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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:13:09 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:13:09 -0700 |
| commit | ed1f09e0691cd61b236145368fb865ffeb5c3f60 (patch) | |
| tree | ad55f71cf2df99cae500f5ac34bf87a07c0a0f87 /39592-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '39592-h')
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diff --git a/39592-h/39592-h.htm b/39592-h/39592-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..15fbea1 --- /dev/null +++ b/39592-h/39592-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7425 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Princess Mary's Gift Book, by J. J. Shannon. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.25em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + img {border: 0;} + .tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + ins {text-decoration:none; border-bottom: thin dotted gray;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + .copyright {text-align: center; font-size: 70%;} + .blockquot{margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; text-align: justify;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em;} + .small {font-size: 70%;} + .big {font-size: 110%;} + .adtitle2 {font-size: 150%; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;} + .adtitle {font-size: 200%; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;} + + .author {font-size: 120%; text-align: center;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .chaptertitle {text-align: center; font-size: 110%; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1.5em;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-size: 90%;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .unindent {margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + .right {text-align: right;} + .poem {margin-left: 30%; text-align: left;} + .poem2 {margin-left: 15%; text-align: left;} + .sig {margin-right: 10%; text-align: right;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align:baseline; + position: relative; + bottom: 0.33em; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + .hang1 {text-indent: -3em; margin-left: 3em;} + .cap:first-letter {float: left; clear: left; margin: -0.2em 0.1em 0; margin-top: 0%; + padding: 0; line-height: .75em; font-size: 300%; text-align: justify;} + .cap {text-align: justify;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Princess Mary's Gift Book, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Princess Mary's Gift Book + All profits on sale given to the Queen's "Work for Women" + Fund which is acting in Conjunction with The National + Relief Fund + +Author: Various + +Illustrator: Various + +Release Date: May 2, 2012 [EBook #39592] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRINCESS MARY'S GIFT BOOK *** + + + + +Produced by Chris Curnow, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 440px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="440" height="600" alt="Cover" /> +</div> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 415px;"><a id="frontis"></a> +<img src="images/i_002.jpg" width="415" height="600" alt="Painting and signature" /> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 340px;"> +<img src="images/i_003.jpg" width="340" height="460" alt="I desire to express my very +best thanks to the Authors and +Artists who have so generously +contributed to my Gift Book. Mary" /> +</div> + +<hr class="chap" /> + + +<h1>PRINCESS MARY'S<br /> +GIFT BOOK</h1> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 89px;"> +<img src="images/i_005.png" width="89" height="150" alt="" /> +</div> + +<div class='center'> +All profits from sale are given to<br /> +<span class='big'>THE QUEEN'S "WORK FOR</span><br /> +<span class='big'>WOMEN" FUND</span><br /> +which is acting in conjunction with<br /> +The National Relief Fund<br /> +<br /> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> + + + +<span class='big'>HODDER & STOUGHTON</span><br /> +LONDON · NEW YORK · TORONTO<br /> +</div> +<hr class="chap" /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 89px;"> +<img src="images/i_005.png" width="89" height="150" alt="Emblem" /> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap" /> + + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of contents and book spine"> +<tr><td align="left"><div class="figcenter" style="width: 57px;"> +<img src="images/i_spine.jpg" width="57" height="600" alt="" /> +</div></td><td align="left"><div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_007.png" width="500" height="91" alt="Contents" /> +</div> + + + + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td align="left" colspan='2'>H.R.H. <span class="smcap">Princess Mary</span></td><td align="right"><i><a href="#frontis">Frontispiece</a></i></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> J. J. SHANNON, R.A.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left" colspan='2'> </td><td align="right"><span class='small'>PAGE</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">A Holiday in Bed</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>J. M. Barrie</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> W. RUSSELL FLINT, A.R.W.S., <i>and</i></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> C. E. BROCK</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">The Spy</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>G. A. Birmingham</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> H. R. MILLAR</span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "General John Regan." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">Charlie the Cox</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>Hall Caine</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> CHARLES NAPIER HEMY, R.A., <i>and</i> Author of "The Manxman."</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> ARCH WEBB</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">Canada's Word</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>Ralph Connor</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> A. J. GOUGH</span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "The Sky Pilot." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">Bimbashi Joyce</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>A. Conan Doyle</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> R. TALBOT KELLY, R.I.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">The Ant-Lion</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>J. H. Fabre</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> E. J. DETMOLD</span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>("The Insects' Homer").</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">An Angel of God</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> STEVEN SPURRIER, R.I.</span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "Concerning Isabel Carnaby." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Model Soldier</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>Charles Garvice</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> J. H. HARTLEY</span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "Nance." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">The Land of Let'spretend</span></td><td align="right"><br /><i>Lady Sybil Grant</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "The Chequer Board." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> ARTHUR RACKHAM, R.W.S.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">Magepa the Buck</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />H. Rider Haggard</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> J. BYAM SHAW, A.R.W.S.</span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "She." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">True Spartan Hearts</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />Beatrice Harraden</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "Ships that Pass in the Night." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting and Decorations by</i> EDMUND DULAC</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">Big Steamers</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />Rudyard Kipling</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "The Jungle Book." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> NORMAN WILKINSON, R.I.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">A True Story from Camp</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />The Bishop of London</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> JOSEPH SIMPSON, R.B.A.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">The Ebony Box</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />A. E. W. Mason</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.</span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "The Turnstile." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">A Spell for a Fairy</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />Alfred Noyes</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "A Tale of Old Japan." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON, A.R.W.S.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">Out of the Jaws of Death: A Pimpernel Story</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />Baroness Orczy</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> A. C. MICHAEL <i>and</i></span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "The Scarlet Pimpernel." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> H. M. BROCK, R.I.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">What Can a Little Chap Do?</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />John Oxenham</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> EUGENE HASTAIN <i>and</i></span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "Barbe of Grand Bayou." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> GORDON BROWNE, R.I.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">Altogether Different</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />W. Pett Ridge</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> M. E. GRAY <i>and</i></span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "Mord Em'ly." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> LEWIS BAUMER</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">The Escape</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />Annie S. Swan</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> HAROLD EARNSHAW</span></td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "Mary Garth." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><br /><span class="smcap">Fleur-de-Lis</span></td><td align="right"><i><br />Kate Douglas Wiggin</i></td><td align='right'><br /><a href="#Page_130">130</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="right"><span class='small'>Author of "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm." </span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> CARLTON A. SMITH, R.I., <i>and</i></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> <span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> EDMUND J. SULLIVAN, A.R.W.S.</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<div class='blockquot'><br /><br /><br /><span class="smcap">Spartan Hearts</span>, by Beatrice Harraden, was first published in a volume entitled +"Untold Tales of the Past"; <span class="smcap">Big Steamers</span>, by Rudyard Kipling, in "A History +of England," by C. R. L. Fletcher and Rudyard Kipling; <span class="smcap">Bimbashi Joyce</span>, by +Arthur Conan Doyle, in "The Green Flag, and other Stories"; and we have to thank +Messrs. William Blackwood & Sons, The Oxford University Press, and Messrs. Smith, +Elder & Co. for permission to include these contributions in Princess Mary's +Gift Book.<br /> + +With these exceptions the poems and stories in this book have not previously been issued +in volume form. The illustrations have all been specially painted and drawn, and an +exhibition of the work of the artists who have thus contributed to Princess Mary's +Gift Book will be held at the Leicester Galleries, Leicester Square, W.C., and the +originals sold in aid of the Queen's "Work for Women" Fund.</div> +</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_009.png" width="500" height="381" alt="A Holiday in Bed" /> +</div><div class='center'><span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> W. RUSSELL FLINT, A.R.W.S., <i>and Drawings +by</i> C. E. BROCK</span><br /><br /></div> + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">People</span> have tried a holiday in bed before now, and found it a failure, +but that was because they were ignorant of the rules. They went to +bed with the open intention of staying there, say, three days, and found +to their surprise that each morning they wanted to get up. This was +a novel experience to them; they flung about restlessly, and probably +shortened their holiday. The proper thing is to take your holiday in +bed with a vague intention of getting up in another quarter of an hour. +The real pleasure of lying in bed after you are awake is largely due to +the feeling that you ought to get up. To take another quarter of an +hour then becomes a luxury. You are, in short, in the position of the +man who dined on larks. Had he seen the hundreds that were ready +for him, all set out on one monster dish, they would have alarmed him; +but getting them two at a time, he went on eating till all the larks were +gone. His feeling of uncertainty as to whether these might not be his +last two larks is your feeling that, perhaps, you will have to get up in +a quarter of an hour. Deceive yourself in this way, and your holiday +in bed will pass only too quickly.</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> + +<p>Sympathy is what all the world is craving for, and sympathy is +what the ordinary holiday-maker never gets. How can we be expected +to sympathise with you when we know you are off to Perthshire to +fish? No; we say we wish we were you, and forget that your holiday +is sure to be a hollow mockery; that your child will jam her finger in +the railway carriage, and scream to the end of the journey; that you +will lose your luggage; that the guard will notice your dog beneath +the seat, and insist on its being paid for; that you will be caught in a +Scotch mist on the top of a mountain, and be put on gruel for a +fortnight; that your wife will fret herself into a fever about the way +the servant, who has been left at home, is treating her cousins, the +milkman, and the policeman; and that you will be had up for trespassing. +Yet, when you tell us you are off to-morrow, we have never +the sympathy to say, "Poor fellow, I hope you'll pull through somehow." +If it is an exhibition you go to gaze at, we never picture +you dragging your weary legs from one department to another, +and wondering why your back aches. Should it be the seaside, we +talk heartlessly to you about the "briny," though we must know, +if we would stop to think, that if there is one holiday more miserable +than all the others, it is that spent at the seaside, when you wander +along the weary beach and fling pebbles at the sea, and wonder how +long it will be till dinner-time. Were we to come down to see +you, we should probably find you, not on the beach, but moving +slowly through the village, looking in at the one milliner's window, +or laboriously reading what the one grocer's labels say on the subject +of pale ale, compressed beef, or vinegar. There was never an object +that called aloud for sympathy more than you do, but you get not +a jot of it. You should take the first train home and go to bed +for three days.</p> + +<p>To enjoy your holiday in bed to the full, you should let it be +vaguely understood that there is something amiss with you. Don't +go into details, for they are not necessary; and, besides, you want to +be dreamy more or less, and the dreamy state is not consistent with a +definite ailment. The moment one takes to bed he gets sympathy. +He may be suffering from a tearing headache or a tooth that makes +him cry out; but if he goes about his business, or even flops in a chair, +true sympathy is denied him. Let him take to bed with one of those +illnesses of which he can say with accuracy that he is not quite certain +what is the matter with him, and his wife, for instance, will want to +bathe his brow. She must not be made too anxious. That would not +only be cruel to her, but it would wake you from the dreamy state.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> +She must simply see that you are "not yourself." Women have an +idea that unless men are "not themselves" they will not take to bed, +and as a consequence your wife is tenderly thoughtful of you. Every +little while she will ask you if you are feeling any better now, and +you can reply, with the old regard for truth, that you are "much +about it." You may even (for your own pleasure) talk of getting +up now, when she will earnestly urge you to stay in bed until you +feel easier. You consent; indeed, you are ready to do anything to +please her.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_011.png" width="500" height="356" alt="At the shore" /> +<span class="caption">And wonder how long it will be till dinner-time</span> +</div> + +<p>The ideal holiday in bed does not require the presence of a +ministering angel in the room all day. You frequently prefer to be +alone, and point out to her that you cannot have her trifling with her +health for your sake, and so she must go out for a walk. She is +reluctant, but finally goes, protesting that you are the most unselfish +of men, and only too good for her. This leaves a pleasant aroma<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> +behind it, for even when lying in +bed, we like to feel that we are +uncommonly fine fellows. After she +has gone you get up cautiously, +and, walking stealthily to the wardrobe, +produce from the pocket of +your greatcoat a good novel. A +holiday in bed must be arranged for +beforehand. With a gleam in your +eye you slip back to bed, double your +pillow to make it higher, and begin +to read. You have only got to +the fourth page, when you make a +horrible discovery—namely, that the +book is not cut. An experienced +holiday-maker would have had it cut the night before, but this is your +first real holiday, or perhaps you have been thoughtless. In any case +you have now matter to think of. You are torn in two different ways. +There is your coat on the floor with a knife in it, but you cannot reach +the coat without getting up again. Ought you to get the knife or to +give up reading? Perhaps it takes a quarter of an hour to decide this +question, and you decide it by discovering a third course. Being a +sort of an invalid, you have certain privileges which would be denied +you if you were merely sitting in a chair in the agonies of neuralgia. +One of the glorious privileges of a holiday in bed is that you are +entitled to cut books with your fingers. So you cut the novel in +this way, and read on.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/i_012.png" width="300" height="227" alt="Reading" /> +<span class="caption">You are in the middle of +a chapter—</span> +</div> + +<p>Those who have never tried it may fancy that there is a lack of +incident in a holiday in bed. There could not be a more monstrous +mistake. You are in the middle of a chapter, when suddenly you hear +a step upon the stairs. Your loving ears tell you that the ministering +angel has returned, and is hastening to you. Now, what happens? +The book disappears beneath the pillow, and when she enters the room +softly you are lying there with your eyes shut. This is not merely +incident; it is drama.</p> + +<p>What happens next depends on circumstances. She says, in +a low voice:</p> + +<p>"Are you feeling any easier now, John?"</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I believe he is sleeping."</p> + +<p>Then she steals from the room, and you begin to read again.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 396px;"> +<img src="images/i_013.jpg" width="396" height="600" alt="Cozy in bed" /> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/i_015a.png" width="300" height="245" alt="hearing a step" /> +<span class="caption">—Suddenly you hear a step</span> +</div> + +<p>During a holiday in bed one +never thinks, of course, of analysing +his actions. If you had done so in +this instance, you would have seen +that you pretended sleep because +you had got to an exciting passage. +You love your wife, but, wife or +no wife, you must see how the +passage ends.</p> + +<p>Possibly the little scene plays +differently, as thus:</p> + +<p>"John, are you feeling any +easier now?"</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"Are you asleep?"</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>"What a pity! I don't want to waken him, and yet the fowl +will be spoilt."</p> + +<p>"Is that you back, Marion?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear; I thought you were asleep."</p> + +<p>"No, only thinking."</p> + +<p>"You think too much, dear. I have cooked a chicken for you."</p> + +<p>"I have no appetite."</p> + +<p>"I'm so sorry, but I can give it to the children."</p> + +<p>"Oh, as it's cooked, you may as well bring it up."</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/i_015b.png" width="300" height="218" alt="feigning sleep" /> +<span class="caption">You are lying there with your +eyes shut</span> +</div> + +<p>In that case the reason of your change of action is obvious. But +why do you not let your wife +know that you have been reading? +This is another matter that you +never reason about. Perhaps it is +because of your craving for sympathy, +and you fear that if you +were seen enjoying a novel the +sympathy would go. Or perhaps +it is that a holiday in bed is never +perfect without a secret. Monotony +must be guarded against, and so +long as you keep the book to yourself +your holiday in bed is a healthy +excitement. A stolen book (as we +may call it) is like stolen fruit,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +sweeter than what you can devour openly. The boy enjoys his stolen +apple because at any moment he may have to slip it down the leg of his +trousers and pretend that he has merely climbed the tree to enjoy the +scenery. You enjoy your book doubly because you feel that it is +a forbidden pleasure. Or do you conceal your book from your wife +lest she should think you are over-exerting yourself? She must not +be made anxious on your account? Ah, that is it.</p> + +<p>People who pretend (for it must be pretence) that they enjoy +their holiday in the country, explain that the hills or the sea give them +such an appetite. I could never myself feel the delight of being able to +manage an extra herring for breakfast, but it should be pointed out that +neither mountains nor oceans give you such an appetite as a holiday in +bed. What makes people eat more anywhere is that they have nothing +else to do, and in bed you have lots of time for meals. As for the +quality of the food supplied, there is no comparison. In the highlands +it is ham and eggs all day till you sicken. At the seaside it is fish till +the bones stick in your mouth. But in bed—oh, there you get something +worth eating. You don't take three big meals a day, but twelve +little ones, and each time it is something different from the last. There +are delicacies for breakfast, for your four luncheons and your five +dinners. You explain to your wife that you have lost your appetite, +and she believes you, but at the same time she has the sense to hurry +on your dinner. At the clatter of dishes (for which you have been +lying listening) you raise your poor head, and say faintly:</p> + +<p>"Really, Marion, I can't touch food."</p> + +<p>"But this is nothing," she says, "only the wing of a partridge."</p> + +<p>You take a side glance at it, and see that there is also the +other wing and the body and two legs. Your alarm thus dispelled, +you say:</p> + +<p>"I really can't."</p> + +<p>"But, dear, it is so beautifully cooked."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but I have no appetite."</p> + +<p>"But try to take it, John, for my sake."</p> + +<p>Then for her sake you say she can leave it on the chair, and +perhaps you will just taste it. As soon as she has gone you +devour that partridge, and when she comes back she has the sense +to say:</p> + +<p>"Why, you have scarcely eaten anything. What could you +take for supper?"</p> + +<p>You say you can take nothing, but if she likes she can cook a large +sole, only you won't be able to touch it.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 417px;"> +<img src="images/i_017.png" width="417" height="550" alt="Concerned wife" /> +<span class="caption">"But try to take it, John, for my sake"</span> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> +<div class="figright" style="width: 193px;"> +<img src="images/i_018.png" width="193" height="375" alt="doctor" /> +<span class="caption">The chances are that he won't +understand your case</span> +</div> +<p>"Poor dear," she says, "your appetite has completely gone," +and then she rushes to the kitchen to cook the sole with her own +hands. In half an hour she steals into your room with it, and then +you (who have been wondering why she is so long) start up +protesting:</p> + +<p>"I hope, Marion, this is nothing for me."</p> + +<p>"Only the least bit of a sole, dear."</p> + +<p>"But I told you I could eat nothing."</p> + +<p>"Well, this is nothing, it is so small."</p> + +<p>You look again, and see with relief that it is a large sole.</p> + + +<p>"I would much rather that you took it away."</p> + +<p>"But, dear——"</p> + +<p>"I tell you I have no appetite."</p> + +<p>"Of course I know that; but how can you hope to preserve your +strength if you eat so little? You have +had nothing all day."</p> + +<p>You glance at her face to see if +she is in earnest, for you can remember +three breakfasts, four luncheons and +two dinners; but evidently she is not +jesting. Then you yield.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, to keep my health up +I may just put a fork into it."</p> + +<p>"Do, dear; it will do you good, +though you have no caring for it."</p> + +<p>Take a holiday in bed, if only to +discover what an angel your wife is.</p> + + +<p>There is one thing to guard +against. Never call it a holiday. +Continue not to feel sure what is +wrong with you, and to talk vaguely +of getting up presently. Your wife +will suggest calling in the doctor, +but pooh-pooh him. Be firm on that +point. The chances are that he won't +understand your case.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;"> +<img src="images/i_019.png" width="550" height="161" alt="Three men looking suspiciously at one woman" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2>THE SPY</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY G. A. BIRMINGHAM<br /> + +<i>Drawings by</i> H. R. MILLAR</div> + +<div class='copyright'><br /><i>Copyright in the U.S.A. by G. A. Birmingham</i></div> + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">Our</span> village used to be one of the quietest in England. We prided +ourselves that nothing ever happened there to excite or worry us in any +way. Colonel Challenger, of the Royal Engineers, retired, often congratulated +the vicar, who is upwards of sixty-five years of age, on the +unbroken peace which we enjoyed. The vicar used to remind me, once +a fortnight or so, that we owed our happiness largely to the fact that +we were eight miles from a railway station. When I met Hankly, a +retired Indian judge, in the post office I invariably pointed out to him +that our lot would be much less pleasant if we lived in a neighbourhood +where tennis parties were rife or among people who expected us to turn +out in the evenings after dinner to play cards. Lord Manby, who owns +the village and all the country round it, used to pay a visit to his home +every year and ask us each to lunch with him once. We all accepted +these invitations, but we told each other that they were a horrible +nuisance and a most disagreeable break in the monotony of our lives. +I think we were all quite honest and really believed that we were +perfectly happy.</div> + +<p>Then Mrs. Clegg C. Mimms rented the Manor House from Lord +Manby, and all peace came to an end for us. She described herself on +her visiting cards as "the Honourable Mrs. Mimms," and that disturbed +us to begin with. We had to meet each other pretty frequently to +discuss how she could be the Honourable Mrs. anything. She was plainly +and unmistakably an American, and the vicar was of opinion that, since +there are no titles in the American Republic, neither Mrs. Mimms nor +her late husband could be the descendant of a lord. Hankly, who has +seen a great deal of the world, told us that American ambassadors are +styled the Right Honourable, and that Mrs. Mimms's husband might<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> +have been an ambassador. The Colonel maintained that ambassadors +are like bishops and cannot share their official titles with their wives, +particularly after they are dead. My own view was that if Mrs. Mimms +wanted to be styled "the Honourable" it would be discourteous to deny +her the title.</p> + +<p>We had hardly settled down again after deciding this point when +Mrs. Mimms upset us still more seriously. She gave a Christmas Tree +to the village children. At first we thought that this would not matter +to any one except the vicar. We were mistaken about that. Mrs. Mimms +made us all help. The Colonel and I spent a long afternoon +on a step-ladder sticking candles on the branches. Hankly, who is a +lean, yellow little man, was made to dress himself up as "Father +Christmas." We got no dinner on the evening of the party, and very +nearly had to dance with the children afterwards. The presents which +Mrs. Mimms distributed to the children were of the most gorgeous and +expensive kind. We all agreed that she must be enormously rich, and +the Colonel said that she would demoralise the whole village.</p> + +<p>She certainly demoralised us. We found ourselves invited to +dinner at the Manor House twice, sometimes three times, a week, and +had a standing invitation to supper every Sunday night. It was no +use refusing the invitations. I tried that twice; but Mrs. Mimms +simply came round to my house in her motor and fetched me. The +Colonel complained bitterly. He has been writing a book on Chhota +Nagpur ever since I knew him, and he said that he hated being interrupted +in the evenings. He only dined with Mrs. Mimms in order to +avoid unpleasantness with his wife, who wanted to go. Hankly said +plainly that Mrs. Mimms had a very good cook, and we all came in the +end to accept that as our excuse for dining with her.</p> + +<p>It is, I know, scarcely credible, but last Easter she dragged us +into private theatricals. By that time we had agreed that Mrs. Mimms, +in spite of her annoying lack of repose, was a very kind-hearted woman, +and we did not wish to snub her in any way. My own part in the +play let me in for a love scene with Mrs. Challenger, the most +grotesquely absurd thing imaginable, for the lady is sixty at least and +enormously fat. I should never have agreed to do it, however good-hearted +Mrs. Mimms might be, if Hankly had not been cast for the +part of an heroic Christian curate, and I knew he would look even more +foolish than I did when I kissed Mrs. Challenger's left ear. Hankly +hated being an heroic Christian curate and did not do the part at all +well. We got through the theatricals in June, and after that, except for a +couple of picnics every week, we had a comparatively quiet time until the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +war broke out. Mrs. Mimms broke out at the same time. All festivities, +even picnics, stopped at once, of course, and we all began to take life very +strenuously. Mrs. Mimms outdid us easily in every form of activity.</p> + +<p>She began by erecting a flag-staff at the Manor House gates and +hoisting an enormous American flag on it, the largest American flag +I have ever seen. The Colonel, who had his motor decorated with +a French and a Belgian flag as well as a Union Jack, said that Mrs. +Mimms's Stars and Stripes were, under the circumstances, rather bad +form. Hankly and I agreed with him, and we made the vicar speak to +her about it. She explained to him that she had hoisted it entirely for +our good. It was, so she told the vicar, and he told us, the only flag +in the world which the Germans would respect, and that when the +Uhlans entered our village we could all congregate in perfect safety +under its folds. The Colonel was furious—we were all rather angry—at +the idea that the Germans would ever set foot in England; but there +was no denying that Mrs. Mimms meant to be kind when she hoisted +the flag. Besides, she is a difficult woman to argue with, and we did +not quite see how we could make her take the thing down.</p> + +<p>Hankly and I more or less forgave her, though, as it appeared, the +Colonel did not, when she came forward at a meeting summoned +by the vicar and offered to turn the Manor House into a hospital +for wounded soldiers. The generosity of her proposal actually staggered +us. She intended, so she said—and I quite believe it—to +turn out all the existing furniture of the house, fit the place up +with the latest sanitary devices, hire two surgeons and a competent +staff of nurses who should be under her own personal supervision. We +at once wired to the War Office and expected to be thanked gratefully. +As a matter of fact we never got any official acknowledgment +of the offer at all. What we did get—or rather what Mrs. Mimms +got—was a letter from Lord Manby's solicitor pointing out that the +agreement under which she had taken the Manor House did not allow +of her getting rid of the furniture or using the place in any way except +as an ordinary dwelling.</p> + +<p>I thought that Lord Manby was a little unsympathetic, and that +the War Office might very well have replied to our telegram, but the +Colonel took quite a different line. He said that Mrs. Mimms was an +interfering old woman who deserved to be snubbed. We all hoped that +after this set-back she would be a little subdued and allow us to manage +our own war in our own way.</p> + + + +<p>For a time she kept tolerably quiet. She contented herself with +making shirts and subscribing to various funds like any ordinary woman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +She was, so my wife told me, an amazingly rapid worker, and could +turn out three shirts while any other woman in the village was making +two. Her subscriptions were very generous. Gradually the whole +activities of our village centred in the Manor House. Mrs. Mimms +put up another flag-staff and flew a large Red Cross from it. Working +parties went on in her dining-room from morning to night, and hardly +a day passed without a committee meeting. The vicar, Colonel +Challenger, Hankly, and I were the committee, and we met whenever +Mrs. Mimms summoned us. The vicar was supposed to preside, but it +was Mrs. Mimms who suggested the things we did. The Colonel +objected, in private, to every suggestion she made, but he never succeeded +in carrying a point against her. Once or twice she got us into +trouble. There was, for instance, a lot of ill feeling when we sealed up +the village pump and set my chauffeur to keep guard over it with a gun, +only allowing people to draw water for an hour in the morning and an +hour in the evening. Mrs. Mimms had a theory that a German might +come in an aeroplane and poison our water supply. That would have +been a horrible thing: but the people in the village made a fuss about +not being able to get at the pump. Tompkins, the innkeeper, who +was particularly objectionable, said that he only used the water for +washing and would rather have it poisoned than do without it.</p> + +<p>We all began to get rather tired of being rushed into doing things +we didn't want to do; but we were none of us able to withstand +Mrs. Mimms. The Colonel said that we ought to drive her out of the +village altogether, but he never succeeded in suggesting any practical +way of doing it.</p> + +<p>Fortunately she got tired of making shirts and holding committee +meetings after about a month. Then she said she was going up to +London to get a few families of Belgian refugees. We were all greatly +pleased, for we felt that her energies might be turned into a channel +which would save us from making fools of ourselves. I saw her off at +the station, and we waited with the greatest curiosity to see what would +happen. I suppose the Belgian Consul felt doubtful about Mrs. Mimms +when he met her. At all events she came back without a single +refugee. Most women would have been a little disappointed at a +failure like that, but Mrs. Mimms was as full of energy as ever. She +had, it appeared, called at several public offices in London and had +been immensely impressed by the Boy Scouts whom she saw waiting +about the doors.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 453px;"> +<img src="images/i_025.png" width="453" height="575" alt="pump and chauffeur" /> +<span class="caption">We sealed up the village pump and set my chauffeur to keep guard</span> +</div> + +<p>"They're the cutest things I've seen in England," she said, "and +their bare knees are just sweet. I could kiss them all day. I simply +must have a couple to stand on guard while the working parties are +going on."</p> + +<p>I talked to the vicar, Hankly, and the Colonel about this. I did +not see how we could possibly provide Mrs. Mimms with Boy Scouts, +for there were none in the parish. The vicar said he was sorry that he +had not started the organisation long ago, but supposed it was too late +to do so now. To my surprise the Colonel, who up to that time had +been getting angrier and angrier with Mrs. Mimms, took her side and +said that if she wanted Boy Scouts she ought to have them. He +proposed that we should enrol four choir boys at once, and offered to +buy uniforms for them himself. The vicar was a little doubtful, but +Hankly and I backed up the Colonel. We were very tired of the +constant committee meetings, and we hoped that if Mrs. Mimms got +really interested in Boy Scouts she might let us alone. We acted +promptly, and in a week had four boys ready to stand on guard at the +doors of the Manor House.