THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. VIII.—No. 368.

Price One Penny.

JANUARY 15, 1887.

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

[THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.]
[BERCEUSE.]
[MERLE’S CRUSADE.]
[FAITH AND UNFAITH.]
[THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.]
[VARIETIES.]
[MORE ABOUT Y.W.C.A.; “GIRL’S OWN PAPER” BRANCH.]
[TINNED MEATS; THEIR VALUE TO HOUSEKEEPERS.]
[A “PRINCESS OF THULE” IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.]
[ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.]

THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.

A PASTORALE.

By DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.

“HE STOPPED AND WANTED TO KNOW WHERE SHE WAS GOING.”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XV.

CONCERNING A HORSESHOE.

The greater part of the majority of lives is passed in a groove. Sometimes a great crash comes, and all the machinery is put out of gear, but then the life is resumed, and all goes on quietly again—not as before, the change was too violent for that, but in another groove, in which it moves until another crisis comes. These crises come to all, even the most uneventful lives, but they come oftener to some than to others, and when they do come they invariably come suddenly and in the most unexpected way. Let the road of life be ever so long and straight and dull and monotonous, it is sure to lead to a turning some day, though, perhaps, the new road on which we enter with such hope and zest may be longer and duller and rougher than the first. And, after all, monotonous lives are often the happiest, though the young are very sceptical on this point, until their own lives have been upset by one or two of the great changes which come sooner or later to everyone.

Jack’s sudden departure was such a crisis in his life, and, indeed, it affected the whole family, though after he was gone they settled down again into the old quiet daily routine. It was not the same as before; it never is. This is really the sad part of it; not that life is monotonous, as people often complain, but that after a great change, no matter how brief—a few minutes may be long enough to effect such a change—but after such a change the life can never go on again exactly the same as it was before; it may be happier or the reverse. One thing is certain, it will never be the same again. And the older we grow the more sad does it seem that the good old times are gone for ever—they can never come back any more.

Our children grow up and are both a blessing and a comfort to our fading lives, but the days are gone for ever when the curly-headed cherub, now a man of six feet high, awoke us at unearthly hours for a romp, before a sepulchral voice outside announced that his bath was ready, to our intense relief. He has cherubs of his own now, and can sympathise with our feelings, when the nurse’s knock was heard, and the time will come when he too, like us, will wish in vain for those happy days to return.

The Shelleys’ change had been so sudden; in a few hours it was all settled, and Jack gone to America, who, earlier in the day, had been shearing sheep, as though that was to be the only anxiety in his shepherd’s life. After he was gone they were at first so occupied with nursing Charlie they had scarcely time to realise all that had happened on that June morning; but in a few weeks Charlie was quite well again, and then they resumed their former lives. But it was all different now; Charlie took Jack’s place as under-shepherd, and went with his father to the downs every day instead of Jack. Fairy spent a great deal of her time at the rectory, for now Jack was gone she felt her anomalous position, for, fond as she was of the shepherd and his wife and of Charlie, she could not help feeling there was a gulf between them and her, which, in Jack’s case, did not exist, for intellectually he was her superior.

As she grew older, Fairy began to realise that there was another difference between her and her foster parents, besides the difference of education, for she was a lady in thought and feeling as well as by birth, and, thanks to Mr. Leslie, by education. Not that there was anything to jar upon her feelings in John Shelley or his wife; for simple, honest folk as they were, there was nothing vulgar about them; and it is vulgarity which jars against a refined mind; but all the same there was a difference between them and her, a difference she had not felt as a child, but which, now she was growing into a woman, pressed upon her.

She felt this difference more with Charlie than the others, for John Shelley’s piety made her look up to him with reverence; and Mrs. Shelley’s sound common sense and true motherly kindness had won her respect and affection; but Charlie, fond as she was of him, was rather a trial to Fairy. His thick hobnailed shoes which he persisted in wearing in the house, his smock-frock, to which, on the shepherd, Fairy had no objection, for, as she often said, he looked like one of the old patriarchs in it, but Charlie’s smock was by no means becoming; he looked what he was—a clodhopping youth in it; his dirty stained hands, which no amount of washing could ever make clean, his broad, Sussex brogue, and his habit of chucking at his forelock if he met Mr. Leslie, were thorns in the flesh to Fairy, as they had been to Jack; and certainly there was no danger of her ever feeling or evincing more than a sisterly affection for the bucolic Charlie. No wonder if Fairy, feeling lonely when Jack was gone, took to remaining oftener at the rectory, after her lesson hours were over, than she had done when he was at home, particularly as she was a great favourite there, not only with the young people, who could do nothing without Fairy, but with Mr. and Mrs. Leslie also, both of whom had come to be very fond of her. They pitied her, too, knowing well the difficulties of her position, though Fairy was much too loyal to the Shelleys to speak of them; and they were anxious to help her as far as lay in their power. At present all they were able to do was to give her the same advantages of education as they bestowed on their own four plain daughters. Unluckily, Fairy did not show any great fondness for study, though she readily learnt French and music, and any accomplishments, for she was very clever with her fingers, and both painted and played very well, for those days.

What was to become of Fairy in the future was a problem which often exercised Mr. and Mrs. Leslie’s brains, and the only solution they could arrive at was that Jack must make his fortune in America, and come back and marry her, since it was quite clear she could not live for ever with the shepherd; neither was she fitted to be a governess; and there was no other way of well-educated women earning their living in those days, and there would be some insurmountable obstacles to marrying her to any one else. A gentleman would hesitate at marrying a girl brought up in a peasant’s cottage, and it was quite certain Fairy would not marry anyone but a gentleman, unless, indeed, she took Jack; so, after due consideration, Mr. and Mrs. Leslie settled there was no other future open to her.

Meanwhile there was plenty of time before Fairy need want to fly away from the shepherd’s sheltering roof, for if Jack came back at the end of two years she would only then be eighteen. And as time went on the accounts of Jack were very satisfactory. Not only did his own letters lead his friends to gather that he was making his way, but Mr. Leslie occasionally received glowing accounts from his friend the banker of the very promising young man he had sent out to him, and there seemed very little doubt that Jack would do uncommonly well for himself.

