as her executor. Yet immediately afterwards she went to her lawyer and made this absurd will. Does it not show that she was not quite responsible?”
“But she also distinctly told me that she would leave me nothing. I am perfectly certain that she realised what she was doing. Why will you refuse the good fortune at your hand?”
“Because it is not mine, but yours.” Then suddenly lowering his tone, he added, “Catherine, why did she come to me that day?”
The girl’s pulses leapt at his voice, and then a flood of shame swept over her, as enlightenment came to her in a flash. Aunt Cicely had taken this means of forcing him into a proposal!
“I cannot tell,” she said impatiently. “But the money is yours. I do not want to hear anything more about it.”
“I will not touch a farthing of it,” he answered. “If you will not have it, neither will I.”
Thus they argued, neither of them showing any sign of yielding in the conflict of generous intention. In their excitement they had stood still; the wind raged round them, blowing Catherine’s hair and cape about her; but she did not heed it.
“I cannot help it,” she said at length. “It is nothing to do with me. But,” she added, “it is time for me to go in. I suppose you are returning to London this evening?”
“Stop!” he cried. “You shall not go yet. For a month I have had no thought unconnected with you. I have searched for you everywhere, and have I found you only to lose you? Why should this wretched money come between us? It is yours, but Heaven knows I have not sought you for it. Catherine, do you believe me?”
“Yes,” she answered simply, while his arm went round her. “But the money is yours. Take it, but take me too.”
[THE END.]
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.
CYRIL’S WOOING.
“Then, mother, you think I can depend upon my father’s doing something handsome for me if I were to get her?”
“Yes, my boy. I had a long talk with him last evening after you had spoken with me about it. He has taken a great fancy to May Lawrence, and he was very pleased indeed with her visit to the works the other day, and her promise to come and sing at the club some evening. He seemed just a little surprised when I spoke of your hope of winning her for a wife; but he said there was nobody he should prefer more for a daughter-in-law, and I am sure he spoke the truth.”
“Yes, yes, that is all very well; but what sort of establishment would he give me? She has a little fortune of her own. I know that, and, of course, she will come in for more when her father dies; but that may be years off still. I can’t ask a woman to marry me without having a home to offer her!”
“No, and your father will give you that. He said he would establish you comfortably in London, and allow you six hundred a year, and that, with your own earnings at the Bar, since you have now finally decided upon the law as your profession, will enable you to get along nicely. You have great talents, you know, Cyril, and we expect great things of you!”
Cyril kissed his mother, but looked a little doubtful.
“Six hundred is not a large income in London; but I think May has two or three on her marriage. We might get along in a flat. Of course I shall do all I can, but it’s precious slow work at the Bar in these days. Some clever fellows never make their way at all. I’m not sure I sha’n’t take to literature instead. If one can get into the swim it pays better.”
“With your talents and with your education and presence you are sure to get on,” said his mother, with serene confidence, and for once in his life Cyril found this complaisant admiration a little trying. He knew that money was a hard commodity to make, and he did not like it to be assumed that he would soon be making a fine income for himself and his wife.
“Well, at any rate, I can tell the old boy that I am in a position to marry; that is, if he doesn’t look for great beginnings,” remarked Cyril, after a pause; “and the Lawrences have come down in the world themselves, and have no very grand ideas, which is a comfort. May is a bit of a Radical herself, but she’ll mend of that in time. It does all very well when you’re young to be enthusiastic and sentimental over the working classes; but one grows out of that fast enough, except fellows like North, who never have an idea beyond the shop all their lives!”
“North is a very good son, and a great help to his father. It is not his fault that he has not your talents, Cyril, dear.”
“No, we can’t all be alike! I say, mater, I’m awfully hard up for loose cash just now. This London business costs more than one fancies, and I don’t like always asking the governor. A man can’t go wooing with empty pockets. Can’t you give me a little just to go on with, from the housekeeping or something?”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do this time; but you’ve had all I have had to spare for some time, Cyril. Your father was rather vexed at my not getting a new winter mantle, but I managed to pacify him. You mustn’t keep me too short or there will be a fuss.”
“Oh, no, it’s only for a few trifles for May; there will be the ring, you know, and flowers, and that sort of thing. Thanks awfully, mother, you are real good sort! I daresay the governor will stump up handsome when I tell him the news, and then I’ll pay you back.”