</p> + +<p>The Colonel gave them a talking to at their first parade. He +impressed on them the fact that discipline and strict obedience to +orders are the essence of a military manhood. He quoted Tennyson, +and made the boys repeat the lines after him:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Theirs not to make reply,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Theirs not to reason why."</span><br /> +</div> + +<p>He succeeded in inspiring them with a tremendous sense of their +own importance. My idea was that he was trying to prepare them for +having their knees kissed by Mrs. Mimms.</p> + +<p>For a time everything went well. The boys got off going to +school and were immensely pleased. Mrs. Mimms fed them with +dainties at odd hours of the day, and always had a basket of apples in +the porch from which they could help themselves. So far as I knew +she never attempted to kiss either their knees or any other part of +them. The Colonel kept on exhorting them. He paid them a visit +every morning, and insisted on their reporting themselves at his house +when they went off duty in the evening.</p> + +<p>About a fortnight after the boys first went on guard Mrs. Mimms +complained to the vicar that she had found one of them concealed under +the dining-room table while she was at luncheon. She said that she +did not like the feeling that she might kick a boy every time she +stretched her leg while she was at meals. The vicar, of course, promised +to speak to the boy.</p> + +<p>The next day Mrs. Mimms made another complaint. One of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a><br /><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +boys had climbed up by some creepers, and was found by her maid +sitting on the window-sill of a bedroom early in the morning. It was +not Mrs. Mimms's bedroom, but, as she explained, it might have been. +She had no particular objection, so she told the vicar, to a Boy Scout +in her bedroom at any reasonable hour, but she did not want the child +to break his neck.</p> + +<p>Then the postmaster gave me a hint that Mrs. Mimms's letters, +which were posted every day by one of the Scouts, showed signs of +having been opened and closed again before they came into his hands. +He said that if this was being done by the Colonel's orders it was all +right, but he thought he ought to tell me about it. I met the vicar +in the street immediately afterwards and said I thought the Scouts +were getting out of hand and ought to be disbanded at once. He +agreed with me.</p> + +<p>While we were discussing the matter Hankly came up to us and +said he heard that Mrs. Mimms was to be arrested at once as a German +spy.</p> + +<p>"Tompkins," he said, "is going about the village saying that she +ought to be shot."</p> + +<p>Tompkins always blamed Mrs. Mimms for the sealing up of the +village pump, and had never spoken a good word about her since. The +vicar was greatly put out.</p> + +<p>"Tut—tut!" he said; "arrested! shot! Nonsense. Mrs. Mimms +is a most estimable lady."</p> + +<p>"I'm not so sure about that," said Hankly. "Those boys have +been watching her lately, and there are several things which look +suspicious."</p> + +<p>I suppose the vicar and I showed our surprise. Hankly went on +to explain.</p> + +<p>"She gives the boys peaches and grapes," he said, "and cakes and +meringues. Now I put it to you—the apples of course I understand. I +might give a boy an apple myself, but I put it to you, vicar, would +anybody give boys like that hothouse grapes and peaches unless—well, +unless there was something to conceal. It's not a natural thing +to do."</p> + +<p>"Now I come to think of it," said the vicar, "I did meet one of +them yesterday with a peach in his fist."</p> + +<p>"There you are," said Hankly triumphantly, "and, anyhow, the +police inspector is coming over to-day to look into the matter."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Mimms was not actually arrested. The police inspector—acting +on information received from the Boy Scouts, Tompkins, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +indeed almost every one in the village—made a lot of inquiries about +her. He did not succeed in finding out why she called herself "the +Honourable," but the questions he asked her made her so angry that she +packed up her trunks and left the village at once.</p> + +<p>I met the Colonel the day after she left, and told him I was afraid +we should all miss her. The Colonel chuckled in a self-satisfied way.</p> + +<p>"I told you we ought to get rid of her," he said, "and we have."</p> + +<p>"You don't mean to say you think she was really a spy?" I said.</p> + +<p>"She was a good deal worse," said the Colonel; "she was a public +nuisance."</p> + +<p>Later on the Colonel took a kindlier view of Mrs. Mimms.</p> + +<p>"Only for her," he said to me a week ago, "we shouldn't have had +Boy Scouts here. We have quite a good company now. She did us +that much good, anyhow."</p> + +<p>The Colonel did her no more than bare justice. Our Scouts, +though they have caught no more spies, have improved the general tone +of the village. The Colonel is their commanding officer, and, though +I do not say so in public, they have done him a lot of good.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_028.png" width="500" height="400" alt="The woman" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align="left"><div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i_029a.png" width="400" height="331" alt="Fisherman Charlie" /> +</div> +</td><td align="center"><h2>CHARLIE THE COX</h2> + +<i>A LIFE POEM</i><br /> +<br /><br /> +BY HALL CAINE<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> CHARLES NAPIER HEMY, R.A.</span><br /><br /> +<span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> ARCH. WEBB</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + + + + + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">Charlie</span> was the cox of our Peel lifeboat. A braver spirit never sailed +the sea.</div> + +<p>Years ago, in a terrific gale, a ship from Norway, the <i>St. George</i>, +came dead on for the wildest part of our coast, the fierce headland +that lies back of the old Castle rock. The sound signal was fired, and +Charlie and his brave comrades went out to her. She was reeling on +the top of a tremendous sea, and there was no coming near to her side.</p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/i_023.jpg" width="600" height="496" alt="Charlie the Cox" /> +</div> +<p>It was an awful task to get the crew aboard the lifeboat, but +Charlie saved every soul, and lost not a hand of his own. When the +"traveller" was rigged and the "breeches" were ready, and the crew +of the doomed ship were at the bulwarks waiting to leave her, Charlie +sang out over the clamour of the sea:</p> + +<p>"How many are you?"</p> + +<p>"Twenty-four," came back as answer.</p> + +<p>Then Charlie cried, "I can see only twenty-three."</p> + +<p>"The other man is hurt. He's dying. No use saving him," the +Norseman shouted.</p> + +<p>"You'll bring the dying man on deck before a soul of you leaves +the ship," cried Charlie.</p> + +<p>There was a woman among them, and when the carpenter came +scudding down the rope he had a canvas bag on his back.</p> + +<p>"No tools here," shouted Charlie.</p> + +<p>"It's the child," said the man.</p> + +<p>The captain came next. He had left everything +else behind him—his money, his instruments, his clothes, +his ship—but out of his pocket there peeped the +head of a baby's doll.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 450px;"> +<img src="images/i_029b.png" width="450" height="298" alt="ship" /> +</div> + +<p>It was a thrilling rescue, but to see it in all +its splendour you must have a drop of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +Manx blood in you. Our forefathers were from Norway, our first +Norse king was named Gorry. He landed on this island, not far +from this spot. And on that day of the wreck of the <i>St. George</i> his +children's children rescued from the sea the children's children of the +kinsmen he had left at home.</p> + +<p>Most of our men had Norse names. One of them was a Gorry, +lineal descendant beyond doubt of the old sea king. The Norwegian +Government felt the touch of great things in this incident. It was not +merely that the bravery of the rescue fired their gratitude. Something +called to them from that deep place where blood answers to the cry of +blood. They sent medals for Charlie and his crew, and the Governor +of the island distributed them inside the roofless walls of the old castle +of the "Black Dog." It was like grasping hands with the past across +the space of a thousand years.</p> + +<p>The other day we had another great wind and another brave rescue. +The sun had gone down overnight in a sullen red, very fierce and angry +in his setting, and out of the black north-east the storm had come up +while we slept. In the heavy grey of the dawn the sound-signal fired +its double shot over our little town. A Welsh schooner, which had run +in for shelter during the dark hours, was riding to an anchor in the bay +and flying her ensign for help.</p> + +<p>The sea was terrific—a slaty grey, streaked with white foam, like +quartz veins. It was coming over the breakwater in sheets that hid it. +Sometimes it was flying in clouds to the top of the round tower of the +castle. The white sea-fowl were like dark specks darting through it, +but no human ear could hear the cry of their thousand throats +in the thunderous quake of the breakers on the cavernous rocks.</p> + +<p>A crowd of men answered the call, and there was no shortness +of hands to man the lifeboat. The big, slow-legged fellows +who had been idling on the quay the day before when the sea +was calm were struggling, chafing, and quarrelling to go out on +it now that it was in storm, for the blood of the old Vikings is in +our Manxmen still.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/i_030.png" width="600" height="423" alt="ocean" /> +</div> + +<p>It was a splendid rescue. The crew of the Welshman were +brought ashore. Then the abandoned schooner rode three hours<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +longer in the gale, and a hundred men stood and watched her, talking +of other winds and other wrecks, and of Peel boys who were out on +the sea. At last the ship parted her cables and went rolling like a +blinded porpoise dead on for the jagged coast.</p> + +<p>Seven men took an open fishing-boat and went after her, and we +climbed the Head to look at them. The wind smote us there like an +invisible wing, sometimes swirling us out of our course, often bringing +us to our knees, and whipping our ears with our hair like rods. Sheets +of spray were coming up to us from below and running along the cliffs +like driven rain. The sun, which had broken in fierce brilliance from a +green rent in the sky, made rainbows in the flying foam.</p> + +<p>From the heights we watched the seven men and the open boat. +They rose and fell, appeared and disappeared, but they overtook the +Welshman before she had drifted on to the coast, boarded her with +difficulty, let go another anchor and made her tight. There was +nothing else to do, for she was disabled, and her sails were torn to +shreds. The new anchor held the ship an hour longer, and then there +was no help left for her. She was within a hundred feet of the rocks, +and she fell on them with the groan of a living creature.</p> + +<p>The instant her head was down the white lions of the sea leapt +over her, the water swirled through her bulwarks and plunged down +her hatch; her helm was unshipped, her sails were torn from their +gaskets, and the floating home wherein men had sailed and sung and +slept and laughed and jested was a broken wreck in the heavy wallowings +of the waves.</p> + +<p>When it was over and we were coming back, drenched through +and green with the drift of the sea foam caked thick on our faces, +some of us began to think of Charlie. He had not been there that day. +A year or more ago, in the prime of a splendid manhood, he was +stricken by heart disease. He kept a good heart, nevertheless, and by +indomitable will held on for some time. First a little work, then no +work at all, only a sail now and then if the sea was calm, but of late +hardly ever well enough to take the open air. The old hulk of his poor +body had been anchored deep, but she was parting her cables at last.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/i_031.png" width="600" height="249" alt="ocean" /> +</div> + +<p>Charlie lay dying while this second rescue was being made. He +had not answered the signal for the lifeboat, but he had heard it in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +fierce light of morning, and they could not keep him in +bed. The soul of the old sea dog leapt to the call, but +his ailing body held him down. He wanted to go out. +Wasn't he cox? Had the boat ever gone out without +him?</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 217px;"> +<img src="images/i_032a.png" width="217" height="450" alt="Fisherman" /> +</div> + +<p>His house is one of the little places like children's +Noah's arks which dot the line of this hungry shore. +He could hear everything and see a good deal. Often +he could hardly keep himself from crying and shouting +aloud. In spirit he was out on the boiling surf, dipping, +rising, stooping, going over, righting again, clambering +back, exulting, glorying, getting nearer the ship, standing +off her, rigging the "traveller," and fetching men aboard +in the "breeches." And then away from the rolling hulk, +and sing ho, my lads, and haul through the white waves for home. But +his poor dying body was down on the bed and his face was sickly scarlet.</p> + +<p>Charlie's volcanic soul did not go off to the deep of deeps on the +big breakers and through the wild noises of the storm. He died later. +After the great wind there came a great calm. The air was quiet and +full of the odour of seaweed; banks of seaweed were on the shore, and +the broken schooner was covered with brown wrack, like any rock of +the coast; the sky was round as the inside of a shell, and pale pink +like the shadow of flame; the water was smooth, and land and sea lay +like a sleeping child. In this broad and steady weather our little town +was startled by the double shot again. We went to the windows in +surprise, and saw the red flag over the rocket house, which is the signal +for the lifeboat.</p> + +<p>Charlie was dead. He had just breathed his last, and his rugged +comrades, who know nothing of poetry, but are poets nevertheless to the +deepest grain of them, had run up the flag mast-high (not half-mast) as +signal to the Great Cox of all that here was a soul in the troubled +waters of death waiting for the everlasting lifeboat to bear him to the +eternal shore.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_032b.png" width="500" height="259" alt="In row boats" /> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> + +<p>The sea takes some of our bravest and best. Charlie it did not +take. Not so sure is it that he who lives by the sword will perish +by the sword, as that he who baulks the sea the sea will surely have for +its prey. Charlie had battled with the giant time and again, but he +has gone to sleep on the land.</p> + +<p>We buried him to-day in the little cemetery looking on to the grey +water that was more than half his element. The funeral was beautiful +in its old simplicity. First a hymn at the door of the house in the little +alley by the beach, "Safe in the arms of Jesus," with the coffin on the +ground and all standing round; the sea quiet, hardly a breeze as soft as +human breath moving its tranquil surface; the deadly rival in its everlasting +coming and going making no triumphant clamour now the sea-warrior +was down. Then the companions of his dangers, the crew of +his boat, a group of stalwart fellows who have never known what it is to +be afraid, carrying him up the hill, shoulder high, each in his red stocking +cap and his life-belt, emblems of how they had fought the sea and +beaten it.</p> + +<p>There were some of us whose eyes were wet, but if these brave boys +wept at all, it was only for the helpless little ones left behind. For +Charlie they did not weep. His spirit is not dead for them—it cannot +die. When brave deeds have to be done, they will see its light, like a +beacon that does not fail, over the mountains of the fiercest storm; they +will hear its voice above the thunder of the loudest waves.</p> + +<p>A full moon is shining to-night on the place of Charlie's rest, and if +the old Norse story is true, that while the body lies in sight of the sea the +spirit lives in the winds above it, Charlie is not done with his old enemy +yet. He will come back to this sea-bound land in warning whispers of +the mighty and mysterious power that lures men to itself.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_033.png" width="500" height="304" alt="in a boat" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> + + + + + + + + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="title and illustrations"> +<tr><td align="left"><div class="figleft" style="width: 181px;"> +<img src="images/i_034a.png" width="181" height="400" alt="drummer" /> +</div></td><td align="center"><h2>CANADA'S WORD</h2> + +BY RALPH CONNOR<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> A. J. GOUGH</span> +</td><td align="left"><div class="figcenter" style="width: 245px;"> +<img src="images/i_034b.png" width="245" height="450" alt="Woman warrior" /> +</div></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + + +<div class='poem'> +<span class="smcap">O Canada!</span> A voice calls through the mist and spume<br /> +Across the wide wet salty leagues of foam<br /> +For aid. Whose voice thus penetrates thy peace?<br /> +Whose? Thy Mother's, Canada, thy Mother's voice.<br /> +<br /> +O Canada! A drum beats through the night and day,<br /> +Unresting, eager, strident, summoning<br /> +To arms. Whose drum thus throbs persistent?<br /> +Whose? Old England's, Canada, Old England's drum.<br /> +<br /> +O Canada! A sword gleams, leaping swift to strike<br /> +At foes that press and leap to kill brave men<br /> +On guard. Whose sword thus gleams fierce death?<br /> +Whose? 'Tis Britain's, Canada, Great Britain's sword.<br /> +<br /> +O Canada! A prayer beats hard at Heaven's gate,<br /> +Tearing the heart wide open to God's eye,<br /> +For righteousness. Whose prayer thus pierces Heaven?<br /> +Whose? 'Tis God's prayer, Canada, Thy Kingdom come!<br /> +<br /> +O Canada! What answer make to calling voice and beating drum,<br /> +To sword flash and to pleading prayer of God<br /> +For right? What answer makes my soul?<br /> +"Mother, to thee! God, to Thy help! Quick! My sword!"<br /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> +<img src="images/i_034c.png" width="450" height="366" alt="soldiers" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> + + + + + + + + +<h2>BIMBASHI JOYCE</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY A. CONAN DOYLE<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> R. TALBOT KELLY, R.I.</span></div> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 318px;"> +<img src="images/i_035a.png" width="318" height="500" alt="spears shield uniform" /> +</div> + + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">It</span> was in the days when the tide of Mahdism, +which had swept in such a flood from the +Great Lakes and Darfur to the confines of +Egypt, had at last come to its full, and even +begun, as some hoped, to show signs of a +turn. At its outset it had been terrible. It +had engulfed Hicks's army, swept over Gordon +and Khartoum, rolled behind the British forces +as they retired down the river, and finally cast up a +spray of raiding parties as far north as Assouan. +Then it found other channels to east and west, to +Central Africa and to Abyssinia, and retired a little +on the side of Egypt. For ten years there ensued a +lull, during which the frontier garrisons looked out +upon those distant blue hills of Dongola. Behind +the violet mists which draped them lay a land of +blood and horror. From time to time some adventurer +went south towards those haze-girt mountains, tempted by stories +of gum and ivory, but none ever returned. Once a mutilated Egyptian +and once a Greek woman, mad with thirst and fear, made their way +to the lines. They were the only exports of that country of darkness. +Sometimes the sunset would turn those distant mists into a bank of +crimson, and the dark mountains would rise from that sinister reek +like islands in a sea of blood. It seemed a grim symbol in the southern +heaven when seen from the fort-capped hills by Wady Halfa. Ten +years of lust in Khartoum, ten years of silent work in Cairo, and then +all was ready, and it was time for Civilisation to take a trip south +once more, travelling as her wont is in an armoured train. Everything +was ready, down to the last pack-saddle of the last camel, and +yet no one suspected it, for an unconstitutional Government has its +advantage. A great administrator had argued, and managed, and +cajoled; a great soldier had organised and planned, and made piastres +do the work of pounds. And then one night these two master spirits +met and clasped hands, and the soldier vanished away upon some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +business of his own. And just at that very time, Bimbashi Hilary +Joyce, seconded from the Royal Mallow Fusiliers, and temporarily +attached to the Ninth Soudanese, made his first appearance in Cairo.</div> +<div class="figright" style="width: 345px;"> +<img src="images/i_035b.png" width="345" height="250" alt="on camel" /> +</div> +<p>Napoleon had said, and Hilary Joyce had noted, that great +reputations are only to be made in the East. Here he was in the +East with four tin cases of baggage, a Wilkinson sword, a Bond's +slug-throwing pistol, and a copy of "Green's Introduction to the +Study of Arabic." With such a start, and the blood of youth running +hot in his veins, everything seemed easy. He was a little frightened +of the general; he had heard stories of his sternness to young officers, +but with tact and suavity he hoped for the best. So, leaving his effects +at "Shepherd's Hotel," he reported himself at headquarters. It was +not the general, but the head of the Intelligence Department who +received him, the chief being still absent upon that business which +had called him. Hilary Joyce found himself in the presence of a short, +thick-set officer, with a gentle voice and a placid expression which +covered a remarkably acute and energetic spirit. With that quiet +smile and guileless manner he had undercut and outwitted the most +cunning of Orientals. He stood, a cigarette between his fingers, +looking at the newcomer. "I heard that you had come. Sorry the +chief isn't here to see you. Gone up to the frontier, you know."</p> + +<p>"My regiment is at Wady Halfa. I suppose, sir, that I should +report myself there at once?"</p> + +<p>"No; I was to give you your orders." He led the way to a map +upon the wall, and pointed with the end of his cigarette. "You see +this place. It's the Oasis of Kurkur—a little quiet, I am afraid, but +excellent air. You are to get out there as quick as possible. You'll +find a company of the Ninth, and half a squadron of cavalry. You will +be in command."</p> + +<p>Hilary Joyce looked at the name, printed at the intersection of two +black lines without another dot upon the map for several inches around +it. "A village, sir?"</p> + +<p>"No, a well. Not very good water, I'm afraid, but you soon get +accustomed to natron. It's an important post, as being at the junction +of two caravan routes. All routes are closed now, of course, but still +you never know who <i>might</i> come along them."</p> + +<p>"We are there, I presume, to prevent raiding?"</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;"> +<img src="images/i_036.png" width="550" height="132" alt="row of camels" /> +</div> + +<p>"Well, between you and me, there's really nothing to raid. You +are there to intercept messengers. They must call at the wells. Of +course you have only just come out, but you probably understand +already enough about the conditions of this country to know that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +there is a great deal of disaffection about, and that the Khalifa is +likely to try and keep in touch with his adherents. Then, again, +Senoussi lives up that way"—he waved his cigarette to the westward—"the +Khalifa might send a messenger to him along that route. Anyhow, +your duty is to arrest every one coming along, and get some +account of him before you let him go. You don't talk Arabic, I +suppose?"</p> + +<p>"I am learning, sir."</p> + +<p>"Well, well, you'll have time enough to study there. And you'll +have a native officer, Ali something or other, who speaks English, +and can interpret for you. Well, good-bye—I'll tell the chief that you +reported yourself. Get on to your post now as quickly as you can."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i_037.png" width="400" height="352" alt="on a camel" /> +</div> + +<p>Railway to Baliani, the post-boat to Assouan, and then two day +on a camel in the Libyan desert, with an Ababdeh guide, and three +baggage-camels to tie one down to their own exasperating pace. +However, even two and a half miles an hour mount up in time, and +at last, on the third evening, from the blackened slag-heap of a hill +which is called the Jebel Kurkur, Hilary Joyce looked down upon a +distant clump of palms, and thought that this cool patch of green in +the midst of the merciless blacks and yellows was the fairest colour +effect that he had ever seen. An hour later he had ridden into the little +camp, the guard had turned out to salute him, his native subordinate +had greeted him in excellent English, and he had fairly entered into his +own. It was not an exhilarating place for a lengthy residence. There +was one large, bowl-shaped, grassy depression sloping down to the three +pits of brown and brackish water. There, +also, was the grove of palm trees beautiful +to look upon, but exasperating in view +of the fact that Nature has provided her +least shady trees on the very spot where +shade is needed most. A single wide-spread +acacia did something to restore the balance. +Here Hilary Joyce slumbered in the heat, +and in the cool he inspected his square-shouldered, +spindle-shanked Soudanese, +with their cheery black faces and their +funny little pork-pie forage caps. Joyce +was a martinet at drill, and the blacks +loved being drilled, so the Bimbashi was +soon popular among them. But one day +was exactly like another. The weather,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +the view, the employment, the food—everything was the same. At +the end of three weeks he felt that he had been there for interminable +years. And then at last there came something to break the monotony.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 131px;"> +<img src="images/i_038a.png" width="131" height="350" alt="palm trees" /> +</div> + +<p>One evening, as the sun was sinking, Hilary Joyce rode slowly +down the old caravan road. It had a fascination for him, this narrow +track, winding among the boulders and curving up the nullahs, for he +remembered how in the map it had gone on and on, stretching away +into the unknown heart of Africa. The countless pads of innumerable +camels through many centuries had beaten it smooth, so that now, +unused and deserted, it still wound away, the strangest of roads, a foot +broad, and perhaps two thousand miles in length. Joyce wondered as +he rode how long it was since any traveller had journeyed up it from the +south, and then he raised his eyes, and there was a man coming along +the path. For an instant Joyce thought that it might be one of his own +men, but a second glance assured him that this could not be so. The +stranger was dressed in the flowing robes of an Arab, and not in the +close-fitting khaki of a soldier. He was very tall, and a high turban +made him seem gigantic. He strode swiftly along, with head erect, +and the bearing of a man who knows no fear.</p> + +<p>Who could he be, this formidable giant coming out of the +unknown? The precursor possibly of a horde of savage spearmen. +And where could he have walked from? The nearest well was a long +hundred miles down the track. At any rate the frontier post of Kurkur +could not afford to receive casual visitors. Hilary Joyce whisked round +his horse, galloped into camp, and gave the alarm. Then, with twenty +horsemen at his back, he rode out again to reconnoitre. The man was +still coming on in spite of these hostile preparations. For an instant he +hesitated when first he saw the cavalry, but escape was out of the +question, and he advanced with the air of a man who makes the best of +a bad job. He made no resistance, and said nothing when the hands +of two troopers clutched at his shoulders, but walked quietly between +their horses into camp. Shortly afterwards the patrol came in again. +There were no signs of any dervishes. The man was alone. A splendid +trotting camel had been found lying dead a little way down the track. +The mystery of the stranger's arrival was explained. But why, and +whence, and whither?—these were questions for which a zealous officer +must find an answer.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;"> +<img src="images/i_036.png" width="550" height="132" alt="row of camels" /> +</div> + +<p>Hilary Joyce was disappointed that there were no dervishes. It +would have been a great start for him in the Egyptian army had he +fought a little action on his own account. But even as it was, he had +a rare chance of impressing the authorities. He would love to show his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> +capacity to the head of the Intelligence, and even more to that grim +chief who never forgot what was smart, or forgave what was slack. +The prisoner's dress and bearing showed that he was of importance. +Mean men do not ride pure-bred trotting camels. Joyce sponged his +head with cold water, drank a cup of strong coffee, put on an imposing +official tarboosh instead of his sun-helmet, and formed himself into a +court of inquiry and judgment under the acacia tree. He would have +liked his people to have seen him now, with his two black orderlies in +waiting, and his Egyptian native officer at his side. He sat behind a +camp-table, and the prisoner, strongly guarded, was led up to him. The +man was a handsome fellow, with bold grey eyes and a long black +beard.</p> + +<p>"Why!" cried Joyce, "the rascal is making faces at me." A +curious contraction had passed over the man's features, but so swiftly +that it might have been a nervous twitch. He was now a model of +Oriental gravity. "Ask him who he is, and what he wants?" The +native officer did so, but the stranger made no reply, save that the same +sharp spasm passed once more over his face. "Well, I'm blessed!" +cried Hilary Joyce. "Of all the impudent scoundrels! He keeps on +winking at me. Who are you, you rascal? Give an account of yourself! +D'ye hear?" But the tall Arab was as impervious to English as +to Arabic. The Egyptian tried again and again. The prisoner looked +at Joyce with his inscrutable eyes, and occasionally twitched his face at +him, but never opened his mouth. The Bimbashi scratched his head in +bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"Look here, Mahomet Ali, we've got to get some sense out of this +fellow. You say there are no papers on him?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir; we found no papers."</p> + +<p>"No clue of any kind?"</p> + +<p>"He has come far, sir. A trotting camel does not die easily. He +has come from Dongola, at least."</p> + +<p>"Well, we must get him to talk."</p> + +<p>"It is possible that he is deaf and dumb."</p> + +<p>"Not he. I never saw a man look more all there in my life."</p> + +<p>"You might send him across to Assouan."</p> + +<p>"And give some one else the credit? No, thank you. This is my +bird. But how are we going to get him to find his tongue?"</p> + +<p>The Egyptian's dark eyes skirted the encampment and rested on +the cook's fire. "Perhaps," said he, "if the Bimbashi thought fit——" +He looked at the prisoner and then at the burning wood.</p> + +<p>"No, no; it wouldn't do. No, by Jove, that's going too far."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;"> +<img src="images/i_036.png" width="550" height="132" alt="row of camels" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A very little might do it."</p> + +<p>"No, no. It's all very well here, but it would sound just awful if +ever it got as far as Fleet Street. But, I say," he whispered, "we might +frighten him a bit. There's no harm in that."</p> + +<p>"No, sir."</p> + +<p>"Tell them to undo the man's galabeeah. Order them to put a +horseshoe in the fire and make it red-hot." The prisoner watched the +proceedings with an air which had more of amusement than of uneasiness. +He never winced as the black sergeant approached with the +glowing shoe held upon two bayonets.</p> + +<p>"Will you speak now?" asked the Bimbashi, savagely. The +prisoner smiled gently and stroked his beard.</p> + +<p>"Oh, chuck the infernal thing away!" cried Joyce, jumping up in +a passion. "There's no use trying to bluff the fellow. He knows we +won't do it. But I <i>can</i> and I <i>will</i> flog him, and you can tell him from +me that if he hasn't found his tongue by to-morrow morning I'll take the +skin off his back as sure as my name's Joyce. Have you said all that?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"Well, you can sleep upon it, you beauty, and a good night's rest +may it give you!" He adjourned the Court, and the prisoner, as +imperturbable as ever, was led away by the guard to his supper of rice +and water. Hilary Joyce was a kind-hearted man, and his own sleep +was considerably disturbed by the prospect of the punishment which he +must inflict next day. He had hopes that the mere sight of the koorbash +and the thongs might prevail over his prisoner's obstinacy. And +then, again, he thought how shocking it would be if the man proved to +be really dumb after all. The possibility shook him so that he had +almost determined by daybreak that he would send the stranger on +unhurt to Assouan. And yet what a tame conclusion it would be +to the incident! He lay upon his angareeb still debating it when +the question suddenly and effectively settled itself. Ali Mahomet +rushed into his tent.</p> + +<p>"Sir," he cried, "the prisoner is gone!"</p> + +<p>"Gone!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, and your own best riding camel as well. There is a slit +cut in the tent, and he got away unseen in the early morning."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;"> +<img src="images/i_036.png" width="550" height="132" alt="row of camels" /> +</div> + + +<p>The Bimbashi acted with all energy. Cavalry rode along every +track; scouts examined the soft sand of the wadys for signs of the +fugitive, but no trace was discovered. The man had utterly disappeared. +With a heavy heart, Hilary Joyce wrote an official report of the matter +and forwarded it to Assouan. Five days later there came a curt order +from the chief that he should report himself there. He feared the worst +from the stern soldier, who spared others as little as he spared himself. +And his worst forebodings were realised. Travel-stained and weary, he +reported himself one night at the general's quarters. Behind a table +piled with papers and strewn with maps the famous soldier and his +Chief of Intelligence were deep in plans and figures. Their greeting +was a cold one.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 387px;"> +<img src="images/i_041.jpg" width="387" height="600" alt="Bimbashi Joyce painting" /> +</div> + +<p>"I understand, Captain Joyce," said the general, "that you have +allowed a very important prisoner to slip through your fingers."</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, sir."</p> + +<p>"No doubt. But that will not mend matters. Did you ascertain +anything about him before you lost him?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir."</p> + +<p>"How was that?"</p> + +<p>"I could get nothing out of him, sir."</p> + +<p>"Did you try?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir; I did what I could."</p> + +<p>"What did you do?"</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, I threatened to use physical force."</p> + +<p>"What did he say?"</p> + +<p>"He said nothing."</p> + +<p>"What was he like?"</p> + +<p>"A tall man, sir. Rather a desperate character, I should think."</p> + +<p>"Any way by which we could identify him?"</p> + +<p>"A long black beard, sir. Grey eyes. And a nervous way of +twitching his face."</p> + +<p>"Well, Captain Joyce," said the general, in his stern, inflexible +voice, "I cannot congratulate you upon your first exploit in the +Egyptian army. You are aware that every English officer in this force +is a picked man. I have the whole British army from which to draw. +It is necessary, therefore, that I should insist upon the very highest +efficiency. It would be unfair upon the others to pass over any obvious +want of zeal or intelligence. You are seconded from the Royal Mallows, +I understand?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"I have no doubt that your colonel will be glad to see you fulfilling +your regimental duties again." Hilary Joyce's heart was too heavy for +words. He was silent. "I will let you know my final decision to-morrow +morning." Joyce saluted and turned upon his heel.</p> + +<p>"You can sleep upon that, you beauty, and a good night's rest +may it give you!"</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;"> +<img src="images/i_036.png" width="550" height="132" alt="row of camels" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a><br /><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> + +<p>Joyce turned in bewilderment. Where had those words been used +before? Who was it who had used them? The general was standing +erect. Both he and the Chief of the Intelligence were laughing. +Joyce stared at the tall figure, the erect bearing, the inscrutable +grey eyes.</p> + +<p>"Good Lord!" he gasped.