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[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 153.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




‘ON GUARD’ AT WINDSOR CASTLE.


Though the honour implied in the protection of the principal residence
of the sovereign is considerable, military duty at Windsor is not
by any means held in high estimation by soldiers, that is to say by
those whose lot it is to perform the ordinary functions of ‘sentry-go’
around the castle. In a word, the duty is ‘hard.’ This term, applied
to peace-time soldiering, means that the men have few ‘nights in
bed’—the criterion by which such service is invariably judged. At some
stations the rank and file have as many as twenty of these coveted
consecutive nights in barracks; but at Windsor the present writer has
at times enjoyed the honour of passing every third night on the exposed
terraces of the castle; and as the ‘Queen’s Regulations’ lay particular
stress on each soldier having at least one ‘night in bed’ before going
on guard, it will be granted that the Windsor duty is not unjustly
considered somewhat trying. Perhaps a glimpse at the inner life of the
Castle-guard may interest some readers.

The armed party, which consists of some fifty soldiers, is under the
command of an officer, assisted by two sergeants, together with as many
corporals, and it enters upon its twenty-four hours’ tour of duty in
the forenoon. A drummer-boy also ‘mounts:’ his chief employment being
to go messages and to carry the lantern used in making the nocturnal
‘rounds.’ When the guard marches into the lower ward of the castle,
after having in its progress considerably enlivened the quiet streets
of Windsor, the ‘old’ guard is formally relieved, and the men not
immediately required as sentinels take possession of the guardroom—a
large, comparatively modern building, in the vicinity of the antique
Curfew Tower. With a view, probably, to the preservation of discipline,
the two sergeants are provided with a ‘bunk,’ a small portion of the
area of the apartment partitioned off, and fitted with a miniature
guardbed. Here they often employ their time in the making up of
pay-lists, duty-rosters,[1] and the like. On entering the guardroom,
the privates quickly divest themselves of their valises and folded
greatcoats; for it is now admitted by the authorities that a sentry may
march about quite ‘steadily’ without being constantly burdened with his
kit. The valises are suspended from rows of pegs furnished for this
purpose; and—what might in fine weather seem surprising—the greatcoats
set free from their tightly buckled straps. Ostensibly, the ‘loose’
coats are necessary to spread out on the guardbed, so as to slightly
soften that uneasy couch, as well as to prevent dust, which may there
have lodged, from adhering to the tunics of recumbent guardsmen. But
the real reason for shaking out these garments frequently is to allow
them to dry, because in many cases they have been liberally sprinkled
with water before being buckled up, to insure a more compact ‘fold.’

A stranger to things military, on surreptitiously glancing in at the
guardroom door early in the day, and while the sentry’s back was
turned, would notice a large number of white basins drawn up on the
tables and ‘dressed’ with extraordinary precision. These vessels are
placed in position for the reception of the soup, which is served
shortly before mid-day, and they bring us to the important subject
of the culinary department. There are four cooks connected with the
castle guard. One is ‘corporal of the cooks;’ another is ‘standing’
(or permanent) cook; and the remaining two are merely sent daily on
‘fatigue’ from the barracks. The provisions are conveyed to the castle
in a barrow of peculiar construction, and deposited in the cookhouse—a
place not at all resembling a conventional kitchen, but both in
situation and appearance very like the dungeons one is occasionally
introduced to when visiting ancient strongholds. In this dismal region
are capacious ‘coppers,’ in any one of which soup, beef, vegetables, or
tea can be prepared.

To return, however, to the proceedings of the members of the guard.
When they have satisfactorily arranged their equipments and, above
all, thoroughly repolished their boots, a corporal calls for silence.
This obtained, he begins to make out the duty-roll, or ‘detail’ as it
is usually termed, of the sentries; and when the detail is completed,
he affixes to the wall in a primitive fashion—with pieces of damped
ration bread—a short abstract, in which the men are represented by
figures. To the uninitiated observer, the purport of this might be
rather puzzling. After a particular numeral, for example, is inscribed
the word ‘Cocoa.’ The soldier to whom it refers has assigned to him
the task of preparing the beverage named, which is issued to the guard
at midnight—the ‘standing’ cook having the privilege of every night
in bed. The abstract is attentively perused by the men, who sometimes
take private memoranda of the parts of its contents that apply to them
individually. Not unfrequently this is done with a pencil on their
pipeclayed gun-slings, in such a position as not to be apparent to the
inspecting officer.

As soon as every one has mastered the corporal’s hieroglyphics,
a sergeant issues from the bunk already alluded to, bearing the
‘order-board,’ which is of rather portentous dimensions. As the great
majority of the men know the regulations off by heart, they are read
in a slightly hasty and perfunctory manner; though, with true military
exactness, not a word is omitted. There is little in the list of orders
that calls for special remark; but one paragraph is, we imagine, almost
if not quite unknown elsewhere; it relates to the conduct of the
corporals when marching round the ‘reliefs.’ If, when so marching along
with his men, Her Majesty the Queen should meet or pass the party,
the non-commissioned officer is directed to halt his subordinates,
draw them up in ‘open order,’ and see that the appropriate salute is
rendered. The curious order which prohibits soldiers from ‘working at
their trade while on guard’ is of course represented on the board; but
as a matter of fact, some men pass a good deal of their spare time in
the not very martial occupation of making beadwork pincushions. These
articles, however, command somewhat tempting prices, especially in the
metropolis.

While the men of the guard have thus been engaged, the commandant has
taken over his quarters, adjacent to the guardroom, and reached by
a pretty long stone stair, well worn by the iron-shod heels of many
generations of corporals and drummer-boys. Soon after mounting duty,
the officer is joined by his servant, who brings with him a portmanteau
containing various comforts. A cooking department is also required in
the case of the officer, whose meals, however, are conveyed to him
by the messmen from barracks. Before long, the steps of a corporal
ascending the stair warn the captain of the guard that the hour
approaches for him to march off the ‘second relief.’

The ‘posts’ are numerous. One sentinel paces about in front of the
guardroom, much of his attention being devoted to saluting the Knights
Pensioners of Windsor, who reside in the lower ward of the castle.
Another soldier has ample leisure to examine the architectural features
of the celebrated Round Tower, at the base of which he is stationed.
A third takes post on the North Terrace, where a splendid prospect
enlivens the monotony of his vigil, and whence, if of a philological
turn, he can contemplate the windings of the river which are said
to have given the place the name Wind-shore, or Windsor. Or, if
historically inclined, he may recollect that the North Terrace was once
the favourite promenade, for an hour before dinner, of Queen Elizabeth,
to whom it is alleged the English soldier was originally indebted for
his daily ration of beef. Then there are two sentries on the eastern
façade of the castle. These men are in close proximity to the royal
apartments. By night, they do not challenge in the ordinary manner, but
by two stamps with the right foot; and they are charged to pronounce
the words ‘All’s well’ in an undertone. The grand entrance to the upper
ward of the castle is in the keeping of a ‘double’ sentry, as is also
a gate near at hand; and there are several other sentry-posts which it
would be tedious to visit in detail. In each sentry-box hangs a heavy
watchcoat, which the soldier may put on when he thinks fit, and of the
large buttons on this cloak he is expected to take sedulous care.

By night, the sentinels around Windsor Castle are slightly augmented in
number; but it will only be necessary here to notice one nightpost, the
cloisters of St George’s Chapel. This is a somewhat eerie quarter in
the small-hours. There is a military tradition to the effect that the
cloisters are occasionally visited by shadowy and unearthly forms, to
the perturbation of young soldiers. The writer has had no experience of
these supernatural visitants; but he has noticed, when marching round
the relief, an unusual alacrity on the part of some men to quit the
cloisters.

While the men on guard are engaged in their usual routine, the officer
is not altogether idle; he inspects and marches off the relieving
detachments at intervals of two hours; and in the afternoon visits
the sentries, taking pains to ascertain that they are familiar with
their instructions. At eleven o’clock at night he makes his ‘rounds,’
preceded by the drummer-boy with his lantern, as well as by a corporal
bearing a bunch of keys, wherewith to open a number of iron gates in
and near the castle; and when the rounds return to the lower ward, the
captain of the guard is at liberty to retire for the night.

In the morning, such members of the guard as may be slumbering are
roused by the arrival of the cooking-party; and soon afterwards the
officer’s man, with his portmanteau, appears on the scene. Before long,
a sergeant comes forth from the ‘bunk,’ uttering the mandate: ‘Get
these coats folded.’ During the period when the equipments are being
operated upon, the senior sergeant is engaged on the ‘guard report.’
One important part of this is already in print upon the form, and it
commences by saying that ‘Nothing extraordinary has occurred during my
tour of duty.’ When the sergeant has carefully finished the report, he
takes it to the officer for signature, and on his return calls out:
‘Fall-in the guard.’ The men, who are already fully accoutred, promptly
form-up outside the guardroom; and the commandant is seen descending
the stair from his quarters. Then the ‘new’ guard arrives. In the
course of half an hour, the first stroke bestowed by the big-drummer on
his instrument announces to the ‘old’ guard that their tour of duty is
at an end.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Roster_, in military language, is the list of persons liable to a
certain duty.




BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

BY FRED. M. WHITE.


IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. XVII.

When Maxwell came to himself it was broad daylight. He was lying upon
a straw mattress in a small room, containing no furniture besides
the rude bed; and as he looked up, he could see the rafters, black
with dirt and the smoke of ages. The place was partly a house, partly
a hut. Gradually, as recollection came back to him, he remembered
the events of the previous night, wondering vaguely why he had been
selected as a victim for attack, and what brought him here. By the
clear sound of voices and the rush of water, he judged himself to
be in the country. He had no consciousness of fear, so he rose, and
throwing open the heavy door, looked out. Towering away above his head
were the snow-capped peaks of mountains, and below him the spreading
valley of the Campagna. Wood upon wood was piled up before him, all
aglow with bright sunlight, the green leaves whispering and trembling
in the breeze. The hut was built on a long rocky plateau, approached by
a narrow winding path, and ending in a steep precipice of two hundred
feet, and backed up behind by almost perpendicular rocks, fringed and
crowned by trees. In spite of his position, Maxwell drew a long breath
of delight; the perfect beauty of the scene thrilled him, and appealed
to his artistic soul and love of the beautiful. For some time he gazed
upon the panorama, perfectly oblivious to his position, till gradually
the sound of voices borne upon the wind came to his ears. He walked to
the side of the hut and looked around.

