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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75937 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+[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 ***