</p> + +<p>"Well, well, Captain Joyce, we are quits!" said the general, +holding out his hand. "You gave me a bad ten minutes with that +infernal red-hot horseshoe of yours. I've done as much for you. I +don't think we can spare you for the Royal Mallows just yet awhile."</p> + +<p>"But, sir; but——!"</p> + +<p>"The fewer questions the better, perhaps. But of course it must +seem rather amazing. I had a little private business with the Kabbabish. +It must be done in person. I did it, and came to your post in my +return. I kept on winking at you as a sign that I wanted a word with +you alone."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. I begin to understand."</p> + +<p>"I couldn't give it away before all those blacks, or where should I +have been the next time I used my false beard and Arab dress? You +put me in a very awkward position. But at last I had a word alone +with your Egyptian officer, who managed my escape all right."</p> + +<p>"He! Mahomet Ali!"</p> + +<p>"I ordered him to say nothing. I had a score to settle with you. +But we dine at eight, Captain Joyce. We live plainly here, but I think +I can do you a little better than you did me at Kurkur."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i_044.png" width="400" height="354" alt="Riding a camel" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>THE ANT-LION</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY J. H. FABRE<br /> + +("The Insects' Homer")<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> E. J. DETMOLD</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. Copyright U.S.A., 1914, by Hughes Massie & Co.</i></span><br /><br /></div> + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">My</span> big and little readers, look at the picture illustrating this story and +tell me what you see. First of all, a hideous little monster. It has six +short legs and an enormous body—the sign of an insatiable appetite—and +carries on its head two sharp-pointed, curved, movable horns, +which open and shut like a savage pair of pincers. Suppose we were +to hear that, in a desert island, a monster like that, but the size of +a wolf, was just emerging from the thick jungle and making for a +traveller, for some modern Robinson Crusoe, and that, in another +moment, it would be sticking its tusks into him, how thrilling we should +find it! We should hope that the man whose life was in danger was +armed with the most effective weapons, which would help him to come +victorious out of the contest: a twelve-chambered revolver at least, to +say nothing of a breech-loading rifle and explosive bullets!</div> + +<p>But we must not take an unfair advantage of the animal's ugly +appearance in order to provoke unnatural excitement, for what I am +about to tell is history and not a fairy-tale: proper, genuine history. I +will lose no time in saying that the creature is quite harmless to any of +us, even the smallest. By this I do not mean to suggest that it has not +a very fierce and brutal temper; only, the victims of its bloodthirsty +instincts move in a world so tiny that we tread it under foot unnoticed. +It is an ogre, ever hungering after fresh meat, like the famous ogre of +your fairy-tales: you know, the one who welcomed Hop-o'-my-Thumb +and his brothers to his house one evening, meaning to put them all in a +pie like so many pigeons; in short, just the sort of ogre who makes your +blood run cold.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/i_045.png" width="300" height="212" alt="bug" /> +</div> + +<p>Our little monster, then, wants its dinner, a thing not always easy +to find in this world, especially for an ogre. Hunger is gnawing at its +inside; it must eat or die. Its usual prey is the Ant, a good runner, +whose nimble legs promptly take to flight and baffle the clumsy, +corpulent hunter's attempts to attack her. You might as well tell the +Tortoise to run and catch the Gazelle. Our ogre possesses no greater +agility in comparison with the Ant; and moreover there is another +reason that makes it quite impossible for him to run after anything:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +like the Crab, he can only really walk backwards, which is not exactly +the way to overtake your quarry when it's in front of you.</p> + +<p>To be fat and heavy, to walk backwards and to be obliged to have +live Ant for one's dinner is a difficult, a very difficult problem. What +would you do in such a case? Come, try to find something! Rack your +brains! You can think of nothing? Well, never mind: plenty of +others, including myself, could not think of anything either.</p> + +<p>Everyday common-sense, expressed in proverbs, tells us over and +over again that necessity is the mother of invention. This great truth, +which we have learnt by personal experience, we shall learn once more +from the Ant-hunter. But first let us give him a name, to simplify our +story. Naturalists call him the Ant-lion, a very happy term, which +reminds us that, like the Lion, he lives by carnage, slaughtering live +prey, in this case Ants. Now that we have christened him we can +go on.</p> + +<p>When he wants his dinner, the Ant-lion says to himself:</p> + +<p>"You're a fat little beggar, you know, short-legged and slow-moving; +you'll never catch Ants by running after them. On the other +hand, you can walk backwards, that's capital; you have a head flattened +like a navvy's shovel, that's first-rate; your pincers are long and grip +like a knife, that's perfect, absolutely perfect. We'll use that talent for +walking backwards; we'll use those tools, the shovel and tongs; we'll +make craft take the place of the agility which we lack; and the dinner +will come along."</p> + +<p>No sooner said than done. In a nice dry spot, warmed by the sun +and sheltered from the rain by an overhanging rock, the wily animal +selects a place where Ants are incessantly moving to and fro on household +matters. Gravely, with the mathematical accuracy of an engineer +tracing the foundation of a well-planned building, the Ant-lion walks +backwards, with his body dug into the sand; he turns and turns and +in this way hollows out a groove shaped like a perfect circle. Then, +still moving backwards and still digging deeper and deeper into the +sand, he repeats the circuit many times over, but gradually coming +nearer the centre, where he arrives in the end. If any obstacle, such as +a large bit of gravel, which would spoil the work, makes its appearance, +the Ant-lion takes it on his flat head and, with a vigorous jerk of his +neck, flings it to a distance over the edge of the hole. We should use +a shovel in exactly the same way to throw out the rubbish when +digging.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/i_045.png" width="300" height="212" alt="bug" /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> + +<p>The result of this labour is a sort of funnel, two inches wide and +a little less in depth. For that matter, each Ant-lion scoops himself +out one proportioned to his size: the larger ones, the giants of the +family, produce one almost big enough to hold an orange; the younger +and smaller ones are content with a hollow which a walnut would fill. +But, whether great funnels or modest dents, all these cavities are +constructed on one and the same principle: the slope is very steep +and formed of extremely loose sand; nothing, however light, can set +foot upon it without producing a landslip, followed by a headlong fall.</p> + +<p>When the work is finished, the scoundrel buries himself in the +sand, right at the bottom of the funnel; his pincers alone appear outside, +ever ready to snap, but nevertheless hidden as far as possible. +And now the Ant-lion remains completely motionless and waits; he +waits for hours, for days, for weeks, if necessary, for his patience is +unequalled; he waits for his dinner to come to him, as he cannot go +after his dinner himself.</p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 384px;"> +<img src="images/i_059.jpg" width="384" height="600" alt="Ant Lion painting" /> +</div> + +<p>Let us do as he does and wait, very attentively. What will +happen? See, an Ant comes trotting along, suspecting no harm, +bringing a little honey in her crop for her mates, who are working at +a distance, just as the goodwife, on the stroke of noon, brings the +reaper his midday meal in the fields. In her hurry, or perhaps in +her heedlessness, she has not seen the precipice. She steps upon it, +but only just on the edge. It makes no difference: as soon as her +foot is on the perfidious slope, the sand gives way and the poor thing +is dragged down. If our eyes were sharp enough, we should see signs +of fierce delight betrayed by the formidable jaws at the bottom.</p> + +<p>Thank goodness! A microscopic bit of straw has interfered with +the landslide. The fall ends in the middle of the slope; and the Ant, +recovering her balance, tries to scramble back to the top. The sand +trickles under her feet; no matter: she goes to work with so much +prudence, she so skilfully makes use of the smallest solid support, she +is so careful to move sideways instead of going straight up the slope +that it looks as though the climb ought to be achieved without fresh +impediment. Her knees, her delicate feelers seem atremble with +excitement. One more effort, only a little effort, and the thing is +done. The edge is there, close by; the Ant must reach it.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/i_045.png" width="300" height="212" alt="bug" /> +</div> + + +<p>Alas, she does not reach it! Suddenly from the sky there falls +upon the poor wretch, thick as hailstones, a rain of grains of sand, +which, for the tiny Ant, is as bad as a regular rain of pebbles. Who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +is the brute that takes delight in thus stoning the distressed Ant, who +clings in her despair now to this side, now to that, as best she may, +so as not to roll to the bottom of the precipice? The brute is the Ant-lion, +the ruffian, lying in ambush down in his funnel. See what he is +doing. He takes on his flat head a load, a shovelful of sand, and flings +it in the air towards the Ant, with a sudden, quick jerk of the neck, like +the movement of a spring. The shovelfuls follow rapidly, one after +the other. Whoosh! And whoosh! Do you want another? There's +one! You don't want another? There's one all the same!</p> + +<p>What can the Ant do, I ask you, on the slope of that terrible +trap, where the ground falls from under her in a rushing torrent, while +a hail of pebbles dashes down from above? In vain she struggles, with +all the pluck of despair: for each step forward she takes three back, +coming nearer and nearer to the dreadful jaws that are waiting for her +at the bottom of the funnel. Bruised and dazed with the stoning, she +rolls over and over, right into the jaws. The jaws seize her and +everything disappears under the sand; not a trace remains of the recent +tragedy.</p> + +<p>Peacefully buried in the sand of his lair, the Ant-lion devours his +astutely-captured prey. When the meal is over, there remains a dry +carcass, which must be thrown away, for, if left in the funnel, it might +frighten any game in future and betray the hunter in his ambush. +A jerk of the shovel, that is to say, a toss of the flat head, flings it +outside the hole.</p> + +<p>Then the Ant-lion repairs the damage done to his trap, removes +the coarser grains of sand, touches up the slopes to make them ready +for a new slide. He buries himself as I have described and awaits the +coming of the next Ant.</p> + +<p>That is how the Ant-lion secures his dinner. And yet there are +people who say that animals have no sense!</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 421px;"> +<img src="images/i_048.png" width="421" height="300" alt="dragon-flies" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>AN ANGEL OF GOD</h2> + +<div class='center'><i>A TRUE STORY</i><br /> +<br /> +BY ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> STEVEN SPURRIER, R.I.</span><br /><br /></div> + + +<div class='unindent'>"<span class="smcap">You</span> may talk about the Germans as much as you like," remarked +Mrs. Batterby with her customary decision; "but, for my part, I have +no doubt that we shall beat them in the end: no doubt whatsoever!"</div> + +<p>"Still, the German hosts are very numerous, and their artillery is +magnificent," said Mrs. Veale, who, much as she longed for the defeat +of Germany, longed for the defeat of Mrs. Batterby still more.</p> + +<p>Little Miss Skipworth hastened, as usual, to thrust in the olive-branch. +"Dear Mrs. Batterby is thinking of the superior courage of +our brave English soldiers," she explained gently.</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Batterby could not stand being Bowdlerised, or even +translated. "No, I wasn't, Matilda; at least not at that particular +minute, though nobody admires the courage of the British Army more +than I do, and always have done, and especially with Lord Kitchener +at their head and in action against the enemy. I've got a very +high opinion of the British soldier myself; none higher: much too +high, in fact, to allow him to wear a collar to his bed-jacket like +the one you are making, Matilda, without speaking a word in his +defence."</p> + +<p>Matilda collapsed at once: she was composed of the most collapsible +material ever provided for the manufacture of souls. "What +is wrong with my collar, Mrs. Batterby? I thought I was exactly +copying the pattern sent to us by the Red Cross. Anyway, I was +trying to do so."</p> + +<p>"Trying and succeeding are two different things, which I should +have thought you'd have found out by this time, Matilda, and you +five-and-forty, if you are a day! Give me the collar, and I'll fix it +for you, or else the wounded soldier that wears it will wish he had +died in the trenches before he had the chance of putting it on."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was the afternoon of the Red Cross weekly working-party, held +in the village of Summerglade, in the early stages of the Great War. +The party was a small one, consisting of Mrs. Batterby, a farmer's +wife, in whose parlour the meeting was held; Mrs. Veale, the wife of +the village doctor; Mrs. Windybank, a gloomy widow; and Miss Skipworth, +an ingenuous and tender-hearted spinster. Between Mrs. Batterby +and Mrs. Veale there existed a bitter and abiding warfare.</p> + +<p>"May I ask what you were thinking of—if not of the bravery of +our own dear soldiers—when you expressed your assurance of the +ultimate success of the Allied Forces?" asked Mrs. Veale, with her +needle in her fingers and the light of battle in her eye.</p> + +<p>"By all means," replied Mrs. Batterby; "and, a civil question +demanding a civil answer, I don't mind telling you that I feel sure we +shall win, because we know that God is on our side and is fighting +for us."</p> + +<p>"But their numbers are so great and their guns so magnificent," +repeated Mrs. Windybank with a lugubrious sigh. "I sometimes fear +that they will win in the end, and we shall all be blown up by Zeppelins +and trampled underfoot. I'm sure I pray every morning that our +armies may win, but I tremble when I think of the forces against us."</p> +<div class="figleft" style="width: 425px;"> +<img src="images/i_050.png" width="425" height="222" alt="sewing basket" /> +</div> + +<p>"So did the Prophet's servant till his eyes were opened and he saw +the mountain full of horses and chariots," replied Mrs. Batterby. "But +some folk's eyes seem made not to open, like the stained-glass windows +in Summerglade Church."</p> + +<p>"It is right to pray, but we must beware of presumptuousness in +our prayers," said Mrs. Veale sententiously.</p> + +<p>"We'd much better beware of want of faith," retorted the hostess.</p> + +<p>"But it is difficult to have faith when things seem going against us," +said Matilda Skipworth.</p> + +<p>"Stuff and nonsense, Matilda! It's when things seem going +against us that our faith is really any compliment to the Almighty. +I can't see anything very complimentary to Him when every morning +I pray with faith, 'Give us this day our daily bread,' knowing all the +time that it's in the larder with a damp cloth over it. But it's when +people pray that particular prayer, with no bread in the house and no +money to pay for any, that their faith is any compliment to God or +worthy of His acceptance."</p> + + +<p>"I know my faith is very feeble and my prayers are unworthy," +sighed Miss Skipworth, "but I do try to +believe. Still, I cannot help envying the +Prophet's servant who <i>saw</i> the horses and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +the chariots fighting on his +side. I wish we could +<i>see</i> the angel hosts +fighting for us. +I do so wish +that we had +appearances of +that kind nowadays: +it would +make faith so +much easier and +life altogether +so much more +beautiful."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_051.png" width="500" height="306" alt="sewing circle" /> +</div> + +<p>"But it would not be in accordance with God's teaching in these later +times. Such assistance to faith as the appearance of saints and angels +would not be at all in accordance with our modern religious thought, +and I am sure that the Almighty would not permit it," said Mrs. Veale.</p> + +<p>"I am not so sure of that," retorted Mrs. Batterby. "I think that +visions of angels are granted to-day to those that have eyes to see them, +just as they were in Old Testament times."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Mrs. Batterby," exclaimed Matilda in excitement, "do you +really believe that?"</p> + +<p>"I do. But I don't believe that the angels appear as you would +expect them, Matilda—all got up in harps and crowns and flaming +swords. I believe that when they come nowadays they look so +commonplace and what you might call ordinary-looking, that only those +folks that have the eye of faith can perceive them at all. They can <i>see</i> +them all right, mind you! But they can't recognise them as the angels +of God."</p> + +<p>"How I should like to see somebody who had actually seen an +angel!" sighed Miss Skipworth.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever come across any one who had enjoyed such an +experience, Mrs. Batterby?" asked Mrs. Veale in a sceptical tone.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I did, Mrs. Veale—that is, if you can say that you ever came +across yourself."</p> + +<p>"Oh, how interesting!—how very interesting!" cried Miss Skipworth. +"But you don't look at all the sort of person that would see +angels and spirits."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Batterby took the last remark as a compliment; as indeed it +was intended. "That's just my point, Matilda. The real angels don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +look like the Scripture-picture sort of angels; and they don't appear to +the high-flown, star-gazing sort of people who are always looking for +them."</p> + +<p>"Do tell us what you saw, Mrs. Batterby," besought the emotional +Matilda.</p> + +<p>"And also what calamity it foretold," added Mrs. Windybank. +"I always believe that supernatural appearances precede some terrible +misfortune."</p> + +<p>"Well, my experience, or whatever you call it, happened five-and-thirty +years ago, and no calamity has happened to me since. On the +contrary, it taught me that no calamity <i>could</i> happen to me as long as +I lay safe in my Heavenly Father's Hand. That's just the lesson that +I learnt from it."</p> + +<p>"Do tell us the story," urged Miss Skipworth.</p> + +<p>"I will, Matilda, if you'll get on with your bed-jacket, and not +leave off your sewing whenever anybody speaks, as if your hearing +lay in your fingers, and you couldn't sew and listen at the same time.</p> + +<p>"Well, when I was a young woman I lived with an aunt in +Merchester who kept a stationer's shop; and every Sunday I used to +walk over to see my mother who lived at a village about three miles +off, she being a widow and keeping the post-office there and my two +little sisters as well.</p> + +<p>"It was one Sunday in September—one of those deceitful sort of +days that look like summer, and then take you all of a heap by getting +dark before you can say <i>Jack Robinson</i>—and I had been spending the +day with my mother as usual; I stayed for the evening service, it being +the Sunday-school Anniversary and a special preacher for the occasion; +quite a young man, but one of the finest preachers I ever heard. +Though it was five-and-thirty years ago, I remember that sermon as if +I'd heard it last Sunday."</p> + +<p>"What was it about?" asked Mrs. Windybank. "For my part, I +always enjoy funeral-sermons the most; but I've heard some very +sweet ones in times of war, and on the last Sundays in the Old Year."</p> + +<p>"It was on the very subject that Matilda was speaking about—in +fact, it was her conversation that recalled the whole incident to my +mind. The text was, 'Jacob went on his way, and the angels of God +met him'; and the preacher said—what I've just being saying to you—that +the angels of God meet us far oftener than we think; only we are +so busy looking out for them to come in our own particular way that +we don't recognise them. Unless they are in their flowing robes with +their harps and halos and fiery swords, we don't know that they are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +angels at all: which is just as stupid of us as if we didn't believe we'd +seen the Queen, unless we'd seen her with her crown on. I remember +that this impressed us very much: Queen Victoria had just been to +Merchester to lay the foundation-stone of some public building or other +(I forget what), and we had all cried at seeing her in a widow's bonnet; +it seemed to make her so much more real and human than if she'd had +her crown on. I'm sure that black bonnet brought her nearer to our +hearts than all the Crown Jewels out of the Tower of London could +have done; and taught us to love and reverence her as a woman as +well as obey and serve her as a Queen. And so, as the young minister +said, it ought to be with the angels; because when the Lord came +among us, He came as One of ourselves, and led us by the paths that +we were used to.</p> + +<p>"Well, the sermon was so grand, and the hymn after the sermon +so beautiful—I remember it was a six-lines-eight, sung to the tune +called <i>Stella</i>, and mother and I swayed to it till we kept bumping +against each other—that by the time we got out of chapel it was +quite dark—so dark that mother didn't like the idea of my walking +to Merchester alone, as it was three miles at the least, and along a +very lonely road. But there was nobody to go with me, and I was +bound to get back to aunt's that night, for some special reason that +I forget now; so—like it or not like it—I had to go, though +I was very timid."</p> + +<p>"Oh, how dreadful! I should have been terrified," +groaned Miss Skipworth. "I don't wonder that you +were frightened."</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't have minded if I'd been your age, +Matilda: surely a woman of five-and-forty is old enough +to go anywhere by herself! But I was only eighteen, +and that makes all the difference."</p> + +<p>Matilda returned a soft answer—or, to be more +accurate, a soft question.</p> + +<p>"Then did you venture, Mrs. Batterby?"</p> + + +<div class="figright" style="width: 342px;"> +<img src="images/i_053.png" width="342" height="500" alt="at the counter" /> +</div> + +<p>"Of course I did: there was nothing +else to do; and I didn't want mother to +know I was frightened for fear of worrying +her. But I didn't like it, I can tell +you; and I started with my heart in my +mouth, ready to jump at my own shadow. +And then it came into my mind (I +remember it as if it had happened last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +night) that I was a poor sort of Christian to enjoy a sermon and then +make no sort of effort to put it into practice; in fact, that I was only +a hearer of the Word, and not a doer, letting God's message go in +at one ear and out at the other, leaving nothing behind it. So I set +to to pray that as I went on my way the angels of God might meet +me, as they met Jacob, and save me from all harm. And what with +the excitement of the sermon, and my own fears, and the darkness of +the road, I got worked up to such a pitch that I shouldn't have been +surprised if a white-robed angel with shining wings had flown over the +hedge and perched beside me."</p> + +<p>"Which, of course, no angel did," interrupted Mrs. Veale.</p> + +<p>"That is as may be," retorted Mrs. Batterby darkly. "In the +middle of my prayer I heard a rustle in the hedge on the side of the +road, which, of course, I thought was a thief lying in wait to waylay +me and murder me, and I prayed harder and harder. But then, in the +fading light, I perceived that it was no thief, but a huge yellow collie +dog, such as they have for minding sheep."</p> + +<p>"Oh dear!" said Miss Skipworth; "I should have been as much +afraid of a strange dog as of a strange man, if I'd been you."</p> + +<p>"Fortunately, however, you weren't me, nor ever likely to be, +which seems fortunate for all parties concerned," replied her hostess +dryly. "And as for being afraid of a dog—why! I'd been accustomed +to dogs from a child, though I'm not the one to deny that collies are +uncertain in temper and apt to snap at strangers unawares. So I spoke +kindly to this one, in case it should take me for a thief come after its +master's sheep; though where the sheep were I hadn't a notion, there +being nothing but cornfields ready for cutting on both sides of the +road, the harvest being very late that year."</p> + +<p>"It was rather foolish, to my thinking, to speak to it at all," +remarked Mrs. Windybank. "I had a friend once who spoke to a +strange collie; and it bit her thimble finger so badly that she was never +able to sew properly again."</p> + +<p>"Then she must have said the wrong thing to it," replied Mrs. +Batterby; "and it served her right. I know when folks say the wrong +thing to me, I'd give anything to be able to bite their thimble finger, and +dogs feel the same as we do. But to get on with my story. The dog +came up to me quite friendly-like, and didn't attempt to snap or anything; +but though it came close to me, it wouldn't let me touch or pet it. It +shied away the moment I put out my hand to fondle it. So—being +accustomed to dogs and their ways—I treated it as it evidently wished to +be treated, and just talked to it pleasantly as it trotted along by my side."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 259px;"> +<img src="images/i_055.png" width="259" height="500" alt="woman with dog" /> +<span class="caption">"For my part, I believe it was one of the angels of God"</span> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Then it followed you?" asked Miss Skipworth.</p> + +<p>"Yes; all the way to Merchester, just as if it had been my own +dog. When there was nobody in sight, it ran backwards and forwards +and scampered about by itself; but whenever we met anybody—and we +met some nasty-looking tramps, I can tell you, that I should have been +terrified to meet alone—it came close to me, looking that big and fierce +that the tramps kept well to the other side of the road, as far away from +us as they could; and it stalked by me till they were out of sight, as is +the way of collies when they scent danger ahead. I can't tell you how +delighted I was to have found such a splendid pet; and I made up my +mind to take it home with me and keep it, unless some one claimed it; +as aunt and I had long wanted a house-dog to take care of the shop at +nights. And, besides, I thought it would be such a nice companion for +me on all the long country-walks which I was so fond of taking out of +shop-hours."</p> + +<p>"And did any one ever come and claim it?" asked Miss Skipworth +with breathless interest.</p> + +<p>"No; never. It followed me all the way to Merchester, wagging +its tail whenever I spoke to it, and looking up at me with its soft brown +eyes as friendly as never was; but it never let me touch it, though I +tried to pat it once or twice."</p> + +<p>"And you took it home with you, the dear creature?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Batterby shook her head. "It followed me right into +Merchester; but when I was safe in the town among all the gas-lamps +and the people and the traffic, it turned round and scampered back +along the road by which we had come. I whistled to it to come back, +but it took no notice; and the last I saw of it was its yellow coat disappearing +into the darkness."</p> + +<p>Miss Skipworth gave a deep sigh. "And you never saw it +again?"</p> + +<p>"Never."</p> + +<p>"And you never found out who it belonged to?"</p> + +<p>A look came into Mrs. Batterby's eyes that was new to Miss +Skipworth. "I wouldn't say that. As a matter of fact, I believe I did +find out Who it belonged to."</p> + +<p>"I suppose it was the sheep-dog of one of the neighbouring farmers," +suggested Mrs. Veale.</p> + +<p>"Some might suppose so; but I don't," replied Mrs. Batterby, still +with that wonderful smile in her sharp grey eyes. "For my part, I believe +it was one of the angels of God."</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="title and illustrations"> +<tr><td align="left"><div class="figcenter" style="width: 185px;"> +<img src="images/i_057a.png" width="185" height="200" alt="soldier" /> +</div> +</td><td align="center"><h2>A MODEL SOLDIER<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2> + + + +<div class='center'>BY CHARLES GARVICE<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Author of "Nance," etc.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> J. H. HARTLEY</span></div> +</td><td align="left"><div class="figcenter" style="width: 239px;"> +<img src="images/i_057b.png" width="239" height="250" alt="woman" /> +</div></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">Kitty</span> came into the studio and, dropping on to a stool, said, as she drew +the pins from her hat:</div> + +<p>"Dad, I've had an adventure."</p> + +<p>She made the assertion with seeming gravity, but her father glanced +at her dancing eyes with a mixture of interest and a suspicion of being +spoofed; for past experiences of his light-hearted, mischief-loving +daughter had taught him to be wary; so he said nothing, but continued +to chalk in the rough sketch on the easel.</p> + +<p>"Behold in me a heroine of romance!" said Kitty, striking an +attitude and regarding the toes of her dainty boots with her head on one +side; and her father, as he glanced at her again, noted vaguely her pose +and expression for future use; for Kitty served frequently as a model, +and her pretty face and svelte figure had appeared in numerous +magazines as the heroine of all sorts of stories.</p> + +<p>"Father, I have saved a fellow creature's life," she went on. "Told +in the language of popular fiction it would run thus: 'A young girl of +pleasing appearance was seen going down one of our leading thoroughfares. +She was of meek and modest demeanour——'"</p> + +<p>"I thought you said the adventure happened to you, Kitty," said +Mr. Thorold.</p> + +<p>"'The road was crowded with the carriages and motor-cars of +the wealthy and noble,'" continued Kitty, disregarding the mild +sarcasm; "'the young girl, lost "in maiden meditation, fancy-free," was +startled suddenly by a cry of anguished terror. Raising her downcast +eyes, she saw a pretty young thing running across the road right in +front of an approaching motor-car, from the occupant of which, a +lady of mature age and buxom form, the cry had arisen. Without +a thought of her own fair young life, the maiden rushed forward, seized<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +the young thing in her arms and carried it in safety to the pavement. +The magnificent 2,000-h.p. motor-car pulled up beside her, and the richly +dressed lady, with a gasp of relief and admiration, expressed her appreciation +of the young girl's heroism, demanded her name and address, and, +handing her a card, desired the rescuer to call. The heroine, murmuring +something inaudible, blushed sweetly and, making her way through +the small but loudly cheering crowd which had collected, modestly +disappeared.'"</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 157px;"> +<img src="images/i_058.png" width="157" height="200" alt="dog" /> +</div> + +<p>"All very well," grumbled Mr. Thorold; "but you'll be brought +home on a stretcher some day, Kit. You're too venturesome by far. +What became of the child?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it wasn't a child; it was a collie pup."</p> + +<p>"I thought you said 'fellow-creature,'" remarked her father +plaintively.</p> + +<p>"All dogs are my fellow-creatures," declared Kitty simply.</p> + +<p>"I am a credulous as well as a sinfully indulgent parent," said +Mr. Thorold, stepping back to view his sketch; "but I don't believe +a word of your story."</p> + +<p>"'Documentary evidence was instantly forthcoming,'" retorted +Kitty, extending a tiny paw with a card inserted delicately between her +fingers.</p> + +<p>Her father took it, read aloud: "Lady Hawborough, 209, Belgrave +Square," and then emitted a low whistle.</p> + +<p>"My word, Kitty, you've gone and done it!" he said. "If this is +<i>the</i> Lady Hawborough—and Nature, with all her audacity, cannot have +made two of them—you've run up against a celebrity of the deepest +dye."</p> + +<p>"Oh?" said Kitty. "Never heard of her. What's she celebrated +for?"</p> + +<p>"For good works—which means, in most cases, a disposition and a +capacity for interfering in the affairs of other people. And her ladyship +is one of the biggest and most incorrigible interferers in this crank of a +world of ours. She is immensely rich; she is also 'powerful,' as the +novelists say; she is a tyrant to her relations, a terror to her friends, +and a well-meaning, charitable bugbear to the world in general."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said Kitty, somewhat dismayed. "But how is it you are +so intimately acquainted with the history and characteristics of this lady +of lofty rank and goodly oof?"</p> + +<p>"My dear Kitty, 'oof' is not nearly such a good word as 'wealth.'"</p> + + +<p>"Maybe, but it's easier to pronounce," retorted Kitty.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know," said Mr. Thorold, as if he were weary of the +subject. "Heard some one at the Club talking about her; seen her +name in the papers. Take my advice and don't call. She'll enlist you +in one of her gangs of workers, hustle you into a hospital as a nurse, +make you into a district visitor, or turn you a lecturer on vegetarianism +or some other fad."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 169px;"> +<img src="images/i_061.png" width="169" height="200" alt="dog" /> +</div> + +<p>"Oh no, she won't," said Kitty, with sublime confidence; "not that +I should object to being a nurse—that is, if I hadn't already to look +after an aged and infirm parent. Yes; much as I value your advice, +Dad, I think I'll call. I'll go to-morrow; and if I come back, say, in a +Salvation Army kit, and banging a tambourine—and, mind you! I +might do worse: I've a whole-hearted admiration for the S.A. and the +uniform is distinctly fetching—you can indulge in the exquisite pleasure +of exclaiming, 'I told you so!' What are you on this morning, Dad?" +she asked, going to him, putting her arm round his neck, and giving +him a little hug.</p> + +<p>"Sketch for an illustration for the <i>Long Acre Magazine</i>," he said, +with a kind of resignation; for your most gifted artist has to do +pot-boilers nowadays: and generally he does them well.</p> + +<p>"The girl's all right, anyhow," said Kitty. "Where's the man?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm going to stick him in directly," said Mr. Thorold. +"He's to be a soldier, and I've got a young fellow coming as a model +presently. Ran against him in a rather extraordinary way. He called +on me yesterday with an introduction from Bloxham: said he had never +sat as model before; but that he was hard up, and would do his best. +Fine young fellow, and a nice taking sort of chap altogether."</p> + +<p>"Burglar in disguise, coming to inspect the premises, no doubt," +surmised Kitty cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"Well, he's welcome to anything he takes a fancy to," remarked +Mr. Thorold.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well!" she said. "I'm off to consult Selinar-Ann as to +whether it's to be bread-and-butter pudding or a baked roly-poly; +expect me back, or what remains of me, in an hour."</p> + +<p>Carefully rumpling her father's already disordered hair, she screwed +up his patient face between her hands, kissed him and ran out, singing +as she went.</p> + +<p>In less than an hour she re-entered the studio, still singing; but +the song snapped off suddenly, and she stood just within the doorway, +staring with wide-open eyes at a young soldier in khaki who stood +on the model's dais, one arm in a sling, the other extended with +a sword in the hand, in the kind of attitude beloved by the populace, +and forming the picture which bears inevitably the legend, "Charge!"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a><br /><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 139px;"> +<img src="images/i_062.png" width="139" height="300" alt="woman at door" /> +</div> + +<p>The young man turned his eyes—he dared not move anything +else—and, at sight of the stricken maiden, his tanned face grew the +colour of a healthy beetroot.</p> + +<p>"Getting on famously, Kit," remarked Mr. Thorold in a preoccupied +manner. "Arm a little higher, if you please, Captain——Pardon, +didn't catch your name."</p> + +<p>"Barnard," said the model, in a small voice quite inconsistent with +his fine and manly proportions.</p> + +<p>"Ah, thank you! Could you—er—put on something of a scowl? +You're wounded, you know, and you're leading a forlorn hope, or +something of the sort."</p> + +<p>The young man's good-looking face assumed as much of a scowl +as it was capable of doing, and Mr. Thorold dashed it on the paper.</p> + +<p>"Capital! Now you can rest a minute. I've got to go and get +some more ochre. Perhaps you'd like a drink?"