He wrote every mail, either to his mother or Fairy; indeed, his letters were the chief incidents in their lives, and were eagerly looked for, for little occurred to vary the monotony of the daily routine, except, in due course, the sheep-fairs, lambing-time, the sheep-washing and shearing, and the White Ram, until, in the spring of the second year after Jack went away, a disease broke out among the flocks, which gave John Shelley a great deal of anxiety, although hitherto his sheep had escaped. Indeed, he had been very fortunate since Jack left, and at the time of his third White Ram his flock was in a most prosperous condition. Charlie had developed into an excellent shepherd; his heart was as much in his work now as his father’s; he knew and loved all his sheep, and he was by no means above going to the fairs with them; on the contrary, he was very proud of his position of under-shepherd, and then he had no scruples, like Jack, about snareing wheatears. He made quite a little fortune in this way during the summer months, and in winter he trapped moles and sold them for so much a dozen; in the autumn he gathered mushrooms and sold them—indeed, all was fish that came to Charlie’s net; and in one way he was as observant as Jack, though while Jack pursued his observations from a pure love of natural history, Charlie always had an eye on the main chance.

He cared nothing for the beauty of the scenery—probably he saw none, although Ray, the naturalist, thought the South Downs equal to any scenery in Europe. All Charlie saw was an expanse of short crisp turf, excellent pasturage for his sheep. He never brought Fairy home a bunch of flowers, as Jack had been wont to do every day except in the depth of winter, and when she asked him to get her some bee orchises from Mount Caburn, Charlie either did not know where they grew or else had not time to gather them; and then Fairy would go to John Shelley, and beg him to get her some orchids before they were all over, and, busy as he might be, John never refused.

One hot July day when John Shelley’s White Ram was already a thing of the past, he came home unexpectedly about ten in the morning, looking so very grave that Fairy, who was painting on the kitchen table, asked what was the matter. John often looked grave now; indeed, he had never been quite the same since Jack had struck that unlucky blow; the suspense and anxiety he endured then, and the narrow escape he felt they had had of a terrible tragedy being enacted in the midst of their happy home circle, and then the loss of his eldest son, which he felt exceedingly, for he was very proud of clever, handsome Jack; all had saddened him. Perhaps, too, the knowledge that he had attained the goal of his earthly ambition, to be captain of the Lewes shearing company, and had nothing more to hope for in this world, made him grave; at any rate, though he had always lived for the future—for the life beyond the grave, he did so more than ever now; and though he was too good a man and too busy to indulge in any morbid thoughts, yet he set very little store on this life, and often longed for the time to come when he should lay his burden down and cross the dark river which leads to those fields of light where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.

For Fairy the shepherd had ever a smile; she was the light of his home, the poetry of his life; one glance at her delicate, bright little face, crowned with its wealth of golden hair, was sufficient to chase all gloom from his brow; and now, though he looked unusually grave, he smiled at her.

“Where is mother, little one?”

“She is lying down with one of her bad headaches; she would clean up the house first, but at last I persuaded her to let me cook the dinner, so I am going to; surely, it is not time yet. Why have you come home so soon, John?”

“Mother ill! That is bad. ‘It never rains but it pours,’ as they say. What am I to do?”

“Why, John; what is the matter? Has anything happened to Charlie?”

“No, child, no, not that I know of; but my sheep have got it.”

No need for Fairy to ask what the sheep had got, for this disease had been Charlie’s sole topic of conversation ever since it had broken out, so, to tell the truth, she was rather weary of it; but for John’s sheep to have it was a serious matter she knew; moreover, she always took special interest in “our sheep,” as she called them.

“Oh, John, have our sheep got it? Oh, I am sorry! I thought you would be sure to escape. How many are ill?”

“Only ten at present; but though I have taken them away from the others, it is so infectious I am afraid they will all get it.”

“Did you come home to tell mother?” asked Fairy.

“No, I came back to ask her to go to Lewes and tell Hobbs, the veterinary, to come and see them as soon as possible, while I take those who are all right to the downs, and go on to look at Charlie’s flock; he may not have noticed the first symptoms. Perhaps I can find someone in the village to go, as mother is ill.”

“Nonsense, John, I will go; I shall like the walk this lovely day. I don’t mind the sun a bit; I love it; besides, I shall be back before the heat of the day. Tell me where I am to go, and what I am to say.”

“But, my pretty one, mother does not like you to go to Lewes alone, does she?”

“In a case like this she would not mind; it is great nonsense at all, I think, for the Leslie girls go in alone, one or other of them, every day.”

John smiled, partly at the way in which Fairy identified herself with the Leslie girls, as if they were in the same position as herself, and partly at her naivety in not seeing that it was one thing for a plain girl like Maud Leslie to walk about Lewes alone, and quite another for the shepherd’s pretty dainty little foster daughter. However, he was very anxious about his sheep, and wanted the veterinary fetched as quickly as possible, and he knew he could trust Fairy to go far better than a boy in the village, so he accepted her offer, and gave her the necessary directions.

Fairy ran upstairs to tell Mrs. Shelley where she was going and to fetch her hat, and then set off in high glee, very much enjoying the novelty of going to Lewes alone, though Mrs. Shelley, as she first bent and kissed her before starting, grumbled at John’s imprudence in allowing it. And certainly there was something to be said on Mrs. Shelley’s side of the question, for Fairy was a girl who could not walk out without attracting attention; not that she was so exceedingly beautiful, but there was such a brilliancy in her beauty, which was of the pocket-Venus type, such a freshness and brightness about her, that everyone who saw her involuntarily turned to look after this little sunbeam who had just shed a ray of light across his path. She was dressed in a very simple white dress, with a large straw hat, with a piece of blue ribbon round it on her head. Fairy was very fond of white dresses, and very extravagant, for she never would wear a soiled one, and good Mrs. Shelley, who took a great pride in the girl’s appearance, washed and starched and ironed them for her without complaining.