Cyril went away well pleased with himself, and resolved to lose no more time in his wooing. It had occurred to him that it was about time he had an independent home of his own. Something in the home atmosphere had become uncongenial to him. North was cool, and rather avoided his society, and Cyril had very uneasy moments sometimes when his brother occasionally came to him with certain rather pointed questions, the drift of which he seldom altogether understood. Ray had been rather off-hand with him ever since that luckless fire, the memory of which still made his cheeks tingle, and he often fancied that his prestige in his native place had considerably gone down. Oscar’s face was a continual reproach to him. He was tired of his life in Isingford, anxious for a sphere of his own.
But a sphere implied a centre and a home, and a home meant a wife. Cyril turned matters over in his mind a few times whether or not to go out to Madeira and propose to Effie with her rich dowry, or to content himself with the much more attractive May and her smaller fortune.
In the end he decided upon the latter course. Effie’s money was certain to be tied up very tight. He had more hopes of getting things more to his liking in dealing with May’s parents. They were not business people. They would probably have easier ideas, and May was out and away a more attractive girl than Effie; besides, a delicate ailing wife would be a nuisance. Cyril wanted to be the centre of attraction in his own home, not to have to spend his time fussing after his wife.
So dressing himself very carefully in a riding suit which he greatly fancied, he ordered the best horse to be obtained at the livery stables, and rode gaily off towards Monckton Manor.
May was in the garden. The sun was shining brightly, and the birds were singing with that kind of eager rapture which is only heard in the spring. February was waning, and though the March winds were still to come, the present warmth was all the more welcome. Celandines lifted their golden cups to the caress of the sunshine, and primroses were to be found gemming the banks, whilst in garden borders crocuses made a joyous blaze, and the daffodils began to push up their bloom buds as though eager to show that they would not be much behind.
A servant came out to her from her house.
“Mr. Cossart has called and would like to see you, miss.”
May’s eyes lighted and a little flush stole into her cheek. It was not Saturday, so there must be something special in this visit. Perhaps the very fact that it was unusual helped to induce that wave of subdued excitement. Something special must have occurred. He must be wanting something from her. May turned at once and went eagerly towards the house.
A tall figure came out into the sunshine of the terrace, and suddenly all the light faded out of May’s face. She turned to the servant almost sharply.
“You said it was Mr. Cossart,” she said.
“That is the name the gentleman gave,” answered the footman, who was new to the place.
“That is Mr. Cyril Cossart. You must remember the difference in future,” said May, trying to control the irritation she felt. “I don’t believe I’d have gone in for him,” she muttered to herself. “He had no business to ask for me with mother out. But he has seen me now, so I suppose I must go for a little while. I hope he won’t stay long. I’ve such lots of things I want to do.”
Cyril came down the steps to meet her, too much self-engrossed to observe the coolness of her greeting.
“Don’t let us go in this lovely day, Miss Lawrence. These sweet spring days are too precious to lose! May I not join you in your ramble?”
“I was not rambling, I was gardening,” answered May, but she could not exactly refuse his request, though she did not altogether approve the suggestion. She thought he was taking too much the airs of an intimate friend, and of late he had not been encouraged to intimacy at the Manor.
“I am sorry my mother is not at home,” she said, as they walked down the wide nut avenue, where she had so often paced with North, asking eager questions about his work, and forgetting everything in her interest at his replies.
“Well, it is you that I came especially to see, May,” he answered; and as she started at the sound of her name spoken thus for the first time by him, and flashed an indignant glance at him, Cyril plunged into the carefully-prepared speech he had made, faltering a little at first, but getting the thread quickly, and then going rapidly forward with gathering courage and assurance.
For the first few minutes May was simply too much astonished to speak a single word, and then a wave of hot indignation surged over her, and she was afraid to speak lest she should say something she might regret afterwards. After all, when a man proposed to a girl, he was supposed to be paying her the highest honour in his power to offer. She sought to remember this, and to curb her angry impulses; and during this time Cyril had got a long way in his speech, so that there could be no possible doubt as to his meaning.
“Oh, please stop! Please do not say any more!” cried May at length, when she felt that she could master her emotions and speak quietly. “What you want is quite out of the question! Please say no more. We had better say good-bye”—and she stopped, facing him, and held out her hand.