</p> + +<p>"Thank you; I should," confessed the young man, with a slight +huskiness.</p> + +<p>"All right; I'll bring it," said Mr. Thorold; and, as he was +leaving the room, he said over his shoulder, "My daughter; Captain +Barnard."</p> + +<p>Kitty closed the door carefully; then, seating herself on the divan, +she rested her chin in her hand and, regarding the young man severely, +she demanded sternly:</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you'll be kind enough to inform me of the—the meaning +of this?"</p> + +<p>He had seated himself on the edge of the dais and was wiping his +face, as if he were just going through a dangerous action, with the +enemy pressing on all sides.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon?" he faltered, with meekness in his voice, mien, +and eye.</p> + +<p>"I asked you why you are masquerading here?" she said, uncompromisingly.</p> + +<p>"Well, come to that, I'm not masquerading. This is my own kit; +I'm a soldier, as you know. This is a genuine wound, not a fake; and +I'm really hard up: had a run of bad luck lately. No harm in earning +an honest shilling."</p> + +<p>"But why come to my father, this particular studio, to earn it?" +demanded Kitty, cutting short his feeble attempts at plausible +explanation.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," he replied desperately: "you see, when I met you at +the Thomsons' the other night, and asked you if I might have the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +honour of calling on you, you said that your father was a very busy man +and that you yourself had no time for receiving visitors."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 112px;"> +<img src="images/i_063.png" width="112" height="300" alt="soldier with wounded arm" /> +</div> + +<p>"Well?" demanded Kitty, as icily as before.</p> + +<p>"Well," he resumed, looking down and then up at her, as if he +could not keep his eyes from her face, stern and almost ferocious as it +was, "well, I asked the Thomsons who your father was, and when they +told me, I thought—I thought——Well, don't you know, it seemed +to me that he might want a model. War pictures are all the go now, +aren't they? And so——" He broke down, made a little gesture with +his unwounded arm, and blurted out, "Of course you know why I've +come. I wanted to see you again. I told you so the other night; like +my cheek, of course, but—I don't know how it is—I feel as if I'd <i>got</i> to +see you, to know you. Look here, Miss Kitty—I beg your pardon, all +the Thomsons call you that—I hope you won't mind my saying that +I've fallen in love with you?"</p> + +<p>"Excuse me; I mind it very much," Kitty informed him with +distressing promptitude; but her eyes wavered and the colour came +into her face and made it, in the unfortunate young man's opinion, +more maddeningly fascinating than ever.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well, I'm sorry," he said, but without much penitence in his +tone; "but the truth should always be told, shouldn't it? And it is +the truth."</p> + +<p>"Is it?" queried Kitty. "You've seen me only once before, and +then only for an hour or two."</p> + +<p>"Two hours and three-quarters," he said, as if he were a stickler +for accuracy; "and I fell in love with you after the first quarter of an +hour. That being the case—as it certainly is—what was I to do? +I shall have to go back to the regiment as soon as this old arm of mine +is right; and it's getting right quickly; and I felt that I couldn't go +without at any rate telling you what—what was the matter with me."</p> + +<p>"You speak as if—as if love were a disease," said Kitty, with an +attempt at mockery which was an abject failure.</p> + +<p>"So it is," he declared, "and I've got it bad—very bad indeed. +I'll ask you to believe me, Miss Kitty—I mean Miss Thorold—that I +haven't had you out of my mind for one moment since we parted."</p> + +<p>"It's a pity you haven't something better to think of," said Kitty.</p> + +<p>"There I disagree with you," observed the young man stoutly. +"I couldn't have anything better to think of, and I don't want to. +I shall think of you for the rest of my natural life. One moment, +Miss Kitty, before you refuse me. I ought to tell you that I'm a poor +young captain, in a marching regiment, with no prospects."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The allurement is irresistible——" began Kitty, with admirable +gravity.</p> + +<p>"I'm delighted to hear it," he said. "So you accept me?"</p> + +<p>"The politeness of a soldier should have compelled you to hear +me out. I was going to add, that it would be irresistible if I were in +love with you; but——"</p> + +<p>"Don't go on, I beg of you!" he implored. "I'm not such a fat-headed +idiot as to suppose that you <i>are</i> in love with me. What I +wanted to ask you was to give me a show. You see, I've arranged with +Mr. Thorold to stand, not only for this picture, but for an oil-painting, +which I suppose—don't know much about art—will take some time."</p> + +<p>"You have? Well, of all the——!"</p> + +<p>"Quite so," he said meekly. "You see, it will give me a chance +of trying to explain to you that, if you refuse me, it will be—oh, worse +than a conical bullet in a particularly vital spot. All I ask is that you +will look in now and again, and—and give me an opportunity of—of——"</p> + +<p>"Bothering me to death," finished Kitty for him.</p> + +<p>"No; bothering you into an engagement—which is sometimes +a serious affair, but not always fatal," he said frankly. "Come, Miss +Kitty, don't be hard on me! It's not much to ask——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, isn't it?" interjected Kitty with fine irony. "Thank you. +Captain Barnard."</p> + +<p>"If you were in love with me—absurd idea, of course! but I'm +just putting the case—I'd come and sit with you and give you any +amount of chances."</p> + +<p>Kitty heard her father's returning footsteps, and she stood up +and looked from side to side, and then at this meekly audacious young +man, with a mixture of astonishment and bewilderment—and something +else I cannot define—in her really wonderful eyes.</p> + +<p>"Well, of all the cool——" she said again. But he cut her short.</p> + +<p>"That's all right," he said breathlessly; "thank you ever so +much. Your father's coming. I'm to be here at eleven o'clock every +morning."</p> + +<p>"And you think," said Kitty, as hurriedly, "that, by simply +sitting here and regarding you in that absurd attitude, I shall fall +in——?"</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 173px;"> +<img src="images/i_064.png" width="173" height="300" alt="woman at door again" /> +</div> + +<p>"Oh, no; not at all. Fortune will have pity on me and give +me an opportunity for seeing you for a minute or two alone. Besides, +perhaps—I only say perhaps, mind!—you might be induced to lunch +at an A.B.C. shop," he jerked out in a rapid whisper, as the innocent +parent returned with his yellow ochre.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p> + +<p>Kitty went up to her room, flung herself into a chair in her +favourite attitude, with her chin in her hands, and stared at nothing—no, +not nothing, but at the handsome face and manly form of a wounded +soldier.</p> + +<p>Of course, she would not go near the studio while he was there. +Consequently, the next morning, at half-past eleven, she entered with +refreshment on a tray; and, with downcast eyes and a blush, informed +her father that she had left his soda-and-milk in the dining-room +because a change of scene and air would be good for him.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 146px;"> +<img src="images/i_065.png" width="146" height="200" alt="woman with tray" /> +</div> + +<p>She was still rosy with shame when the model sprang from the +dais, caught her hand, and declared fervently that she was an angel.</p> + +<p>"No, I am a sly and deceitful, not to say forward, girl," said Kitty. +"But I've only made an opportunity to tell you that I'm not coming +into the studio again while you're here."</p> + +<p>"That's all right," he responded cheerfully. "Come in just about +this time. And I've found a jolly little A.B.C. shop where we can get +some lunch to-day: second turning to the right, in the corner—I should +like you to be able to tell me, quite quietly, why you find it necessary +to refuse me. I think that's only fair to you."</p> + +<p>"And I think," said Kitty emphatically, "that you possess the +concentrated cheek—I am sorry there is no stronger word—of the whole +British Army; and I decline your invitation."</p> + +<p>She kept him waiting at the A.B.C. shop for a good quarter of +an hour.</p> + +<div class='center'>* * * * * * *</div> + + +<p>In the afternoon Kitty presented herself at 209, Belgrave Square, +and was shown into what a house-agent would call "the magnificent and +spacious salon." Lady Hawborough was seated in a capacious chair, +knitting for dear life; on a small table beside her was an orderly +disorder of blue books, reports of charitable societies, vegetarian tracts, +and the debris of her morning's correspondence. She received Kitty +with more than graciousness; for her ladyship, notwithstanding her +crankiness, was the owner of that organ the possession of which we are +led to believe atones for all minor faults, not to say crimes—a +"good heart."</p> + +<p>Besides, she had been immensely taken with Kitty, and admired +genuinely the pluck and readiness which the girl had displayed in the +rescue of the puppy: of course, Lady Hawborough was a prominent +member of the S.P.C.A.</p> + +<p>She gave Kitty some tea, patted her hand several times, and +proceeded to put her through a kindly, but searching, catechism; and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +before tea was over, had obtained sufficient information respecting +Kitty's life to convince her that the girl was a fitting object of her +ladyship's benevolence. It is true that, every now and then, Kitty +caught a glimpse of the somewhat masterful spirit which her ladyship +displayed in her favourite occupation of ordering the lives of all who +came in contact with her; but Kitty was not so stupid as to fail to +recognise the presence of the aforesaid good heart, or not to credit the +old lady with the amiable intention which smiled behind the mask of +tyranny.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 183px;"> +<img src="images/i_066.png" width="183" height="200" alt="woman wiht lorgnette" /> +</div> + +<p>"She's not at all a bad sort," Kitty informed her father on her +return home. "Oh, I daresay she's fond of interfering and all that; +but she can't interfere with me; I'm not her relation—I was going to +say 'Thank goodness,' but I really do like her, Dad. She's coming to +see some of your pictures some day."</p> + +<p>"Oh, my great aunt!" groaned Mr. Thorold, who, like a true +artist, had a loathing for the necessary, but sometimes maddening, art +patron.</p> + +<p>The drawing for the <i>Long Acre Magazine</i> being duly finished, +Mr. Thorold began on the more important battle-piece.</p> + +<p>"I think I'm going to make a hit with this, Kitty," he said to his +daughter one morning, as he was preparing for the arrival of his admirably +punctual and singularly patient model. "You see, I've got a splendid +young chap to stand for it. He's the real thing, instead of a coster +dressed up in an officer's uniform. And he's a pleasant chap, too," he +continued meditatively. "A modest, well-mannered young fellow: no +swank or swagger; in fact, a gentleman. By the way, Kitty, you +might remember that little fact, and not be quite so short and sharp +with him when he speaks to you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it won't hurt him," retorted Kitty, turning her back quickly. +"From what I have seen of him, I should say that Captain Barnard +would not be easily snubbed."</p> + +<p>"And you try pretty hard," remarked her father. "For instance, +yesterday there was no occasion for you to tell him to shut up when he +observed that it was a fine day."</p> + +<p>"All I said was that a model was much more effective when he +kept his mouth closed," said Kitty.</p> + +<p>"That strikes me as being pretty much the same thing," said her +father. "He looked quite crushed."</p> + +<p>"Do him good," murmured Kitty. "Besides, he can talk the hind +leg off an army mule when he likes."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" asked her parent, with mild surprise.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm only drawing inferences from—from his general appearance," +said Kitty, looking a trifle confused.</p> + +<p>"Going out to lunch again to-day?" demanded her father, repiningly, +as, clad in outdoor things, she passed him in the passage a +couple of hours later.</p> + +<p>"Sorry, dear; got a pressing engagement. Besides, you never eat +anything. There! did it miss its nurse? Never mind! I'll be in all +the evening." She scrunched up his face, gave him what she called her +"screw" kiss, and departed to the A.B.C. shop.</p> + +<p>By this time, it must be confessed, the fortress besieged by Captain +Barnard with such ingenuous strategy, but manly courage, had surrendered; +and to-day the wounded soldier had brought a pretty but +inexpensive ring with him.</p> + +<p>"It's all I can afford, dearest," he said, as he slipped it on the +finger.</p> + +<p>"It's a perfect duck," she returned, touching the ring with her +lips—a wicked and maddening thing to do; for you can't kiss a girl in +an A.B.C. shop, however much in love with her you may be.</p> + +<p>"And to-morrow I'll tell your father. What—what do you think +he'll say, darling?"</p> + +<p>"I know what he'll say, but I couldn't repeat it, because I've been +properly brought up," replied Kitty.</p> + +<p>"But he won't refuse his consent, won't chuck me out?" cried her +lover, aghast.</p> + +<p>"No; because, strange as it may seem, he's really fond of me. Oh, +I don't deserve it; for he's the dearest dad that ever had a hussy and a +minx for a daughter. No, he won't throw you out, at any rate until +the picture's finished. And perhaps you'll be tired of me—I mean, +I shall be tired of you—we shall be tired of each other, before that +time."</p> + +<p>"I'll risk that," he said confidently, pressing her hand under the table.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 93px;"> +<img src="images/i_067.png" width="93" height="300" alt="man in livery" /> +</div> + +<p>That afternoon Kitty, in a state of perfect bliss, paid one of her +frequent visits to Lady Hawborough, with whom she had now become +great friends; in fact, the old lady had grown quite fond of the girl; +and the extent of this affection was proved that afternoon to Kitty by +an extraordinary mischance. The footman had shown her into a small +ante-room, which Lady Hawborough called her "study"; the adjoining +apartment was divided from that in which Kitty was waiting by a pair +of folding doors, and, one of these being partly open, Kitty heard the +rustling of dresses, followed by Lady Hawborough's clear and very +distinct voice saying:</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Must you go, dear? I'm so sorry, because I wanted you to see +her. She's quite a nice girl—in fact, a really sweet little soul. Oh, +yes, of course, I've plans for her," she continued, as if in response to a +remark by the other lady. "I'm afraid she has not many opportunities; +the father is a struggling artist and they don't move in society, of +course. I'm thinking of—in fact, I've made up my mind to marry her +to Archibald."</p> + +<p>"Lucky Archibald!" observed the other lady.</p> + +<p>"Yes; I think he will be," assented Lady Hawborough, with a +complacency she always exhibited when disposing of the fate of those +belonging to her. "He is a good boy, a little wild, perhaps, but really +no harm in him; and it's time he was married. I'm a little anxious +about him, because he's so—so impetuous, like all the Hawboroughs." +Her ladyship's "dearest friend" could not have accused her of impetuosity; +and Kitty could almost see the other lady smile. "He is the +sort of boy who might fall in love with a barmaid or a ballet girl and +marry her."</p> + +<p>"Then this young lady doesn't come within the category of +undesirables?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, dear, no," said Lady Hawborough. "She's quite a lady and +will suit Archibald very nicely. I am very pleased with him; he has +been doing so well lately: quite distinguished himself; you've heard, of +course? It was in the papers. I am going to look after him."</p> + +<p>Kitty had been listening with burning face and twitching lips. She +had been so astonished as to be incapable of carrying out her desire to +spring to the door and declare her presence, and escape from the position +of an eavesdropper; but she recovered sufficiently to rise and confront +Lady Hawborough as, on having said farewell to her visitor, she entered +the room.</p> + +<p>"Why, my dear!" said her ladyship, almost embarrassed, "I +didn't know that you were here: have you been waiting long?"</p> + +<p>"Long enough to hear what you said," replied Kitty bluntly, her +face pale now, her eyes flashing. "I couldn't help listening. I'm sorry. +Yet it's just as well, because, Lady Hawborough, I don't think you +have any right to—to dispose of me in the way you intended doing.—I +don't know who 'Archibald' is."</p> + +<p>"Archibald is my nephew," said Lady Hawborough stiffly; and +when Lady Hawborough was stiff, the common or kitchen poker +compared with her was a soft and flexible article. "My nephew and +heir. He is a very good and brave young man."</p> + +<p>"He may be a saint for all I care," said Kitty; "but I don't want<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +to marry him, and I won't. In fact, I'm——" She was going to say +"engaged," but she was really too angry to confide in Lady Hawborough +"—I'm resolved not to do so. I am afraid you will think me very +ungrateful, and that—well, that this is the end of our friendship."</p> + +<p>"I think you are stating the situation very accurately," said Lady +Hawborough, whose face was exceeding red.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," said Kitty, rather wistfully and sadly, her resentment +waning; for the old lady had been very kind to her, and Kitty saw that +even this absurd intention of hers sprang from a benevolent desire +to benefit her protégée. "I want to thank you for all your goodness +to me, and——Good-bye, Lady Hawborough."</p> + +<p>She held out her hand, but Lady Hawborough appeared not to see +it, and Kitty got outside the "stately and desirable mansion" and +hastened home to enjoy a good cry.</p> + +<p>When she made her appearance in the studio next morning, she +found her father seated on his stool in an attitude of profound dismay, +his long figure bowed, his rumpled hair clutched in his hands, his +painting-brush between his teeth.</p> + +<p>On the dais stood the wounded soldier, his face flushed, an expression +of keen discomfort all over him.</p> + +<p>"Here, look here, Kitty!" wailed her distracted parent. "Just +listen to what this young man's been telling me? He says that you +and he have got engaged! Heavens!"</p> + +<p>"Quite true, father," said Kitty calmly, but with a blush.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my goodness! And he tells me that he's poor, and has +nothing to live on excepting his pay and a small allowance."</p> + +<p>"That's true also, I believe, father," said Kitty. "I'm sorry; +but it can't be helped. You'll have to paint me as 'The Mendicant's +Bride.'"</p> + +<p>"Don't joke about it, you foolish, abandoned girl!" groaned Mr. +Thorold.</p> + +<p>"But you don't want me to cry about it, Dad dear," said Kitty, +going to him, taking the brush from between his teeth, and putting her +arm round his neck. "Haven't you got anything to say for yourself?" +she asked, addressing the discomfited young man.</p> + +<p>"Not a word," he returned. "Said all I've got to say. And look +at the effect of it!"</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 167px;"> +<img src="images/i_069.png" width="167" height="310" alt="artist" /> +</div> + +<p>"Yes," she retorted. "You've broken the heart of an affectionate +and devoted parent. You're a wicked young man.—Oh, dad dear, +do get up and go on with your work! You know as well as I do that +you're not going to make us unhappy? Say, 'Bless you, my children!'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +like a good father, and let's all go up and mingle our tears over a lunch +at the Floriani."</p> + +<p>"Ripping idea!" cried the infatuated lover, who would have said +the same if Kitty had proposed they should lunch in the moon.</p> + +<p>"Oh, well," said Mr. Thorold, a trifle more cheerfully, and with a +shrug of resignation. "But I shall not go unavenged. Young man, +you do not know what lies before you. She will make a slave of you, +as she has made a slave of me; this girl is a tyrant of the most outrageous +kind. You will not possess a soul of your own; you will——"</p> + +<p>"Bravo, Dad!" interrupted Kitty. "But it will be quite time +enough to give me away when we get to the church. There's your +hat, on the bust there."</p> + +<p>"And now we'll go on the bust ourselves," said the young man +joyously. "I say, how jolly it all is! Would you mind my kissing +her, sir?"</p> + +<p>He was in the middle of the somewhat lengthy act, when the +door opened, and Selinar-Ann announced in awe-stricken tones:</p> + +<p>"Lidy 'Awborough!" And her ladyship swept in.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 118px;"> +<img src="images/i_070.png" width="118" height="300" alt="maid" /> +</div> + +<p>With his arm still round Kitty, her lover stared at the portly +dame as if she were a gorgon. Kitty, with a stifled exclamation of +astonishment, freed herself with difficulty from the young man's grasp, +and, with blushing face, hastened to greet the august visitor, whom +Mr. Thorold was regarding with an air of patient resignation.</p> + +<p>But Lady Hawborough put out one hand to keep Kitty back, +and, fixing her lover with a stony stare, exclaimed sepulchrally:</p> + +<p>"Archibald!"</p> + +<p>There was a profound silence for a moment; then Kitty, staring +in her turn at her lover, echoed the objectionable word; for it was a +name she detested.</p> + +<p>"Archibald! His name's Harry!"</p> + +<p>"His name is <i>Archibald</i>," said Lady Hawborough sternly. "I +ought to know; for he is my nephew."</p> + +<p>"Your nephew!" gasped Kitty.</p> + +<p>The young man, having recovered from a fright which no shrapnel +built by Krupp could have caused him, now came forward with hand +extended.</p> + +<p>"How are you, Aunt?—yes, it's my aunt, right enough. Didn't I +tell you? Must have forgotten to mention it: ought to be ashamed of +myself, for Aunt Philippa's been awfully good to me. Aunt, this young +lady is——"</p> + +<p>"I know quite well enough who she is, Archibald," broke in Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +Hawborough severely. "What I want to know is—What does this +mean?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see!" he stammered. "Oh, well, it means—of course, you +saw when you came in? It means that Kitty here—Miss Thorold, +allow me to introduce you to my aunt. Mr. Thorold, my aunt, Lady +Hawborough. Aunt Philippa, Mr. Thorold: he is the father of this +young lady, Kitty here, who has done me the very great honour of +promising to marry me. Sounds impossible; but it's true!"</p> + +<p>Lady Hawborough stalked to the nearest chair and, with stately +dignity seated herself on it, very much as a judge might take his place +on the dreadful bench.</p> + +<p>"Girl," she said, in her deepest tones, "why have you tricked, +deceived me?"</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly, as if influenced by a peculiar expression in Kitty's +eyes, an expression which conveyed a kind of warning, her ladyship +faltered, opened her lips once or twice, then said, in quite a different +tone, indeed, almost meekly:</p> + +<p>"This—this is quite a surprise. You will forgive me if I am a little +upset. I think I ought to have been prepared. However, as you young +people have taken the matter into your own hands——"</p> + +<p>"Just what we have done, haven't we, Kitty?" exclaimed her +lover, as if he were proclaiming the supernal wisdom of his relative.</p> + +<p>"—there is no more to be said," concluded Lady Hawborough +rather lamely. "At least, I should like to have a word or two with +Miss—Miss Thorold—I mean, Kitty——"</p> + +<p>"Outside, Eliza!" cried Harry, otherwise Archibald, joyously, as, +catching the bewildered Mr. Thorold by the arm, he walked, almost +danced, him out.</p> + +<p>Kitty did not wait for any question.</p> + +<p>"You see," she said, explaining the significance of her warning +look, "it was just as well not to tell these foolish men everything. +It might happen that if Harry—I mean Archibald—knew that you +had meant to insist upon his marrying me—well, men get huffy so +quickly, don't they?—he might refuse to do so now."</p> + +<p>"Well, he might, but I don't think it's very likely, my dear," said +Lady Hawborough; and she patted the little hand that lay on her +knee. "But I think you are right. We will not say anything about—yesterday. +You're a clever little thing," she added, kissing her.</p> + +<p>"Can we come in?" demanded Harry, a few minutes later. +"Aunt, we're all going up to the Floriani to get some lunch. Come +with us, like a good soul!"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The—Flo—Floriani! <i>What</i> is it?" asked her ladyship fearsomely.</p> + +<p>"It's a restaurant in Soho, where you get a thorough blow-out—I +mean a Continental lunch—for one-and-nine," her nephew informed +her. "Come on, Aunt Philippa!"</p> + +<p>Lady Hawborough shuddered. "I should be delighted, Archibald +dear, but—but I think you'd better all go round to Belgrave Square with +me. It—it would be safer."</p> + +<p>It was after lunch, when the two young and silly lovers were in +the very ante-room where Kitty had overheard Lady Hawborough's fell +designs, that Kitty, holding his head back from her for a moment, asked:</p> + +<p>"But why does she call you Archibald?"</p> + +<p>"Because it's my name, or one of 'em," he replied. "Harry +Archibald Stephen Fitzwilliam——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, stop, stop! I shall feel as if I were marrying half a dozen +men. But you haven't told me <i>why</i> she calls you Archibald; and has +thus caused all this confusion!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, because a lawyer chap who bolted +with a lot of her money was called +Henry; and, moreover, a bishop we've +got in the family, and a chap my aunt's very +proud of, is called Archibald."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 161px;"> +<img src="images/i_072.png" width="161" height="400" alt="united couple" /> +</div> + +<p>"She'll have to drop that name, +Harry," said Kitty firmly. "I can't <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'abear'">bear</ins> +it. Do you think she will?"</p> + +<p>"I'm perfectly certain she will, if +you've made up your mind she shall," he returned, +with an air of profound conviction; +"for it's plain to me you've captured the +aunt as well as the nephew. Yes, it's a +fair cop." "She's a dear," murmured +Kitty, very close to his ear.</p> +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Copyright in Great Britain, the Colonies, and the United States of America by Charles Garvice, +1914. Dramatic and other rights reserved.</p></div></div> + +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> + + + +<h2>THE LAND OF LET'SPRETEND</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY LADY SYBIL GRANT<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> ARTHUR RACKHAM, R.W.S.</span><br /> +<br /></div> + +<h3>I.—LET'SPRETEND</h3> + +<div class='poem'> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">This</span> country is not on the map,<br /> +But sometimes, curled on Mother's lap,<br /> +Or sitting in my bedtime bath,<br /> +I wish that I could find the path.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">There</span> no one's ever called a dunce,<br /> +And you eat jam and cake at once,<br /> +Or chocolate and lemon squash,<br /> +While nobody need ever wash.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">Mothers</span> have nothing else to do<br /> +Except to kiss and cuddle you;<br /> +And fathers need not "earn their bread,"<br /> +But stay and romp with you instead.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">There</span> are no girls: just men and boys<br /> +And mothers; <i>all</i> the shops sell toys;<br /> +Just <i>every one</i> plays Hide and Seek,<br /> +And Christmas happens twice a week.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">While</span> everybody has a car,<br /> +Also a yacht, like Grandpapa,<br /> +And lives in wigwams, tents, or huts,<br /> +And owns a knife that really cuts.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">But</span> some things you can never find,<br /> +However tired you make your mind;<br /> +Like other things you never know<br /> +For sure—if you try ever so.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">Just</span> as: how God turns on the rain,<br /> +So nobody can quite explain<br /> +Exactly where the rainbows end.<br /> +And so it is with Let'spretend.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">My</span> Father says that all his life<br /> +With my Mamma (who is his wife)<br /> +They've looked; and they are <i>very</i> old.<br /> +My father's thirty, I've been told!<br /></div> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 402px;"> +<img src="images/i_074.png" width="402" height="400" alt="" /> + +<div class='poem'> +"And they are <i>very</i> old.<br /> +My father's thirty, I've been told!"<br /> +</div> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p> + + +<h3><br />II.—SUPPOSING</h3> + +<div class='poem'> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">Supposing</span> one had been<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shut up in Noah's Ark</span><br /> +(During the flood, I mean)—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It would have been a lark!</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">The</span> animals, you know,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were not as they are now;</span><br /> +<i>Quite</i> different long ago—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just see this purple cow!</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">The</span> lion, it seems, was pink,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The bears and tigers too,</span><br /> +While zebras had, I <i>think</i>,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Most lovely stripes of blue.</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">But</span> really, I forget,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For now the stripes are faint,</span><br /> +In my own Noah's Ark set<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I once licked off the paint.</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">At</span> least, so I am told<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(A stupid thing to do!</span><br /> +But I was not so old<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then—only half-past two).</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">Noah's</span> sons—just look at Ham,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Japhet, of course, and Shem!</span><br /> +I think I really am<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glad I don't look like them!</span><br /><br /></div> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_075.png" width="500" height="347" alt="Shem, Ham and Japheth" /> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> + +<div class='poem'><br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">They</span> all stand on green rings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of grass. Perhaps at night</span><br /> +The cows and sheep and things<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Prowled round to steal a bite.</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">Horrid</span> for Shem to feel<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tickling around his toes,</span><br /> +Hoping to snatch a meal,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Two hungry buffaloes!</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">But</span> think what lovely pets<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Noah had all for his own;</span><br /> +Each one in double sets,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And mostly quite unknown.</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">Even</span> a tame baboon!—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">See, he is painted red—</span><br /> +Would get to know you soon<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sleep upon your bed.</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">The</span> kangaroo that jumps,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Camels that learn to kneel</span><br /> +And let you ride their bumps,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or follow you to heel.</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">The</span> pets that I keep now<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are guinea-pigs and such;</span><br /> +My parents won't allow<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The ones I want so much.</span><br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'>A baby crocodile<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or <i>really</i> tame giraffe,</span><br /> +I wonder why you smile;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They, too, say "no" and laugh.</span><br /></div> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 173px;"> +<img src="images/i_076.png" width="173" height="400" alt="Noah" /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">I would</span> have loved it so<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To travel in the Ark,</span><br /> +With all the Zoo, you know—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Except when it was dark!</span><br /> <br /><br /> +</div></div> + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 418px;"> +<img src="images/i_077.jpg" width="418" height="600" alt="Rainbow painting" /> +</div> +<p> <br /></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 373px;"> +<img src="images/i_079.png" width="373" height="500" alt="Rain falling and animals" /> + + +<div class='poem'> +"The animals, you know,<br /> +Were not as they are now"<br /> +</div> +<br /><br /><br /></div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a><br /><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>III.—WHEN JIM IS QUITE GROWN UP</h3> + +<div class='poem'> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">When</span> Jim is quite grown up,<br /> +And has a bulldog pup,<br /> +And sits up very late<br /> +<i>Always</i> till half-past eight,<br /> +Then, when he is a man,<br /> +He means to marry Ann.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">Her</span> age is twenty-two,<br /> +But he <i>thinks</i> she will do;<br /> +He has not told her yet,<br /> +Or she might be upset<br /> +At having got to wait<br /> +Until this distant date.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">The</span> life that he will lead<br /> +Sounds very fine indeed:<br /> +Adventures, wounds, and fights,<br /> +And hunting raids of nights;<br /> +Murders and blug and fun<br /> +With sword and axe and gun.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">Airships</span> and hydroplanes,<br /> +Mustangs and prairie flames!<br /> +Deserts and jungles vast,<br /> +And, when quite tired at last<br /> +With being on the roam,<br /> +Of course, he would come home.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">And</span>, after miles of tramp,<br /> +Reel, wounded, into camp,<br /> +Bound with a handkerchief,<br /> +And munching bully-beef;<br /> +While Ann at the camp fire<br /> +Would listen and admire.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">What</span> fun he will have, too!<br /> +Nothing he will not do.<br /> +He often says to me<br /> +(Excepting the V.C.)<br /> +Medals he would decline—<br /> +They are not in his line.<br /></div> +<br /> +<div class='cap'><span class="smcap">But</span> he would soar to fame<br /> +And win a glorious name.<br /> +And Ann? How odd you are!<br /> +Why, just like his Mamma,<br /> +Would sit at home and sew,<br /> +Like women do, you know.<br /></div> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i_080.png" width="400" height="346" alt="Saying no" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>MAGEPA THE BUCK</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY H. RIDER HAGGARD<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> J. BYAM SHAW, A.R.W.S.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Copyright in the U.S.A. by H. Rider Haggard</i></span></div> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 182px;"> +<img src="images/i_081.png" width="182" height="250" alt="Baby" /> +</div> + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">In</span> a preface to the story of the early life of +the late Allan Quatermain, known in Africa +as Macumazahn, which has recently been +published under the name of "Marie," Mr. +Curtis, the brother of Sir Henry Curtis, tells +of how he found a number of manuscripts +that were left by Mr. Quatermain in his house +in Yorkshire. Of these "Marie" was one, but +in addition to it and sundry other completed +stories, I, the Editor to whom it was directed that these manuscripts +should be handed for publication, have found a quantity of unclassified +notes and papers.</div> + +<p>One of these notes—it is contained in a book, much soiled and worn, +that evidently its owner had carried about with him for years—reminds +me of a conversation I had with Mr. Quatermain long ago when I was +his guest in Yorkshire. The note itself is short; I think that he must +have jotted it down within an hour or two of the event to which it refers. +It runs thus:</p> + +<p>"I wonder whether in the 'Land Beyond' any recognition is +granted for acts of great courage and unselfish devotion—a kind of +spiritual Victoria Cross. If so I think it ought to be accorded to that +poor old savage, Magepa, at least it would be if I had any voice in the +matter. Upon my word he has made me feel proud of humanity. +And yet he was nothing but a 'nigger,' as so many call the Kaffirs."