Seated upon the short springy turf, in every picturesque and
comfortable position the ingenuity of each could contrive, were four
men, evidently, to Maxwell’s experienced eye, banditti. They seemed
peacefully inclined now, as they lounged there in the bright sunshine
smoking, and renewing the everlasting _papilito_, without which no such
gentry are complete, either in the pages of fiction or as portrayed
upon the modern stage. With the exception of one, evidently the leader,
there was nothing gorgeous in their costume, it being the usual attire
of the mountaineers; but the long carabines lying by their sides and
the short daggers in their waistbands spoke of their occupation.
Maxwell began to scent an adventure and enjoy the feeling; it would
only mean the outlay of a few pounds, a little captivity; but when he
approached nearer, and saw each bearing on some part of his person the
gold moidore, his heart beat a trifle faster as he stepped forward and
confronted the group.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked, in the best Italian at his
command. ‘I suppose it is merely a question of ransom. But it is
useless to put the figure too high. Come, what is the amount?’

The brigands looked to each other in admiration of this coolness.
Presently, the leader removed his cigarette from his mouth and spoke:
‘You have your watch, signor, and papers; you have your rings and
purse. It is not our rule to forget these with an ordinary prisoner.’

Maxwell felt in his pocket, and, surely enough, his valuables were
perfectly safe—nothing missing, even to his sketch-book. For the first
time, he began to experience a sensation of fear. ‘Then, if plunder is
not your object, why am I detained?’

‘Plunder is not a nice word to ears polite, signor,’ the leader replied
with a dark scowl. ‘You are detained by orders. To hear, with us, is to
obey. You will remain here during our pleasure.’

‘But suppose I refuse to remain?’

Without rising, the brigand turned on his side and pointed towards
the sheer precipice, and then to the wall behind; with a gesture he
indicated the narrow winding path, the only means of exit, and smiled
ironically. ‘You may go; there is nothing to prevent you,’ he said;
‘but before you were half-way down the path yonder, you would be the
target for a score of bullets, and we do not often fail.’

Maxwell was considerably impressed by this cool display; and indeed,
when he considered the matter calmly, there appeared no prospect of
immediate escape. Remonstrances or threats would be equally unavailing,
and he determined to make the best of his position. ‘Perhaps you
would not mind telling me why I am here, and by whose orders you have
arrested me. It would be some slight consolation to know how long I am
to stay. I am anxious to know this,’ he continued, ‘because I am afraid
your mountain air, exhilarating as it is, will not suit me.’

The group burst into loud laughter at this little humour: it was a kind
of wit they were in a position to appreciate.

‘It is impossible to say, signor. We only obey orders; we can only wait
for further instructions as regards your welfare—or otherwise. We were
told to bring one Maxwell here, and lo! we have done it.’

‘I see you are brothers of the League,’ Maxwell replied; ‘and for some
act of omission or commission I am detained here. You can at least tell
me by whose orders you do this.’

‘Signor, they say you are a traitor to our Order.’

‘That I am not!’ Maxwell cried indignantly. ‘Tell me why I am here, and
at whose orders. There is some mistake here.’

‘Not on our part, signor. The instructions came from London. I only
received them last night. You will be well treated here, provided you
do not make any attempts to escape. For the time, you are our guest,
and as such, the best I have is at your disposal. If orders come to
release you, we shall conduct you to Rome. We shall do everything in
our power to serve you. If, on the other hand, you are tried in the
balance and found wanting, we shall not fail to do our duty.’ He said
these last words sternly, in contrast to the polite, grave manner with
which he uttered the first part of his speech.

Maxwell had perception enough to comprehend his meaning. ‘You mean that
I should have to die,’ he observed. ‘I suppose it would be a matter of
the utmost indifference to you, either way?’

‘As a matter of duty, signor, yes,’ he answered gravely; ‘though I
do not wish to see a brave man die; but if the mandate came to that
effect, I must obey. There is no refusing the word of the League.’

‘Then I really am a prisoner of the League,’ Maxwell returned bitterly.
‘Well, the cause of liberty must be in a bad way, when the very members
of the League treat brothers as I have been treated.’

‘Ah, it is a fine word liberty,’ the brigand chief replied
sardonically. ‘It is a good phrase to put into men’s mouths; but there
can be no freedom where the shadow of the sword dwells upon the land.
Even Italy herself has suffered, as she will again. Perfect liberty
and perfect freedom can only be founded upon the doctrine of universal
love.’

By this time, Maxwell and the chief had drawn a little aside from the
others. The artist looked in his companion’s face, and noted the air of
sorrow there. It was a fine manly countenance, haughty and handsome,
though the dark eyes were somewhat sombre now. Maxwell, with his
cosmopolitan instinct, was drawn towards this man, who had a history
written on his brow. ‘You, too, have suffered,’ he said gently.

‘Suffered!’ the brigand echoed. ‘Yes, Englishman, I have suffered,
and not more from the Austrian yoke than the cruelties of my own
countrymen. There will be no true liberty here while a stiletto remains
in an Italian’s belt.’

‘I suppose not,’ Maxwell mused. ‘These Societies seem to me a gigantic
farce. Would that I had remained quietly at home, and let empires
manage their own affairs. And Salvarini warned me too.’

‘Salvarini! What do you know of him?’ the chief exclaimed.

‘Nothing but what is good and noble, everything to make one proud to
call him friend.—Do you know him too?’

‘He is my brother,’ the chief replied quietly.—‘You look surprised to
find that a relative of Luigi should pursue such a profession as mine.
Yes, he is my brother—the brother of an outlaw, upon whose head a price
has been put by the state. I am known to men as Paulo Lucci.’

Maxwell started. The man sitting calmly by his side was the most famous
and daring bandit chief of his time. Provinces rang with his fame, and
the stories of his dashing exploits resounded far and near. Even away
in the distant Apennines, the villagers sat round the winter firesides
and discoursed of this man with bated breath, and children trembled in
their beds at the mere thought of his name. He laughed scornfully now
as he noted Maxwell’s startled look.

‘I am so very terrible,’ he continued, ‘that my very name strikes
terror to you! Bah! you have been listening to the old women’s tales
of my atrocities, about the tortures my victims undergo, and the
thousand-and-one lies people are fond of telling about me. I can
understand Luigi did not tell you I was his brother; I am not a
relative to be proud of.’

‘He is in total ignorance of your identity. That I do know.—I wonder at
you choosing such a life,’ Maxwell put in boldly. ‘With your daring,
you would have made fame as a soldier; any path of life you had chosen
would have brought you honour; but now’——

‘But now I am an outlaw,’ Paulo Salvarini interrupted. ‘And why? If you
will listen, I will tell you my story in a few words.’

Maxwell threw himself upon the grass by the other’s side and composed
himself to listen.

‘If you will look below you,’ the chief commenced, and pointing with
his finger across the distant landscape, ‘you will see the sun shining
upon a house-top. I can see the light reflected from it now. That house
was once my home. I like sometimes to sit here and think of those days
when Gillana and I were happy there—that is ten years ago now. I had
done my best for my country; I had fought for her, and I retired to
this peaceful spot with the woman of my heart, to live in peace, as I
hoped, for the rest of my life. But the fiend of Liberty was abroad.
My wife’s father, an aged man, was accused of complicity in political
crimes, and one day, when I was absent, they came to arrest him. My
wife clung to him, and one of the brutal soldiery struck her down with
the butt of his rifle; I came in time to see that, for my blood was on
fire, and I did not hesitate. You can understand the rest. My wife was
killed, actually murdered by that foul blow. But I had my revenge. When
I crossed the threshold of my house, on my flight to the mountains, I
left three dead behind me, and another, the officer, wounded sore. He
recovered, I afterwards heard; but some day we shall meet.’

He stopped abruptly, shaking in every limb from the violence of his
emotion, his sombre eyes turned towards the spot where the sun shone
upon the roof-tops of what was once a peaceful homestead.

‘Luigi can only guess at this,’ the speaker continued. ‘To him I have
been dead for years; indeed, I do not know what makes me tell you now,
only that you surprised me, and I like to hear a little news of him.’

‘I have heard this history before,’ Maxwell observed. ‘It is five years
ago now; but I am not likely to forget it. Still, you cannot enjoy this
life. It is wild and exciting, no doubt; but your companions’——

‘I live for revenge,’ Salvarini exclaimed sternly. ‘I am waiting to
meet the brutal officer who ordered his follower to strike down my
wife. I have waited long; but the time will come at length, and then,
heaven help the man called Hector le Gautier!’

‘Le Gautier!’ Maxwell exclaimed. ‘He, an Italian officer! Why, he is at
present Head Centre of the Brotherhood in London. He and your brethren
are bosom friends. He was even present at the time when Luigi told us
your sad history. Surely he cannot know; and yet I trusted him too.
Signor Salvarini, you bewilder me.’

The outlaw laughed loud and long; but the mirth was strained, and
jarred harshly upon the listener. ‘And that fiend is a friend of
Luigi’s! Strange things happen in these times. Beware, Signor
Maxwell—beware of that man, for he will work you mischief yet. It was
by his orders you were arrested. He knows me by name, and as one of
the Brotherhood only, so I did his bidding.’

‘Strange! And yet I have done him no harm.’

‘Not that you are aware of, perhaps. Still, no doubt you have crossed
his path in some way. If I have a command in the morning to lead you
out yonder to face a dozen rifles, I shall not be surprised.’

‘And you would countenance such murder?’

‘This morning, yes. Now, I am doubtful. You are my brother’s friend; I
am Le Gautier’s enemy; I do not wish to help him.’

Three days passed uneventfully by, at the end of which time Maxwell had
become a great favourite with the outlaw band. Following the lead of
their chief, they treated him with every kindness; nor was he in his
turn inclined to resent his captivity or chafe at this delay. His chief
fear was for Enid; for Paulo Salvarini, though he was inclined to allow
his prisoner every latitude, was firm upon the point of communication
with the outer world; for, as he pointed out, he might after all be
guilty of some great treachery to the League, and in that case must be
answerable for anything that happened.

So the days passed on in that quiet spot, no further news coming to him
till the morning of the fourth day. Then he was sitting at the door
of his hut, watching the sunrise glowing on the distant hills, when
Salvarini approached him, his face perturbed, and his whole manner
agitated. ‘You are in danger,’ he whispered. ‘The orders have come, and
you are proclaimed traitor. The men are mad against you, and declare
you shall be brought out for instant execution. Ah! you have only seen
the best side of their character; you have not seen them hungry for
blood.’