Cyril stood dumfoundered. He simply could not believe his ears. This was probably some girlish wile to lead him on to more impassioned declarations. He was quite ready for that, and, taking her hand in his, recommenced his protestations, but May pulled it from him, and her eyes flashed.
“Mr. Cossart, please to understand me, once and for all. What you wish is quite impossible!”
“Impossible that you should be my wife, May?”
“Quite impossible, and please not to call me that again! You have no right to do so.”
“May—Miss Lawrence—what does all this mean? Why cannot you be my wife?”
She looked him steadily in the face; her composure was coming back to her. The desire to speak the truth was upon her.
“We have always been friends,” he urged, desiring this thing the more urgently from the unexpected opposition. His pride and vanity were working hard on the same side as his affections. May looked very handsome standing there confronting him, a flush on her cheek, a light in her eyes. It was impossible for Cyril to believe her indifferent to him. He had always regarded himself as irresistible.
Once again he began to plead; once again she let him have a certain licence, and then she cut him short.
“Mr. Cossart, you have said a great deal now, let me say a very little. Perhaps you do not know what a woman most desires in the man she makes her husband. One thing is, I think, a perfect trust in him—his love, his courage, his honour!”
She spoke the last words very distinctly; Cyril’s glance wavered for a moment, then he broke out—
“I love you with all my heart, May!”
“I do not think so,” she answered, “though, perhaps, you think it yourself. Forgive me if I pain you, but you want to know the truth, you say. A woman would not like to feel that in a moment of danger her husband would lose his head, leave her, and think only of saving himself!”
“You are ungenerous,” said Cyril, with a dark flush; “I have refuted that charge once. I shall not repeat my defence.”
“No, don’t,” said May quietly; “not to someone who was there and saw and heard all!”
In the deep silence which followed, his quick angry breathing could be heard; then May spoke again in the same calm way.
“A woman wants also perfect confidence in her husband’s honour. It would not be pleasant to hear searching inquiries as to how bank-notes, for instance, which he had passed on to other people had come into his possession.”
The flush on Cyril’s face faded, and a grey pallor took its place. He took a backward step and almost gasped out—
“Miss Lawrence, what do you mean?”
“Nothing very much. Of course, no man of honour would mind such inquiries. But it seems that there is a hue and cry of some sort over a bank-note which my brother cashed some time ago. That note he changed for a friend of his who happened to be short of gold one day and asked him for it. It is rather wonderful he remembered the circumstance, but he did. As he said to me, that sort of thing was not quite pleasant, though no doubt everything could be satisfactorily explained.”
Cyril’s face was livid.
“I never asked your brother for change.”
“Did I say that you did?”
“It was implied in your speech.”
“I will not imply any more then. I tell you in plain words that it was you who asked Frank for change for the note and got it. You may have forgotten, but he has not.”
“And who has been making inquiries?” asked Cyril, with stiff pale lips.
“Never mind. It is really no affair of mine. If it is anything to you, you will hear all in good time. I think I must be going now. I have a number of things to do. Good-bye, Mr. Cossart. I will tell them to bring your horse to the door.”
She turned and left him—left him standing like a man half-stunned. That was a pretty outcome of his day’s wooing. Fear and rage wrestled for mastery in his heart as he rode away from the house, resolved never to cross that threshold again.
He had been so confident that all the trouble had blown over by this time, that nobody, not even Oscar, had been much the worse, that no strict inquiry had ever been set on foot. His face was still pale, and he felt shaken and nervous as he walked from the livery stables home. He was half afraid to enter the drawing-room lest his appearance should excite comment.
But as it happened there was another excitement on foot which quite shielded him from notice. Voices were speaking in rapid eager tones.
“What can it be? How very strange!”
“Alone too, or she would not want meeting.”
“Oscar must go, of course, but it is all very odd.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Cyril, in as easy a tone as he could master.
“Why, look there,” cried Ray, putting a telegram into his hand, “that has just come from Uncle Cossart in Madeira.”
The message ran as follows—
“Sheila returns by Dunraven Castle. Have her met.”
(To be continued.)
By Dr. GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M., R.N. (“MEDICUS”).
The first part of this paper at all events may be supposed to be addressed to young mothers, rather than to young girls, but I have no doubt that the latter will have a peep at it just to see if there is anything in it which concerns them. I shall not tell them whether there is or not. Let them read on and see.