Fairy’s way lay down the lane and across some fields, by a kind of drift, to the Winter-bourne, now a mere tiny brook, which you could easily step over, and then down a road with fields on one side and the Priory grounds on the other, to the town.

She met no one till she reached the bourne, and she tripped along quickly, resolutely denying herself the pleasure of gathering all the wild roses she came across, partly because, she told herself, she must make haste on her important errand, partly because it would soil her dress.

“I must gather all I can as I come back,” said Fairy, with a longing glance at the fence, covered with the lovely wild roses, pink and white and cream-coloured, the loveliest of all our wild flowers—the “rose of all the roses.”

But when she came back that golden head was too full of other thoughts to remember the roses.

At the bourne Fairy met Mr. Leslie on horseback. He stopped and wanted to know where she was going.

“To Lewes, on business, very important business, for John,” said Fairy, grandly.

“Indeed! I wish my mare were not so tired, that I might come with you, but I am just back from Brighton, and I expect, as the poor people here say, the fairies got into my stable and rode her about all last night, for she is far from fresh this morning. But I must not keep you. Good-bye; don’t let anyone pick you up and run off with you before Jack comes back. I heard from him this morning; he talks of coming home at the end of this year.”

“So soon? Mother will be glad. Good-bye,” said Fairy, her bright little face lighting up with pleasure, though she did not blush or look conscious; facts Mr. Leslie noticed, and went home to tell his wife Fairy was too much of a child to be in love, and he was sure she had no thought of Jack as a husband.

In this he was right; Fairy had no thought of Jack nor of anyone else as a husband just then; she was fancy-free as she disappeared down the road which led to the picturesque old town, lying before her in its amphitheatre of hills, whose white chalk patches looked strangely cold and repellent on this warm July morning. But those chalk hills often give one a chill at first. Fairy was too much accustomed to them to notice or feel it any more than she noticed or felt the cold, blunt, downright, and, at first, repelling manner of the Sussex peasant, who probably derives some of his characteristics from the country in which he is born and bred, and lives and moves and has his being, for it is certain that scenery influences character to a much greater extent than is commonly supposed. Fairy knew that this was only one phase of the Sussex downs; another time those hills—by the way, the word “down” is derived from an old Saxon word, meaning “hill”—another time those hills would look soft, and warm, and sweet, and attractive, just as the Sussex peasant, on better acquaintance, proves himself honest and true and kind-hearted, in spite of his uncouth manners.

(To be continued.)

BERCEUSE.

BY
J. W. HINTON, M.A., Mus.D.

MERLE’S CRUSADE.

By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc.

CHAPTER XIV.

“BREAD AND SALT.”

thought Mrs. Markham looked somewhat displeased.

“We must ask your mother’s permission, Master Rolf;” then, turning to her, “I hope you will allow him to go with us this afternoon,” for, in spite of his rude ways, I felt full of pity for the lonely little boy; he seemed to have no playfellows except poor Judson, who was a low-spirited, overworked young woman. It must have been dreary for him to be in a household of grown-up people, who all voted him a plague and took no trouble to amuse him. Spoilt children are seldom happy ones; and it did not need a second look at Rolf’s pale, sickly face to read the lines of discontent and peevishness.

“I am rather surprised that Miss Fenton should make such a request after her treatment of my boy yesterday,” returned Mrs. Markham, ungraciously. I think if she had dared to contradict Rolf she would not have given her consent, but a sulky look was already clouding his face.

“Never mind about that,” he said, impatiently; “Miss Fenton is going to make the tail for my kite; and I am going out with her this afternoon, and I shall and will go.”

“Master Rolf, that is not the way to answer your mother.”

“You may leave me to rebuke my own child,” she observed, coldly. “Very well, Rolf; you may go, but you need not be so cross about it. I came to see about the children, Miss Fenton; I think it is too hot for them to go on the beach this afternoon.”

“Joyce will wear her sun-bonnet; and there is a nice breeze,” I returned, somewhat ruffled by this interference. I fancy she did it to aggravate me, for there was no fault to be found with the weather, and I knew my mistress always left these things to me.

She remained for a few minutes making little suggestions about the ventilation and the nursery arrangements, which I bore as patiently as I could, though the harsh, metallic voice irritated me dreadfully. I did not wish to be disrespectful to Mrs. Markham, but I did not feel bound to obey her orders, and I knew I should tell her so if any grave dispute arose between us. I was rather relieved when she left the room at last, taking Rolf with her; but a few minutes afterwards Judson glided in on tiptoe.

“Oh, Miss Fenton,” she said, in a pathetic voice, “I am so grateful to you for promising to take charge of Master Rolf this afternoon; I thought there would be such a piece of work; Master Rolf thought he was going out in the carriage, and Mrs. Markham has friends and cannot find room for him; and what I should have done with him I hardly know, all the afternoon.”

“If Rolf is good I have no objection to take charge of him; I am very fond of children, only they must be obedient.”

“Obedience is an unknown word to Master Rolf,” returned Judson, lugubriously; “times out of number that boy has got me into trouble, just because he would not mind a word I said. Why, he got the colonel’s sword out of his mother’s wardrobe one day and nearly killed himself, and another morning he fired off his grandfather’s gun, that had been loaded by mistake, and shot poor old Pincher, not that he meant to do it; he was aiming at one of the pheasants.”

This was not pleasant to hear, and I inwardly resolved not to trust the children out of my sight; for who could tell what unforeseen accident might arise from Rolf’s recklessness?

“Mrs. Markham blames me for all that happens,” went on Judson, “and Master Rolf knows that, and there is no checking him; he is not nearly so mischievous when his mother is near, because she loses patience, and has more than once boxed his ears soundly. She spoils him dreadfully, and he takes liberties with her as no child ought to take with a parent; but now and then, when he has aggravated her past bearing, I have known her punish him pretty sharply.”