‘Do they want to murder me?’ Maxwell exclaimed. ‘Cannot you’——

‘I am powerless now,’ Salvarini interrupted. ‘I will do what I can; but
I fear nothing can save you now.’

‘Do not be afraid,’ said a calm voice behind. ‘_I_ shall save him!’

‘Isodore!’

‘Yes, Paulo Lucci; it is I.’

Maxwell looked up, and saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in
his life. For a moment he could only gaze in rapt astonishment. This,
then, was the Empress of the League—the woman Visci had mentioned,
whose lightest word could free his feet and clear his path for ever.

‘You have come in time,’ Salvarini said with a low obeisance. ‘An hour
hence and our prisoner would have been no more.’

‘I am always in time,’ Isodore replied quietly.—‘I have come to deliver
you from a great danger,’ she continued, turning to Maxwell. ‘Come; we
must be in Rome at once, and away, or we may yet be too late. Hark! Are
the wolves clamouring for their prey already? We shall see.’

It was light now, and from the plateau beyond came the hoarse yells
and cries for revenge from the brigands. On they came towards the hut,
clamouring for blood, and mad with the heat of passion. They rushed in,
seized Maxwell, and led him out on to the level grass, while six of
the party stepped back a few paces and cocked their rifles. The whole
thing was so sudden that Lucci and Isodore were totally unprepared to
resist. But the girl roused herself now, and quitting the hut, swept
across the open space and placed herself in front of Maxwell.

‘Drop your arms!’ she cried. ‘Are you mad, that you do this thing?
Ground your rifles, or you shall pay dearly for this indignity.’

Appalled by her gestures and the dignity of her voice, the desperadoes
hesitated for a moment, and then one, more daring than the rest, raised
his carabine to the shoulder, standing in the act of firing.

‘You may fire,’ Isodore cried. ‘Fire! and every hair of my head shall
be avenged for by a life! Fire! and then pray for the mercy of heaven,
for you shall not meet with any from the hand of man!’

The desperate men were amazed by this beauty and daring, the audacity
of which appealed to their rude instinct. One by one they dropped their
firearms, and stood looking sullenly in the direction of the scornful
woman, standing there without a particle of fear in her eyes.

‘Who are you,’ cried one bolder than the rest—‘who are you, that come
between us and justice?’

They all took up the cry, and bade her stand aside.

‘If she falls, I fall!’ Lucci exclaimed in a firm steady voice. ‘Go
on your knees, and ask for pardon.—Madam,’ he continued, falling upon
one knee, ‘I did not think my followers would have shown such scant
courtesy to Isodore.’

At the very mention of her name, a change came over the mutineers. One
by one they dropped their firearms, and came forward humbly to implore
her forgiveness for their rashness, but she waved them aside.

Long and earnestly the three talked together, listening to the
revelation of Le Gautier’s treachery, and how the final act was about
to be played over there in England: how Le Gautier had confessed his
treachery, and how, out of his own mouth, he was going to be convicted.
Silently and slowly they wound their way down the mountain path, under
Lucci’s guidance, out on to the plains, beyond which the sun lighted
upon the house-tops of distant Rome. When they had got so far, Isodore
held out her hand to the guide.

‘Good-bye. It will not be safe for you to come any farther,’ she said.
‘Rest assured, in the general reckoning your account shall not be
forgotten.’

‘It will not,’ Lucci answered sternly. ‘I shall see to that myself. By
the time you reach England, I shall be there too.—Nay, do not strive to
dissuade me. I do not take my revenge from another hand. I shall run
a great risk; but, mark me, when the time comes, I shall be there!’
Without another word he disappeared; and Isodore and Maxwell walked on
towards the Eternal City both wrapped in their own thoughts. Mile after
mile passed on thus, ere Maxwell broke the silence.

‘Do you think he will keep his word?’ he said half timidly.

‘Who, Lucci? Yes; he will keep his word; nothing but death will prevent
that.—And now, you and I must get back to England without a moment’s
loss of time.’

‘I cannot say how grateful I am,’ Maxwell said earnestly. ‘If it had
not been for your bravery and courage’—— He stopped and shuddered; the
contemplation of what might have been was horrible.

Isodore smiled a little unsteadily in answer to these words. ‘I owe you
a debt of gratitude,’ she replied. ‘My memory serves me well. I was not
going to allow you to die, when you would have perished rather than
raise a hand against Carlo Visci.’

‘Indeed, you only do me justice. I would have died first.’

‘I know it; and I thank you for your kindness to him at the last. You
were with him when he died. Things could not have been better. He was
always fond of you. For that, I am grateful.’

‘But I do not understand,’ Maxwell faltered. ‘He did not know you
except by reputation.’

‘I think you are mistaken. Am I so changed that you do not recognise
your friend Genevieve?’

‘Genevieve! You? Am I dreaming?’

‘Yes; I am Genevieve; though much changed and altered from those happy
old days when you used to come to the Villa Mattio. You wonder why I am
here now—why I left my home. Cannot you guess that Le Gautier was at
the bottom of it?’

‘But he professed not to know you; he’——

‘Yes, he professed to be a friend of yours. But until I give you
permission to speak, not a word that Isodore and Genevieve are one and
the same.’

‘My lips are sealed. I leave everything in your hands.’

‘And cannot you guess why you have incurred Le Gautier’s enmity?—No?
Simply, because he aspires to the hand of Enid Charteris.—You need not
start,’ Isodore continued, laying her hand upon the listener’s arm.
‘You have no cause for anxiety. It will never be!’

‘Never, while I can prevent it!’ Maxwell cried warmly.

‘It is impossible. He has a wife already.’

Only tarrying for one mournful hour to visit the cemetery where lay
Carlo Visci’s quiet grave, Isodore and Maxwell made their way, but not
together, to England, as fast as steam could carry them.




THE ORDNANCE SURVEY, ITS PAST AND FUTURE.


The Ordnance Survey is now a hundred years old, and it is expected,
according to present arrangements, to be finished in 1890. That, in one
sense, is a considerable time to look forward to; but there are several
knotty and important questions connected with the completion of this
great scientific enterprise which it would be well duly to weigh and
consider beforehand. A suitable opportunity for calling attention to
the results of this national undertaking is afforded by the publication
of a popularly written volume, _The Ordnance Survey of the United
Kingdom_ (Blackwood & Sons), by Lieutenant-Colonel T. P. White of the
Royal Engineers, the executive officer of the Survey. An additional
reason for noticing the matter at this stage may also be found in the
amount of ignorance which prevails on the subject. To most persons,
the Ordnance Survey only means some kind of measuring of the land;
but they have little idea of the methods adopted for the purpose,
of the multifarious ends served by the publication of the maps, of
the difficulties which had to be overcome, and of the marvellous and
unexampled accuracy with which the work has been carried on. There are
indeed few things of which as a nation we may feel more proud than the
accomplishment of this gigantic work; a noble illustration and monument
of persistent perseverance, of infinite ingenuity of resource, and of
general engineering skill.

A beginning was made, according to Colonel White, with the primary
triangulation for the Survey in 1784 (the Annual Report says 1791),
under the charge of General Roy, an able scientific officer, who had
been associated with General Watson, thirty-six years before, in a
survey of the Highlands made for military reasons, after the crushing
of the rebellion of 1745. The idea of a scientific survey of the whole
kingdom was first mooted in 1763; but for various reasons, nothing
was done till twenty-one years later, when, in response to a proposal
from the French government to connect the system of triangulation
already existing in France with that about to be set on foot here, the
work was at last begun. Hounslow Heath was selected as the base-line
of that great system which has now overspread the land. It may not
be unnecessary here to remark that the work of a cadastral survey is
carried on by a series of triangles proceeding from a base-line—that
is, a space of level ground usually about five miles long, which is
measured by chain in the most exact manner—this forming the nucleus.
From the two ends of this measured space a triangle is formed to some
point at a distance, and the length of the two unknown sides computed
by trigonometry. From this primary triangle, other triangles are
formed, and calculated similarly, until there is a series of these like
a network all over the country. Four or five other base-lines were also
measured for verifying the correctness of the calculations—hence called
‘bases of verification’—notably that on Salisbury Plain, on which as a
foundation the principal triangulation of the kingdom was eventually to
rest.

It forms a remarkable illustration of the care and exactness with which
the work has been done that the lengths of these base-lines calculated
from the original one by trigonometry through all the intervening
triangles, has been found to coincide within four inches with the
lengths as actually measured by chain. A result like this reminds
one of the yearly balancing by the system of double entry of the
transactions of a great bank with branches all over the country, and
where the totals on both sides, amounting to many millions, square to
a farthing. These primary triangles, some of them containing sides one
hundred miles long, are broken up into smaller ones, and these again
subdivided; the latter, with sides from one to two miles, being then
measured in the ordinary way by the surveyors. We have thus, from one
or two measured spaces—it might be from one only—a triangulation worked
out of the whole country, and its area and the relative geographical
position of every spot on its surface fixed for all time. This
principal triangulation, as it is called, was completed in 1852. What
has been going on since is survey work.

The battle of the scales is another noteworthy point in the history of
the Survey. When it was resolved, about the close of the last century,
to publish maps based on the triangulation, the scale of one inch to
a mile was adopted, and this embraced all England and Wales south of
Yorkshire and Lancashire, these two counties being surveyed about 1840
on the six-inch scale, which had been adopted for the Irish Survey, and
was now introduced into England. Afterwards, the scale was enlarged to
twenty-five inches to a mile, and the four northern counties of England
were so surveyed and published. It was then agreed to re-survey all
those counties which had been done on the one-inch system. Some of
these are completed, while others are still in progress.

In Scotland, the course of the Survey has not run very smoothly. The
triangulatory work was begun in 1809, and went on with intermissions
till 1823, when it was stopped for fifteen years, to allow the Irish
Survey to be taken up. The latter was begun in 1824, and finished
in 1842. But six-inch county maps have now been published of the
whole of Scotland, one-inch maps of nearly the whole, and those on
the twenty-five-inch scale also, with the exception of Midlothian,
Fife, Haddington, Kinross, Kirkcudbright, Wigtown, which had been the
earliest surveyed, and were completed before the larger scale was
sanctioned. The uncultivated portions of Scotland, it may be added, are
also excepted from the larger scale. These six counties, and Yorkshire
and Lancashire, are thus the only counties in Great Britain whose maps
are not published on the twenty-five-inch scale. Towns with populations
over four thousand have been surveyed on a still larger scale, varying
from one-five-hundredth, or a hundred and twenty-six inches to the
mile, to one-ten-hundred and fifty-sixth, or about sixty inches to the
mile. Edinburgh and thirteen other towns are done on the smaller scale,
and forty-four other towns on the larger. In any future revision of the
Survey, those towns and counties which have not been published on the
larger scales will probably have priority.