My main difficulty in writing it I feel will be one of condensation. The subject of inherited ailments and congenital malformation is one of such importance that it is a book thereon I should publish, and not a single paper. However, if it leads young parents to think, thinking is sure to lead to action, and with the hints I shall give, and of course the help of their family doctor, many a young life may not only be saved, but children may grow up strong and bonnie, who through neglect or ignorance might have anything but happy futures, and lives so weary that their brevity might well be looked upon as a blessing.
I must say a few words at the outset on the terrible scourge of these islands, which most people call consumption, and the medical profession phthisis. The question “Is it hereditary?” stares us in the face at once whenever we think of it, and it is a somewhat difficult one to answer. I myself do not believe in heredity in the ordinary sense of the word as applied to disease. A beautiful young shoot of wood may spring from a fast-decaying tree, and if this be transplanted into good soil, it will grow as well as any other. What holds good as regards vegetable life cannot of course be shown to be quite true as regards animal, nevertheless there is a certain analogy. Consumption we believe to be infectious; if so, it is caused by a disease germ. Now your old-school hereditists would tell us that this germ descends from mother to child. In some cases it does or may, but the child very soon succumbs to tabes mesenterica, or some other terrible infantile disease. A germ will do one of two things: it will either assert itself very speedily, or be killed in the system. Nature sets about at once getting rid of these disease germs, supposing them to exist at the time of birth. She brings, among other organs of relief, the absorbents and glands into play; there is a struggle for life, in which nature often fails, because those very glands become overladen and diseased, tubercle being formed and multiplied within them. Nature does her best, but she is beaten—another proof of the struggle betwixt what we call evil and good, which is constantly going on in this world.
Well, on the other hand, if the child is born of delicate parents, but free from germs, it has, if carefully fed, nursed, and tended, a very excellent chance of growing up well. It is difficult to conceive of a child having germs of, say, consumption in its system and these lying latent or dormant until she is a certain age, and then springing suddenly into life after she has suffered from some exposure and caught cold in the chest. There are easier theories than this by far and away to account for the children of consumptive parents dying of the same disease in their later teens. Besides, that word “latent” may be convenient, but it is a shockingly unmeaning one. I remember my father buying for a good round sum a few grains of wheat that were said to have been in the grasp of a mummy for a thousand years. The wheat when sown grew most certainly. It may never have been in the hands of a mummy at all, but it may have been. If so, it was surrounded by dead matter, it was hermetically sealed against any influence that could cause it to germinate. Life was latent or asleep. But in the human body germs have no chance of dorminating, for so constant are the changes, that everything is constantly getting shifted, and by the time a man or woman is fifty he or she may have used up a score of bodies.
However, there is this to be said concerning the children of consumptive parents: they are born delicate, and therefore far more likely to fall victims to the scourge than others.
May they grow out of this delicacy of constitution? Yes, and that is the question I am going to consider, but I must answer another one, and it is one, too, that strikes at the very root of sociality: should consumptive people, or those suffering from other so-called hereditary ailments, marry? I say, “No.” They are, if they do so, guilty of as great a crime as many a felon who leaves the dock with the dread sentence of the judge ringing in his ears. It is sad to have to answer the question in such seemingly cruel words, but nevertheless I believe I am doing my duty in giving that reply.
There are two ways in which a young woman can give herself to God in this world, and both are honourable. One is by marrying the man she loves if he be healthy in body and pure in mind—not else—and thus becoming Heaven’s own servant for the happy propagation of healthful species and the progress of the world; the other is by—if weakly—remaining celibate and devoting her time, her talents and energies to doing good to her fellow beings without hope of reward in this world. There is a charm about a woman like this (though foolish people may sneer at her as an old maid) that it is difficult to describe.
I have met many such, and seem to have seen a halo already around their heads. I am a physician, naturalist, scientist, if you will, and something of an astronomer, and being so of course—to some extent—a doubter, but I do most sincerely believe that the good in this weary wicked world will ultimately prevail, and those who help it onwards will not go unrewarded in a future life whatever that life may be.
Now to lay down a few simple rules for the treatment of weakly children whether born of delicate parents or not. Will she grow out of it? The answer to this question is a hopeful one or the reverse just as you choose to make it, young mother.