</p> + +<p>For a while I, the Editor, wondered to what this entry could allude. +Then of a sudden it all came back to me. I saw myself, as a young +man, seated in the hall of Quatermain's house one evening after dinner. +With me were Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good. We were smoking, +and the conversation had turned upon deeds of heroism. Each of us +detailed such acts as he could remember which had made the most +impression on him. When we had finished, old Allan said:</p> + +<p>"With your leave I'll tell you a story of what I think was one of +the bravest things I ever saw. It happened at the beginning of the +Zulu war, when the troops were marching into Zululand. Now at that +time, as you know, I was turning an honest penny transport-riding for +Government, or rather for the military authorities. I hired them three +wagons with the necessary voorloopers and drivers, sixteen good salted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +oxen to each wagon, and myself in charge of the lot. They paid me—well, +never mind how much—I am rather ashamed to mention the +amount. I asked a good price for my wagons, or rather for the hire +of them, of a very well satisfied young gentleman in uniform who had +been exactly three weeks in the country, and, to my surprise, got it. +But when I went to those in command and warned them what would +happen if they persisted in their way of advance, then in their pride +they would not listen to the old hunter and transport-rider, but politely +bowed me out. If they had, there would have been no Isandhlwana +disaster."</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 129px;"> +<img src="images/i_082.png" width="129" height="200" alt="man" /> +</div> + +<p>He brooded awhile, for, as I knew, this was a sore subject with +him, one of which he would rarely talk. Although he escaped himself, +Quatermain had lost friends on that fatal field. He went on:</p> + +<p>To return to old Magepa. I had known him for many years. The +first time we met was in the battle of the Tugela. I was fighting for +the king's son, Umbelazi the Handsome, in the ranks of the Amawombe +regiment—I mean to write all that story, for it should not be lost.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> +Well, as I have told you before, the Amawombe were wiped out; of +the three thousand or so of them I think only about fifty remained +alive after they had annihilated the three of Cetewayo's regiments that +set upon them. But Magepa was one who survived.</p> + +<p>I met him afterwards at old King Panda's kraal and recognised +him as having fought by my side. Whilst I was talking with him the +Prince Cetewayo came by; to me he was civil enough, for he knew +how I chanced to be in the battle, but he glared at Magepa, and said:</p> + +<p>"Why, Macumazahn, is not this man one of the dogs with which +you tried to bite me by the Tugela not long ago? He must be a +cunning dog also, one who can run fast, for how comes it that he lives +to snarl when so many will never bark again? <i>Ow!</i> if I had my way +I would find a strip of hide to fit his neck."</p> + +<p>"Not so," I answered; "he has the king's peace and he is a brave +man—braver than I am, anyway, Prince, seeing that I ran from the +ranks of the Amawombe, while he stood where he was."</p> + +<p>"You mean that your horse ran, Macumazahn. Well, since you +like this dog, I will not hurt him"; and with a shrug he went his +way.</p> + +<p>"Yet soon or late he will hurt me," said Magepa, when the Prince +had gone. "U'Cetewayo has a memory long as the shadow thrown by +a tree at sunset. Moreover, as he knows well, it is true that I ran, +Macumazahn, though not till all was finished and I could do no more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +by standing still. You remember how, after we had eaten up the first +of Cetewayo's regiments, the second charged us and we ate that up +also. Well, in that fight I got a tap on the head from a kerry. It +struck me on my man's ring which I had just put on, for I think I was +the youngest soldier in that regiment of veterans. The ring saved me; +still, for a while I lost my mind and lay like one dead. When I found +it again the fight was over and Cetewayo's people were searching for our +wounded that they might kill them. Presently they found me and saw +that there was no hurt on me.</p> + +<p>"'Here is one who shams dead like a stink-cat,' said a big fellow, +lifting his spear.</p> + +<p>"Then it was that I sprang up and ran, I who was but just married +and desired to live. He struck at me, but I jumped over the spear, and +the others that they threw missed me. Then they began to hunt me, +but, Macumazahn, I, who am named 'The Buck' because I am swifter +of foot than any man in Zululand, outpaced them all and got +away safe."</p> + +<p>"Well done, Magepa," I said. "Still, remember the saying of +your people, 'At last the strong swimmer goes with the stream and +the swift runner is run down.'"</p> + +<p>"I know it, Macumazahn," he answered, with a nod, "and perhaps +in a day to come I shall know it better."</p> + +<p>I took little heed of his words at the time, but more than thirty +years afterwards I remembered them.</p> + +<p>Such was my first acquaintance with Magepa. Now, friends, I will +tell you how it was renewed at the time of the Zulu war.</p> + +<p>As you know, I was attached to the centre column that advanced +into Zululand by Rorke's Drift on the Buffalo River. Before war was +declared, or at any rate before the advance began, while it might have +been and many thought it would be averted, I was employed transport-riding +goods to the little Rorke's Drift station, that which became so +famous afterwards, and incidentally in collecting what information I +could of Cetewayo's intentions. Hearing that there was a kraal a mile +or so the other side of the river, of which the people were said to be +very friendly to the English, I determined to visit it. You may think +this was rash, but I was so well known in Zululand, where for many +years, by special leave of the king, I was allowed to go whither I would +quite unmolested, that I felt no fear for myself so long as I went alone.</p> + +<p>Accordingly one evening I crossed the drift and headed for a kloof +in which I was told the kraal stood. Ten minutes' ride brought me in +sight of it. It was not a large kraal; there may have been six or eight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +huts and a cattle enclosure surrounded by the usual fence. The situation, +however, was very pretty, a knoll of rising ground backed by the wooded +slopes of the kloof. As I approached I saw women and children running +to the kraal to hide, and when I reached the gateway for some time no +one would come out to meet me. At length a small boy appeared who +informed me that the kraal was "empty as a gourd."</p> + +<p>"Quite so," I answered; "still, go and tell the headman that +Macumazahn wishes to speak with him."</p> + +<p>The boy departed, and presently I saw a face that seemed familiar +to me peeping round the gateway. After a careful inspection its owner +emerged.</p> + +<p>He was a tall, thin man of indefinite age, perhaps between sixty +and seventy, with a finely-cut face, a little grey beard, kind eyes and +very well shaped hands and feet, the fingers, which twitched incessantly, +being remarkably long.</p> + +<p>"Greeting, Macumazahn," he said. "I see you do not remember +me. Well, think of the battle of the Tugela, and of the last stand of +the Amawombe, and of a certain talk at the kraal of our Father-who-is-dead" +(that is, King Panda), "and of how he who sits in his place" +(he meant Cetewayo) "told you that if he had his way he would find a +hide rope to fit the neck of a certain one."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" I said, "I know you now; you are Magepa the Buck. So +the Runner has not yet been run down."</p> + +<p>"No, Macumazahn, not yet; but there is still time. I think that +many swift feet will be at work ere long."</p> + +<p>"How have you prospered?" I asked him.</p> + +<p>"Well enough, Macumazahn, in all ways except one. I have +three wives, but my children have been few and are dead, except one +daughter, who is married and lives with me, for her husband, too, is +dead. He was killed by a buffalo, and she has not yet married again. +But enter and see."</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 182px;"> +<img src="images/i_081.png" width="182" height="250" alt="Baby" /> +</div> + + +<p>So I went in and saw Magepa's wives, old women all of them. +Also, at his bidding, his daughter, whose name was Gita, brought me +some <i>maas</i>, or curdled milk, to drink. She was a well-formed woman, +very like her father, but sad-faced, perhaps with a prescience of evil +to come. Clinging to her finger was a beautiful boy of something +under two years of age, who, when he saw Magepa, ran to him and +threw his little arms about his legs. The old man lifted the child and +kissed him tenderly, saying:</p> + +<p>"It is well that this toddler and I should love one another, +Macumazahn, seeing that he is the last of my race. All the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +children here are those of the people who have come to live in my +shadow."</p> + +<p>"Where are their fathers?" I asked, patting the little boy (who, +his mother told me, was named Sinala) upon the cheek, an attention +that he resented.</p> + +<p>"They have been called away on duty," answered Magepa shortly; +and I changed the subject.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 129px;"> +<img src="images/i_082.png" width="129" height="200" alt="man" /> +</div> + +<p>Then we began to talk about old times, and I asked him if he +had any oxen to sell, saying that this was my reason for visiting his +kraal.</p> + +<p>"Nay, Macumazahn," he answered, in a meaning voice. "This year +all the cattle are the king's."</p> + +<p>I nodded and replied that, as it was so, I had better be going; +whereon, as I half expected, Magepa announced that he would see me +safe to the drift. So I bade farewell to the wives and the widowed +daughter, and we started.</p> + +<p>As soon as we were clear of the kraal Magepa began to open his +heart to me.</p> + +<p>"Macumazahn," he said, looking up at me earnestly, for I was +mounted and he walked beside my horse, "there is to be war. +Cetewayo will not consent to the demands of the great White Chief +from the Cape"—he meant Sir Bartle Frere. "He will fight with the +English; only he will let them begin the fighting. He will draw them +on into Zululand and then overwhelm them with his <i>impis</i> and stamp +them flat, and eat them up; and I, who love the English, am very +sorry. Yes, it makes my heart bleed. If it were the Boers now, +I should be glad, for we Zulus hate the Boers; but the English we do +not hate; even Cetewayo likes them; still he will eat them up if +they attack him."</p> + +<p>"Indeed," I answered; and then, as in duty bound, I proceeded to +get what I could out of him, and that was not a little. Of course, +however, I did not swallow it all, since I suspected that Magepa was +feeding me with news that he had been ordered to disseminate.</p> + +<p>Presently we came to the mouth of the kloof in which the kraal +stood, and here, for greater convenience of conversation, we halted, for I +thought it as well that we should not be seen in close talk on the open +plain beyond. The path here, I should add, ran past a clump of green +bushes; I remember they bore a white flower that smelt sweet, and +were backed by some tall grass, elephant-grass I think it was, among +which grew mimosa trees.</p> + +<p>"Magepa," I said, "if in truth there is to be fighting, why don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +you move over the river one night with your people and cattle, and get +into Natal?"</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 182px;"> +<img src="images/i_081.png" width="182" height="250" alt="Baby" /> +</div> + + +<p>"I would if I could, Macumazahn, who have no stomach for this +war against the English. But there I should not be safe, since presently +the king will come into Natal too, or send thirty thousand assegais +as his messengers. Then what will happen to those who have left +him?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, if you think that," I answered, "you had better stay where +you are."</p> + +<p>"Also, Macumazahn, the husbands of those women at my kraal +have been called up to their regiments, and if their wives fled to +the English they would be killed. Again, the king has sent for nearly +all our cattle, 'to keep it safe.' He fears lest we Border Zulus might +join our people in Natal, and that is why he is keeping our cattle +'safe.'"</p> + +<p>"Life is more than cattle, Magepa. At least you might come."</p> + +<p>"What! And leave my people to be killed? Macumazahn, you +did not use to talk so. Still, hearken. Macumazahn, will you do me a +service? I will pay you well for it. I would get my daughter Gita +and my little grandson Sinala into safety. If I and my wives are wiped +out it does not matter, for we are old. But her I would save, and the +boy I would save, so that one may live who will remember my name. +Now, if I were to send them across the drift, say at the dawn, not +to-morrow, and not the next day, but the day after, would you receive +them into your wagon and deliver them safe to some place in Natal? +I have money hidden, fifty pieces of gold, and you may take half of +these and also half of the cattle if ever I live to get them back out of +the keeping of the king."</p> + +<p>"Never mind about the money, and we will speak of the cattle +afterwards," I said. "I understand that you wish to send your daughter +and your little grandson out of danger, and I think you wise, very +wise. When once the advance begins, if there is an advance, who +knows what may happen? War is a rough game, Magepa. It is not +the custom of you black people to spare women and children, and +there will be Zulus fighting on our side as well as on yours; do you +understand?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Ow!</i> I understand, Macumazahn. I have known the face of war +and seen many a little one like my grandson Sinala assegaied upon his +mother's back."</p> + +<p>"Very good. But if I do this for you, you must do something for +me. Say, Magepa, does Cetewayo <i>really</i> mean to fight, and if so, how?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +Oh yes, I know all you have been telling me, but I want not words, but +truth from the heart."</p> + +<p>"You ask secrets," said the old fellow, peering about him into the +gathering gloom. "Still, 'a spear for a spear and a shield for a shield,' as +our saying runs. I have spoken no lie. The king <i>does</i> mean to fight, +not because he wants to, but because the regiments swear that they will +wash their assegais, they who have never seen blood since that battle +of the Tugela in which we two played a part; and if he will not suffer it, +well, there are more of his race! Also he means to fight thus," and he +gave me some very useful information; that is, information which would +have been useful if those in authority had deigned to pay any attention +to it when I passed it on.</p> + +<p>Just as he finished speaking I thought that I heard a sound in the +dense green bush behind us. It reminded me of the noise a man makes +when he tries to stifle a cough, and frightened me. For if we had been +overheard by a spy, Magepa was as good as dead, and the sooner I was +across the river the better.</p> + +<p>"What's that?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"A bush buck, Macumazahn. There are lots of them about here."</p> + +<p>Not being satisfied, though it is true that buck do cough like this, +I turned my horse to the bush, seeking an opening. Thereon something +crashed away and vanished into the long grass. In those shadows, of +course, I could not see what it was, but such light as remained glinted +on what might have been the polished tip of the horn of an antelope or—an +assegai.</p> + +<p>"I told you it was a buck, Macumazahn," said Magepa. "Still, if +you smell danger, let us come away from the bush, though the orders +are that no white man is to be touched as yet."</p> + +<p>Then, while we walked on towards the ford, he set out with great +detail, as Kaffirs do, the exact arrangements that he proposed to make +for the handing over of his daughter and her child into my care. I +remember that I asked him why he would not send her on the following +morning, instead of two mornings later. He answered because he +expected an outpost of scouts from one of the regiments at his kraal +that night, who would probably remain there over the morrow and +perhaps longer. While they were in the place it would be difficult for +him to send away Gita and her son without exciting suspicion.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 129px;"> +<img src="images/i_082.png" width="129" height="200" alt="man" /> +</div> + +<p>Near the drift we parted, and I returned to our provisional camp +and wrote a beautiful report of all that I had learned, of which report, I +may add, no one took the slightest notice.</p> + +<p>I think it was the morning before that whereon I had arranged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +to meet Gita and the little boy at the drift that just about dawn I +went down to the river for a wash. Having taken my dip I climbed +on to a flat rock to dress myself, and looked at the billows of beautiful, +pearly mist which hid the face of the water, and considered—I +almost said listened to—the great silence, for as yet no live thing +was stirring.</p> + +<p>Ah! if I had known of the hideous sights and sounds that were +destined to be heard ere long in this same haunt of perfect peace! Indeed, +at that moment there came a kind of hint or premonition of them, +since suddenly through the utter quiet broke the blood-curdling wail +of a woman. It was followed by other wails and shouts, distant and +yet distinct. Then the silence fell again.</p> + +<p>Now, thought I to myself, that noise might very well have come +from old Magepa's kraal; luckily, however, sounds are deceptive in +mist.</p> + +<p>Well, the end of it was that I waited there till the sun rose. +The first thing on which its bright beams struck was a mighty column +of smoke rising to heaven from where Magepa's kraal had stood!</p> + +<p>I went back to my wagons very sad, so sad that I could scarcely +eat my breakfast. While I walked I wondered hard whether the light +had glinted upon the tip of a buck's horn in that patch of green bush +with the sweet-smelling white flowers a night or two ago. Or had +it perchance fallen upon the point of the assegai of some spy who +was watching my movements! In that event yonder column of smoke +and the horrible cries which preceded it were easy to explain. For had +not Magepa and I talked secrets together, and in Zulu.</p> + +<p>On the following morning at the dawn I attended at the drift in +the faint hope that Gita and her boy might arrive there as arranged. +But nobody came, which was not wonderful, seeing that Gita lay dead, +stabbed through and through, as I saw afterwards (she made a good +fight for the child), and that her spirit had gone to wherever go the +souls of the brave-hearted, be they white or black. Only on the farther +bank of the river I saw some Zulu scouts who seemed to know my +errand, for they called to me, asking mockingly where was the pretty +woman I had come to meet?</p> + +<p>After that I tried to put the matter out of my head, which indeed +was full enough of other things, since now definite orders had arrived +as to the advance, and with these many troops and officers.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 386px;"> +<img src="images/i_089.png" width="386" height="500" alt="soldier, man and baby" /> +<span class="caption">"Then he lifted himself upon one arm, and +with the other saluted"</span> +</div> + +<p>It was just then that the Zulus began to fire across the river at +such of our people as they saw upon the bank. At these they took +aim, and, as a result, hit nobody. A raw Kaffir with a rifle, in my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +experience, is only dangerous when he aims at nothing, for then the +bullet looks after itself, and may catch you. To put a stop to this +nuisance a regiment of the friendly natives—there may have been +several hundred of them—was directed to cross the river and clear +the kloofs and rocks of the Zulu skirmishers who were hidden among +them. I watched them go off in fine style.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 129px;"> +<img src="images/i_082.png" width="129" height="200" alt="man" /> +</div> + +<p>Towards evening some one told me that our <i>impi</i>, as he grandiloquently +called it, was returning victorious. Having at the moment +nothing else to do, I walked down to the river at a point where the +water was deep and the banks were high. Here I climbed to the top +of a pile of boulders, whence with my field-glasses I could sweep a great +extent of plain which stretched away on the Zululand side till at length +it merged into hills and bush.</p> + +<p>Presently I saw some of our natives marching homewards in a +scattered and disorganised fashion, but evidently very proud of themselves, +for they were waving their assegais and singing scraps of war-songs. +A few minutes later, a mile or more away, I caught sight of a +man running.</p> + +<p>Watching him through the glasses I noted three things: first, +that he was tall; secondly, that he ran with extraordinary swiftness; +and, thirdly, that he had something tied upon his back. It was +evident, further, that he had good reason to run, since he was being +hunted by a number of our Kaffirs, of whom more and more continually +joined in the chase. From every side they poured down upon him, +trying to cut him off and kill him, for as they got nearer I could see +the assegais which they threw at him flash in the sunlight.</p> + +<p>Very soon I understood that the man was running with a definite +object and to a definite point; he was trying to reach the river. I +thought the sight very pitiful, this one poor creature being hunted to +death by so many. Also I wondered why he did not free himself from +the bundle on his back, and came to the conclusion that he must be +a witch-doctor, and that the bundle contained his precious charms or +medicines.</p> + +<p>This was while he was yet a long way off, but when he came +nearer, within three or four hundred yards, of a sudden I caught the +outline of his face against a good background, and knew it for that of +Magepa.</p> + +<p>"My God!" I said to myself, "it is old Magepa the Buck, and the +bundle in the mat will be his grandson, Sinala!"</p> + +<p>Yes, even then I felt certain that he was carrying the child upon +his back.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>What was I to do? It was impossible for me to cross the river at +that place, and long before I could get round by the ford all would be +finished. I stood up on my rock and shouted to those brutes of Kaffirs +to let the man alone. They were so excited that they did not hear +my words; at least, they swore afterwards that they thought I was +encouraging them to hunt him down.</p> + +<p>But Magepa heard me. At that moment he seemed to be failing, +but the sight of me appeared to give him fresh strength. He gathered +himself together and leapt forward at a really surprising speed. Now +the river was not more than three hundred yards away from him, and +for the first two hundred of these he quite outdistanced his pursuers, +although they were most of them young men and comparatively fresh. +Then once more his strength began to fail.</p> + +<p>Watching through the glasses I could see that his mouth was wide +open, and that there was red foam upon his lips. The burden on his +back was dragging him down. Once he lifted his hands as though to +loose it; then with a wild gesture let them fall again.</p> + +<p>Two of the pursuers who had outpaced the others crept up to +him—lank, lean men of not more than thirty years of age. They had +stabbing spears in their hands, such as are used at close +quarters, and these of course they did not throw. One of +them gained a little on the other.</p> + +<p>Now Magepa was not more than fifty yards from +the bank, with the first hunter about ten paces behind +him and coming up rapidly. Magepa glanced over his +shoulder and saw, then put out his last strength. For +forty yards he went like an arrow, running straight away +from his pursuers, until he was within a few feet of the +bank, when he stumbled and fell.</p> + +<p>"He's done," I said, and, upon my word, if I had +a rifle in my hand I think I would have stopped one or +both of those bloodhounds and taken the consequences.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 412px;"> +<img src="images/i_091.png" width="412" height="450" alt="fire" /> +</div> + +<p>But, no! Just as the first man lifted his broad spear +to stab him through +the back on which the +bundle lay, Magepa +leapt up and wheeled +round to take the thrust +in his chest. Evidently +he did not wish to be +speared in the back—for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +a certain reason. He took it sure enough, for the assegai was +wrenched out of the hand of the striker. Still, as he was reeling backwards, +it did not go through Magepa, or perhaps it hit a bone. He +drew out the spear and threw it at the man, wounding him. Then he +staggered on, back and back, to the edge of the little cliff.</p> + +<p>It was reached at last. With a cry of "Help me, Macumazahn!" +Magepa turned, and before the other man could spear him, leapt straight +into deep water. He rose. Yes, the brave old fellow rose and struck +out for the other bank, leaving a little line of red behind him.</p> + +<p>I rushed, or rather sprang and rolled down to the edge of the +stream, to where a point of shingle ran out into the water. Along this +I clambered, and beyond it up to my middle. Now Magepa was +being swept past me. I caught his outstretched hand and pulled him +ashore.</p> + +<p>"The boy!" he gasped; "the boy! Is he dead?"</p> + +<p>I severed the lashings of the mat that had cut right into the old +fellow's shoulders. Inside of it was little Sinala, spluttering out water, +but very evidently alive and unhurt, for presently he set up a yell.</p> + +<p>"No," I said, "he lives, and will live."</p> + +<p>"Then all is well, Macumazahn." (<i>A pause.</i>) "It <i>was</i> a spy in +the bush, not a buck. He overheard our talk. The king's slayers +came. Gita held the door of the hut while I took the child, cut a hole +through the straw with my assegai, and crept out at the back. She was +full of spears before she died, but I got away with the boy. Till your +Kaffirs found me I lay hid in the bush, hoping to escape to Natal. Then +I ran for the river, and saw you on the further bank. <i>I</i> might have got +away, but that child is heavy." (<i>A pause.</i>) "Give him food, Macumazahn, +he must be hungry," (<i>A pause.</i>) "Farewell. That was a +good saying of yours—the swift runner is outrun at last. Ah! yet I +did not run in vain." (<i>Another pause, the last.</i>) Then he lifted himself +upon one arm and with the other saluted, first the boy Sinala and next +me, muttering, "Remember your promise, Macumazahn."</p> + +<div class='center'>* * * * * * *</div> + + +<p>"That is how Magepa the Buck died. I never saw any one carrying +weight who could run quite so well as he," and Quatermain turned his +head away as though the memory of this incident affected him somewhat.</p> + +<p>"What became of the child Sinala?" I asked presently.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I sent him to an institution in Natal, and afterwards was +able to get some of his property back for him. I believe that he is +being trained as an interpreter."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 138px;"> +<img src="images/i_092.png" width="138" height="200" alt="boy reading" /> +</div> +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> For this story see the book named "Child of Storm," by H. Rider Haggard.</p></div></div> + +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_093a.png" width="500" height="102" alt="Decoration" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2>TRUE SPARTAN HEARTS</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY<br /> + +BEATRICE HARRADEN<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting and Decorations by</i> EDMUND DULAC</span></div> + + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 102px;"> +<img src="images/i_093b.png" width="102" height="125" alt="" /> +</div><div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">n</span> times of war the Spartan women used to say to their +husbands and sons, "Return with your shield, or on +it," meaning that they must either conquer or die. +There was no affection or indulgence shown towards +the warriors who survived a defeat; for loyalty to the +State was thought of more account than personal loss, +and he who had not died striking his last blow for +Sparta, was deemed unworthy of remembrance, and +could expect no mercy from those who had loved him and sent him to +the battlefield "to conquer or die."</div> + +<p>So this was how the Spartans felt about their warriors; and you +can imagine their indignation as well as their dismay when, in the year +371 <span class="smcap">b.c.</span>, news reached Sparta that their army had been defeated at the +battle of Leuctra by the Bœotians, a rival Grecian State, and that three +hundred men had saved their lives in flight. The news was brought at +the moment when some great festival was being celebrated in the city. +The <i>Ephors</i> commanded the names of the slain to be made known to +their relatives, and the women were forbidden to mourn. But the +mother of Eucrates could not at first hide her grief, and her neighbours +said among themselves:</p> + +<p>"Why should she be sorrowful? Her son has died bravely. If +he had disgraced himself by flight, then only would she have the right +to mourn."</p> + +<p>The old man Phidon came in to see her, and found her spinning, +busily engaged at her work, it is true, but with tears in her saddened +eyes. He was a very stern old man, a Spartan every inch of him, and +he spoke harshly to poor Ione.</p> + +<p>"Ione," he said, "not one single tear should course down your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +cheeks, not one single pang of grief should assail your heart. I it is +who should weep. I it is who should mourn. For Callias, my grandson, +is not amongst the slain. Unlike your brave son Eucrates, my Callias +has not died at his post of duty. He lives, and by living he has brought +dishonour and shame on his family. How can I meet him? What +can I say to him? Nay, I will not look upon his face. I will not +vouchsafe one word of greeting to him. His father was the glory of +my life, but he is the soul of its shame. The gods have been cruel to +me in my old age; but they have been merciful to you, Ione. For +your son, death with honour. For my Callias, life with dishonour. His +father won the crown of wild olive in the Olympic games, and earned +the right of fighting by the king's side, and died there; and I was proud +of him. But woe is me that I cannot be proud of Callias."</p> + +<p>And, Spartan mother as she truly was, Ione knew well that here +was a grief far greater than her own loss of her beloved son. She +brushed her last tear aside, and tried to comfort old Phidon, whom +she had known all her life. Her son Eucrates and this very Callias had +been friends together ever since they were children; and in the days +gone by, Phidon and Ione's father had fought side by side for Sparta.</p> + +<p>"May be, Phidon," she said, "the gods have spared Callias and +his comrades, so that they may yet serve Sparta, and help her to +triumph over her enemies."</p> + +<p>But he shook his head, and would hear no word of comfort, though, +as the days went by, it seemed to ease his stern spirit to sit beside her, +and watch her at her work. And then she would speak to him of +Callias, and urge him not to be over hard on the lad when he returned.</p> + +<p>"You must pardon him, Phidon," she said. "Perchance he will +live to do great things for Sparta."</p> + +<p>But the old man said proudly: "Nay, Ione, never a word will I +speak to Callias again."</p> + +<p>And it was in vain that Ione pleaded for the friend of Eucrates, +always imploring the old man to believe that the gods in their wisdom +had preserved Callias for some splendid act of service and sacrifice yet +to come.</p> + +<p>Full of these thoughts, and haunted by Phidon's unyielding +severity, she had a strange dream one night. She dreamed that King +Agesilaus was willing to pardon all those three hundred soldiers who +had fled from the field of Leuctra; but that Phidon interposed, and +standing in the Public Assembly, gave his vote against the pardon.</p> + +<p>"My own grandson is one of the survivors," he cried. "Sparta +may pardon him, but <i>I</i> never will."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 495px;"> +<img src="images/i_095.jpg" width="495" height="600" alt="True Spartan Hearts Painted for Princess Mary's Gift Book +by Edmund Dulac" /> +</div> + +<p>The next day she told her dream to Phidon, and described to him +how with her mind's eye she had seen Callias standing lonely and +forsaken, the only one of the three hundred survivors who had been +spurned and unforgiven. His loneliness stabbed her to her heart, +more even than the loss of her son; and because there was no one else, +she had been impelled to stand by his side, to greet him, to encourage +him, to reassure him. And just as he lifted his head, bowed in grief and +shame, she awoke. When Phidon had heard her dream-story, his stern +heart was softened.</p> + +<p>"I will not turn from Callias," he said. "It may be that you are +right, Ione. It may be that the gods will yet give him some great and +glorious chance. I will steel my heart to receive him."</p> + +<p>So Ione triumphed at last. And truly her dream would seem to +have been some kind of divination, for, two or three days afterwards, +a decree was proposed by the king, and passed in the Assembly, to the +effect that all those who had fled from the field of Leuctra were +to be pardoned and received home without dishonour.</p> + +<p>Ordinarily all survivors of a defeat were subject to penalties of +civil offence, and so this was quite an unusual proceeding; but no +doubt it was thought dangerous to take stern measures against such +a large number of Spartan citizens. Well, whatever the reason was, +there were many glad hearts in Sparta that day, and old Phidon himself +owned in secret to Ione that he longed to see Callias once more.</p> + +<p>"For I must needs forgive him wholeheartedly," he said, "since +Sparta has forgiven him; but with my last breath I would tell you +and all the world that I would far, far rather he had fallen by the side +of the brave Eucrates. That would have been my glory."</p> + +<p>As soon as news had come of the defeat of the Spartan army, +the whole remaining military force of Sparta was sent to the rescue, +and after some time returned to Sparta, bringing back the survivors +from the disastrous field of Leuctra.</p> + +<p>Then Spartan hearts were softened, and mothers, wives, and sisters +stood waiting to greet those whom the gods had spared for further +service. But Ione sat at home spinning. There were no tears in her +eyes now, and her countenance was lit up by a calm pride. She had +learnt to be glad that she had no one to meet that day.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the door opened, and Phidon came in. His manner +was strangely excited.</p> + +<p>"Callias is not amongst us," he cried. "I have asked for him, and +no one knows. Could there have been some mistake, I wonder? Is +it possible that——"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a><br /><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p> + +<p>At that moment there came a loud knock at the door, and Ione +opened it to Timotheus, a neighbour's son.</p> + +<p>"Greetings to the mother of Eucrates," he said, as he stood before +Ione. "I am from Leuctra. I saw Eucrates fighting in the thickest +of the fray. I saw him fall; and there fell another by his side, fighting +as gallantly as he—his comrade in death as well as in life."</p> + +<p>"And who was it that died with my brave son?" asked Ione, +whose hands were pressed together deep into her breast, and whose +face was ashen, though tearless.</p> + +<p>"It was Callias," answered the young man. "Farewell, honoured +mother of Eucrates. I must go and seek Phidon to tell him."</p> + +<p>But Phidon rose to his full height, and there was a smile of triumph +on his face and a new life in his bearing.</p> + +<p>"Phidon has heard the news," he said, "and he thanks the gods for +this crowning mercy. For though in his inmost heart he would fain +have seen the face of his grandson once more, there was something +dearer to him than the face of Callias—it was the honour of Callias."</p> + +<p>Then, turning to Ione, he said: "Now we can think of them together, +and share our pride in them, Ione."</p> + +<p>For one fleeting moment Ione saw a vision of her young, fair son +falling before the foe, but her voice never faltered as she said: "Yes, we +can share our pride in them."</p> + +<p>That was the true Spartan tribute to the heroes of Leuctra.</p> + +<div class='center'>* * * * * * *</div> + + +<p>You see, the Spartans would not admit of despair in their lives; +they believed that while there was yet strength in the body, there must +needs be hope in the heart that the victory would be won. And so it +was the duty of a true Spartan to fight and conquer and live, or to die, +striving to conquer to the very last, with no thought of any possibility +of failure.</p> + +<p>What do you think about this grand old Spartan code of honour? +Do you not think that we ourselves, each in our own way, young and +old, man and woman, boy and girl, may find something helpful in it to +bring to the service of our country?