It is needless to add that great delay and vexatious hindrance to the
general efficiency and progress of the Survey have been caused by the
vacillation and frequent changes made at the instance of the House of
Commons. One session it would be in a liberal mood, and rule that the
Survey should be carried on with all speed and on the most liberal
scale; and at another it would rescind its good resolutions and pass
others of a more economical kind. In 1851, for example, a Committee of
the House of Commons, with the present Earl of Wemyss at their head,
recommended that the six-inch scale in Scotland should be discontinued
and the one-inch maps only published. Much dissatisfaction was felt
in Scotland at this retrograde recommendation, and remonstrances
from all quarters poured in to the Treasury on the subject. Three
years afterwards, the twenty-five-inch scale was approved of; but an
adverse vote was carried in the House of Commons two years later; and
the question was not put to rest till 1861, when the latter scale
was finally sanctioned; and since then, as Colonel White remarks,
‘parliamentary committees have troubled us no more.’ A recommendation
to accelerate the progress of the Survey was made in 1880; and in
the following year the working force was nearly doubled. As a result
of this arrangement, it is expected that the work will be completed
in 1890; this is on the supposition that the present numbers and
organisation are kept up. From the last Annual Report, we learn that
on the 31st of December 1885, there were employed 28 officers, 2
warrant-officers, 364 non-commissioned officers and sappers of the
Royal Engineers, and 2846 civilians—total, 3240. This, presumably,
includes all those connected with the production and publication of the
maps at Southampton, the headquarters of the Survey.

Of the inestimable benefit to the nation at large of the Ordnance
Survey there can be but one opinion among all persons capable of
forming an intelligent opinion. It has proved of great value in a large
number of matters of the highest public interest. Its necessity and
importance in connection with the national defences are perhaps of
primary interest; but there are numerous other departments where it has
proved equally essential, such as for valuation purposes—facilitating
the taking of the census; for drainage, waterworks, railways, and
engineering works generally; for extension of town boundaries, and
surveys for various purposes. As a practical example of the public
advantage derived from the Ordnance Survey, Colonel White mentions that
during the progress of the Redistribution of Seats Bill the enormous
number of four hundred and fifty-three thousand maps were required
for the Boundary Commissioners; and special duties of a similar kind
were also rendered in 1868, and also to the Irish Church Temporalities
Commission. These and other services of a more strictly scientific
nature, as those rendered to geodesy and geology, afford ample
testimony to the value of the labours of those engaged in this arduous
and honourable service.

The all-important question remains, how are we to carry on this
confessedly important work? We must not lose the benefit of what,
through great toil and cost, has been already achieved. Valuable as
have been the results, it is evident that many portions of the Survey
are now obsolete. The triangulation portion of the work has of course
been done once for all; but in a very large number of cases, especially
in the suburbs of towns, the whole face of the country is changed.
There are hundreds of districts which are presented in the Survey
sheets as green fields, surrounded with trees and hedgerows, where now
are densely populated towns or parts of towns. The hills and the rivers
remain, but all else is changed. Glebe-lands, residential estates,
farm-steadings have become streets and lanes, or perhaps have succumbed
to the operations of the miner, or afforded space for a great industry
of some sort. It is obvious, then, that the Survey, unequalled, it is
believed, in any other country, should undergo periodical revision
in order to keep pace with the progress of the nation, otherwise we
shall find ourselves unable to cope satisfactorily with many questions
and difficulties arising from time to time in a great country like
our own. How, for instance, would the Boundary Commissioners in the
instance already mentioned have performed their duties had there been
no accurate survey of the country? And in the war-scare of 1858-9,
Colonel White mentions that a great expense was incurred by the
government of the day in getting special surveys of large districts
hastily made, as at that time the twenty-five-inch scale was just
begun; and it would have been still more had there been no force ready
to undertake the duty. Imperfectly, then, as the case has been here
stated, there is sufficient, we think, to demonstrate that there is
a strong plea for a deliberate and favourable consideration of this
important matter at no distant date.

It only remains to make acknowledgment to Colonel White for the use
here made of many of the facts in his interesting volume. To those who
feel any interest in the subject, and even to those who do not, his
story of the labours of his comrades is worthy, in literary and other
respects, of all commendation, and we venture to say will do much to
popularise the subject.




WANTED, A CLUE.


IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

‘“Companion required for a Young Lady. Must be cheerful, musical, and
of good family. Salary, £60 per annum.”’ Such was the advertisement my
aunt Margaret read out to me one morning, as we sat at breakfast in her
neat little house in London.

I am the orphan daughter of a missionary, and my aunt’s was the only
home I had ever known. For the past three years I had been resident
governess in a wealthy family in Yorkshire; but my employers’
purse-proud arrogance was too much for my self-respect, and I had to
leave, resolving if possible to try and obtain a post as companion.

Tempted by the excellent salary offered, I at once wrote to the address
indicated. Promptly I received a reply, from Mr Foster of Great Gorton
Hall, Westernshire. He stated that companionship was required for his
step-daughter, Miss Thorndyke, a delicate girl of eighteen, who resided
with him and his widowed sister, Mrs Morrell; her mother, his dear late
wife, having died the previous year. He added that my acquirements and
credentials were satisfactory; and requested to know whether I had ever
been in Westernshire, and if I had any friends or connections there.

I replied that I was an entire stranger to the county and to all the
people in it; and in a few days I was overjoyed at receiving the
nomination to the post; for I was unwilling to be a burden on my aunt’s
slender means.

Gorton Hall was a fine building of gray stone, standing in beautiful
grounds, on the outskirts of a pretty country village. I was shown into
a spacious drawing-room, where a middle-aged lady in black greeted me
very pleasantly, introducing herself as Mrs Morrell. She kindly bade me
be seated, and sent a servant in search of her brother.

Mr Foster was a fine-looking man, with iron-gray hair, and a keen and
searching expression—a man whom I instinctively felt it would be
dangerous to offend. His manner to me, like his sister’s, was courtesy
itself. He explained the duties expected from me. ‘And one thing more
I must add, Miss Armitage,’ he said in conclusion—‘although willing
to concede everything reasonable, there is one thing I cannot permit
in members of my household—gossiping with strangers concerning my
family. I prefer that my daughter’s companion should have no friends
or acquaintances in this neighbourhood; and I must request that during
your residence here, you discourage any intimacy which people at Gorton
or any of the neighbouring villages may seek to establish with you. I
have seen so much mischief caused by gossip and tittle-tattle, that I
am obliged to request this.’

The stipulation seemed a very reasonable one, and I readily acceded to
it. Mr Foster then went on to speak of his step-daughter.

‘Our darling Edith is not so strong as we could wish, and indeed is
frequently confined to the sofa. The doctor orders her to keep early
hours and avoid all excitement; she therefore goes but little into
society; but we hope the companionship of a bright and lively girl will
prove beneficial. Keep her amused and happy, Miss Armitage, and we ask
no more from you.’

I found my future charge in the drawing-room, when I descended dressed
for dinner. She was a fragile-looking creature, with light hair and
large blue eyes. She greeted me very kindly. Her manner was childish,
considering her age; but I was much relieved not to find her a fine
fashionable young lady. She was still in mourning for her mother.

We had a musical evening. Mrs Morrell and I executed several duets on
the piano, accompanied by Mr Foster on the violin, which he played very
well. Edith kissed me very kindly as she said good-night; and before I
went to rest, I sat down and wrote to my aunt in glowing terms, saying
that Gorton Hall was an earthly paradise.

Nor did I see reason to change my opinion for many weeks. I soon felt
perfectly at ease in my new home. Edith was so gentle, so unassuming,
and so considerate, that it was impossible not to love her; and Mr
Foster and his sister were most kind. I was treated as a gentlewoman
and an equal; and my duties were very light, being chiefly to drive
Edith in a pretty pony-carriage, to play duets, and occasionally to
read aloud.

We did not mix very much in society, although Mrs Morrell received a
due amount of calls from the ladies in the neighbourhood. A few quiet
garden-parties and dinners were the limit of our dissipations, on
Edith’s account. I was always included in any scheme of pleasure, and
Mr Foster made quite a point of introducing me to all visitors.

There was a fine old church in the village, to which we all went on
Sundays. It was a mile and a half across the fields; but we usually
drove, on account of Edith. I had been nearly six months at the Hall,
when one fine Sunday morning in July it fell to my lot to go to church
alone, for the first time since my arrival. Mr Foster was in London;
Edith had a headache; and Mrs Morrell would not leave her, although
she was urgent that I should go. The service over, I was returning
across the first field, when I heard steps behind me, and a gentleman’s
voice said: ‘Miss Armitage!’

I turned round in surprise, to see a young man who was a perfect
stranger to me. Lifting his hat politely, he begged for the honour of a
few words with me.

I was both amazed and indignant, and somewhat loftily informed him that
I was not in the habit of conversing with total strangers; so saying,
I was walking on, when he interrupted me, and begged me to listen, for
Edith Thorndyke’s sake.

‘My father, Dr Archer, was her father’s oldest friend, Miss Armitage.
My family is well known in this neighbourhood; and I live in the next
village, Little Gorton, where I am in partnership with Dr Selby. You
are well known to me by name, and for some time I have endeavoured to
contrive an interview with you, in vain. I could not come up to the
Hall,’ he added, no doubt seeing amazement written on my face. ‘The
fact is, Miss Armitage, I love Edith Thorndyke; but her step-father
considers my position inferior to hers, and refuses to allow me to see
her until she is of age. Doubtless you are aware that she will inherit
a great deal of property.’

‘I strongly disapprove of discussing these family matters with a total
stranger, sir,’ I said, trying to move away. ‘Also, Mr Foster has
absolutely forbidden it.—Good-morning.’

‘One moment!’ he pleaded. ‘Edith Thorndyke’s very life may depend upon
it! Have you heard the terms of her mother’s will?’