This was sad; injudicious indulgence, and injudicious severity. Who could wonder if the results were unsatisfactory?

“No one dares to say a word to him except his mother,” went on Judson; “it is just her temper when she flies out at him; but she worships the very ground he walks on. If his finger aches she thinks he is going to die, and the house is in an uproar; and yet when he is ill he is as contrary as possible, and will not take a thing from her, for all her petting and coaxing.”

It seemed a relief to Judson to pour out her woes, and I could hardly refuse to listen to her. She was evidently attached to her mistress, with whom she had lived since her marriage; but she was one of those helpless beings who are made the butt of other people’s wills and passions; she had no dignity of mind to repel even childish impertinence; her nervous, vacillating ways would only increase Rolf’s tyrannical nature.

I could understand how a high-spirited boy would resist any command enforced by that plaintive voice. A few quick concise words would influence him more than a torrent of feeble reproaches from Judson. He was not without generous impulses—what English boy is?—he had grasped at once my meaning when I rebuked him for his want of gentlemanly honour, but he was precocious and over-bearing, and had lived too much in the society of grown-up people.

My knowledge of the world was not great, but I know how deficient in reticence many grown-up people are in the presence of children; the stream of talk that is poured into the little pitchers is often defiled with low conventional views of duty, and painfully uncharitable remarks; the pure mirror of a child’s mind—and how pure that mind often is!—is frequently sullied by some unchristian observations from lips that to the child are half divine. “See how ye offend one of these little ones,” was the Master’s warning; and yet if we could look into one of these young minds, we should often see its placid serenity broken up and ruffled by some unthinking speech, flung like a pitiless pebble into its brightness.

After all, we spent a pleasant afternoon on the beach, and I do not believe the children enjoyed themselves more than Hannah and I.

It was not a long walk to the shore if we had followed the direct route; but I wanted to see the pretty village of Netherton more closely; so we walked past the church and down the main street, and turned off by the row of bungalows that skirted the cliff, and, crossing the cornfields, made our way down a narrow cutting to a little strip of shingly beach, with its border of yellow sands washed by the summer surf. I would willingly have sat under the breakwater all the afternoon, watching the baby waves lapping upon the sands, and laying driblets of brown and green seaweed on the shore, while Reggie brought me wet pebbles and little dried up crabs and empty mussel shells, but Rolf wanted me to help with his sand castle; indeed, we were all pressed into the service; even Reggie dug up tiny dabs of sand and flung it at us, under the belief that he was helping too.

What a pretty scene it was, when the castle was finished, and its ramparts adorned with long green festoons and pennants of brown ribbons; and Reggie sat at the top kicking his little bare legs with delight, while Rolf dug the trench down to the sea, which filled and bubbled over in a miniature lake, in which disported the luckless crabs and jelly fish which he had collected for his aquarium.

There is something sad in the transitoriness of children’s play on the shore; they are so eager to build up their sand towers and mounds. When the feeble structure is finished the little workpeople give a cry of joy, as though some great task were accomplished. Then the waves creep up stealthily; there is a little cold lisping outside the outworks, as though the treacherous foes were lurking around; in a few seconds the toy castle is in ruins. The children look at the grey pool that has engulfed their treasure with wide, disappointed eyes.

“Oh, the greedy sea,” they say, “it has destroyed our castle!” But to-morrow they will come again with beautiful childish faith and build another, and still another, until some new game is proposed, or they are weary of play.

It was quite late in the afternoon when we turned our faces homeward. Joyce was tired, so we put her in the perambulator, and I carried Reggie. Rolf hung behind rather sulkily; fatigue evidently made him cross; but he brightened up in an instant when the sound of horses’ hoofs struck on our ears, and in another moment a little cavalcade came in sight—Miss Cheriton mounted on her pretty brown mare Brownie, and her father and Mr. Hawtry on each side of her.

She smiled and waved her hand to us, and Mr. Hawtry raised his hat slightly. They would have passed on, but Rolf exclaimed, “Oh, do take me up for a ride, Mr. Hawtry, I am so tired!” and Mr. Hawtry looked at Miss Cheriton, and pulled up at once.

“Put your foot on my boot, then, and I can reach you,” he returned; and as Hannah lifted him up, not without difficulty, he threw his arm round him, and kept him steady. “Now, then, hold tight; we must overtake the others,” I heard him say, and they were soon out of sight.

“It must be werry nice to be Rolf,” sighed Joyce, enviously, as Hannah wheeled her up the dusty road.

I think we were all glad when we had reached the cool nursery, and found a plentiful tea spread on the round table. The children were so sleepy that we were obliged to put them to bed as soon as they had finished their tea.

Rolf did not make his appearance until later, and then he burst into the room with his arms full of paper and string, and we were very soon hard at work on the window-seat, constructing the tail for his kite.

He was in high spirits, and talked volubly all the time.

“I told mother about bread and salt,” he began, “and she liked the idea very much. She made me repeat it again to grandpapa, and he patted me on the head, and gave me half-a-crown. When grandpapa is pleased about anything he always gives people half-a-crown. I think he ought to give you one, Fenny. Do you mind my calling you Fenny? it sounds so nice, rather like funny, and you are so funny sometimes.”

“It sounds much more like Fanny,” I returned.

“Oh, do you think so? I will ask Aunt Gay what she thinks. Aunt Gay is so fond of you, she told me so to-day, only she said it was a secret, so you must keep it. I told Mr. Hawtry the story about the robber servant this evening after dinner, and he said that he was a plucky fellow, in spite of his being a robber; and so I think. Do you like Mr. Hawtry, Fenny?”

“I do not know him, dear.”