There is one stumbling-block of which I bid you beware at the very outset of your girl-child’s life. It is the bogey “cold.” That young children need warmth is very true. They are for the time being little hot-house plants, but the sooner you recognise the truth that they are not intended to remain so, the better it will be for yourself, and for the child as well. Those wee things have to be hardened off because the world isn’t a hot-house, and they have got to live hardy, healthy, and therefore happy lives, in spite of the many and daily changes of this changeable climate of ours.
If you desire the wee lassie to grow up as tender as a mushroom and perhaps die just as soon, comparatively, then all you’ve got to do is to permit her to sleep night after night in a badly-ventilated stuffy room and to plot her. The verb “to plot” is essentially Scotch, but as applied to over-coddled children or young canaries or pigeons in a nest that the nervous mother is sweating to death, it is exceedingly expressive. Many of the Scotch words are derived from the French as, in olden times, the two nations were great allies. It would be going a little out of the way perhaps to seek its derivation from sur le plat, on the plate, as an egg when poached. A pig is plotted when boiling water is poured over it in order to get off the bristles easily, the cook plots herself when she gets a splash of hot water over her hands, a boy or man is said to be plotting himself when he wears more clothes than is wanted as a guard against the weather, and babies are all too often plotted in bed or bassinette. The single word “plotted” means sweated, blanched (faire pâlir), poached, all in one. Well, however nice a poached egg may be, poached baby looked at from a doctor’s point of view is very unsatisfactory.
Now just think of the folly, not to say the iniquity, of treating a tender infant as many do. Here lies the mite at the mercy of a mother who may be wise, but who may be otherwise. It is already struggling with the arch-enemy, death. Pray do not misunderstand me: I do not mean to say it is dying, only from the very day we begin to live we begin to die, as it were, at least, to struggle against all that is inimical to life. And life is change, you know, merely that. “I live, therefore I must die.” But we want to keep the spark in this little body, and what is more we want to fan it into health that shall fill every vein and nerve in its body, and produce future health, happiness, and strength. In order to do this, in order to give the child a chance to grow out of its inherited weakness (I do not say “disease,” for that is an ugly word, and quite unnecessary), we must place it under conditions most favourable to existence.
I think this is the proper place in which to mention a very injurious fallacy as regards what are called infantile ailments. It is a fact that children of tender years are more likely to be attacked by certain ailments, of which measles is as good an illustration as any, simply because they are weak, and these, in certain states of the atmosphere, especially in villages where sanitation is utterly neglected, are apt to become epidemic, carrying away to their little graves victims that are not strong enough to fight against the trouble, for Nature’s law that the fittest shall survive is fixed and immutable. But it is a great mistake to believe that children must have such ailments, and the sooner such an error of belief is written down and eradicated the better. Scarlatina is another ailment which often breaks out in villages, especially in Board schools; and remembering the utter want of fresh air and cleanliness which prevails in these seminaries, one cannot wonder. During an epidemic of this sort the school is closed, and the children, sick or well, go to their squalid dens and unhealthy huts to live or die, as the case may be, for they “break up” at school only to hatch out the seeds of illness already sown in their systems. But your well-fed, well-cared-for children, and such as sleep at night in fresh air without more than sufficient bed-clothing, do not succumb to these disorders, be they ever so rife.
Surely, then, prevention is better than cure. I shall now mention one or two of these so-called infantile troubles that some young mothers who read this brief paper may know a little more about them and their causes. I advise everyone who has the care of children to keep in the house in its little case a clinical thermometer. The family doctor will be very pleased, I am sure, to show parents how to use it, and whenever the temperature mounts over a hundred the physician should be called in.
Measles.—The ailment is ushered in somewhat similarly to a bad cold, and often passes at first for a touch of influenza. But the girl is feverish with loss of appetite, and no heart for play. Then about the third day come out the rose-coloured spots, first on the brow. They are so close together as to almost coalesce. The fever now gets worse, and the case is one for the doctor to superintend; but the parents ask the question: “Will she get over it?” I am glad to answer in the affirmative, only that nasty wee word “if” comes in—if the case does not become complicated, for bronchitis may ensue, or inflammation of the lungs itself, and then there is great danger. And bear this in mind; the child that has been treated while in health in a common-sense way, not “plotted,” over-coddled, or over-crammed as to food, has by far and away the greatest chance of getting over this ailment or scarlatina either.