‘They are nothing to me, sir.’

‘Oh, but please, Miss Armitage! I entreat you! Do listen to me! When
Mrs Foster’s first husband died, he left her some thousands a year, in
addition to Gorton Hall and the estates, entirely at her own disposal.
She married again, and died last year, when it was found that she had
left her husband Edith’s sole guardian until she should be twenty-one,
when she would enter into the possession of the Thorndyke property.
In case she died before attaining her majority, one half of the
property would devolve upon Mr Foster, and half upon relatives of the
Thorndykes. Even the half is a very large sum, Miss Armitage—quite
enough to tempt a man like Mr Foster to—to—— In short, I sadly fear
Edith Thorndyke will not be allowed to live until she is twenty-one.’

‘This is downright madness!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mr Foster is the kindest
and best of men—quite incapable of harbouring designs upon his
step-daughter’s life.’

‘I know Lawrence Foster; you do not,’ he answered quietly. ‘I know him
to be bold and cunning and unscrupulous. Edith believes in him and his
sister; but she is sadly deceived. I hoped to be able to enlist you on
my side, Miss Armitage, when I heard of your arrival at the Hall. I
should be glad to feel sure that Edith has one disinterested friend in
the house.’

‘But I ought not to speak to you at all,’ I said, feeling very
uncomfortable. ‘Mr Foster has strictly forbidden me to gossip with
strangers.’

‘Because he is afraid that you might hear the truth.’

‘But if he is what you say, why does he have a companion for his
step-daughter at all? I must be a check on his movements. I see all
that goes on; he never hides anything from me.’

‘Don’t you see that your presence is an additional security for him? It
disarms suspicion. Supposing Edith—well, died suddenly; people would
say: “Miss Armitage was there; she knows all about it;” and no comment
would be excited; whereas it would probably seem suspicious, at all
events to the Thorndyke family, who are by no means satisfied with the
terms of the will, if Edith were to die whilst living alone with Mr
Foster and his sister. There can be no doubt that the money must be an
immense temptation to him. He has nothing of his own. Ten thousand a
year, and only one fragile girl’s life in the way!’

I must say the speaker’s earnestness and unmistakable sincerity began
to make an impression upon me. I had fancied once or twice that Mr
Foster exercised an unusually close surveillance over Edith and me.
Were Dr Archer’s words true, and was I merely a lay-figure at Gorton
Hall, to deceive the world? Had I been taken into society by my
employers, and my praises trumpeted forth to all their acquaintances,
merely in order that my presence should disarm suspicion? ‘You have
made me very uncomfortable,’ I candidly confessed.

‘Believe me, Miss Armitage, I would not have taken this course but that
I was compelled by necessity. Edith’s step-father has such a complete
ascendency over her, that it is difficult to know what to do. But you
are always with her, and can watch over her.’

‘But I am only a paid companion, liable to dismissal at any time.’

‘True; but I hope you will try and stay as long as you can, for Edith’s
sake.’

‘I fear she is very delicate.’

‘She is delicate; she needs care. But, as she gets older, her health
will probably improve. There is really no reason, humanly speaking, why
she should not live for many years. But I fear—I fear many things, but
chiefly poison, slow and secret. Mr Foster is an accomplished chemist;
and his antecedents—better known to me than to most people—give me
little confidence in him. If you knew as much as I do about him, Miss
Armitage, you would not wonder at my suspicions. But be sure of this:
there is danger. I have no proof against Mr Foster, and therefore
cannot interfere in any way. Promise, promise me, Miss Armitage, that
you will inform me of everything suspicious that you may see from this
time. Here is my address.’

I hastily took the proffered card and gave the promise, anxious
to return before Mrs Morrell should be uneasy at my absence. She
laughingly remarked that the sermon must have been unusually long,
and in a casual manner asked what was the text. Luckily, I was
able to supply chapter and verse and a lengthy catalogue of my
fellow-worshippers. It then struck me for the first time that if, by
chance, I was allowed to go out alone, either Mr Foster or Mrs Morrell
might find out, by skilfully put questions, everything I had said,
seen, and done.

Now that suspicion had once entered my mind, I saw grounds for it
everywhere, as might have been expected. The most absurd fancies
entered into my head. I persuaded Edith in secret to lock her door at
night before retiring to rest, which she had never done before. I do
not know what I expected to happen. The precaution was a senseless one;
for the foes I was fighting against were far too clever and subtle to
contemplate anything so foolish as commonplace midnight murder.

I will do my employers the justice to say that with all this I spent
a delightful summer. They took Edith and me to Scotland for a two
months’ tour; and I never enjoyed a holiday so much. A more charming
cicerone than Mr Foster could not be. Then we went back to Gorton, and
settled down for the winter. For some time, absolutely nothing of any
importance occurred. I wrote occasionally a brief, reassuring, cautious
note to Dr Archer, but carefully refrained from speaking when we met,
to avert suspicion. Edith and I grew daily more attached; and nothing
could exceed my employers’ kindness.

Edith had been decidedly better in health, until she received a severe
chill in November. Mrs Morrell at once sent for the doctor, the same
old family practitioner who had attended her from her birth.

Dr Stevens was a worthy man, and once a skilful physician, no doubt;
but when I saw him, he was nearly eighty and quite past his work.
Feeble, weak in sight and hearing, the old man seemed more fit to be
in bed himself, than to be employed in his professional capacity. I
hinted as much to Edith; but she was quite indignant, and reiterated
her assurances that she had more confidence in Dr Stevens than in any
one else; so I had to rest satisfied.

Miss Thorndyke’s illness dragged on with fluctuating strength. She
was too delicate to shake off anything easily; and she had frequent
relapses, which sadly weakened her strength. Mrs Morrell nursed her
most assiduously, declining professional attendance, but permitting me
to help her to the best of my ability. But although I was allowed to
be in the invalid’s room all day, if I chose, Mrs Morrell would not
permit me to exhaust my strength in night-nursing. She had had her bed
placed in a dressing-room communicating with Edith’s room, and there
she slept, ready, at the slightest movement of the invalid, to spring
up and wait upon her. Edith spoke warmly of Mrs Morrell’s kindness and
devotion; and certainly she spared no pains to humour the fancies of
the sick girl.

About Christmas, the disease assumed a new phase. Symptoms of stomach
derangement set in, which Dr Stevens attributed to the long-continued
recumbent position and lack of exercise; and he set himself to combat
the new evil by every means in his power. This was all discussed in
my presence, for no mystery was made of the matter; and indeed I was
usually accustomed to administer Edith’s food and medicines when I
sat in her room. This, however, never occurred in the evening; for
Mr Foster so pathetically pleaded his loneliness in the deserted
drawing-room after dinner, when his sister always went to the invalid,
that in common civility I could not refuse to play chess and cribbage
with him, and occasionally accompany his violin on the piano.

But one night about nine o’clock I slipped quietly out of the
drawing-room, and went up-stairs to Edith’s room to see if she was
awake. She had been worse that day, and I was beginning to feel rather
anxious about her. For a wonder, Mrs Morrell was not on duty, and I
entered unchallenged. I had not been into Edith’s room so late as this
since the beginning of her illness, and was astonished to find it
lighted up by eight large wax candles, dispersed about the apartment,
although the glare was carefully screened from the invalid’s face. I
stooped over the thin face on the pillow, and received a faint smile.
I could not help remarking: ‘How light your room is! I wonder you can
sleep in such a blaze.’

‘Mrs Morrell likes it,’ was the languid answer. ‘She always burns eight
candles like that, all night. I don’t mind them.—O Alice dear, I am so
tired of lying here! and I’m always so thirsty, so dreadfully thirsty!
Do give me something to drink!’

I poured out a tumblerful of a cooling drink from a handsome red glass
jug on the table near me. She drank it eagerly, and sank back on her
pillow as Mrs Morrell came into the room.

I fancied that an angry gleam shot at me from under the widow’s black
eyebrows; but if so, she smoothed away her irritation before she
addressed me. ‘Alice, my dear, it is most kind of you to be here, but I
left my darling girl, as I hoped, to sleep. She is more likely to get a
good night’s rest, if she is not disturbed by late visitors. After nine
o’clock, please, I must request you for the present, dear, not to come
here again.’

I apologised, and said good-night, turning, however, at the door to
ask if Mrs Morrell did not think so much light might have a disturbing
effect upon the invalid.

‘Now, my dear Miss Armitage, that is not like your usual common-sense,’
answered the widow sweetly. ‘Above all things, plenty of light is
essential in a sickroom, where medicines have to be accurately measured
out, and where at any moment the nurse may be summoned to her patient’s
side. I should be tumbling over the furniture in the dark, if the
candles were not kept burning. And now, my dear girl, I must really
request that you go; Edith is nearly asleep. Good-night.’ So I ran
down-stairs, to be gently scolded by Mr Foster for my long absence.

When a week went by and Edith grew worse every day, I became seriously
alarmed, and expressed my uneasiness in a letter to Dr Archer, which
I posted myself, for fear of accidents. He sent me a brief note by a
trusty messenger, in reply, which did not tend to allay my fears:

‘Your account of her symptoms was most alarming. You say she is wasted
and prostrate, and suffers from painful cramps and insatiable thirst.
These are the symptoms of arsenical poisoning. You must contrive to
secure portions of all her food and medicine, and bottle them securely,
and bring them to me. Be in the fir plantation at four o’clock
to-morrow to meet me; it is a matter of life and death.’

You may imagine how terrified I was; but luckily I had nerve enough
to hide it. I looked out all the small bottles I could find, washed
them out carefully, and determined to put them into my pocket one at a
time, to fill as occasion should serve. At the same time I could hardly
believe that Dr Archer was right in his suspicions. I believed they
could not poison Edith without my knowledge. I was in and out of the
sickroom all day, from about ten o’clock in the morning, until I was
dismissed at five to dress for dinner; and at least half of her food
and medicine I administered with my own hands. The medicine bottles
I frequently opened fresh from Dr Stevens’ wrappings; and it was
difficult to imagine that poison could get into puddings and jellies
brought straight from the kitchen to the bedside. I could only conclude
that at night must occur Mrs Morrell’s opportunity—if at all.