“Oh, no, of course, you are only a nurse, and so you don’t come in the drawing-room like other people; you would not know how to behave, would you? Mr. Hawtry said something about you this evening. Mother was talking to him, you know how, only I can’t tell you—bread and salt, you know,” and here Rolf looked excessively solemn; “and Mr. Hawtry said—no, don’t stop me, it is nothing bad, nothing like mother; oh, dear, it will come out, I know—he only said, ‘She seems a very quiet, well-conducted young person, and not at all above her duties,’ for you were carrying Reggie, you know.”

“Oh, Rolf, do hold your tongue,” I exclaimed, crossly, for this was too much for my forbearance. What business had Mrs. Markham to talk me over with strangers? I ought to have stopped Rolf, but my curiosity was too strong at that moment. “A quiet, well-conducted young person,” indeed. I felt in a fever of indignation.

Rolf looked up from his kite with some surprise.

“Does talking disturb you? We are getting on beautifully. What a lovely tail my kite will have!” Then, as though a thought struck him, “Are you ever cross, Fenny; really cross, I mean?”

“Yes, very often, Rolf,” for being a fairly conscientious person, I could not deny my faults of temper.

“Oh!” with a peculiar intonation, “I wonder if Aunt Gay knows that. Do you remember any anecdotes about crossness, Fenny?”

I am afraid of what my answer might have been, for I was considerably nettled at Rolf’s malicious tone, but happily Judson came at that moment with a message from Mrs. Markham that even Rolf did not dare to disobey, for he ran off at once, without bidding me good-night, and leaving all his tackle strewn over the floor for Judson to clear.

As soon as I was left in solitude, I went to the open window. It was clear moonlight again. There were the tree-shadows, and the long, silvery path across the meadows; a warm radiance from the drawing-room was flung across the terrace. The same sweet bird-like voice that I had heard in the orchard that morning was singing an old-fashioned ballad—

“My mother bids me bind my hair.”

Someone clapped their hands and said “Bravo!” when it was finished.

“What a lovely evening! Do come into the garden, Adelaide; it is quite warm and balmy.” And then there was a rustle and movement underneath me, a sweep of dark drapery, followed by the whisk of a white gown, as Gay ran down the steps, pursued by Rolf. Two gentlemen sauntered down the terrace; one of them was Mr. Hawtry; I could hear his voice quite plainly.

“This is a capital cigarette, squire. When a man is not much of a smoker, he will not put up with an inferior article. I have some cigars by me now——” The remainder of the interesting sentence was lost in the distance.

Men are rather satirical on the subject of women’s talk. They quiz us dreadfully, and insist that our main topic is bonnets, but I am not sure that we could not retaliate with equal force. Bonnets can be treated as works of art, but could anything be more trivial and worthless than a cigar?

They were still talking about the odious things when they returned, only I was too disgusted to listen any more. I was in a bad humour, that was certain—one of those moods when only a real tough piece of work can relieve one. I closed the window and drew down the blind, and then armed myself with my pocket dictionary. I would write a long letter to my mistress, and tell her about our afternoon on the beach, and I would pick out the hardest and most difficult words—those that I generally eschewed.

I heard afterwards I had written a beautiful letter, without a single mistake, and that my mistress read it over and over again—that is, that she considered it beautiful, because it was all about the children.

“Nonsense, Merle, it was a sweet letter, and I showed it to my husband.”

I was in a better humour when I had finished it, and called Hannah.

“Hannah, we shall go on the beach to-morrow morning, and so I shall be able to spare you in the afternoon; I shall not take the children farther than the garden. You can go and have tea with your sister, if you like, and you need not hurry home. I am growing far too idle, and I have not half enough to do,” for I wanted to check any expression of gratitude on the girl’s part, but a tap at the door silenced us both.

It was only Miss Cheriton come to wish me good-night. She had a basket of fruit and a dainty little bunch of roses in her hand.

“I saw the light in your window, and thought of the poor prisoner behind it, and I thought this would cheer you up,” laying her pretty offerings on the table. “I am going to take you all for a drive to-morrow through Orton-on-Sea; the children will like to see the shops and jetty. Well, good-night; I am dreadfully sleepy; to-morrow we will have another long talk.” And then she left me alone with the roses.

(To be continued.)

“SHE SAT ALONE BY THE FIRE ONE DAY.”

FAITH AND UNFAITH.

By SARAH DOUDNEY.

“Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers.”—Tennyson.

She sat alone by the fire one day;

The winds were sobbing outside the pane,

And over the meadows and hillsides grey

The clouds hung heavy with rain.

But down in the garden-paths she knew

Last summer’s leaves were lingering yet,

Leaves that had taken the sun and the dew

Of days she would fain forget.

She sat alone, and the firelight gleamed

On a little golden ring she wore,

And her tears fell fast for the hopes that beamed

In the years that come no more.

She drew the ring from her hand, and said,

“Why should I cling to the outward sign

Of a love that now in his heart lies dead,

Though it lives and burns in mine?”

But a voice said, “Silence is not death;

Wait on in patience and bear your pain;

You may dim the gold by a single breath,

But it shines out bright again!

“Love is not love if it cannot trust,

And faith should shine like the virgin gold,

A treasure unsullied by moth or rust,

That never is bought and sold.”

THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.

By LOUISA MENZIES.

CHAPTER II.

VENUS’S FLY-TRAP.

ark, will you come to Sunbridge Woods and look for Venus’s fly-trap?”[1]

“With all my heart, Sorella; but what will mother do?”

“Oh, mother will be quite happy in the garden under your tent. She cannot walk in the heat, you know; but perhaps she’ll come and meet us if she does not drive with auntie.”

“Let us go and ask her,” said Mark; and led the way to the cool little parlour, where their mother was engaged in some parish writing for her brother, her writing-table so placed that she could look up from time to time at her husband’s portrait, which seemed to her, simple soul that she was! to look down on her with tender care and encouragement. Margaret never told her thoughts even to her daughter, but both Mark and Eva knew why their mother loved that place better than any other.

Mark propounded Eva’s scheme, which met with no opposition from their mother, who was well content to know that they were happy and together.

“Will you not take Elgitha?” she asked. “She loves to get a walk in the woods.”