Scarlatina.—When this becomes epidemic in small towns and badly-drained villages, the Angel of Death has indeed spread his wings on the blast.
If there is scarlet fever or scarlatina (the milder sort) about, and your little girl begins to ail from no apparent cause, suffering from loss of appetite and cheerfulness, if she has chills alternating with flushing, hot skin and uneasy sleep, with a little headache and maybe sore throat, with a high temperature and furred tongue, having little red papillæ showing through—the “strawberry tongue”—then in all probability she has an attack of scarlatina. We shall hope it is to be a simple one. Cure it you can’t; but the little patient may be guided through it.
The doctor is the man to trust. But there is one thing you can assist him in most materially, and that is in seeing that the patient is completely isolated from the rest of the house, for the simplest cases in one child may generate the worst in others. It is a more dangerous disorder than measles, and mind that, until the doctor gives a clean bill of health, and the skin has entirely peeled, no other child should be allowed into the room. Indeed, the success in any one case depends on careful nursing, and isolation will prevent it spreading. Disinfectants must of course be used—but the doctor will tell you all this—and food taken from the room must not even be given to the cat or dog. She will pull through if scientifically treated, and soon grow out of any little weaknesses that may remain.
St. Vitus’s Dance.—Will she grow out of this? I do really think that the medical profession has a good deal to learn even yet concerning this strange ailment. But its symptoms are unmistakable. The uncontrollable, fidgety movements may be slight or very great; they may be on one side of the body or both. She will grow out of it, however, if the treatment is most skilful. The health must be properly attended to, and all rules obeyed which the doctor shall lay down. The digestion and the teeth must be seen to, with abundance of fresh air and non-exciting exercise and recreation. The bath often does wonders—tepid, of course—given in a warm room. There are certain kinds of methodical drill which, moreover, do good, and many kinds of tonics. But cod-liver oil or marrol is perhaps one of the best, as it is a food. The doctor will for each case prescribe the necessary tonic. Dear me! what thousands of thousands of lives might be saved if we could only act up to the physician’s instructions. I must bid the young mother beware of quack medicines, and of all such dangerous drugs as chloral, bromides, and phenaticin, etc. In the hands of the physician these are useful; in those of the uninitiated they are verily like razors grasped by infant fingers.
There are three ailments or more which I hope to treat of in papers succeeding this. One is incipient consumption and its fresh air cure, another rickets and bandy legs, and a third scrofula, a disease of the glands, but, of course, from constitutional causes. Scrofula used to be called King’s Evil; and, although one suffering therefrom may do much good by strict adherence to the laws of health, medical advice should in all cases be sought for.
Rosemary.—1. We have sent your quotation to “Our Open Letter Box.”—2. For icing, consult the February number of The Girl’s Own Paper, p. 264. You will find many receipts for cakes there and elsewhere in our magazine. This is not literary! but we cannot divide a letter. It is better, if possible, for our correspondents to send separate letters for questions on cookery, health, toilet, etc.
A. Dawson.—We should think Twenty Minutes, by Harriet L. Childe-Pemberton might suit you, or The Witch’s Curse, and Other Plays, by Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy (Miss Alcott). French’s catalogue (Covent Garden, Strand, London) contains all sorts of plays for young and old, and might prove a help.
Ida.—We should advise you to get Chambers’s Book-keeping by Single and Double Entry, published at 1s. 6d. You might also take correspondence lessons in the subject. Apply to King’s College, London (Ladies’ Department), the University Correspondence College, 32, Red Lion Square, W.C., or to one of the private addresses occasionally given here.
Blackberry.—Your lines in their beginning recall the hymn—
but they are not written in any metre, and do not rhyme, so they can scarcely be called verse. The writing of lines of different lengths below each other does not constitute metrical composition.
Sofie Abelsberg.—You write a good English letter. You should not say “Since three years I study,” but “I have studied for three years”; and you use “yet” wrongly. You should say “I still make mistakes.” These are common errors for a foreigner, and we congratulate you on expressing yourself so well. We insert your request.
Nil Desperandum.—We are very sorry for you, as it is quite true that the profession of teaching music is overstocked in London. We are sure it is far wiser to go into the provinces, but we cannot tell you of any special town where you would find an opening. It is best to inquire among friends if possible, or your late teachers might be able to suggest something. Perhaps some reader may help you. We should think that in a case like yours the Teachers’ Guild, 74, Gower Street, might be useful. The High Schools all over England employ visiting music-mistresses.