I felt like a conspirator, as I contrived to secrete small portions
of everything of which Edith partook. I secured the last drops
remaining of the cooling drink which Mrs Morrell had had to administer
to the invalid during the night; also a portion of the farinaceous
pudding which Miss Thorndyke had had for her dinner, a part of her
sleeping-draught, a wine-glassful of the mixture she was taking every
two hours, and some of the beef-tea which Dr Stevens had ordered for
her. If poison were really being administered, it must be present
in one or other of these. I chiefly suspected the remains of the
cooling drink. I was young and unsophisticated, and my experience as a
novel-reader made me believe it quite possible that Mrs Morrell should
carry small packets of arsenic about in her pocket, to mix in Edith’s
medicines and food, as occasion should serve. I can only smile at my
credulity now.

It was a difficult matter to meet Dr Archer in the fir plantation
unobserved. Mrs Morrell had first to be evaded, and then Mr Foster, who
manifested a most amiable and pressing desire to accompany me in my
walk. I dared not linger, but hastily thrust the phials into the young
doctor’s hands, telling him I particularly suspected the cooling drink.
He informed me that he was going to send them at once to an eminent
analyst at one of the London hospitals; and that, if they proved to
contain poison, he should instantly apply to a magistrate for a warrant.

I could not control my feelings that evening sufficiently well to
prevent Mr Foster remarking, as we sat at chess: ‘Your walk to-day did
not do you much good, Miss Armitage.’

‘I have rather a headache,’ I hastily answered. It was perfectly true.
‘I sat with Edith all the morning, and her room seemed to me very
stuffy.’ Indeed, I had frequently noticed a strange closeness pervading
it, especially when I first entered it in the morning; and I very often
found my head the worse for a prolonged sojourn in it.

‘As soon as Dr Stevens will allow it, she shall be moved into a larger
room,’ he answered, as if he wished to evade a discussion of the
subject.




SOME ANECDOTES OF AMERICAN CHILDREN.


The subject of children is one in which every one is more or less
interested; for even those who have none of their own were babies
themselves in some dim period of the past, and probably most of us
have wondered at times what sort of babies we were. Happy they who
have it on the authority of those who ought to know, that they were
‘well-behaved children’—lumps of good-nature, and never addicted
to crying. How kindly does Charles Lamb revert to the days of his
childhood, dwelling with something of reverence on the image of that
‘young master’ whom he could scarcely believe to have been indeed
himself, and whose pure memory he cherished as tenderly ‘as if it had
been a child of some other house,’ and not of his parents. So perhaps
some of us also have yearned over those little phantoms of the past,
our own child-selves.

But it is of American children that we have now a few words to say.
Perhaps, however, we make a mistake at the outset in calling them
_children_ at all, for many of them seem to belong to some species of
fairy changelings, so remarkable and almost uncanny is their precocity,
and that, too, from the earliest infancy, while they are still in their
nurses’ arms, or at the bottle. Gilbert’s little urchin of the _Bab
Ballads_ who chucked his nurse under the chin when she fed him, and
vowed by the rap it was excellent pap, was nothing to them. They would
be too _blasé_ for such infantine manifestations as these. We have one
of them before our ‘mind’s eye’ now, an ideal-looking little maid,
with sunny hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, the youngest darling of
a happy household. Being of a wakeful disposition, she was indulged
with her bottle at night up to the mature age of nearly two years. Her
mother, waking once at midnight, was aware of some disturbance in the
cot beside her, where baby seemed to be searching vigorously in the
moonlight for something. Hoping the little one might forego her search
and drop to sleep, the mother lay quiet, when suddenly baby raised her
soft fair head, and with the startling question, ‘Where de debil is
my mouf-piece?’ fairly banished all slumber from her fond parent. It
must be explained that this occurred in a part of the country where
children were liable to overhear the talk of negroes, both indoor
and outdoor servants; and this race, as represented in the States of
America, are evidently of the opinion of the old sea-captain’s Scotch
wife who, while agreeing with her minister as to the advisability of
her husband’s giving up the habit of swearing, was yet constrained
to acknowledge that ‘nae doubt it was still a great set-off to
conversation.’ Baby’s grandmamma, however, on being informed of this
last addition to her darling’s vocabulary, remarked somewhat grimly
that it was about time the bottle should be given up.

The foregoing was scarcely so bad as what a little two-year-old
neighbour was guilty of; for on this young scapegrace being mildly
remonstrated with for some misdemeanour by his grandfather—a venerable
old doctor, of much repute with all who knew him—he retorted, in his
half-articulate baby speech, ‘Gan-pa, you’se a old fool!’—waking a
burst of unhallowed merriment from all within hearing distance.

The propensity on the part of their children to use profane language
is a source of great uneasiness to American mothers. One lady,
the daughter of a clergyman, who had brought her up on strictly
old-fashioned principles, was much distressed to note the habit growing
on her only child, a fine manly little boy of four years. At her wits’
end for a timely cure, she at last resorted to the expedient of a
whipping, threatening, with the most unmistakable air of sincerity,
that it would be repeated if ever a certain word were used by him
again. The morning after this occurrence, Georgie was, as usual, at
his spelling lesson with his mother, the task for the day consisting
of a string of words all rhyming with ‘am.’ The first few of them
had been accomplished with praiseworthy accuracy, when suddenly the
young student came to a dead-stop. ‘Go on, sonny,’ said his mother
encouragingly, not seeing for the moment where the difficulty lay.
‘C-a-m—cam,’ repeated Georgie in evident embarrassment, the next word
apparently presenting some insurmountable obstacle. ‘Go on!’ insisted
his mother—when, with a sudden blurt, out came the monosyllable
‘D-a-m—_dam_, a millpond dam,’ added Georgie, the threatened punishment
being uppermost in his mind.

The same little boy had a cousin, a year older than himself, and ages
ahead of him in knowledge of the world, so much so, that he would
sometimes assume the part of mentor towards his more unsophisticated
junior. When the two were together one day, the elder announced his
intention of paying a visit to a family living near them. ‘But I won’t
take you with me,’ said he. ‘Why not?’ asked Georgie, disconcerted.
‘Because they’ll teach you to swear,’ returned the other gravely. ‘But
you go there yourself,’ argued little George. ‘O yes,’ rejoined his
senior with a world-worn air; ‘I swear already.’

Young America does not take kindly to correction in any form, probably
resenting it as an infringement of natural liberties. One little boy
having been punished for some childish transgression, astonished his
family by coming down suddenly from his room up-stairs with a small
bundle under his arm, saying, ‘I’m going to leave this blessed house.’

American children are, as a rule, more practical and less imaginative
than those of the old country—inclined from the very beginning to
look on life as a struggle, though a pleasant one on the whole, and
on the world as their oyster, which they, with their sharp-set wits,
must open. They bring this matter-of-fact element even into their
devotions. A little girl was promised by her father, on his leaving
home for a few days, that he would bring dolls for her and her sister
when he came back. That night, when at her prayers, she put in the very
laudable petition, ‘Pray God, bring papa home safely;’ but somewhat
compromised the effect by adding with great emphasis, after a moment’s
rapt reflection—‘with the dolls.’ But this was devotion itself compared
with the following. A little mite of a creature running out of her room
one morning was called back by her mother: ‘Dolly, you haven’t said
your prayers.’ ‘I dess Dod tan wait,’ returned little Miss Irreverence;
‘I’se in a hurry.’ In both these cases, the utter unconsciousness of
presumption on the part of the tiny speakers took away the effect of
profanity from their words.

Reverence is certainly not the strong point of our small kinsfolk
across the water. Almost from their entrance into the world, they begin
to assume airs of equality with all around them. One sweet little
damsel, who was of peculiarly small and fairy-like proportions, could
with difficulty be prevailed upon to call her parents otherwise than
by their Christian names; and the effect was quaint to hear her, when
offered candy or such-like forbidden dainties, refuse them with a
wistful look and the words: ‘Willie not likes it’ (Willie being her
father); or, ‘Annie’ (her mother) ‘said no.’ Nay, she did not scruple
even to call her grandmother by _her_ name, as far as she could
pronounce it, for ‘Margaret’ offered some obstacles to the baby lips.
You would have fancied this same little maiden too soft and gentle
to brush the down from a butterfly’s wing; but on one occasion she
shocked the sensibilities of her young cousin, fresh from England, by
exclaiming, on an innocent, newly fledged chicken being brought in for
the inspection of the family: ‘Me have dat pitty bird for my dinner!’

From the youngest age, American children are ready to share—as
Wordsworth once expressed it—‘in anything going.’ A visitor
injudiciously offering a little boy some wine at dinner, was requested
by his watchful mother not to give him ‘too much;’ when young Hopeful
took the words out of her mouth by protesting with vehement eagerness:
‘I _like_ too much!’

It is no easy task to impose any restrictions, even of time or place,
on one of these little free-born Americans, or to impress them with any
sense of restraint or regard of persons. One little daughter of Eve,
brought up for baptism at the ripe age of two—episcopal visits being
rare in the part of the country where she lived—somewhat scandalised
the bishop by calling his attention, just before the ceremony, to her
attire, thus: ‘Look at my new dess;’ and drawing it back to display
her dainty feet—‘Look, bissop, at my pitty new boots!’ The good father
took it all in very amiable part, though he remarked to her mother
afterwards, that the little one had evidently no intention of giving up
the vanities of the world just yet.

But we must say good-bye for the present to our little American
cousins, on whom we must not be understood to have cast the shadow of
an aspersion. Their intelligence and quickness, indeed, combined with
the other charms of infancy—of which they have their full share—make
them as attractive, to say the least, as any of their kind. We can
assert, moreover, from our own knowledge, that some of these tiny
gentry, with whose scarce-conscious childish profanity we have dallied
for a while, are growing up at this present moment into decent and in
every way excellent members of society.




A STRANGE LOVE AFFAIR.


Hector Mackinnon, the hero of the strange story we are about to unfold,
a story perhaps unequalled for uniqueness in the annals of love, was a
divinity student. He had just completed his fourth year of the Hall,
and expected soon to be licensed as a probationer. He was the only son
of a wealthy merchant, and had been destined for the ministry from his
birth.