Eva would rather have had her brother all to herself, but a suggestion from her mother was law to her; so Mark ran up to the rectory to see if Elgitha might come with them, while Eveline put on her walking dress and prepared her basket, scissors, etc.

Elgitha was now a big girl of thirteen. Small and delicate as she had been in her infancy, she was now developing a rather large frame, and was at that awkward age when a girl seems all angles, and does not know what to do with her hands and feet. Being an ugly likeness of her father, and in character more resembling the Echlins than the Manners, she in no way dimmed the lustre of Gilbert’s glory in her mother’s eyes, and was on all occasions extremely glad to escape to her aunt and cousins at the cottage.

The idea of a walk in the woods with Mark and Eveline was enchanting, a delightful relief to the tedium of a tête-à-tête drive with her mother in the phaeton, and Elgitha floundered into her walking gear with all possible speed. They met Eva at the garden gate, and, after she had put her cousin’s dress to rights with a few judicious touches, the three set off across the fields in the direction of Sunbridge. They crossed cornfields just ripening into yellow, spotted here and there with nodding poppies and blue cornflowers, and Elgitha sought counsel, as to the weather from the shepherd’s weather-glass, white or red, or, as to the time, from the seeding dandelion. The sun was high in the heavens, and blinding in his majesty, so that it was with a sense of exquisite relief that they gained the shelter of the woods, laden with full summer foliage, and whispering sweetly in the gentle wind. At Eva’s wish they sat down to rest under a lime just bursting into blossom.

It was a day when to be alive was pleasure, and Mark lay on his back gazing up into the world of tender green, dreaming deliciously; but Elgitha had not reached the dreamy age, and, having sat for five minutes, pulling to pieces a bunch of poppies which she had gathered, and watching their tender leaves float in the wind, she suddenly started up at the sight of a horseman riding along the high road, where it skirted the wood some two hundred paces distant.

“Hullo!” she shouted. “Gilbert, I wonder where he is going. Hullo! stop; where are you going?” And plunging through moss and bracken, she managed to make a right angle, and, climbing a five-barred gate, stood in front of her brother, as he came riding slowly along the road.

Gilbert was startled, but the horse knew Elgitha, whinnied, and stopped.

“How on earth did you come here?” said Gilbert, not in the most amiable manner.

“Oh! Mark and Eva are here,” explained Elgitha; “we have come out for a walk.”

“Then why do you tear along like a lunatic Meg Merrilies?”

“What a good idea!” laughed Elgitha; “you are Mr. Bertram riding from Ellangowan, and I am Meg; but I ought to be standing on the top of the gate to tell you your doom.”

“Nonsense, child; let the horse’s head free,” for Elgitha was fondling her father’s old favourite.

“The horse! Just as if the dear old thing hadn’t got a name! Poor darling old Dusty, who has carried you, man and boy, for these fifteen years. I’m ashamed of you, Gil.”

“I’m ashamed of him!” replied Gilbert, “the stupid old beast; he hasn’t a bit of spunk left in him, if he ever had any. A nice specimen, isn’t he, Mark?” for Mark and Eveline had not joined them. “What would St. Maur or Tullietudlem say to him? They’d hardly think him fit for dogs’ meat at Cambridge, would they?”

Mark patted the neck of the old horse, who had carried the rector for over twenty years.

“Dusty prefers Sunbridge to Cambridge; he’s quick enough for the rector, and can get over a quantity of ground if need be.”

“He and the rector suit each other, I’ve no doubt; but I wish the rector would keep something a little more up to the mark for his friends. It makes a fellow look such an owl to be astride of such a Rosinante. Mrs. Alderman Jacobson and those black-browed girls of hers passed me ten minutes ago in a splendid barouche with a couple of thoroughbreds—such beauties, Eva, that dark mottled grey that you love so, matched to an inch with silver-plated harness that positively dazzled me. It is scandalous; his grandfather, old Nat Jacobson, used to peregrinate the metropolis in search of cast-off wearing apparel with a black bag and a pyramid of old beavers on his patriarchal head.”

“Oh, Gil, how can you?” remonstrated Elgitha; “it is a case of industry rewarded. If our grandfathers had toiled as Nat Jacobson toiled, and accepted as fish whatever came into their nets, they might have added barn to barn and acre to acre, and left us the wherewithal to skim through the world in barouches drawn by silver-harnessed dappled greys.”

“True enough, most wise maid of Sunbridge, but I don’t think I should ever acquire a taste for making money; people in our position are not fitted for making money; but if our pater instead of being a model curate, had spent his energies on a good milk walk, you wouldn’t have to plod about on foot all your days, and I shouldn’t have had the confounded nuisance of choosing a profession.”

“Pity him—only pity him!” exclaimed Eva, laughing; “the poor young man has to make up his mind within the next twelve months whether he will be a lawyer or a clergyman. There’s yet a doctor, Gilbert. Why don’t you try medicine?”

“Pah! nasty messy work! Do you think I’d be at the call of every hysterical girl or hypochondriac old bachelor, pottering about from one stuffy room to another, with nothing to relieve the tedium but an occasional dish of scandal?”

“Have a care!” cried Mark; “the day may come when you shall need the help of Æsculapius yourself. For my part, I think no one more admirable than the true doctor, who often in the exercise of his art can ‘minister to the mind diseased,’ and, when all other hope is gone, can point the way to hope in heaven.”

“I believe, Mark,” said Gilbert, in disgust, “that you would find something to say in favour of an undertaker.”

“Perhaps I could; but as neither of us is called to weigh the pros and cons of that extremely useful calling, I confess I have not given it due consideration. You have the choice of the Church and the Bar, I of the Church or the Civil Service. I suppose, whichever we choose, we are neither of us to be pitied?”

“Bother your optimism! I believe it is your horrible contentedness that drives me into pessimism! I believe you would have me think that you enjoy dragging along through these woods at the heels of a couple of girls!”