</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 350px;"> +<img src="images/i_098.png" width="350" height="144" alt="decoration" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> +<img src="images/i_099a.png" width="450" height="383" alt="" /> +<span class="caption">Ship</span> +</div> + + + + +<h2>BIG STEAMERS</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY RUDYARD KIPLING<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> NORMAN WILKINSON, R.I.</span></div> + + +<div class='poem'><br /><br /> +"<span class="smcap">Oh</span>, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With England's own coal, up and down the salt seas?"</span><br /> +"We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese."</span><br /> +<br /> +"And where will you fetch it from, all you Big Steamers,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And where shall I write you when you are away?"</span><br /> +"We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Address us at Hobart, Hong-kong, and Bombay."</span><br /> +<br /></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> +<img src="images/i_099b.png" width="450" height="212" alt="ships" /> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> + +<div class='poem'><br /> +"But if anything happened to all you Big Steamers,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And suppose you were wrecked up and down the salt sea?"</span><br /> +"Why, you'd have no coffee or bacon for breakfast,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And you'd have no muffins or toast for your tea."</span><br /> +<br /> +"Then I'll pray for fine weather for all you Big Steamers,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For little blue billows and breezes so soft."</span><br /> +"Oh, billows and breezes don't bother Big Steamers,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For we're iron below and steel-rigging aloft."</span><br /> +<br /> +"Then I'll build a new lighthouse for all you Big Steamers,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through."</span><br /> +"Oh, the Channel's as bright as a ball-room already,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe."</span><br /> +<br /> +"Then what can I do for you, all you Big Steamers,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?"</span><br /> +"Send out your big warships to watch your big waters,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That no one may stop us from bringing you food.</span><br /> +<br /> +"<i>For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve,</span><br /> +They are brought to you daily by all us Big Steamers,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And if any one hinders our coming you'll starve!"</span></i><br /> +</div> + +<div class='copyright'><br /> +Copyright in the U.S.A. by Rudyard Kipling.<br /><br /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_100.png" width="500" height="265" alt="Steamer" /> +</div> + +<p> <br /></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/i_101.jpg" width="600" height="485" alt="Steamer ship painting" /> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 475px;"> +<img src="images/i_103a.png" width="475" height="212" alt="Soldiers lined up" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2>A TRUE STORY FROM CAMP</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY THE BISHOP OF LONDON<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> JOSEPH SIMPSON, R.B.A.</span></div> + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">You</span> boys and girls must picture a huge common, and four groups of +khaki-clad soldiers standing at attention in different parts of it. They +are about to be reviewed by the Commander-in-Chief of the Home +Forces.</div> + +<p>The men had given up a great deal to come and join the Territorial +Forces, but it had not yet thoroughly dawned on them any more than +on the rest of England, how great was the crisis, and none of the +battalions had come out in sufficient strength to be sent out on foreign +service.</p> + +<p>The inspection by the great General took a long time, and when +the order came for rank after rank to lie down, they did so with obvious +relief. At last the inspection was over, and all the battalions were +asked to converge on one point. At this point a waggon was placed, +and all the five thousand men lay down round it, the Generals and +their staffs lying behind it. It was a fine sight from the waggon to see +those five thousand fine fellows lying there in the light of the setting +sun, but was it possible to rouse them to see the country's urgent need?</p> + +<p>I began by painting the beauty and the glory of England, the +loveliest place in the world, for you may go all over the world, +children, and you will never find anything so glorious or welcome on +your return as the white cliffs of Dover, and the railway run through +the hop gardens of Kent.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 302px;"> +<img src="images/i_103b.png" width="302" height="300" alt="Boy with flag" /> +</div> + +<p>But what touched them most was the thought of what England +stood for in the life of the world. It always has been, and always +will be, the <i>Home of Freedom</i>. Let a slave once reach a British +man-of-war—he is free. Britannia's daughters are +rallying to her now because she has given them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +<i>Freedom</i>, for they see that she is the champion in this war of the +Freedom of the World against a universal Tyranny.</p> + +<p>Then I turned to what they themselves owed to England, their +homes, their faith, their security to work, their happy friendships, and +their love of wife, mother, and children. What they had not realised +up to now was that <i>all this was +in deadly peril for the first time +for a hundred years</i>!</p> + +<p>One mistake of our Fleets, +one crushing defeat in France, +and the foe would be upon us; +the fate of Belgium would be +the fate of England!</p> + +<p>What more glorious than +to follow the example of those +who had fought and died for +England?</p> + +<div class='poem'> +"Nor needs he any hearse to bear him hence<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Who goes to join the men of Agincourt."</span><br /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 395px;"> +<img src="images/i_104.png" width="395" height="500" alt="Antique soldier" /> +</div> + +<p>In spite of the presence of +the Generals a great cheer broke +from the five thousand men +when I said, "I would rather +die than see England a German +province"; but finding that they +were allowed to cheer, as deep +a cheer followed the statement +that, if it came to the last +Waterloo, it was far better +to slip across the silver streak +and fight it on the other side +than let an invaders foot <i>for the first time for a thousand years</i> stain +our native land.</p> + +<p>In the evening all the four battalions present volunteered for +foreign service, and as four more at the neighbouring Camp had volunteered +the day before in answer to a similar appeal, eight battalions +were added to the fighting strength abroad of the British Army.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> + + + + + + + + +<h2>THE EBONY BOX</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY A. E. W. MASON<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings</i> by W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Copyright in the U.S.A. by A. E. W. Mason</i></span><br /><br /></div> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 311px;"> +<img src="images/i_105.png" width="311" height="400" alt="man in chair" /> +</div> + +<div class='unindent'>"<span class="smcap">No</span>, no," said Colonel von Altrock abruptly. "It +is not always true."</div> + +<p>The conversation died away at once, and every +one about that dinner table in the Rue St. Florentin +looked at him expectantly. He played nervously +with the stem of his wineglass for a few moments, +as though the complete silence distressed him. Then he resumed with +a more diffident air:</p> + +<p>"War no doubt inspires noble actions and brings out great qualities +in men from whom you expected nothing. But there is another side +to it which becomes apparent, not at once, but after a few months of +campaigning. Your nerves get overstrained, fatigue and danger tell +their tale. You lose your manners, sometimes you degenerate into a +brute. I happen to know. Thirty years have passed since the siege +of Paris, yet even to-day there is no part of my life which I regret so +much as the hours between eleven and twelve o'clock of Christmas +night in the year 'seventy. I will tell you about it if you like, although +the story may make us late for the opera."</p> + +<p>"It will not matter if we are a little late," said his hostess, the +Baroness Hammerstein, and her guests agreed with her.</p> + +<p>"It is permitted to smoke?" asked the Colonel. For a moment +the flame of a match lit up and exaggerated the hollows and the lines +upon his lean, rugged face. Then, drawing in his chair to the table, +he told his story.</p> + +<div class='center'>* * * * * * *</div> + + +<p>I was a lieutenant of the fifth company of the second battalion of +the 103rd Regiment, which belonged to the 23rd Infantry Division. +It is as well to be exact. That division was part of the 12th Army +Corps under the Crown Prince of Saxony, and in the month of +December formed the south-eastern segment of our circle about Paris. +On Christmas night I happened to be on duty at a forepost in advance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +of Noisy-le-Grand. The Centigrade thermometer was down to twelve +degrees below zero, and our little wooden hut with the sloping roof, +which served us at once as kitchen, mess-room, and dormitory, seemed +to us all a comfortable shelter. Outside its door the country glimmered +away into darkness, a great white silent plain of snow. Inside, the +camp-bedsteads were neatly ranged along the wall where the roof was +lowest. A long table covered with a white cloth—for we were luxurious +on Christmas night—occupied the middle of the floor; in a corner stood +a fine big barrel of Bavarian beer which had arrived that morning as a +Christmas present from my mother at Leipzig. We were none of us +anxious to turn out into the bitter cold, I can tell you. But we were +not colonels in those days, and while the Hauptmann was proposing my +mother's health the door was thrust open and an orderly muffled up to +the eyes stood on the threshold at the salute.</p> + +<p>"The Herr Oberst wishes to see the Herr Lieutenant von Altrock," +said he, and before I had time even to grumble he turned on his heels +and marched away.</p> + +<p>I took down my great-coat, drew the cape over my head, and went +out of the hut. There was no wind, nor was the snow falling, but the +cold was terrible, and to me who had come straight from the noise of +my companions the night seemed unnaturally still. I plodded away +through the darkness. Behind me in the hut the Hauptmann struck +up a song, and the words came to me quite clearly and very plaintively +across the snow:</p> + +<div class='poem'> +Ich hatte einen Kamaraden<br /> +Einen besseren findest du nicht.<br /> +</div> + +<p>I wondered whether in the morning, like that comrade, I should +be a man to be mentioned in the past tense. For more than once a +sentinel had been found frozen dead at his post, and I foresaw +a long night's work before me. My Colonel had acquired a +habit of choosing me for special services, and indeed to his +kindness in this respect I owed my commission.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 189px;"> +<img src="images/i_106.png" width="189" height="400" alt="man saluting" /> +</div> + +<p>I found him sitting at a little table drawn close to the fire +in a bare, dimly-lighted room. A lamp stood on the table, and +he was peering at a crumpled scrap of paper and smoothing +out its creases. So engrossed was he, indeed, in his scrutiny +that it was some minutes before he raised his head and saw me +waiting for his commands.</p> + +<p>"Lieutenant von Altrock," he said, "you must ride to +Raincy."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> + +<p>Raincy was only five miles distant, as the crow flies. Yes, but the +French had made a sortie on the 21st, they had pushed back our lines, +and they now held Ville Evrart and Maison Blanche between Raincy +and Noisy-le-Grand. I should have to make a circuit; my five miles +became ten. I did not like the prospect at all. I liked it still less +when the Colonel added:</p> + +<p>"You must be careful. More than one German soldier has of late +been killed upon that road. There are <i>francs-tireurs</i> about. And you +<i>must</i> reach Raincy."</p> + +<p>It was a verbal message which he gave me, and I was to deliver +it in person to the commandant of the battery at Raincy.</p> + +<p>"There is a horse ready for you at the stables," said the Colonel, +and with a nod he turned again to his scrap of paper. I saluted +and walked to the door. As my hand was on the knob he called +me back.</p> + +<p>"What do you make of it?" he asked, holding the paper out to +me. "It was picked out of the Marne in a sealed wine-bottle."</p> + +<p>I took the paper, and saw that a single sentence was written upon +it in a round and laborious hand with the words misspelt. The +meaning of the sentence seemed simple enough. It was apparently a +message from a M. Bonnet to his son in the Mobiles at Paris, and it +stated that the big black cat had had five kittens.</p> + +<p>"What do you make of it?" repeated the Colonel.</p> + +<p>"Why, that M. Bonnet's black cat has kittens," said I.</p> + +<p>I handed the paper back. The Colonel looked at it again, shrugged +his shoulders, and laughed.</p> + +<p>"Well, after all, perhaps it does mean no more than that," said he.</p> + +<p>But for the Colonel's suspicions I should not have given another +thought to that misspelt scrawl. M. Bonnet was probably some little +peasant engrossed in domestic affairs, who thought that no message +could be more consoling to his son locked up in Paris than this great +news about the black cat.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 325px;"> +<img src="images/i_107.png" width="325" height="400" alt="man at desk" /> +</div> + +<p>The wildest rumours were flying about our camp at that time, as I +think will always happen when you have a large body of men living +under a great strain of cold and privation and +peril. They perplexed the seasoned officers and +they were readily swallowed by the youngsters, +of whom I was one. Now, this scrap of paper +happened to fit in with the rumour which most +of all exercised our imaginations.</p> + +<p>It was known that in spite of all our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +precautions news was continually leaking into Paris which we did not +think it good for the Parisians to have. On that very Christmas Day +they already knew that General Faidherbe, at Pont Noyelles, had +repulsed a portion of our first army under General Manteuffel. How +did they know? We were not satisfied that pigeons and balloons +completely explained the mystery. No, we believed that the news +passed somewhere through our lines on the south-east of Paris—news +in cipher which was passed on and on to a house close to our lines, +whence, as occasion served, it was carried into Paris.</p> + +<p>That was the rumour. There may have been truth in it, or it +may have been entirely false. But, at all events, it had just the +necessary element of fancy to appeal to the imagination of a very young +man, and as I walked to the stables and mounted the horse which the +Colonel had lent me, I kept wondering whether this message, so simple +in appearance, had travelled so, and was covering its last stage between +the undiscovered château and Paris in the sealed wine-bottle. I tried +to make out what the black cat stood for in the cipher, and whose +identity was concealed under the pseudonym of M. Bonnet. So I rode +down the slope of Noisy-le-Grand.</p> + +<p>But at the bottom of the slope these speculations passed entirely +from my mind. In front, hidden away in the darkness, lay the dangers +of Ville Evrart and Maison Blanche. German soldiers had ridden along +this path and had not returned; the <i>francs-tireurs</i> were abroad. Yet +I must reach Raincy. Moreover, in my own mind, I was equally convinced +that I must return. I saw the little beds against the wall of the +hut under the sloping roof. I rode warily, determined to sleep in one +of them that night, determined to keep my life if it could be kept.</p> + +<p>I crossed the Marne and turned off the road into a forest path. +Ville Evrart with its French garrison lay now upon my left behind the +screen of trees. Fortunately there was no moon that night and a mist +hung in the air. The snow, too, deadened the sound of my horse's +hoofs. But I rode, nevertheless, very gently and with every +sense alert. Each moment I expected the challenge of a +sentinel in French.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 321px;"> +<img src="images/i_108.png" width="321" height="400" alt="soldier on horseback" /> +</div> + +<p>I came to the end of the wood and rode +on to Chesnay. Here the country was more +open, and I had passed Ville Evrart. But I +did not feel any greater security. I was +possessed with a sort of rage to get my business +done and live—yes, at all costs <i>live</i>. A +mile beyond Chesnay I came to cross-roads,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> +and within the angle which the two roads made a little cabin stood upon +a plot of grass. I was in doubt which road to take. The cabin was all +dark, and riding up to the door I hammered upon it with the butt of +my pistol. It was not immediately opened. There must indeed have +been some delay, since the inmates were evidently in bed. But I was +not in any mood to show consideration. I wanted to get on—to get +on and live. A little window was within my reach. I dashed the butt +of the pistol violently through the glass.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 172px;"> +<img src="images/i_109.png" width="172" height="400" alt="woman" /> +</div> + +<p>"Will that waken you, eh?" I cried, and almost before I had +finished I heard a shuffling footstep in the passage and the door was +opened. A poor old peasant-woman, crippled with rheumatism, stood +in the doorway shading a lighted candle with a gnarled, trembling hand. +In her haste to obey she had merely thrown a petticoat over the +shoulders of her nightdress, and there she stood with bare feet, shivering +in the cold, an old bent woman of eighty, and apologised.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, monsieur," she said meekly. "But I cannot move as +quickly as I could when I was young. How can I serve monsieur?"</p> + +<p>Not a word of reproach about her broken window. You would +think that the hardest man must have felt some remorse. I merely +broke in upon her apologies with a rough demand for information.</p> + +<p>"The road upon your right leads to Chelles, monsieur," she +answered. "That upon your left to Raincy."</p> + +<p>I rode off without another word. It is not a pretty description +which I am giving to you, but it is a true one. That is my regret, it is +a true one. I forgot that old peasant-woman the moment I had passed +the cabin. I thought only of the long avenues of trees which stretched +across that flat country, and which could hide whole companies of +<i>francs-tireurs</i>. I strained my eyes forwards. I listened for the sound +of voices. But the first voice which I heard spoke in my own tongue.</p> + +<p>It was the voice of a sentry on the outposts of Raincy, and I could +have climbed down from my saddle and hugged him to my heart. +Instead, I sat impassively in my saddle and gave him the countersign. +I was conducted to the quarters of the commandant of artillery and I +delivered my message.</p> + +<p>"You have come quickly," he said. "What road did you take?"</p> + +<p>"That of Chesnay and Gagny."</p> + +<p>The commandant looked queerly at me.</p> + +<p>"Did you?" said he. "You are lucky. You will return by +Montfermeil and Chelles, Lieutenant von Altrock, and I will send +an escort with you. Apparently we are better informed at Raincy +than you at Noisy-le-Grand."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I knew there was danger, sir," I +replied.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 337px;"> +<img src="images/i_110.png" width="337" height="400" alt="soldier on horseback at window" /> +</div> + +<p>A regiment of dragoons was quartered +at Raincy, and from it two privates and +a corporal were given me for escort. In +the company of these men I started back +by the longer road in the rear of our lines. +And it was a quarter to ten when I started. +For I noticed the time of a clock in the +commandant's quarters. I should think +that it must have taken three-quarters of +an hour to reach Montfermeil, for the snow +was deep here and the mist very thick. +Beyond Montfermeil, however, we came +to higher ground; there were fewer drifts of snow, and the night +began to clear, so that we made better going. We were now, of course, +behind our lines, and the only risk we ran was that a few peasants +armed with rifles from a battlefield or a small band of <i>francs-tireurs</i> +might be lurking on the chance of picking off a straggler. But that +risk was not very great now that there were four of us. I rode therefore +with an easier mind, and the first thing which entered my thoughts +was—what do you think? The old peasant-woman's cabin with the +broken window? Not a bit of it. No, it was M. Bonnet's black cat. +Had M. Bonnet's cat five kittens? Or was that intended to inform +the people in Paris how many companies of recruits had joined one +of the French armies still in the field—say, General Faidherbe's, at +Bapaume, and so to keep up their spirits and prolong the siege? I +was still puzzling over this problem when in a most solitary place I +came suddenly upon a château with lighted windows. This was the +Château Villetaneuse. I reined in my horse and stopped. My escort +halted behind me. It was, after all, an astonishing sight. There +were many châteaux about Paris then, as there are now, but not one +that I had ever come across was inhabited by more than a caretaker. +The owners had long since fled. Breached walls, trampled gardens, +gaping roofs, and silence and desertion—that is what we meant when +we spoke of a château near Paris in those days. But here was one +with lighted windows on the first and second stories staring out calmly +on the snow as though never a Prussian soldier had crossed the Rhine. +A thick clump of trees sheltered it behind, and it faced the eastern +side of the long ridge of Mont Guichet, along the foot of which I rode—the +side farthest from Paris. From the spot where I and my escort +had halted an open park stretched level to the door. The house had, +no doubt, a very homelike look on that cold night. It should have +spoken to me, no doubt, of the well-ordered family life and the gentle +occupations of women. But I was thinking of M. Bonnet's black cat. +Was this solitary château the undiscovered last station on the underground +road through which the news passed into Paris? If not, why was +it still inhabited? Why did the lights blaze out upon the snow so late?</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 389px;"> +<img src="images/i_111.jpg" width="389" height="600" alt="woman with lantern painting" /> +</div> + +<p>I commanded my escort to be silent. We rode across the park, +and half-way to the door we came upon a wire fence and a gate. There +we dismounted, and walked our horses. We tethered them to a tree +about twenty yards from the house. I ordered one of my dragoons to +go round the house, and watch any door which he might find at the +back. I told the other two to stay where they were, and I advanced +alone to the steps, but before I had reached them the front door was +thrown open, and a girl with a lantern in her hand came out.</p> + +<p>She held the lantern high above her head and peered forward, so +that the light fell full upon her hair, her face, and dress. She was +a tall girl and slight of figure, with big, dark eyes, and a face pretty and +made for laughter. It was very pale now, however, and the brows +were drawn together in a frown. She wore a white evening frock, +which glistened in the lantern light, and over her bare shoulders she +had flung a heavy black military cloak. So she stood and swung the +lantern slowly from side to side as she stared into the darkness, while +the lights and shadows chased each other swiftly across her white frock, +her anxious face, and the waves of her fair hair.</p> + +<p>"Whom do you expect at this hour, mademoiselle?" I asked.</p> + +<p>I was quite close to her, but she had not seen me, for I stood at +the bottom of the steps, and she was looking out over my head. Yet +she did not start or utter any cry. Only the lantern rattled in her +hand. Then she stood quite still for a moment or two, and afterwards +lowered her arm until the light shone upon me.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 206px;"> +<img src="images/i_113.png" width="206" height="400" alt="woman with lantern" /> +</div> + +<p>"You are Prussian?" she said.</p> + +<p>"A lieutenant of foot," I answered. "You have nothing +to fear."</p> + +<p>"I am not afraid," she replied quietly.</p> + +<p>"Whom do you expect?"</p> + +<p>"No one," she replied. "I thought that I heard the rattle +of iron as though a horse moved and a stirrup rang. It is lonely +here since our neighbours have fled. I came out to see."</p> + +<p>"The lantern then, was not a signal, mademoiselle?" I +asked.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a><br /><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> + +<p>She looked at me in perplexity, and certainly the little piece of +acting, I thought, was very well done.</p> + +<p>"A signal?" she repeated. "To whom?"</p> + +<p>"To some man hiding in the woods of Mont Guichet, a signal to +him that he may come and fetch the news for Paris which has lately—very +lately—been brought to the house."</p> + +<p>She bent forward and peered down at me, drawing the cloak closer +about her neck.</p> + +<p>"You are under some strange mistake, monsieur," she said. "No +news for Paris has been brought to this house by any one."</p> + +<p>"Indeed?" I answered. "And is that so?" Then I stretched +out my hand and said triumphantly: "You will tell me perhaps that +the cloak upon your shoulders is a woman's cloak?"</p> + +<p>And she laughed! It was humiliating; it is always humiliating +to a young man not to be taken seriously, isn't it? There was I thinking +that I had fairly cross-examined her into a trap, and she laughed +indulgently. And she explained indulgently, too.</p> + +<p>"The cloak I am wearing belongs to a wounded French officer who +was taken prisoner and released upon parole. He is now in our house."</p> + +<p>"Then I think I will make his acquaintance," I said, and over my +shoulder I called to the corporal. As he advanced to my side, a look +of alarm came into the girl's face.</p> + +<p>"You are not alone," she said, and suddenly her face became +wistful and her voice began to plead. "You have not come for him? +He has done no harm. He could not, even if he would. And he +would not, for he has given his parole. Oh, you are not going to take +him away?"</p> + +<p>"That we shall see, mademoiselle."</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 256px;"> +<img src="images/i_114.png" width="256" height="400" alt="woman" /> +</div> + +<p>I left one dragoon at the door. I ordered the corporal to wait in the +hall, and I followed the girl up the stairs to the first floor. All her pride +had gone; she led the way with a submission of manner which seemed +to me only a fresh effort to quiet my suspicions. But they were not +quieted. I distrusted her; I believed that I had under my fingers the +proof of that rumour which flew about our camp. She stopped at a +door, and as she turned the handle she said:</p> + +<p>"This is my own room, monsieur. We all use it now, for it is +warmer than the others, and all our servants but one have fled."</p> + +<p>It was a pretty room, and cheery enough to one who came into it +from the darkness and the snow. A piano stood open in a corner with +a rug thrown upon it to protect the strings from the cold; books lay +upon the tables, heavy curtains were drawn close over the windows,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +there were cushioned sofas and deep arm-chairs, and a good fire of logs +blazed upon the hearth. These details I took in at once. Then I looked +at the occupants. A young man lay stretched upon a sofa close to the fire +with a wrap covering his legs. The wrap was raised by a cradle to keep +off its weight. His face must have been, I think, unusually handsome +when he had his health; at the moment it was so worn and pale, and +the eyes were so sunk, that all its beauty had gone. The pallor was +accentuated by a small black moustache he wore and his black hair. +He lay with his head supported upon a pillow, and was playing a +game of chess with an old lady who sat at a little table by his side. +I advanced to the fire and warmed my hands at it.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i_115.png" width="400" height="277" alt="man lying on chaise" /> +</div> + +<p>"You, sir, are the wounded officer on parole?" I said in French. +The officer bowed.</p> + +<p>"And you, madame?" I asked of the old lady. The sight of my +uniform seemed to have paralysed her with terror. "Come, come, +madame," I exclaimed impatiently; "it is a simple question."</p> + +<p>"Monsieur, you frighten her," said the young lady. "It is my +aunt, the Baroness Granville."</p> + +<p>"You tell me nothing of yourself," I said to her, and she looked at +me in surprise.</p> + +<p>"Since you have come with an escort to this house I imagined you +must know to whom it belonged. I am Sophie de Villetaneuse."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," I replied, as though I had known all along, and had +merely asked the question to see whether she would speak the truth. +"Now, mademoiselle, will you please explain to me how it is that while +your neighbours have fled you remain at your château?"</p> + +<p>"It is quite simple," she answered. "My mother is bed-ridden. +She could not be moved. She could not be left alone."</p> + +<p>"You will pardon me," said I, "if I test that statement."</p> + +<p>The wounded officer raised himself upon his elbow as though to protest, +but Mademoiselle de Villetaneuse put out a hand and checked him. +She showed me a face flushed with anger, but she spoke quite quietly.</p> + +<p>"I will myself take you to my mother's room."</p> + +<p>I laughed. I said: "That is just what I expected. You will take +me to your mother's room and leave your friends here to make any little +preparations in the way of burning awkward papers which they may +think desirable. Thank you, no! I am not so easily caught."</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Sophie was becoming irritated.</p> + +<p>"There are no awkward papers!" she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"That statement, too, I shall put to the +test."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> + +<p>I went to the door, and standing so that I could still keep an eye +upon the room, I called the corporal.</p> + +<p>"You will search the house thoroughly," I said, "and quickly. +Bring me word how many people you find in it. You, mademoiselle, +will remain in the room with us."</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 223px;"> +<img src="images/i_116.png" width="223" height="400" alt="back of woman" /> +</div> + +<p>She shrugged her shoulders as I closed the door and came back into +the room.</p> + +<p>"You were wounded, monsieur," I said to the Frenchman. +"Where?"</p> + +<p>"In the sortie on Le Bourget."</p> + +<p>"And you came here the moment you were released on your +parole?"</p> + +<p>The wounded officer turned with a smile to Mademoiselle Sophie.</p> + +<p>"Yes, for here live my best friends."</p> + +<p>He took her hand, and with a Frenchman's grace he raised it to +his lips and kissed it. And I was suddenly made acquainted with the +relationship in which these two, youth and maid, stood to one another. +Mademoiselle Sophie had cried out on the steps against the possibility +that I might have come to claim my prisoner. But though she spoke +no word, she was still more explicit now. With the officer that +caress was plainly no more than a pretty way of saying thanks; it +had the look of a habit, it was so neatly given, and he gave it +without carelessness, it is true, but without warmth. But she +received it very differently. He did not see, because his head +was bent above her hand, but I did.</p> + +<p>I saw the look of pain in her face, the slight contraction +of her shoulders and arms, as if to meet a blow. The kiss hurt +her—no, not the kiss, but the finished grace with which it was +given, the proof, in a word, that it was a way of saying "Thanks"—and +nothing more. Here was a woman who loved and a man who +did not love, and the woman knew.</p> + +<p>I resumed my questions:</p> + +<p>"Your doctor, monsieur, is in the house?"</p> + +<p>"At this hour? No."</p> + +<p>"Ah. That is a pity."</p> + +<p>The young man lifted his head from his pillow and looked me over +from head to foot with a stare of disdain.</p> + +<p>"I do not quite understand. You doubt my word, monsieur!"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" I asked sharply.</p> + + +<p>It was quite possible that the cradle, this rug across his legs, the +pillow, were all pretences. This young officer might very well have +brought in a cipher message to the Château Villetaneuse. Mademoiselle +Sophie might very well have waved her lantern at the door to summon +a fresh messenger.</p> + +<p>"No; why should I not doubt your word?" I repeated.</p> + +<p>He turned his face to the old lady. "It is your move, Baronne," +he said, and she placed the piece she held upon a square of the board. +Mademoiselle Sophie took her stand by the table between the players, +and the game went on just as though there were no intruder in the +room. It was uncomfortable for me. I shifted my feet. I tried to +appear at my ease; finally I sat down in a chair. They took no notice +of me whatever. I was very glad when at last the corporal opened the +door. He had searched the house—he had found no one but Madame +de Villetaneuse and an old servant who was watching by her bed.</p> + +<p>"Very well," said I, and the corporal returned to the hall.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Sophie moved away from the chess-table. She came +and stood opposite to me, and though her face was still, her eyes were +hard with anger.</p> + +<p>"And now perhaps you will tell me to what I owe your visit?" +she said.</p> + +<p>"Certainly," I returned. I fixed my eyes on her, and I said slowly, +"I have come to ask for more news of M. Bonnet's black cat."</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Sophie stared as if she was not sure whether I was +mad or drunk, but was very sure I was one or the other. The young +Frenchman started upon his couch, with the veins swelling upon his +forehead and a flushed face.</p> + +<p>"This is an insult," he cried savagely, and no less savagely I +answered him.</p> + +<p>"Hold your tongue!" I cried. "You forget too often that though +you are on parole you are still a prisoner."</p> + +<p>He fell back upon the sofa with a groan of pain, and the girl hurried +to his side.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 171px;"> +<img src="images/i_119.png" width="171" height="400" alt="Woman still with hand on a door" /> +</div> + +<p>Meanwhile I had been looking about the room for a box or a case +where the cipher messages might be hid. I saw nothing of the kind. +Of course they might be hidden between the pages of a book. I went +from table to table, taking them by the boards and shaking the leaves. +Not a scrap of paper tumbled out. There was another door in the room +besides that which led on to the landing.</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle, what room is that?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"My bedroom," she answered simply, and with a gesture full of +dignity she threw open the door.</p> + +<p>I carried the mud and snow and the grime of a camp without a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a><br /><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +scruple of remorse into that neat and pretty chamber. Mademoiselle +Sophie followed me as I searched wardrobe and drawer and box. At +last I came to one drawer in her dressing-table which was locked. I +looked suddenly at the young lady. She was watching me out of the +corners of her eyes with a peculiar intentness.</p> + +<p>"Open that drawer, mademoiselle," I said.</p> + +<p>"It contains only some private things."</p> + +<p>"Open that drawer or I burst it open."</p> + +<p>"No," she cried, as I jerked the handle. "I will open it."</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 184px;"> +<img src="images/i_120.png" width="184" height="400" alt="Lady standing" /> +</div> + +<p>She fetched the key out of another drawer which was unlocked, +and fitted it into the lock of the dressing-table. And all the while I +saw that she was watching me. She meant to play me some trick, +I was certain. So I watched, too, and I did well to watch. She +turned the key, opened the drawer, and then snatched out something +with extraordinary rapidity and ran as hard as she could to the door—not +the door through which we had entered, but a second door which +gave on to the passage. She ran very fast and she ran very lightly, +and she did not stumble over a chair as I did in pursuit of her. But +she had to unlatch the door and pull it open. I caught her up and +closed my arms about her. It was a little carved ebony box which +she held, the very thing for which I searched.</p> + +<p>"I thought so," I cried, with a laugh. "Drop the box, mademoiselle. +Drop it on the floor!"</p> + +<p>The noise of our struggle had been heard in the next room. +The Baroness rushed through the doorway.