Mr Mackinnon, senior, was a prominent and influential adherent of one
of our strictest dissenting bodies, and had brought up his son in the
belief that there was little else good in the world outside the pale of
its communion. There was some mystery about Hector’s mother, who had
died shortly after giving him birth. Some people whispered that she
had been on the stage before she was married, and that Mr Mackinnon
had fallen violently in love with her pretty face, and married the
young girl while in the ecstasy of his passion, and before the cold
dictates of prudence, or the counsel of his friends, could intervene.
The marriage had not been, it was said, a happy one. While the magic
glamour of love lasted, all went well; when it began to wane, the
angular austerities of Mr Mackinnon’s disposition became painfully
apparent to the young bride. On his part, he looked without sympathy,
if not indeed with positive contempt, on what he termed the ‘worldly
frivolities’ of her gay and joyous nature. Above all, he felt keenly
the loss of social status which the marriage entailed on him in the
estimation of his own sect. The young wife was sternly forbidden to
have any intercourse with her relatives and friends; and her husband’s
sister, who was a maiden lady of very gloomy religious views, was
installed as housekeeper ostensibly, but really to play ‘propriety’ to
her unregenerate young relative. Happiness could not, of course, exist
in this state of matters; and when the grim messenger arrived with the
fiat which dissolved the ill-assorted union, it was perhaps a relief to
all.

Brought up under a terribly severe code of social ethics, the theatre,
concert, and ballroom were represented to Hector as only so many roads
to perdition; and being of an amiable disposition, and desirous of
pleasing his father, he had up till now, when he had attained his
twenty-third year, sedulously eschewed these enticing forms of social
amusement. It was not destined, however, that he was always to remain
in this state of innocent ignorance. A brilliant theatrical star
visited the city, and turned the heads of all—both young and old, male
and female, alike. Her stage-name was Violet d’Esterre (no one knew her
real name), and it was on her exquisite delineation of Shakspearean
tragedy that her justly earned fame rested. The college students were
particularly enthusiastic in her praise, and crowded the theatre
nightly to admire her beauty, and listen entranced to the melody of her
sublime elocution. One evening, Hector, persuaded by his companions,
consented to accompany them to hear this paragon of passionate
declamation. The play was the old, old story of the hapless lovers
of Verona. Such a hold had her impersonation of the intensely loving
Juliet taken of the public, that they insisted on it being performed
night after night, to the exclusion of other tragic parts in which
she was equally celebrated. If any of our readers have not been in a
theatre until they were about the age of Hector, they will be able to
realise the very powerful sensuous effect the music, beautiful scenery,
bright dresses, and decorations had on his imagination, and how they
conduced to give full effect to the sense of bewildered admiration he
felt when the curtain rose on the banqueting hall in Capulet’s house,
and the fair daughter of Capulet. How feebly, it seemed to him, did
Romeo express his feelings in saying:

    O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
    It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
    Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear:
    Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

Mademoiselle d’Esterre’s physical qualifications for the part were
superb. Her countenance, which was Italian in cast of features and
complexion, boasted of a pair of orbs of the deepest violet black.
Large and lustrous, they were mobile and expressive in the highest
degree. When they first rested on Romeo’s form, they dilated with the
eager fire of southern passion, and as quickly drooped in maidenly
confusion and modesty. Her whole attitude showed she felt she had met
her destiny; and before she had even spoken a syllable, the audience
felt they were under the spell of an enchantress. Then, with what
simple natural dignity did she invest the few words the girl-lover
addresses to love-stricken Romeo, already commencing his love-making
as ‘holy palmer.’ From the moment the curtain was raised until it
descended at the end of the fifth act, Hector sat spellbound, oblivious
to everything on earth save the scenes that were being enacted on the
stage. His companions had to arouse him when it became time to quit the
theatre.

‘Well, Mackinnon,’ said Charley Smith, ‘what do you think of the
d’Esterre? Jolly-like girl, isn’t she?’

‘Don’t speak of the young lady in that vulgar way,’ he replied. ‘I am
certain that girl is as pure and good as Juliet was.’

‘I am not saying a word against her—nobody can do that,’ his companion
rejoined. ‘Surely, surely, you’ve not got hit with her charms—you, of
all men!’

Hector was in no mood for badinage at that moment, and pleading a
headache, he hurried off to his lodgings. He could not imagine what
was the matter; but after tossing all night uneasily in bed, he had to
confess to himself next morning that he, Hector Mackinnon, the budding
clergyman, the lifelong hater of things theatrical and bohemianisms
of every sort, had fallen hopelessly and irretrievably in love with
an actress he had seen for the first and only time a few hours ago!
There was no use in trying to disguise the truth to himself; he felt—or
fancied he felt, which comes to much the same thing—that life without
possession of this fair divinity would not be worth living; but that,
with her by his side, the roughest tempests that fate could send would
feel like gentle wooing zephyrs.

It was not to be expected that this state of matters could long remain
secret from Hector’s companions. His theses and themes remained
unwritten; his answers to the Professor’s questions were of the most
incoherent description, and at last he discontinued his attendance at
college altogether. Inheriting a considerable share of his father’s
stern determination, he was not of a nature to suffer in silence
the agonies of a secret and unrequited passion. The inspirer of the
consuming yet delicious flame which burned within his bosom must, he
admitted, be some few years older than himself; for had she not been
a celebrity in her profession for over a dozen years now? Well, what
of that? Was that any reason why he should deny himself the lifelong
companionship of the only woman he ever loved or could love? To
marry her meant, he knew, an open rupture with his father, and the
abandonment of his ministerial career; but were these trifles for one
moment to be weighed in the balance against the pure and unalloyed
bliss of a lifetime spent in the society of his darling? No—a thousand
times, no! In this wise did he reason with himself, as many a lover
has done before, and, we may safely predict, will do again. His life
had now only one object, and that was to gain an introduction to
Mademoiselle d’Esterre, and press his suit with all the ardour of a
lover who felt that his life’s happiness depended on the result.

Every night found him at the theatre, gazing on the unconscious cause
of his distraction ‘till his life’s love left him through his eyes.’
The rich clear notes of her magnificent contralto voice seemed to flood
the theatre with the music of the spheres, and filled his soul with an
agony of delight. At this period, it would have been an unspeakable
relief to his overcharged feelings, if he had had some sympathetic
friend to make a confidant of. But, alas, the sufferer from the darts
of the rosy god, like the victim of prosaic toothache, obtains no
sympathy from his kind.

Time wore on, and the posters announced the last six nights of
Mademoiselle’s engagement. He had tried his best to procure an
introduction, but without success, the friends and associates of his
past life being widely outside of theatrical circles. He found out,
however, where she lodged, and the hour at which she usually took her
daily promenade. In vain did he follow her at a respectful distance,
in the fond hope that some drunk man, runaway horse, or other street
casualty, might afford the means of an impromptu introduction;
unfortunately, the pedestrians were all sober, and the horses jogged
on in a manner remarkably sedate and correct. At last, when almost
reduced to despair, an ingenious thought occurred to him. The talented
actress occasionally gave morning recitations and readings. He was
possessed of considerable literary ability, and what was to hinder
him from composing a suitable piece for recitation, sending it to
her for approval, and by that means obtaining a personal interview?
Being favourably impressed with the feasibility of the scheme, he set
to work, and composed a hundred-line poem in blank verse, in which
the torments of unrequited love were very forcibly if not elegantly
portrayed. With a trembling hand, he dropped this in the letter-box,
accompanied by a polite note craving her acceptance of the offering.

Who shall attempt to describe the thirty-six dreary hours of suspense
that elapsed before a reply came, in a polite little epistle redolent
of patchouli, thanking Mr Mackinnon for his kind present, which
she would be glad to use on the first suitable occasion? She was,
however, of opinion that, from an elocutionary point of view, certain
alterations would tend to make it much more effective. Would Mr
Mackinnon honour Mademoiselle by calling on her at her residence at
noon the following day, when said alterations could be discussed? The
poor fellow almost cried as he again and again pressed the precious
missive to his lips; and it was some time before his spirits were
sufficiently calmed down to admit of his inditing a coherent reply.
Hope now lent her roseate hues to our hero’s love prospects, and it
was with difficulty he compelled himself to await the slow progress of
the hands on the dial of his watch till they were conjoined over the
happy hour appointed for his interview with her who held his life’s
happiness at her sole command.

Arrived at his destination, he timidly rang the door-bell, and on
giving the servant his card, was informed the lady was ‘at home.’
On entering the drawing-room, he beheld Mademoiselle reclining in
a graceful attitude on a low ottoman. She wore a _négligé_ costume
of some sort of soft warm cream-coloured material, which harmonised
delightfully with her clear, transparent, olive complexion, and
displayed the symmetry of her exquisitely formed figure to great
advantage. She wore no jewelry; her only ornament was a beautiful
Marshal M‘Mahon rose, the deep crimson petals of which formed a
charming contrast to the raven tresses on which they reposed. There
were two other occupants of the room; and it was easy to see, from
their ‘at-home’ air, that they were not merely visitors. One was a
brisk little lady, with a pleasant good-humoured expression, who it
would be safe to guess had seen at least fifty summers. The other was
a tall stately girl of not more than seventeen or eighteen. She had
evidently been practising at the piano, which lay open, with the score
of a new opera on the music-holder. Had Hector’s mind not been so fully
engrossed, he probably would have noticed a considerable resemblance
between her and the fair object of his devotions. The principal
difference lay in the colour of the hair, the complexion, and the
stature. The young lady was a pronounced blonde, possessing large azure
orbs of almost dreamy softness, and a wealth of light reddish-golden
hair carelessly twisted and fastened in a coil at the back of the head.

As Hector advanced, Mademoiselle rose gracefully from her seat and,
glancing at his card, said in the same rich contralto tones which
had so inthralled him in the theatre: ‘Ah, Mr Mackinnon, I perceive!
Good-morning, sir. Pray, be seated.’ Holding out her hand, he had the
brief precious delight of pressing it for a second in his trembling
palm.—‘Now, you needn’t leave the room,’ she said, addressing her two
companions. ‘This is the gentleman who did me the honour of sending me
the poem entitled _Amor in Mors_.—Permit me to introduce you to my good
friend Mrs Eskell; and to Mademoiselle Andresen, my niece.’

The introductions being over, Hector resumed his seat. He never felt
so embarrassed in the whole course of his life. How fondly had he
rehearsed in his mind the many brilliant tender speeches he would give
utterance to on this occasion! Now that the wished-for opportunity had
arrived, he sat speechless. It is but fair to say, however, that he
did not contemplate the presence of third parties at the interview.
Still, their presence should not have tongue-tied him as it did—he, the
glibest debater and the best elocutionist in the college.