“You can think what you please, Gilbert, it will not affect my comfort. I shouldn’t enjoy dragging at the heels of St. Maur or Tullietudlem, so let us agree to differ and wish each other a good morning. The woods at least are cooler than the high road, and as Eva is bent on having a specimen of Dame Venus’s fly-trap, we may have far to go.”

“And, pray, what may Venus’s fly-trap be?” said Gilbert, who never had any particular taste for his own company.

“I’ll show you, if we are lucky enough to find one,” cried Eva, following her brother into the wood. Elgitha stopped to give Dusty a farewell hug, then plunged after them, and Gilbert was left to his own devices. He slowly resumed his way, the sweetness of his temper not increased by the encounter, for though he affected to despise the company of girls, it was not pleasant to find them indifferent to him, and, sneer at Mark as he would, his frank, happy face filled him with envy.

Mark, of course, must decide on his calling before long. Whatever his decision, he must make his own way; his mother could give him no artificial support; it was very wise of him to make the best of it. Of course, if his pater had lived, things would have been very different, and Mark would have been—well, probably just like his present self, and would have found everything a “confounded bore.” And so post equitem sedet atra cura, and the lad of nineteen is handicapped with a heavy heart, in spite of his good father, his high-born and doting mother—in spite of his most expensive education and a moderate fortune in prospect.

The botanisers meanwhile threaded the mazes of the leafy trees with many a gay laugh and many a simple joke, and with much admiration of the multiform beauties spread before their eyes, until they came to a damp hollow, carpetted with moss of an emerald green brightness, which Eveline immediately recognised as the favourite habitat of the dainty moss which they were seeking.

They separated, each taking a division, and many lovely things, insect and vegetable, were presented to their eyes—tiny beetles, scarcely the size of a pin’s head, harnessed in green and gold, tiny flies with lustrous bodies floating on gauzy wings, mosses with dainty blossoms, scarce distinguishable in colour from the plant itself, often covering a treacherous ooze, and over all the whispering trees and the occasional coo of the woodpigeon—but the prize they sought still eluded them. Mark expressed it as his opinion that it only existed in Eveline’s imagination, and Eveline was, sorrowfully, about to give up the search, when Elgitha raised a loud shout of triumph, and there was a great leap, a splash, and a tumble.

“What are you doing?” exclaimed Mark, hastening to the help of his floundering cousin.

“Don’t mind me! don’t mind me! Here it is! I’ve found it, Lina, I’ve found it!”

“Let me look!” cried Eva, almost equally excited.

“Come round this way,” said Mark, guiding his sister on firm ground to the edge of the swamp. “If Elgitha had not been so impatient she might have won her prize with dry feet!”

“Veni, vidi, vici!” exclaimed the victorious Elgitha, holding aloft her prize; and, glancing at her soaking feet and stained dress, she continued, “When Julius Cæsar wrote that you don’t suppose he looked spick and span as when he went to dine with Pompeius Magnus.”

“Elgitha thinks the prize well worth the cost,” said Eva, admiring the lovely growth; “look at its delicate fan-like leaves, pale green, with tiny rosy spikes—dangerous beauties, too; look at these poor bodies of slain flies, here, ensnared by this leaf—and these new ones just unfolding their spikes, how innocent they look!”

“Nature’s coquettes!” laughed Mark. “Strange, is it not, to see the traps that are everywhere set for silly flies? But come, girls, we had best be getting home. We have accomplished the object of our expedition, taken our Pergama, as Elgitha would say, and the sooner we get our victorious maid home the better. It would be an ignominious catastrophe to have the discoverer of Venus’s fly-trap in bed for a week with mustard poultices and water gruel.”

Elgitha, elated with her success, protested, but in vain, for Eveline agreed with Mark, and observed that even if they had not been successful it was time that they should be getting home again.

The walk back was accomplished with sedater spirits, and as they neared home the brother and sister insensibly fell into grave discourse, while Elgitha, now rather tired, dragged a little behind.

The course of their future life was what they talked about, and Mark explained the reasons that made him hesitate to go into the Church, the course which his college successes seemed to indicate.

“It seems to me imperative,” said Mark, “that I should be no burden on my mother’s slender resources. I should dearly like to be able to make a home for you both.”

“But if Gilbert decides against taking orders there’s Bigglethwaite. I’m sure Aunt Elgitha would rather have you there than anyone else—better even than Gilbert, I think.”

“We must not think of Bigglethwaite, Lina; might as well fix on Rosenhurst itself. Failing Gilbert, the earl has someone no doubt in view, but I believe that it will end in Gilbert’s taking orders.”

“But he will never be fit,” remonstrated Eva.

“That is a hard thing to say. I don’t suppose that he will find the Bar pay, but I would rather not hang about waiting for his determination. I will make up my mind before October.”

“And you don’t know whether to be a clergyman, a schoolmaster, or to try for the Civil Service.”

“That is exactly how matters stand, Dilecta, so you see I am more perplexed than Gilbert; his choice lies between two; I am distracted by three.”

“And in all probability an accident will decide at last.”

“Probably, if, indeed, there be such a thing as accident.”

“My mother would like you to be a clergyman, I think.”

“I think she would, and what would my sister prefer?”

“I don’t know; I don’t think I very much care, for you will always be my own dear brother. Whichever will let me see most of you, I think.”

“You don’t ask me which I prefer,” pouted Elgitha, coming up behind.

“I didn’t know you were listening, goosie,” said Mark, drawing her arm through his, “But, come now, favour us with your opinion.”

“Well, Mark, my honest and true opinion is that you, if you don’t get away from stupid old Rosenhurst as soon as ever you can, you will be a goose of the first feather.”

“And wherefore, O most profound Sybilla?”

“Because there is nothing on earth to do; one day is just exactly like another, and as to being a parson, it just takes an angel like father to put up with it.”

“You naughty girl; what do you mean?”