</p> + +<p>"What has happened?" she cried. "Mon Dieu! you are +killing her!"</p> + +<p>"Drop that box, mademoiselle!"</p> + +<p>And as I spoke she threw it away. She threw it through the +doorway; she tried to throw it over the banisters of the stairs, but my +arms were about hers, and it fell in the passage just beyond the door. +I darted from her and picked it up. When I returned with it she was +taking a gold chain from her neck. At the end of the chain hung a +little gold key. This she held out to me.</p> + +<p>"Open it here," she said in a low, eager voice.</p> + +<p>The sudden change only increased my suspicions, or rather my +conviction, that I had now the proof which I needed.</p> + +<p>"Why, if you are so eager to show me the contents, did you try +to throw it away?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"I tried to throw it down into the hall," she answered.</p> + +<p>"My corporal would have picked it up."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, what would that matter?" she exclaimed impatiently. +"You would have opened it in the hall. That was what I wanted. +Open it here! At all events open it here!"</p> + +<p>The very urgency of her pleading made me determined to refuse +the plea.</p> + +<p>"No, you have some other ruse, mademoiselle," said I. "Perhaps +you wish to gain time for your friend in the next room. No, we will +return there and open it comfortably by the fire."</p> + +<p>I kept a tight hold upon the box. I shook it. To my delight I +felt that there were papers within it. I carried it back to the fireside +and sat down on a chair. Mademoiselle Sophie followed me close, and +as I fixed the little gold key into the lock she laid her hand very gently +upon my arm.</p> + +<p>"I beg you not to unlock that box," she said; "if you do you will +bring upon me a great humiliation and upon yourself much remorse. +There is nothing there which concerns you. There are just my little +secrets. A girl may have secrets, monsieur, which are sacred to her."</p> + +<p>She was standing quite close to me, and her back was towards the +French officer and her aunt. They could not see her face, and they +could hardly have heard more than a word here and there of what she +said. I answered her only by turning the key in the lock. She took her +hand from my arm and laid it on the lid to hinder me from opening it.</p> + +<p>"I wore the key on a chain about my neck, monsieur," she +whispered. "Does that teach you nothing? Even though you are +young, does it teach you nothing? I said that if you unlocked that +box you would cause me great humiliation, thinking that would be +enough to stop you. But I see I must tell you more. Read the +letters, monsieur, question me about them, and you will make my life +a very lonely one. I think so. I think you will destroy my chance +of happiness. You would not wish that, monsieur. It is true that we +are enemies, but some day this war will end, and you would not wish +to prolong its sufferings beyond the end. Yet you will be doing that, +monsieur, if you open that box."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 360px;"> +<img src="images/i_121.png" width="360" height="400" alt="Woman next to seated soldier" /> +</div> + +<p>It seems now almost impossible to me that I could have doubted +her sincerity: she spoke with so much simplicity, +and so desperate an appeal looked out from her +dark eyes. Ever since that Christmas night I can +see her quite clearly at will, standing as she then +stood—all the sincerity of her which I would not +acknowledge, all the appeal which I would not +hear; and I see her many times when for my peace<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +I would rather not. She was pleading for her pride, and to do that the +better she laid her pride aside; yet she never lost her dignity. She was +pleading for her chance of happiness, foreseeing that it was likely to be +destroyed, without any reason or any profit to a living being, by a +stranger who would the next moment pass out of her life. Yet there +was no outcry, and there were no tears. Had it been a trick—I ask +the ladies—would there not have been tears?</p> + +<p>But I thought it a trick and a cheap one. She was trying to make +me believe that there were love-letters in the box—compromising love-letters. +Now, I <i>knew</i> that there were no love-letters in the box. I +had seen the Frenchman's pretty way of saying thanks. I had +noticed how the caress hurt her just through what it lacked. He was +the friend, you see, and nothing more; she was the lover and the only +lover of the pair.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 223px;"> +<img src="images/i_122.png" width="223" height="400" alt="woman" /> +</div> + +<p>I opened the box accordingly. Mademoiselle Sophie turned away +abruptly, and sitting down in a chair shaded her eyes with her hand. +I emptied the letters out on to a table, turning the box upside down, +and thus the first which I took up and read was the one which lay at +the very bottom. As I read it it seemed that every suspicion I had +formed was established. She had hinted at love-letters, she had +spoken of secrets sacred to a girl; and the letter was not even +addressed to her. It was addressed to Madame de Villetaneuse; +it was a letter which, if it meant no more than what was implied +upon the surface, would have long since found destruction in the +waste-paper basket. For it purported to be merely the acceptance +of an invitation to dinner at the town house of Madame de +Villetaneuse in the Faubourg St. Germain. It was signed only +by a Christian name, "Armand," and the few sentences which +composed the letter explained that M. Armand was a distant +kinsman of Madame de Villetaneuse who had just come to Paris +to pursue his studies, and who, up till now, had no acquaintance +with the family.</p> + +<p>I looked at Mademoiselle Sophie sternly. "So all this +pother was about a mere invitation to dinner! Once let it be +known that M. Armand will dine with Madame de Villetaneuse +in the Faubourg St. Germain, and you are humiliated, you lose +your chance of happiness, and I, too, shall find myself in good +time suffering the pangs of remorse," and I read the letter +slowly aloud to her, word by word.</p> + +<p>She returned no answer. She sat with her hand shading her face, +and she rocked her head backwards and forwards continually and rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +quickly, like a child with a racking headache. Of course, to my mind +all that was part of the game. The letter was dated two years back, but +the month was December, and, of course, to antedate would be the +first precaution.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 316px;"> +<img src="images/i_123.png" width="316" height="400" alt="crying about news" /> +</div> + +<p>"Come, mademoiselle," I said, changing my tone, "I invite you +very seriously to make a clean breast of it. I wish to take no harsh +measures with you if I can avoid them. Tell me frankly what news +this letter, plainly translated, gives to General Trochu in Paris."</p> + +<p>"None," she answered.</p> + +<p>"Very well," said I, and I took up the next letter. Ah, M. Armand +writes again a week later. It was evidently a good dinner, and M. +Armand is properly grateful.</p> + +<p>The gratitude, indeed, was rather excessive, rather provincial. It +was just the effusion which a young man who had not yet learned self-possession +might have written on his first introduction to the highest +social life of Paris. Certainly the correspondence was very artfully +designed. But what did it hide? I puzzled over the question; I +took the words and the dates, and it seemed to me that I began to +see light. So much stress was laid upon the dinner, that the word +must signify some event of importance. The first letter spoke of a +dinner in the future. I imagined that it had not been possible +to pass this warning into Paris. The second letter mentioned +with gratitude that the dinner had been successful. Well, suppose +"dinner" stood for "engagement"! The letter would refer to the +sortie from Paris which pushed back our lines and captured Ville +Evrart and Maison Blanche. That seemed likely. Madame de Villetaneuse +gave the dinner; General Trochu made the sortie. Then +"Madame de Villetaneuse" stood for "General Trochu." Who would +be Armand? Why, the French people outside Paris—the provincials! +I had the explanation of that provincial expression of gratitude. Ah, +no doubt it all seems far-fetched now that we sit quietly about this +table. But put yourself in the thick of the war and +take twenty years off your lives! Suppose yourselves +young and green, eager for advancement, and just +off your balance from want of sleep, want of food, +want of rest, want of everything. There are very +few things which would seem far-fetched. It seemed +to me that I was deciphering these letters with +absolute accuracy. I saw myself promoted to captain, +seconded to the staff.</p> + +<p>I went on with the letters, hoping to find an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +explanation there. The third letter was addressed to Mademoiselle de +Villetaneuse, who had evidently written to M. Armand on behalf of +her mother, inviting him to her box at the opera. M. Armand regretted +that he had not been fortunate enough to call at a time when +mademoiselle was at home, and would look forward to the pleasure of +seeing her at the Opera.</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle," I cried, "what does the Opera stand for?"</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Sophie laughed disdainfully.</p> + +<p>"For music, monsieur, for art, for refinement, for many things you +do not understand."</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 382px;"> +<img src="images/i_124.png" width="382" height="400" alt="invalid soldier leaning on chairs" /> +</div> + +<p>I sprang up in excitement. What did it matter what she said? +M. Armand stood for the Army of the Loire. It was that army which +had been expected at Ville Evrart. Here was a pledge that it would +come to the help of Paris at the next sortie. That was valuable news—it +could not but bring recognition to the man who brought evidence of +it into the Prussian lines. I hurriedly read through the other letters, +quoting a passage here and there, trying to startle Mademoiselle de +Villetaneuse into a confession. But she never changed her attitude, +she did not answer a word.</p> + +<p>Her conduct was the more aggravating, for I began to get lost +among these letters. They were all in the same handwriting; they +were all signed "Armand," and they seemed to give a picture of the +life of a young man in Paris during the two years which preceded the +war. They recorded dinner-parties, visits to the theatres, examinations +passed, prizes won and lost, receptions, rides in the Bois, and Sunday +excursions into the country. All these phrases, these appointments, +these meetings, might have particular meanings. But if so, how +stupendous a cipher! Besides, how was it that none of these messages +had been passed into Paris? Very reluctantly I began to doubt my +own conjecture. I read some more letters, and then I suddenly turned +back to the earlier ones. I compared them with the later notes. I +began to be afraid the correspondence, after all, was genuine, for the +tone of the letters changed and changed so gradually, +and yet so clearly, that the greatest literary +art could hardly have deliberately composed +them. I seemed to witness the actual progress +of M. Armand, a hobbledehoy from the provinces, +losing his awkwardness, acquiring ease and +polish in his contact with the refinement +of Paris. The last letters had the postmark +of Paris, the first that of Auvergne.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> + +<p>They were genuine, then. And they were not love-letters. I +looked at Mademoiselle Sophie with an increased perplexity. Why did +she now sit rocking her head like a child in pain? Why had she so +struggled to hinder me from opening them? They recorded a beginning +of acquaintanceship and the growth of that into friendship between a +young man and a young girl—nothing more. The friendship might +eventually end in marriage, no doubt, if left to itself, but there was not +a word of that in the letters. I was still wondering, when the French +officer raised himself from his sofa and dragged himself across the room +to Mademoiselle Sophie's chair. His left trouser leg had been slit down +the side from the knee to the foot and laced lightly so as to make room +for a bandage. He supported himself from chair to chair with evident +pain, and I could not doubt that his wound was as genuine as +the letters.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 226px;"> +<img src="images/i_125.png" width="226" height="400" alt="woman standing" /> +</div> + +<p>He bent down and gently took her hand away from her face.</p> + +<p>"Sophie," he said, "I did not dare to think that you kept this +place for me in your thoughts. A little more courage and I should +long since have said to you what I say now. I beg your permission to +ask Madame de Villetaneuse to-morrow for your hand in marriage."</p> + +<p>My house of cards tumbled down in a second. The French officer +was M. Armand. With the habit women have of treasuring tokens of +the things which have happened, Mademoiselle Sophie had kept all these +trifling notes and messages, and had even gathered to them the letters +written to her mother, so that the story might be complete. But +without M. Armand's knowledge; he was not to know; her pride must +guard her secret from him. For she was the lover and he only the +friend, and she knew it. Even in the little speech which he had just +made, there was just too much formality, just too little sincerity of +voice. I understood why she had tried to throw the ebony box down +into the hall so that I might open it there—I understood that I had +caused her great humiliation. But that was not all there was for me +to understand.</p> + +<p>In answer to Armand she raised her eyes quietly, and shook +her head.</p> + +<p>"You wish to spare me shame," she said, "and I thank you very +much. But it is because of these letters that you spoke. I must think +that. I must always think it."</p> + +<p>"No!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"But yes," she replied firmly. "If monsieur had not unlocked that +box—I don't know—but some day perhaps—oh, not yet, no, not yet—but +some day perhaps you might have come of your own accord and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +said what you have just said. And I should have been very happy. +But now you never must. For you see I shall always think that the +letters are prompting you."</p> + +<p>And M. Armand bowed.</p> + +<p>I had taken from her her chance of happiness. The friendship +between them might have ended in marriage if left to itself. But I had +not left it to itself.</p> + +<p>"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am very sorry."</p> + +<p>She turned her dark eyes on me.</p> + +<p>"Monsieur, I warned you. It is too late to be sorry." And as I +stood shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other, in great remorse +as she had foretold, she added, gently, "Will you not go, monsieur?"</p> + +<p>I went out of the room, called together my escort, mounted and +rode off. It was past midnight now, and the night was clear. But I +thought neither of the little beds under the slope of the roof nor of any +danger on the road. There might have been a <i>franc-tireur</i> behind +every tree. I would never have noticed it until one of them had +brought me down. Remorse was heavy upon me. I had behaved +without consideration, without chivalry, without any manners at all. +I had not been able to distinguish truth when it stared me in the face, +or to recognise honesty when it looked out from a young girl's dark +eyes. I had behaved, in a word, like the brute six months of war had +made of me. I wondered with a vague hope whether after all time might +not set matters right between M. Armand and Mademoiselle Sophie. +And I wonder now whether it has. But even if I knew that it had, I +should always remember that Christmas night of 1870 with acute regret. +The only incident, indeed, which I can mention with the slightest +satisfaction is this: On the way back to Noisy-le-Grand I came to a +point where the road from Chelles crossed the road from Montfermeil. +I halted at a little cabin which stood upon a grass-plot within the angle +of the roads, and tying up all the money I had on me in a pocket-handkerchief +I dropped the handkerchief through a broken window-pane.</p> + +<div class='center'>* * * * * * *</div> + + +<p>The Colonel let the end of his cigar fall upon his plate, and pushed +back his chair from the table. "But I see we shall be late for the +opera," he said, as he glanced at the clock.</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 455px;"> +<img src="images/i_127.png" width="455" height="200" alt="Standing on the shore" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2>A SPELL FOR A FAIRY</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY ALFRED NOYES<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting and Drawings by</i> CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON, A. R. W. S.</span><br /><br /></div> + + +<div class='poem'><br /> +<span class="smcap">Gather</span>, first, in your left hand<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(This must be at fall of day)</span><br /> +Forty grains of yellow sand<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where you think a mermaid lay.</span><br /> +I have heard a wizard hint<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It is best to gather it sweet</span><br /> +Out of the warm and fluttered dint<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where you see her heart has beat.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i><span style="margin-left: 8em;">Out of the dint in that sweet sand</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Gather forty grains, I say;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Yet—if it fail you—understand</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">I can show you a better way.</span><br /></i> +<br /> +Out of that sand you melt your glass<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While the veils of night are drawn,</span><br /> +Whispering, till the shadows pass,<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Nixie—pixie—leprechaun</i>—</span><br /> +<br /> +Then you blow your magic vial,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shape it like a crescent moon,</span><br /> +Set it up and make your trial,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Singing, "<i>Fairies, ah, come soon!</i>"</span><br /> +<br /> +<i><span style="margin-left: 8em;">Round the cloudy crescent go,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">On the hill-top, in the dawn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Singing softly, on tip-toe,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">"Elaby Gathon! Elaby Gathon!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Nixie—pixie—leprechaun.</span></i>"<br /> +<br /> +Bring the blood of a white hen,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Killed about the break of day,</span><br /> +While the cock in the echoing glen<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thrusts his gold neck every way,</span><br /> +Over the brambles, peering, calling,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Under the ferns, with a sudden fear,</span><br /> +Far and wide, while the dews are falling,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Clamouring, calling, everywhere.</span><br /> +<br /></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 368px;"> +<img src="images/i_128.png" width="368" height="475" alt="under a tree" /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'><br /> +<i><span style="margin-left: 8em;">Round the crimson vial go</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">On the hill-top, in the dawn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Singing softly, on tip-toe,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">"Nixie—pixie—leprechaun!"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">And, if once will not suffice,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Do it thrice.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">If this fail, at break of day,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">I can show you a better way.</span></i><br /> +<br /> +Bring the buds of the hazel-copse<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where two lovers kissed at noon:</span><br /> +Bring the crushed red wild thyme tops<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where they walked beneath the moon;</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span><br /> +Bring the four-leaved clover also,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One of the white, and one of the red,</span><br /> +Mixed with the flakes of the may that fall so<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lightly over the sky-lark's bed.</span><br /> +<br /></div> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 394px;"> +<img src="images/i_117.jpg" width="394" height="600" alt="A Spell for a fairy" /> +</div> +<div class='poem'><br /> +<i><span style="margin-left: 8em;">Round the fragrant vial go,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">On the hill-top, in the dawn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Singing softly, on tip-toe,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">"Nixie—pixie—leprechaun!"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">If this fail, at break of day,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">I can show you a better way.</span></i><br /> +<br /> +Bring an old and wizened child<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">—<i>Ah, tread softly and speak low</i>—</span><br /> +Tattered, tearless, wonder-wild.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From that under-world below;</span><br /> +Bring a withered child of seven<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Reeking from the City slime,</span><br /> +Out of hell into your heaven,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Set her knee-deep in the thyme.</span><br /> +<br /></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 356px;"> +<img src="images/i_129.png" width="356" height="450" alt="Looking out window" /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'><br /> +<i><span style="margin-left: 8em;">Bring her from the smoky City,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Set her on a fairy-throne.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Clothe her, feed her, of your pity.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Leave her for an hour alone.</span></i><br /> +<br /> +You shall need no spells or charms<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On that hill-top, in that dawn.</span><br /> +When she lifts her wasted arms<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You shall see a veil withdrawn.</span><br /> +There shall be no veil between them,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though her head be old and wise.</span><br /> +You shall know that she has seen them,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the glory in her eyes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i><span style="margin-left: 8em;">Round her irons, on the hill,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">Earth shall toss a fairy fire.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Watch and listen and be still,</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 9em;">Lest you baulk your own desire.</span></i><br /> +<br /> +When she sees four azure wings<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Light upon her claw-like hand;</span><br /> +When she lifts her head and sings,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You shall hear and understand.</span><br /> +You shall hear a bugle calling,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Wildly over the dew-dashed down,</span><br /> +And a sound as of the falling<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ramparts of a conquered town.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i><span style="margin-left: 8em;">You shall hear a sound like thunder,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">And a veil shall be withdrawn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">When her eyes grow wide with wonder,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;">On that hill-top, in that dawn.</span></i><br /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 576px;"> +<img src="images/i_130.png" width="576" height="400" alt="dancing fairies" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Title information and illustration"> +<tr><td align="left"><div class="figleft" style="width: 442px;"> +<img src="images/i_131.png" width="442" height="400" alt="girls hiding in mother's lap" /> +</div></td><td align="left"><h2>OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH</h2> +<div class='center'> +<div class='big'><i><b>A TALE OF THE SCARLET<br /> +PIMPERNEL</b></i></div><br /> +<br /> +BY BARONESS ORCZY<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> A. C. MICHAEL <i>and</i></span><br /> +<span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> H. M. BROCK, R.I.</span><br /> +<br /> +<i><span class='small'>Copyright, 1914, by the Baroness Orczy in the U.S.A.</span></i><br /><br /></div> +</td></tr> +</table></div> + + + + + +<p> <br /></p> + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">We</span> were such a happy family before this terrible revolution broke +out: we lived rather simply but very comfortably in our dear old home +just on the borders of the forest of Compiègne. Jean and André were +the twins; just fifteen years old they were when King Louis was +deposed from the throne of France, which God had given him, and +sent to prison like a common criminal, with our beautiful Queen Marie +Antoinette and the Royal children and Madame Elizabeth, who was +so beloved by the poor!</div> + +<p>Ah! that seems very, very long ago now. No doubt you know +better than I do all that happened in our beautiful land of France and +in lovely Paris about that time: goods and property confiscated, +innocent men, women, and children condemned to death for acts of +treason which they had never committed.</p> + +<p>It was in August last year that they came to "Mon Repos" and +arrested papa, maman, and us four young ones and dragged us to +Paris, where we were imprisoned in a narrow and horrible, dank vault +in the Abbaye, where all day and night through the humid stone walls +we heard cries and sobs and moans from poor people who no doubt +were suffering the same sorrows and the same indignities as we were.</p> + +<p>I had just passed my nineteenth birthday and Marguerite was +only thirteen. Maman was a perfect angel during that terrible time: +she kept up our courage and our faith in God in a way that no one +else could have done. Every night and morning we knelt round her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +knee, and papa sat close beside her, and we prayed to God for +deliverance from our own afflictions, and for the poor people who +were crying and moaning all the day.</p> + +<p>But of what went on outside our prison walls we had not an idea, +though sometimes poor papa would brave the warder's brutalities and +ask him questions of what was happening in Paris every day.</p> + +<p>"They are hanging all the aristos to the street-lamps of the city," +the man would reply, with a cruel laugh, "and it will be your turn +next."</p> + +<p>We had been in prison for about a fortnight, then one day—oh! +shall I ever forget it?—we heard in the distance a noise like the rumbling +of thunder; nearer and nearer it came, and soon the sound became less +confused. Cries and shrieks could be heard above that rumbling din, +but so weird and menacing did those cries seem, that instinctively—though +none of us knew what they meant—we all felt a nameless terror +grip our hearts.</p> + +<p>Oh! I am not going to attempt the awful task of describing to you +all the horrors of that never-to-be-forgotten day. People who to-day +cannot speak without a shudder of the September massacres have not +the remotest conception of what really happened on that truly awful +second day of that month.</p> + +<p>We are all at peace and happy now, but whenever my thoughts +fly back to that morning, whenever the ears of memory recall those +hideous yells of fury and of hate, coupled with the equally horrible +cries for pity which pierced through the walls behind which the six +of us were crouching, trembling, and praying, whenever I think of it +all my heart still beats violently with that same nameless dread which +held it in its deathly grip then.</p> +<div class="figleft" style="width: 228px;"> +<img src="images/i_132.png" width="228" height="400" alt="man with head in hands" /> +</div> +<p>Hundreds of men, women, and children were +massacred in the prisons of Paris on that day—it was +a St. Bartholomew even more hideous than the last.</p> + +<p>Maman was trying in vain to keep our thoughts +fixed upon God—papa sat on the stone bench, his +elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in his +hands, but maman was kneeling on the floor with her +dear arms encircling us all, and her trembling lips +moving in continuous prayer.</p> + + + +<p>We felt that we were facing death—and what a +death!—O, my God!</p> + +<p>Suddenly the small grated window—high up in +the dank wall—became obscured. I was the first to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +look up, but the cry of terror which rose from +my heart was choked ere it reached my throat.</p> +<div class="figright" style="width: 291px;"> +<img src="images/i_133.png" width="291" height="400" alt="man looking through window" /> +</div> +<p>Jean and André looked up too, and they +shrieked, and so did Marguerite, and papa jumped +up and ran to us and stood suddenly between +us and the window like a tiger defending its +young.</p> + + + +<p>But we were all of us quite silent now. The +children did not even cry, they stared wide-eyed—paralysed +with fear.</p> + +<p>Only maman continued to pray, and we could +hear papa's rapid and stertorous breathing as he +watched what was going on in that window above.</p> + +<p>Heavy blows were falling against the masonry +round the grating, and we could hear the nerve-racking +sound of a file working on the iron bars, +and farther away below the window those awful +yells of human beings transformed by hate and +fury into savage beasts.</p> + +<p>How long this horrible suspense lasted I +cannot now tell you: the next thing I remember clearly is a number of +men in horrible ragged clothing pouring into our vault-like prison from +the window above; the next moment they rushed at us simultaneously—or +so it seemed to me, for I was just then recommending my soul to +God, so certain was I that in that same second I would cease to live.</p> + +<p>It was all like a dream, for instead of the horrible shriek of satisfied +hate which we were all expecting to hear, a whispering voice, commanding +and low, struck our ear and dragged us, as it were, from out the +abyss of despair into the sudden light of hope.</p> + +<p>"If you will trust us," the voice whispered, "and not be afraid, you +will be safely out of Paris within an hour."</p> + +<p>Papa was the first to realise what was happening: he had never lost +his presence of mind, even during the darkest moment of this terrible +time, and he said quite calmly and steadily now:</p> + +<p>"What must we do?"</p> + +<p>"Persuade the little ones not to be afraid, not to cry, to be as still +and silent as may be," continued the voice, which I felt must be that of +one of God's own angels, so exquisitely kind did it sound to my ear.</p> + +<p>"They will be quiet and still without persuasion," said papa; "eh, +children?"</p> + +<p>And Jean, André, and Marguerite murmured: "Yes!" whilst<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +maman and I drew them closer to us and said everything +we could think of to make them still more brave.</p> +<div class="figleft" style="width: 243px;"> +<img src="images/i_134.png" width="243" height="400" alt="man being helped" /> +</div> + +<p>And the whispering, commanding voice went on +after awhile:</p> + +<p>"Now, will you allow yourselves to be muffled +and bound? and after that will you swear that whatever +happens, whatever you may see or hear, you will +neither move nor speak. Not only your own lives, but +those of many brave men will depend upon your fulfilment +of this oath."</p> + +<p>Papa made no reply, save to raise his hand and +eyes up to where God surely was watching over us all. +Maman said in her gentle, even voice:</p> + +<p>"For myself and my children, I swear to do all +that you tell us."</p> + + +<p>A great feeling of confidence had entered into her +heart, just as it had done into mine. We looked at +one another and knew that we were both thinking +of the same thing: we were thinking of the brave +Englishman and his gallant little band of heroes about whom we had +heard many wonderful tales of how they had rescued a number of +innocent people who were unjustly threatened with the guillotine; and +we all knew that the tall figure disguised in horrible rags, who spoke to +us with such a gentle yet commanding voice, was the man whom +rumour credited with supernatural powers, and who was known by the +mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel.</p> + +<p>Hardly had we sworn to do his bidding than his friends most +unceremoniously threw great pieces of sacking over our heads and then +proceeded to tie ropes round our bodies. At least I know that that is +what one of them was doing to me, and from one or two whispered +words of command which reached my ear I concluded that papa and +maman and the children were being dealt with in the same summary way.</p> + +<p>I felt hot and stifled under that rough bit of sacking, but I would +not have moved or even sighed for worlds. Strangely enough, as soon as +my eyes and ears were shut off from the sounds and sights immediately +round me, I once more became conscious of the horrible and awful din +which was going on not only on the other side of our prison walls, but +inside the whole of the Abbaye building and in the street beyond.</p> + +<p>Once more I heard those terrible howls of rage and of satisfied +hatred uttered by the assassins who were being paid by the Government +of our beautiful country to butcher helpless prisoners in their hundreds.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 363px;"> +<img src="images/i_135.png" width="363" height="600" alt="The Scarlet Pimpernel to the Rescue painting" /> +</div> + +<p>Suddenly I felt myself hoisted up off my feet and slung up on to a +pair of shoulders that must have been very powerful indeed, for I am +no light weight, and once more I heard the voice, the very sound of +which was delight, quite close to my ear this time, giving a brief and +comprehensive command:</p> + +<p>"All ready—remember your part—en avant!"</p> + +<p>Then it added in English; "Here, Tony, you start kicking against +the door whilst we begin to shout!"</p> + +<p>I loved those few words of English, and hoped that maman had +heard them too, for it would confirm her—as it did me—in the happy +knowledge that God and a brave man had taken our rescue in hand.</p> + +<p>But from that moment we might all have been in the very antechamber +of hell. I could hear the violent kicks against the heavy door +of our prison, and our brave rescuers seemed suddenly to be transformed +into a cageful of wild beasts. Their shouts and yells were as horrible as +any that came to us from the outside, and I must say that the gentle, firm +voice which I had learnt to love was as execrable as any I could hear.</p> + +<p>Apparently the door would not yield, as the blows against it +became more and more violent, and presently, from somewhere above +my head—the window presumably—there came a rough call and a +raucous laugh:</p> + +<p>"Why! what in the name of —— is happening here?"</p> + +<p>And the voice near me answered back equally roughly:</p> + +<p>"A quarry of six—but we are caught in this trap—get the door +open for us, citizen—we want to be rid of this booty and go in search +for more."</p> + +<p>A horrible laugh was the reply from above, and the next instant +I heard a terrific crash; the door had at last been burst open either +from within or without, I could not tell which, and suddenly all the din, +the cries, the groans, the hideous laughter and bibulous songs which +had sounded muffled up to now burst upon us with all their hideousness.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 578px;"> +<img src="images/i_137.png" width="578" height="400" alt="A motley crew" /> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a><br /><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p> + +<p>That was, I think, the most awful moment of that truly fearful +hour. I could not have moved then, even had I wished or been able +to do so, but I knew that between us all and a horrible, yelling, +murdering mob there was now nothing—except the hand of God and +the heroism of a band of English gentlemen.</p> + +<p>Together they gave a cry—as loud, as terrifying as any that were +uttered by the butchering crowd in the building, and with a wild rush +they seemed to plunge with us right into the thick of the awful mêlée.</p> + +<p>At least that is what it all felt like to me, and afterwards I heard +from our gallant rescuer himself that that is exactly what he and his +friends did. There were eight of them altogether, and we four young +ones had each been hoisted on a pair of devoted shoulders, whilst +maman and papa were each carried by two men.</p> + +<p>I was lying across the finest pair of shoulders in the world, and +close to me was beating the bravest heart on God's earth.</p> + +<p>Thus burdened, these eight noble English gentlemen charged right +through an army of butchering, howling brutes, they themselves howling +with the fiercest of them.