Seeing his embarrassment, the lady came to his relief. ‘Well, Mr
Mackinnon, I am very much pleased with your poem, and I think, with a
few slight alterations, it might make a very effective recitation. Do
you not think, though, the title is a little too lugubrious? Could you
not substitute some other word for Mors? Just reflect! Fancy me dying
every night for the past fortnight as Juliet! It is really too bad of
the good folks of your city to insist on my manager making me repeat
night after night a part which I have begun really to detest.’

‘O Mademoiselle, do not say that,’ cried Hector. ‘Ah, if you but knew
the delightful thrill you send through the audience in the balcony
scene—and—and—the tears you cause them to shed when the unfortunate
heroine—Shakspeare’s greatest creation’——

‘Shakspeare’s greatest fiddlestick!’ she replied, laughing merrily.
‘What people see in her, I’m sure I don’t know! To my mind, she’s
a forward young chit, that would have been much better employed in
mending Papa Capulet’s hose and helping her mother to keep house, than
philandering with her Romeo.—But about _Amor in Mors_. Don’t you think,
now, you could make it just the tiniest little bit funny? I do so long
to get out of this continued round of love-making, murder, and suicide.’

Could he believe his ears? Was this cynical, matter-of-fact woman
identical with the fair embodiment of transcendental, ethereal love,
on whose accents he had hung with enraptured delight for the past few
nights? No, it could not be; there must be some strange mistake. Yet,
when her mobile features were for a moment in repose, there he beheld
the same deep, lustrous, unfathomable eyes—the same sweet innocent
mouth, with its half-childlike pouting lips. He was bewildered, and as
in a dream.

‘You are pleased, Mademoiselle, to be satirical this morning,’ he
replied. ‘I cannot do you the injustice of supposing you are in earnest
in what you say. No one could enact the part of Juliet so nobly unless
she were capable of imbuing herself thoroughly with the divine passion
attributed to her by her creator.’

‘Believe me, you are quite wrong there, Mr Mackinnon. It is not
by any means those parts which actors have the natural emotional
qualifications for, that they excel in portraying. Nature in that
case _destroys_ art; and hence it is that parts that actors like best
are precisely those they act worst. For myself, I am guided entirely
by public criticism, and confine myself to those rôles that draw
the best houses. Of course I have my own predilections. I have a
very fair singing voice, and think I should be able to do very well
in opera-bouffe. Oh, I _do_ dote on opera-bouffe!—But about _Amor
in Mors_. I really think the language is splendid—quite as good as
Shakspeare’s, I daresay, although I don’t profess to be a literary
critic. Well, if you would alter the conclusion in such a way as to
make the audience take a good hearty laugh after I had wound them up to
the crying pitch, I believe it would be effective, and I will line it
in the bills for my first Saturday morning readings.’

‘Alas, Mademoiselle, I fear my poor verses are not susceptible of being
changed in the way you wish; but if you allow me, I shall endeavour to
write something in a lighter vein, that may have the happiness to merit
your approval. Permit me to ask you to retain the verses you have.’

‘With pleasure, sir,’ she replied.—‘I presume you are of the literary
profession?’

Hector was not very sure whether a divinity student came of right under
that category or not, but he replied in the affirmative.

‘Well, then, we shall be glad to see you, if you can come along
here to supper at twelve o’clock on Friday first. It is a farewell
entertainment I am giving to a few friends of the press, and others.
If you have your new piece done, bring it with you; I’ll recite it,
and we’ll see what they think of it.’ Thus saying, she rose, as if to
indicate the interview was at an end; and after making his adieux,
Hector departed in a very anomalous state of mind. The bright, girlish,
gushing Juliet of the footlights was for ever annihilated in his mind.
In her stead stood an undeniably handsome, accomplished woman of the
world, gay, good-humoured, and apparently good-hearted; but so utterly
devoid of all sentiment as to frankly avow a longing for opera-bouffe!
By all the rules of common-sense, our hero being disillusioned, should
have at once fallen _out_ of love. This, however, did not happen. After
the first shock of finding her so different in her ideas from what he
expected was over, the subjectivity of his passion asserted itself, and
his mind soon formed a fresh ideal of female perfection, of which she
was again the incarnation.

He had but two days in which to compose his second recitation. Striking
a new chord, he wrote it in a light cynical vein, such as he thought
would please the fair actress, judging from her conversation with him.
He wrought hard at it, polishing and repolishing every line, until it
reached, as he thought, as near as possible to a state of brilliant
perfection. When the eventful Friday night arrived, he started for
Mademoiselle’s residence with a much greater feeling of confidence than
he had experienced on the former occasion. He was the first arrival,
and while he sat in the drawing-room, Mademoiselle Andresen and Mrs
Eskell entered. On his first visit, he had not paid much attention
to the appearance of the former, and he was almost surprised to see
how exceedingly pretty she was. The old lady was very talkative,
and was not long in making him aware she was a distant relative of
Mademoiselle’s, and always played ‘Nurse’ to her Juliet. Mademoiselle
Andresen, whose father was a celebrated violinist in Stockholm, had
just completed her course of training for the lyric stage at the
Conservatoire, and was now on a visit to her aunt, to benefit by her
instructions in the technicalities of stage business. On being invited
by Hector, the young lady sat down to the piano, and sang an exquisite
Danish ballad, which fairly charmed him. The company now began to
arrive, and he conducted the two ladies down to the supper-room.

Exceedingly pretty, and exceedingly happy too, did Mademoiselle
d’Esterre look, as she sat at the head of the table listening to the
cheerful conversation of her guests. There were not more than a dozen
and a half present—four ladies and four gentlemen of them being members
of Mademoiselle’s company. After supper, and a due period of vivacity
over the wine, the fair hostess called for silence, and intimated her
intention of reciting Mr Mackinnon’s new poem. The author felt himself
blushing to the tips of his ears as he heard the—to him—familiar lines
tripped off in her melodious voice with rare elocutionary art. At the
conclusion, the applause was great; and the gentlemen of the press
declared with one voice it was the best thing of the season, and that
the author would be sure to make his mark if he applied himself to
dramatic literature. With toast and song the hours sped pleasantly away
till two o’clock, when the cabs began to arrive for the guests. Hector
had been all night in brilliant spirits, and fairly astonished himself
with the smartness of his witty repartees, and the ease with which he
accommodated himself to society so different from that to which he had
been accustomed. His intoxication of bliss reached its climax when, as
the dispersing company were singing _Auld Langsyne_ in the lobby, his
hostess whispered in his ear: ‘Wait; I wish to speak with you. Go up to
the drawing-room.’

He did so, and awaited her coming with trembling, eager impatience.
When she came into the room, she looked grave, even sad, he thought.
‘We may never see each other again, Mr Mackinnon, and I cannot think
of letting you go away to-night without some recompense for the
pretty poem you wrote for me. Pray, accept of this in recognition of
it, and—and as a token of my regard for you;’ and she handed him a
magnificent cluster diamond ring.

His head swam; he scarcely knew what he was doing, and fell on his
knees before her.

‘O Mademoiselle!’ he cried, his voice hoarse with emotion, ‘you are an
angel!—infinitely too good for me—too good for any one on earth. Oh,
how can I dare look in your sweet face and utter the words which burn
on my tongue! Forgive me for my presumption in daring to say so, but I
love you—love you with my whole heart and soul. Dare I ask you to be my
wife!’

Mademoiselle d’Esterre at first looked frightened, thinking her friend
had taken leave of his senses, or was giving her a small sample of his
histrionic powers. When he had made an end of his speech, however, she
apparently could not help bursting into an immoderate fit of laughter.

‘Rise up, you silly fellow!’ she cried, ‘and don’t make a baby of
yourself.’

Her suppliant, who was in a state of bewilderment, mechanically obeyed.

She continued: ‘Upon my word, Mr Mackinnon, you have paid a great
compliment to my skill in preserving my looks. Why, my poor boy, I
could easily be your mother! I was forty-three on my last birthday!’

It might have been expected that this astounding piece of information
would have effectually quenched the flame in the breast of the
unfortunate lover, yet it had not that effect. ‘Alas! Mademoiselle, I
am sorry that the disparity in our years is so great, although I knew
you must be a few years older than myself. But what is age where true
love exists? Believe me, if you consent to our union, never will you
hear me refer to the dis’——

‘Stop, stop, you foolish boy!’ the lady cried. ‘Even were I such a
terrible fool as you suppose, there is an insuperable legal obstacle in
the way.’

‘What is that?’ he asked, wonderingly.

‘Why, I’m your aunt!’ she replied. ‘My sister Agatha was married to
your father!’

       *       *       *       *       *

The mortification experienced by our hero, in consequence of the
ludicrous incident we have described, was extreme, and it was a few
weeks before his mind recovered its accustomed equanimity. When it
did, he resumed his college studies; but from the time lost, and the
still partially unsettled state of his mind, he failed to pass his
examination, and gave up his intention of qualifying for the ministry
in disgust. His aunt’s company soon paid another visit to the city,
and she advised him to try ‘adapting’ French plays. He was tolerably
successful in this, and by her influence, was able to get them placed
with some of the London managers. He then determined to devote himself
entirely to dramatic literature, and being much thrown into the
company of his fair cousin, Miss Andresen, a mutual affection grew
up between them, which culminated in marriage. We understand they
live very happily, although his wife does sometimes joke him on his
love-adventure with his aunt.




MEHALAH.

[This poem is written on the chief character in the novel of the same
name.]


    Sleep on, Mehalah; let the rude waves beat
      Their sullen music in thy deafened ear;
    Whether they roar in storm, or whisper peace,
              Thou canst not hear.

    What matter though the gale in fury rave?
      Beneath the surface, all is calm and fair;
    Held close by flowers too beauteous for the day,
              Thou slumberest there.

    Unseen by mortal eye, the ocean sprites
      Vie who shall deck thy form with fairest grace,
    And many a sea-born flower and waving weed
              Adorn thy face.

    But when the shadows of descending day
      Gleam on the marsh, and fire the western sea,
    Thy spirit ’scapes the chains that bind it down,
              And rises free.

    As vesper chimes grow dimmer and more faint,
      And sink to silence, conquered by the storm,
    The fishers, hast’ning home to those they love,
              Behold thy form,

    Thy face so proud, thine eyes so dim and sad,
      Thy hair unshackled streaming towards the west,
    The crimson ‘Gloriana’ burning bright
              Upon thy breast.

    But as they gaze, the vision fades away,
      Dragged to the depths by iron hand and chain;
    The seamew shrieks, and darkness o’er the world
              Resumes his reign.

            J. B. F.

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75937 ***