“Why, isn’t he at everybody’s beck and call from Sunday morning to Saturday night? If Farmer Baynes quarrels with his son, father has to hear both sides, and to try and make them hear reason; if Widow Marvel’s ten babies are down with typhoid fever, because she will not keep the place decently clean, he has to supplement the work of the doctor, and go in and out of the filthy hole as if he liked it. Nobody is in any trouble, no one does any sin, but it all comes back upon father. Don’t you know that that’s what makes him look so white—that and Gilbert together?”

“Elgitha,” said Mark, gravely, “your father is one of God’s saints, and of such as he is the kingdom of heaven. Do not grudge him to the work; his reward is ready. But why would you have me leave Rosenhurst? Do you think sin and sorrow are not as frequent elsewhere?”

“Perhaps; but at any rate other places cannot be as stupid.”

“And yet, child, if you go away, before a year is out you will be looking back to these stupid days with fond regret, and will remember nothing of Rosenhurst but its roses and lilies.”

“I’d wager you something to the contrary, only I know you wouldn’t bet; but here we are home again. Don’t open the gate, please; I’m going round at the back. Mother’ll be in an awful fume if she sees this frock; Mary’ll get it cleaned for me. Here, Lina, take Aunt Margaret this trophy,” holding out a dainty specimen of the fly-trap, snugly packed in moss.

“Nay, dear, that is the prettiest piece of all; take it to Aunt Elgitha.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t care for it; she’d forget to put it in water, and so should I. Aunt Margaret will love it, and know just what it wants, and keep it alive for weeks, and paint it and learn it by heart. Good-bye for the present; I suppose you will be coming in for a little music by-and-by?”

“That is as the superior powers may have determined,” said Mark, holding the gate for her to enter, and so the expedition ended.

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

O Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?

Some time ago, in The Girl’s Own Paper, there appeared an interesting sketch of the “Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,” with some facts of the life of Bishop Percy. In the account given, no mention is made of the once popular ballad, “O Nanny, wilt thou gang wi’ me?” or the event that gave rise to its production. The circumstances, however, were of such an unusual character, that they will certainly bear telling once more.

It was in 1771, about six years after the publication of the “Reliques,” and at the very height of Percy’s literary fame, that Mrs. Percy was summoned to the Court of George III. and appointed nurse to the infant Prince Edward, afterwards Duke of Kent, and ultimately the father of our present good and most gracious sovereign Queen Victoria. Mrs. Percy is said to have been a very amiable and excellent woman. Miss M. L. Hawkins, in writing of the occurrence, says: “His Royal Highness Prince Edward’s temper, as a private gentleman, did not discredit his nurse, for his humanity was conspicuous.”

It was when Mrs. Percy had fulfilled the duties of her high position as personal attendant to the young prince, and on her return to the quiet Northamptonshire vicarage of Easton Mandit, that Dr. Percy greeted his long absent wife with the following verses:—

“O Nanny, wilt thou gang with me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?

Can silent glens have charms for thee,

The lowly cot, and russet gown?

No longer dressed in silken sheen,

No longer decked with jewels rare;

Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

“O Nanny, when thou’rt far away,

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?

Say, canst thou face the parching ray,

Nor shrink before the wintry wind?

Oh, can that soft and gentle mien

Extremes of hardship learn to bear,

Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

“O Nanny, canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen with me to go?

Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of woe?

Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse’s care,

Nor, wistful, those gay scenes recall

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

“And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath?

Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death?

And wilt thou o’er his breathless clay

Strew flowers and drop the tender tear,

Nor then regret those scenes so gay,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?”

When the ballad was first published it is said to have been exceedingly popular, and greatly enhanced the reputation of its author. The Gentleman’s Magazine for 1780 speaks of it as being “not undeservedly” regarded as “the most beautiful song in the English language.”

Mrs. Percy was a native of Northamptonshire, and the daughter of Barton Gutteridge, Esq., of Desborough. Her union with Dr. Percy proved to be a very happy one, though clouded over on several occasions with grief and sorrow at the loss of some of their children, particularly at the death of their only son Henry, a promising young man of twenty years of age. The greatest affection existed between husband and wife, and continued to the end of their days. A very pleasing illustration of this fact is given in Pickford’s Life of Percy. The incident occurred in Ireland when Percy held the see of Dromore. On one occasion, when the bishop was from home, a violent storm came on in the evening, and was of such a character that the friends with whom he was staying earnestly entreated him to remain for the night, but the companionship of the “Nanny of his Muse” was a more powerful magnet than the pleading of kind friends or shelter from the tempest, so he ventured forth heedless of the howling winds and drenching rain. Subsequently he commemorated the event by writing the following lines, which were first published in 1867:—

“Deep howls the storm with chilling blast,

Fast falls the snow and rain,

Down rush the floods with headlong haste,

And deluge all the plain.

“Yet all in vain the tempests roar,

And whirls the drifted snow;

In vain the torrents scorn the shore,

To Delia I must go.

“In vain the shades of evening fall,

And horrid dangers threat;

What can the lover’s heart appal,

Or check his eager feet?

“The darksome vale the fearless tries,

And winds its trackless wood,

High o’er the cliff’s dread summit flies,

And rushes through the flood.

“Love bids achieve the hardy task

And act the wondrous part,

He wings the feet with eagle speed,

And lends the lion-heart.

“Then led by thee, all-powerful boy,

I’ll dare the hideous night,

Thy dart shall guard me from annoy,

Thy torch my footsteps light.

“The cheerful blaze, the social hour,

The friends—all plead in vain;

Love calls—I brave each adverse power

Of peril and of pain.”

Mrs. Percy died on the 31st December, 1806. Her remains were interred within the Cathedral of Dromore. Several poems were published on her decease in the Gentleman’s Magazine at that time. One of them, descriptive of the graces of this excellent lady, reads thus:—

“Within the precincts of this silent cell

Distinguished Percy’s sacred relicks dwell;

Whose youthful charms adorn’d the courtly scene,

And won the favour of a British Queen

Whose moral excellence, and virtues rare,

Shone as conspicuous as her face was fair.