Jecko (Constantinople).—We are sorry we do not recognise your quotation, but we have placed it in “Our Open Letter Box.” In any case, you could not have received a reply in our next number. The magazine goes to press long before it reaches the hands of our readers.
I. F. N.—We are willing to ask our readers at your wish if they can suggest four suitable mottoes for embroidering on a bed-spread. We should recommend Coleridge’s couplet, divided as you like—
Mignonette.—Many thanks for your kind and appreciative verses—“As Sweet as Spring”—about The Girl’s Own Paper.
Ballochmyle.—1. Unless we are mistaken, a full account of “The House of Education” at Ambleside appeared in this magazine a year or two ago. Write to the Secretary for details of the training if you would like to undergo it. Your age would be all right.—2. Chromo-lithography is a process of reproducing paintings in colours.
Se Saren Rose.—The poem “Divided” is by Jean Ingelow, the well-known poetess who died not long ago. You will find it in the first volume of her poems, which you should be able to procure from any good library. You are quite justified in your admiration. The title of the book is, Poems: Jean Ingelow: Longmans, Green, & Co.
⁂ We are greatly impressed by the kindness and courtesy of our readers who, for the sake of absolute strangers, copy out and forward to us long pieces of poetry. It is, however, only right for us to warn them that it is most uncertain whether these copies ever reach the persons for whom they are intended. We keep no register of addresses, and cannot undertake to forward MSS., while, even if we did so, the numbers of each copy would probably be far in excess of the demand. If no address, or request for a copy, is given by the inquirer in this column, it is quite sufficient to answer the question by simply mentioning the book or magazine where the desired extract can be found. We say this with full appreciation of the goodwill shown by our subscribers in the matter.
“Winton” has answers (in some cases copies) from Old Bournemouthian, Miss Edith Williamson, C. A. H., R. E. M. James, M. M., G. Shaw, M. J. P. M., “Azzie,” Dorothy Shove, Louie Francis, Lavinia Metcalfe, Ellen, Bertha L. Wright, Miss James, D. Morrish, A. G., Annie Nicholls, Edith H., B. Mountifield, Miss Hanly, and Daisy. The hymn is referred to Sankey’s Songs and Solos (732), the Christian Endeavour Hymnal, the Union Mission Hymnal, and the Hymnal Companion (No. 597).
“Doubtful” has answers, and in some cases copies, from M. M. Harris, Mrs. E. Bürck, Sophia, Evelyn Clare, Annie S. Hardy, Bertha Parks, Miss Kneeshaw, referring “The Noble Boy,” alias “Somebody’s Mother,” to Blackie’s Fourth Reader, Chambers’s Expressive Reader (price 9d.), and Nelson’s Royal Reader, No. 2.
Hope has replies from M. L. Spackman, “A Lover of Music,” “Midget,” and “Pansy.” “Trouble in Amen Corner” is by T. C. Harbaugh, and may be found in the Thousand Best Poems in the World (Hutchinson & Co.), and Chambers’s Elocution, new edition.
Rosemary wishes for the words of a song beginning—
“Gowan” has a copy of “The Women of Mumbles Head,” sent by M. J. P. M. The poem is by Clement Scott, and may be found in Forsyth’s Practical Elocutionist (Blackie & Son).
Can anyone tell “Jecko” (Constantinople) the source of the following quotation?—
⁂ Prizes to the amount of six guineas (one of which will be reserved for competitors living abroad) are offered for the best solutions of the above Puzzle Poem. The following conditions must be observed:—
1. Solutions to be written on one side of the paper only.
2. Each paper to be headed with the name and address of the competitor.
3. Attention must be paid to spelling, punctuation, and neatness.
4. Send by post to Editor, Girl’s Own Paper, 56, Paternoster Row, London. “Puzzle Poem” to be written on the top left-hand corner of the envelope.
5. The last day for receiving solutions from Great Britain and Ireland will be September 16, 1899; from Abroad, November 16, 1899.
The competition is open to all without any restrictions as to sex or age.
[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.
Page 692: he to be—“have to be content”.
be to he—“when he is back”.
Cappucini to Cappuccini—“Cappuccini at Amalfi”.
Page 701: primoses to primroses—“primroses were to be found”.]