</p> + +<p>All around me I heard weird and terrifying cries:</p> + +<p>"What ho, citizens! what have you there?"</p> + +<p>"Six aristos!" shouted my hero boldly as he rushed on, forcing his +way through the crowd.</p> + +<p>"What are you doing with them?" yelled a raucous voice.</p> + +<p>"Food for the starving fish in the river," was the ready response. +"Stand aside, citizen," he added, with a round curse. "I have my orders +from citizen Danton himself about these six aristos. You hinder me at +your peril."</p> + +<p>He was challenged over and over again in the same way, and so +were his friends who were carrying papa and maman and the children, +but they were always ready for a reply. With eyes that could not +see one could imagine them as hideous, as vengeful, as cruel as the rest +of the crowd.</p> + +<p>I think that soon I must have fainted from sheer excitement and +terror, for I remember nothing more till I felt myself deposited on a +hard floor, propped against the wall, and the stifling piece of sacking +taken off my head and face.</p> + +<p>I looked around me dazed and bewildered; gradually the horrors +of the past hour came back to me, and I had to close my eyes again, for +I felt sick and giddy with the sheer memory of it all.</p> + +<p>But presently I felt stronger and looked around me again. Jean +and André were squatting in a corner close by, gazing wide-eyed at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +group of men in filthy, ragged clothing who sat round a deal table in +the centre of a small, ill-furnished room.</p> + +<p>Maman was lying on a horse-hair sofa at the other end of the room, +with Marguerite beside her, and papa sat in a low chair by her side +holding her hand.</p> + +<p>The voice I loved was speaking in its quaint, somewhat drawly +cadence:</p> + +<p>"You are quite safe now, my dear Monsieur Lemercier," it said. +"After Madame and the young people have had a rest some of my friends +will find you suitable disguises, and they will escort you out of Paris, as +they have some really genuine passports in their possession, which we +obtain from time to time through the agency of a personage highly placed +in this murdering Government, and with the help of English banknotes. +Those passports are not always unchallenged, I must confess," added my +hero, with a quaint laugh, "but to-night every one is busy murdering in +one part of Paris, so the other parts are comparatively safe."</p> + +<p>Then he turned to one of his friends and spoke to him in English:</p> + +<p>"You had better see this through, Tony," he said, "with Hastings +and Mackenzie. Three of you will be enough: I shall have need of the +others."</p> + +<p>No one seemed to question his orders. He had spoken and the +others made ready to obey. Just then papa spoke up:</p> + +<p>"How are we going to thank you, sir?" he asked, speaking broken +English, but with his habitual dignity of manner.</p> + +<p>"By leaving your welfare in our hands, Monsieur," replied our gallant +rescuer quietly.</p> + +<p>Papa tried to speak again, but the Englishman put up his hand to +stop any further talk.</p> + +<p>"There is no time now, Monsieur," he said, with gentle courtesy. +"I must leave you, as I have much work yet to do."</p> + +<p>"Where are you going, Blakeney?" asked one of the others.</p> + +<p>"Back to the Abbaye prison," he said; "there are other women and +children to be rescued there!"</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 508px;"> +<img src="images/i_139.png" width="508" height="300" alt="exhausted" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 551px;"> +<img src="images/i_140a.png" width="551" height="400" alt="Boy Scout sitting down" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2>WHAT CAN A LITTLE CHAP DO?</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY JOHN OXENHAM<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> EUGENE HASTAIN <i>and Drawings by</i></span><br /> +<span class='small'>GORDON BROWNE, R.I.</span><br /><br /></div> + + +<div class='poem'> +<i><span class="smcap">What</span> can a little chap do<br /> +For his country and for you?<br /> +What</i> <span class="smcap">can</span> <i>a little chap do?</i><br /> +<br /> +He can fight like a Knight<br /> +For the Truth and the Right—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>That's one good thing he can do.</i></span><br /> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 247px;"> +<img src="images/i_140b.png" width="247" height="450" alt="knight" /> +</div> +<p> <br /><br /></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 402px;"> +<img src="images/i_141.jpg" width="402" height="600" alt="boy dreaming painting" /> +</div> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 520px;"> +<img src="images/i_143.png" width="520" height="450" alt="scout helping serior lady" /> +</div> + +<div class='poem'> +He can shun all that's mean,<br /> +He can keep himself clean,<br /> +Both without and within—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>That's another good thing he can do</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">His soul he can brace</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Against everything base,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">And the trace will be seen</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 8em;">All his life in his face—</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span><span style="margin-left: 10em;"><i>That's a very fine thing he can do</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +He can look to the Light,<br /> +He can keep his thought white,<br /> +He can fight the great fight,<br /> +He can do with his might<br /> +What is good in God's sight—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Those are excellent things he can do</i>.</span><br /> +<br /></div> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 357px;"> +<img src="images/i_144a.png" width="357" height="300" alt="kneeling to pray" /> +</div> +<div class='poem'><br /> +Though his years be but few,<br /> +He can march in the queue<br /> +Of the Good and the Great,<br /> +Who battled with fate<br /> +And won through—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>That's a wonderful thing he can do</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +And—in each little thing<br /> +He can follow The King.<br /> +Yes—in each smallest thing<br /> +He can follow The King—<br /> +He can follow The Christ, The King.<br /> +<br /></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i_144b.png" width="400" height="507" alt="Soldier walking" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i_145.png" width="400" height="337" alt="Girl sulking in chair" /> +</div> + + + + +<h2>ALTOGETHER DIFFERENT</h2> + +<div class='center'>BY W. PETT RIDGE<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Painting by</i> M. E. GRAY <i>and Drawings by</i> LEWIS BAUMER</span></div> + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">I knew</span> a child who——</div> + +<p>Some friends of mine have a daughter, and she——</p> + +<p>Not very many years ago, I remember hearing——</p> + +<p>Once upon a time—that is the proper way to begin this story—once +upon a time there was a little girl, of about the usual age, who +lived near to St. John's Wood Road Station, handy to Lord's cricket +ground, and not far from the Zoological Gardens. You would think +that any one who, in the summer, could look out of her window and see +Mr. P. F. Warner batting, and in the winter was able to go any afternoon +she liked, to watch the lions and tigers take high tea at four, ought +to have been as happy as the days were long; cheerful even when the +days were short. Yet she was not entirely satisfied; it may be said that +her one failing was a spirit of discontent. When grown-ups are discontented, +it is called ambition; but that is another matter.</p> + +<p>On a certain Tuesday evening in November it happened that she +felt quite pleased with the world until about seven o'clock. Seven +in the evening was the hour that frequently made her peevish.</p> + +<p>Nurse left her alone for a minute to see if everything was ready +upstairs, and in that minute the little girl jumped on a chair and moved +back the long hand. She was reading her picture-book with great +interest when nurse returned.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 270px;"> +<img src="images/i_146.png" width="270" height="400" alt="Girl adjusting clock" /> +</div> + +<p>"Bless my soul!" cried nurse. "Quite thought +it wanted ten to seven, and here it is only ten past +six. I shall find myself in Colney Hatch before I'm +much older."</p> + +<p>The little girl wanted to assure Nanna there was +no good reason to assume that mental decay had set +in, but she did not do this at once, and afterwards it seemed +too late. So nurse was allowed to chat on, and tell her very +best story about the time when she was a child, and a good one +at that, and when the clock, having been compelled to go over +the ground twice, again gave the time as ten to seven, nurse said,</p> + +<p>"Now my dearie!"</p> + +<p>Upstairs, the little girl devoted a few minutes to instructing +her dolly in the art of going off nicely to bye-byes.</p> + +<p>She was left alone, with just a mere star of gas-light +for company shining above the dressing-table, and at the +moment when she was about to go to sleep conscience woke +up. Conscience became wide-awake. Conscience insisted upon +talking, and the little girl had to listen. She was aware it is +useless to cry when one is by oneself with nobody looking on; not +only useless but wasteful, because you may want those tears on more +important and more public occasions. So the little girl did not weep, +but, oh! she felt troubled. She did feel troubled.</p> + +<p>"A silly, stupid world!" she cried aloud. "It ought—it +ought to be changed. I'd very much love it to be altogether +different."</p> + +<p>A knock at her door, and she answered, "Please come in, Nanna!" +Not nurse. Certainly the tall lady with diamonds sparkling in her +hair, and a white chiffon kind of costume, and a long silver stick in the +right hand, was as unlike nurse as any one could be. The little girl +said, "Oh, I beg pardon!" in her politest manner.</p> + +<p>"It is for me to beg yours," answered the tall lady with severity. +"I am exceedingly sorry to disturb you."</p> + +<p>"Pray don't mention it."</p> + +<p>"I wish to mention it," insisted the lady. "I claim the right to +mention it. I decline to allow any one to dictate to me what I shall or +what I shall not mention. I am a good fairy."</p> + +<p>The little girl opened her mouth with surprise.</p> + +<p>"A good fairy, and I am here to do you a favour. When a good +fairy wishes to do a favour, it is only necessary for a wish to be expressed, +and——"</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 439px;"> +<img src="images/i_147.png" width="439" height="550" alt="surprised at the time" /> +<span class="caption">"Bless my soul!" cried nurse</span> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Thank you," said the child nervously, "but really I would so +much rather you did not take the trouble."</p> + +<p>"The trouble," replied the good fairy, striking the floor with her +silver stick in an impatient way, "is no concern of yours. You mustn't +haggle."</p> + +<p>"I don't know what that means," declared the other earnestly, +"and if I did, I wouldn't do it, ma'am, I wouldn't really. Good +evening, and, of course, thank you ever so much for calling."</p> + +<p>"Dress!" ordered the good fairy.</p> + +<p>On the instant something happened which the little girl had often +thought about; more than once she had talked it over with nurse. +She found herself, in the space of less time than it takes to click your +finger and thumb, fully and completely costumed, boots laced up, hair +taken out of curlers and properly brushed, hat set at the correct angle, +parasol in hand, gloves buttoned, and everything ready for a walk out +of doors. She gave a cry of delight and astonishment.</p> + +<p>"I am about to give you the great treat of your life," said the +fairy, "something that no one has ever yet experienced, something that +will give you a subject to talk about for the rest of your days. Nobody +will believe you, but that must be endured. You are about to see the +world as nobody else has seen it. And if you ask me why you have +been selected for this high and special honour——"</p> + +<p>"Please, I don't!"</p> + +<p>"My answer is," taking no notice of the interruption, "that you +are receiving the award for your wonderful discovery."</p> + +<p>"But I have discovered nothing."</p> + +<p>"Nothing!" echoed the lady, with amazement. "You call it +nothing to have found out the secret that has puzzled clever people +for thousands and thousands of years? How often folk have said, 'If +only I could live some part of my life over again!' and they never have +been able to do it. You, child, were the first."</p> + +<p>The staircase had always gone straight down until it neared the +next landing, where it took a slight curve; now it was all curves and +had nothing about it that could be called straight. It went up, it went +down, it went to the left, it went to the right, so that wherever you put +your foot expecting to find a step, you did not find it, and wherever you +put your foot expecting to find nothing, you hurt your toes.</p> + +<p>"This is very strange, ma'am!"</p> + +<p>"That," replied the other, "should be its great attraction. Don't +lag. We shall get to the end of the staircase in less than ten minutes."</p> + +<p>Going out of the street doorway proved one of the most difficult<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> +tasks. The fairy did not seem to mind, but the child found it extremely +odd that when you pulled at the door it opened outwards, and that +when you pushed at it it came in. The iron gate which led to the +pavement had another form of behaviour. Determined not to be +bothered here, she gave a touch with her boot, and instantly the iron +gate offered her boot a pinch; she placed her hand upon it and the gate +gripped it, much in the way that Uncle Henry did when he said "How +do you do?" She put her back against it, and the iron gate gave her +a clutch around the waist, and said, in rasping tones, as it waltzed to +the pavement,</p> + +<p>"Do you reverse?"</p> + +<p>It was then that she perceived the fairy had left her.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_149.png" width="500" height="395" alt="Visited by a fairy" /> +</div> + +<p>A pavement is expected to behave in a calm and demure manner; +even when it takes you up-hill it does this in the gentlest way. But +this pavement, so soon as the little girl set foot upon it, at once changed +to something like a switchback, and a switchback, mark you, she enjoyed +when seated on a trolley at Shepherd's Bush Exhibitions; it was less +agreeable to try to walk up and down +the uneven parts here. Other people +did not seem to experience her difficulties, +and this she failed to understand +until she observed that they +went along on their hands and toes, +pretending to have four legs; she +tried the same method and found it +made her back ache; discovered, too,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +that she could not see so much as +when walking in the old way. +Thus it was that she had reached +the end of the road, where a steep +ascent occurred that was like the +side of a mountain, ere she noticed +something strange and peculiar +about the houses.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 334px;"> +<img src="images/i_150.png" width="334" height="400" alt="pavement not behaving" /> +</div> + +<p>"How very foolish of them +to build in that way!" she cried. +"They must be out of their senses."</p> + + + +<p>It was the more eccentric in +that her own house so far as she +had observed had not changed; +thinking it over, though, she could +not be quite sure. Here at any +rate was every house upside down +with the front door right away at +the top, Virginia creepers growing +downwards; at one house the +painters were seeing to the front and their ladders came from the roof +(which was the basement) nearly to the basement (which was the roof). +A neat lawn hung out over the top of each house; it made her feel +giddy to think of the risks of playing croquet there; she could not see +how one would be able to make even the first hoop.</p> + +<p>Other things claimed her attention.</p> + +<p>There were carts with horses pushing them—she had often heard +her father reprove her eldest brother for doing this in argument—the +horses stood upright and wore silk hats in a rakish sort of way, sometimes +lifting these on meeting another horse and taking cigars out of +mouths. She spoke to a constable, who wore a helmet on each hand, +and put an urgent inquiry.</p> + +<p>"Miaow!" said the policeman.</p> + +<p>"You didn't quite understand," remarked the little girl patiently. +"I asked you if you would kindly tell me the way to get home to +Wellington Road."</p> + +<p>"Ba, ba!"</p> + +<p>"Do please listen to me," she begged, "and tell me what I want +to know. I think I've lost my way, and I'm so afraid that I'm going +to cry."</p> + +<p>"Moo—oo!" said the constable.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 391px;"> +<img src="images/i_151.jpg" width="391" height="600" alt="Instructing Dolly painting" /> +</div> + +<p>"Please, please," she cried, "please don't be silly. Why do you +keep making noises like that instead of giving me a proper answer?"</p> + +<p>"Missy," he explained, "I'm a comic policeman. I'm not here to +tell folk the way or to lock them up, or anything of that kind; I'm here +to make people laugh."</p> + +<p>"You are not amusing me!"</p> + +<p>"Not when I make a noise like a dog?" he asked, with surprise. +"Why, that nearly always sends people into a good temper. You wait +till I give you my imitation of a railway engine. Hark!"</p> + +<p>He set his teeth together and began to say "Isha—isha—isha," +but the little girl turned away. She felt so indignant that she +determined to tell her father about it at the very first opportunity, and +see whether something could not be done. More than once her father +had helped to straighten out tangled matters by simply writing a letter +to the newspapers, and signing himself "An Indignant Ratepayer."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 240px;"> +<img src="images/i_153.png" width="240" height="400" alt="policeman" /> +</div> + +<p>And at the very moment along came her father. He, too, walked +on all fours as other people did, and the little girl thought it caused +him to look particularly undignified, but she did not trouble about this, +for, stout as he was, she was really glad to see him.</p> + +<p>"How do you do," he said respectfully. "Can you give me a +penny to buy some sweeties?"</p> + +<p>"Daddie, dear!" she cried with distress. "Don't you begin to be +funny, please."</p> + +<p>"I'm not," he said.</p> + +<p>"But you are my parent, you know."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he sighed, "I'm aware of that. But under the new rules—you +must have heard all about them—under the new rules parents have +to be obedient to their children, and do everything their children tell +them to do."</p> + +<p>"Not a bad idea," decided the little girl, after giving it consideration. +"I think if you don't mind I will get you to come along +now to Finchley Road and buy for me the mechanical +rocking-horse that has been talked about for some time."</p> + +<p>"Under the old arrangement," he replied readily, +"I should have been only too pleased, but the new +rules say that children must buy presents for their +father and mother."</p> + +<p>"How can we," getting rather cross, "how in the +world can we when we have no money?"</p> + +<p>"I think," he said, "that it is expected you should +go to work and earn some."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a><br /><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Never heard such nonsense in the whole course of my life," she +declared, using a grown-up remark. "It's perfect rubbish. Do you +mean to say that I shall have to go to concerts and sing as mamma +does?"</p> + +<p>"That's the idea, I believe."</p> + +<p>"But I can't sing. I can't sing nearly well enough to earn +money."</p> + +<p>"Well," said her father, after considering the matter, "what about +going out as charwoman? You'd get two shillings a day and +your lunch."</p> + +<p>She stood there for a few minutes, not daring to speak, and overcome +with cares and responsibilities. Some one touched her on the +shoulder, and she looked up.</p> + +<p>"Good fairy!" she cried.</p> + +<p>"Do you like the altogether different you asked for?"</p> + +<p>"No," she answered, "I don't like it at all. I wish now I hadn't +put back the hands of the clock."</p> + +<p>"You mean to say that that was how you did it? You dare to +tell me it was nothing cleverer than that? Now, just to punish you," +said the fairy, speaking with stern decision, "I shall send you away to +the old sort of world, and you'll simply have to make the best of it."</p> + +<div class='center'>* * * * * * *</div> + +<p>The bedroom door opened, and nurse came in. The little girl, +snuggling down into her warm, comfortable bed, kept her eyes shut.</p> + +<p>"Bless her!" said nurse to herself. "Sleeping as sound as a top. +That's what comes of having nothing on your mind to worry you!"</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;"> +<img src="images/i_154.png" width="550" height="248" alt="walking on the pavement" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="title and illustration"> +<tr><td align="center"><h2>THE ESCAPE</h2> + +<div class='center'><i>A GIRL'S STORY FROM GALLANT BELGIUM</i><br /> +<br /> +BY ANNIE S. SWAN<br /> +<br /> +<span class='small'><i>Drawings by</i> HAROLD EARNSHAW</span><br /><br /></div> +</td><td align="left"><div class="figcenter" style="width: 155px;"> +<img src="images/i_155.png" width="155" height="250" alt="Looking through binoculars" /> +</div> +</td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<div class='unindent'><span class='smcap'>Not</span> a sound broke the exquisite hush of the +early morning.</div> + + + +<p>The old courtyard, with its tiled pavement, +its cool fountain, and its cooing doves, the dog +asleep in the sunshine, made a picture of perfect peace.</p> + +<p>The house, once the Château of a great family that had fallen on +evil days, was grey and old, and beautiful still, though now merely +<i>une pension de demoiselles</i>.</p> + +<p>It was August, when, as a rule, all the merry throng had +scattered from the Château to their respective homes, leaving it to its +former dignity and quiet. Mademoiselle usually went to England, +perhaps seeking fresh pupils, or to enjoy the sea breezes on the +Normandy coast.</p> + +<p>La Royat, in the village of Coutane, was inland from the sea, about +fifteen miles from Brussels. It was a sweet spot, beloved of the understanding +traveller, and many came to look at the fine old church, +whose spire and windows were among the treasures known to lovers of +the beautiful all over the world. Mademoiselle Ledru had nothing to +complain of in her lot, with which she had been hitherto content. Success +had flowed in upon her earnest efforts, though looking at her anxious +face that summer morning one would have thought her oppressed by +care. She was an elderly woman now, with the remains of beauty still +on her face. The place where she stood that morning, before her household +was astir, was certainly unusual, being the square tower of the +Château, from whose low ramparts she was sweeping the horizon with a +powerful glass. It was all very peaceful and beautiful, a wide rolling +plateau, with fields white to harvest, not a hint of approaching desolation +on its smiling face.</p> + +<p>It was very early, hardly an hour past daybreak, but already some +of the thrifty peasants were busy in the fields. Far away on the red +horizon there was a slight haze, regarding which Mademoiselle seemed +more than a little curious. Again and again she focused her glass, until +confident that the haze was not altogether stationary, but moved and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +broke and thickened again. Then with a sickening apprehension +at her heart, she turned and fled down the stairs and went to open +the big door of the Château. Jules, the fat and sleepy porter, was +undoing the bolts as she got down.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 200px;"> +<img src="images/i_156.png" width="200" height="150" alt="two girls" /> +</div> + +<p>"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Some one is at the gate, an early +visitor." He chuckled as he undid the last bolt, and threw wide +the door. When he would have hobbled across the courtyard to +open the gate his mistress was before him. When she undid the bolts +the Curé, bareheaded, stood before her.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Mademoiselle, it is bad news," he said in a firm voice, +though his face was tense with apprehension. "They come, the +barbarians. I have information, now it behoves us to consult what +we will do."</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle whitened to the lips, and drew him in and shut the +door. She signed to Jules to depart, but the Curé intervened.</p> + +<p>"Let him stay. It will save a twice-told tale. I have certain +news that they are not more than a couple of hours' march away, and for +sure they will come this way to Brussels. What shall we do?"</p> + +<p>"I will remain at my post," answered Julie Ledru firmly. "I have +no fear for myself, but my charges, Father—Rosalie and Biddy, with +whom their English parents have trusted me. My spirit fails! What +must we do with them?"</p> + +<p>"It will not be safe to leave them here, Mademoiselle, nor even for +you to stay. We will take you to the crypt of the church, where, with +a little food and drink, you will be safe until they have passed through. +We have no treasure here in Coutane, and are simple folk. Perhaps +we shall be beneath their notice."</p> + +<p>Julie Ledru clasped her hands in an ecstasy of apprehension. They +had been without newspapers for four days, but chance travellers +from the East had brought strange and appalling tales of the invaders' +desolating march. They told of ruined villages and burning homes, +and helpless people mercilessly shot down in places as simple and as +unimportant as Coutane. Julie Ledru looked round her little domain +with a kind of sad pride. It did not contain many treasures, it is true, +but it was her home, enshrined by many sweet memories. It contained +her all.</p> + +<p>"Now, Father?" she asked feverishly. "Do you think we should +come now?"</p> + +<p>"Without a moment's delay," he answered. "Go and get your +charges roused and bring all with you; a little food also in a basket, lest +you have to stop there several days."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You will be with us, Father?" said Julie anxiously.</p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>"My place is in the open street with such of my people as feel +strong and brave in their innocence and faith. But you have English +charges. If it was known, Mademoiselle, believe me, nothing would +save them or you. Their fury against the English is so great."</p> + +<p>"Shall we take Jules? Besides him, <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'their'">there</ins> is only our faithful +Babette."</p> + +<p>Before the Curé could reply Jules intervened, scratching his old +grey head.</p> + +<p>"I hide not from them, Mademoiselle; I will stay and guard the +Château and keep them out, if I can, barbarians that they are, making +war on women and children."</p> + +<p>"They will shoot you, Jules, if you are so foolish," his mistress +reminded him. His answer was a shrug of the shoulders.</p> + +<p>"A man dies but once—that is to say, a good man, who has faith +in God and does his duty."</p> + +<p>So saying, Jules went back to take up his waiting duty.</p> + +<p>The Curé departed the way he had come, and Julie Ledru, with +a feeling of strange calm upon her, hurried indoors to make her few +simple preparations. <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'Barbette'">Babette</ins>, the elderly servant, one of the best of +the old Brabant type, was cool and ready for any emergency, and in +an incredibly short time they had packed some food and a few necessaries +in two considerable baskets. Then Mademoiselle Ledru essayed the +task she dreaded—that of awaking her two young charges, and preparing +them for the ordeal through which they had to pass.</p> + +<p>They were still asleep, in two beds side by side, in one of the +pleasantest rooms of the Château. Rosalie Bentham, fair and rosy, like +an English flower, her golden hair lying on her pillow like an aureole, +and Biddy Connaught, the dark-eyed Irish girl, whose long black lashes +swept her cheek, while her dimpled chin was in her open palm, as she +smiled over some passing imagery of her dream. Something caught +Julie Ledru's throat as she regarded these two pictures of innocence and +beauty, and reflected on the greatness of her charge. Both were only +children, entrusted to her care in the holidays, because their parents, +both in the exercise of duty, could not take them home. But with a +strong effort she controlled herself and awakened them gently. It was +a process of some length, because the sleep of youth is sound and deep, +but at last they were sitting up, drinking in her news.</p> + +<p>"We have to run away and hide in the crypt until the Germans +have marched through the village. Do you hear, Biddy?" called<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +Rosalie, as she sprang from her bed and began to get into her clothes. +"But how ripping! What lots we shall all have to write about and to +tell them when we get home!"</p> + +<p>Julie Ledru faintly, tremulously, smiled, and with her own hands she +assisted them to make a hasty toilet. Some coffee was ready for them +downstairs, for Babette was a methodical person, not easily upset. +Thus fortified, they left the Château presently, leaving Babette and +Jules in charge. Babette made the same excuse—some one must stay +to guard the place, and surely when they found nobody but two simple +old servants they would pass on.</p> + +<p>Julie had no time to argue; perhaps even she did not fully realise +the peril to which these two faithful souls thus willingly exposed themselves. +She looked back on their serene faces as she passed through the +gate, and it was the last time she was to look on them in life. She +never saw them again, nor found them. They disappeared in the ruins +of La Royat as many had disappeared in other ruins, leaving no trace +behind. At the church, which was but a few paces off, they found the +Curé busy arranging shelter. It was a very tiny village, and the number +of those willing to accept the shelter he offered and, indeed, advised was +comparatively few. For though a simple they were a brave people, +nor could they conceive of a wickedness and barbarity that would seek +to destroy innocent souls who had naught to do with war. So they +went about their ordinary avocations as usual, a trifle more apprehensively +perhaps, but none the less bravely, and the morning wore on.</p> +<div class="figright" style="width: 207px;"> +<img src="images/i_160.png" width="207" height="300" alt="soldier looking at sign" /> +</div> +<p>The Curé took his charges, about twenty souls in all, down the +narrow stairs to the crypt, where he had already provided light and such +small comforts as he could spare from his own store.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it ripping, Biddy?" asked Rosalie, but perhaps her young voice +had lost a little of its gallant ring. But Biddy, who had the imaginative +temperament of her race, shivered a little, and burst into tears. It was +strange and ominous to come in out of the warm, hopeful sunshine to +this place of tombs, an adventure with which the child could very well +have dispensed. The church was very old, and many +who had been born in Coutane had never seen the crypt. +Its very existence was unknown to a large number, +and the entrance to it was so cunningly arranged, and +so difficult of access, that it was of all hiding-places in +the village the most secure.</p> + + + +<p>Then there was always the belief, founded on all +precedent of war, that the sacred things would be +respected, and sanctuary in God's house left undesecrated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +The hours seemed long down there and the stillness profound. +Not a sound from the upper air penetrated to that strange hiding-place. +Though sure of their sanctuary, it seemed natural to lower their +voices, to move softly, and even to watch apprehensively. Even the +two girls, usually so high-spirited, found themselves naturally becoming +quiet. It was only the very little children, of whom there were five, +who, unconscious of danger, crowed and laughed and babbled in their +usual glee. These little ones provided incessant interest and occupation +for the two girls, and Julie Ledru smiled as she watched their pretty +efforts to amuse and keep them quiet. She had brought her watch, and +it pointed to nine o'clock at the moment when they heard a dull thud +several times repeated, which caused them all to start and look at one +another in quick alarm.</p> + +<p>"It is the guns," said old Monsieur Rollin, whose legs were twisted +with rheumatism, so that they had half-carried him down the steps of +the crypt. "They have come, and are starting their fiendish work."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_161.png" width="500" height="349" alt="soldier on the road" /> +</div> + +<p>No one could gainsay him, and for the next half-hour they had to +listen to a repetition of the same sound gradually getting nearer and +nearer. Presently their terror was increased by the deafening roar of +artillery much nearer and the sound of falling masonry, indicating that +the church itself, cradle and sanctuary of the life of Coutane for +centuries, had not been respected. The two English girls, now +thoroughly frightened, clung together fearfully, and the whole little +company, some of them on their knees, did not exchange a word. After +a time the firing ceased, and they were left to absolute stillness. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +none of them moved, or offered to go up to discover what had +actually happened in the village.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 189px;"> +<img src="images/i_162.png" width="189" height="275" alt="carrying a lantern" /> +</div> + +<p>After what seemed an interminable interval—in reality it +was not more than a couple of hours from the moment the din +ceased overhead—the door of the crypt was cautiously opened, +and the Curé looked in. He was all dishevelled, his face blackened +with smoke, and his whole appearance that of a man who had +seen some terrible and haunting vision.</p> + +<p>"Ah, there you are, my children," he cried as they crowded +round him; "I think you may come up presently, but be prepared +to have your hearts broken. A regiment of the enemy has +passed through, and left nothing behind. Mademoiselle, the +Château is in flames, and the beautiful spire of the church has been +blown to pieces, and at the Mairie the devastation is complete. But, +above all, we mourn the death of so many helpless people—I myself +escaped by a miracle."</p> + +<p>"Have they gone?" asked Mademoiselle, with a shivering breath.</p> + +<p>"They have, and I think that they are pursued, and that this was +the hurried work of destruction prompted by hatred and revenge. +Will you come up now and see for yourselves, or remain here in safety +through the night? Alas! you will find no other refuge, Mademoiselle, +for your home is in ruins."</p> + +<p>Such fear was upon them that with one accord they determined +to remain in the crypt until the dawn of another day.</p> + +<p>Even the natural gaiety and high spirits of youth were not proof +against the terror which all felt might swoop down upon them again at +any moment.</p> + +<p>They had arranged themselves as comfortably as possible to +pass the night, when they were suddenly disturbed by the grating of +a door and the swinging of a lantern. All scrambled to their feet, +some of them shrieking and hiding their eyes, certain that there had been +a fresh arrival of the invaders, and that instant death would meet them.</p> + +<p>But once more the Curé smiled upon them reassuringly.</p> + +<p>"Courage, my children! Our trouble is for the moment at an end. +Our own brave soldiers have arrived. It is as I said—they are in pursuit, +but part of them will camp here to-night. Alas! we have little or no +food to offer them, for the barbarians stripped the village of everything."</p> + +<p>Then Julie Ledru, hurriedly throwing on her cloak, said she would +ascend with the Curé and give what stores she could from the Château.</p> + +<p>"But it is no more, my daughter. You have forgotten how I told +you yesterday that they have burned it to the ground."</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But my stores are hidden in the grotto in the garden, and there is +a secret passage to it. I think, Father, they had not time, or did not +take it, to explore, and we shall find things there. I have been putting +them away since the war began."</p> + +<p>So in the pearly dawn, a strange sight was to be seen in the +trampled, desecrated garden of the Château behind its smoking ruins.</p> + +<p>Led by Julie Ledru, the Commandant of the troops that had halted +in the village found stores sufficient to help assuage the hunger of his +men. He was profuse in his thanks.</p> + +<p>"What can I do for you in exchange, Mademoiselle?" he asked, as he +stood at the salute. Instantly Mademoiselle pointed to her charges, +who, still shivering a little with fear, yet profoundly, poignantly +interested in the extraordinary scene of desolation, in what but a few +hours ago was one of the fairest spots in Belgium.</p> + +<p>"These are my English children. Get them to their parents, +Monsieur le Capitaine, and I shall be amply repaid."</p> + +<p>The officer shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Easier said than done, Madame; but leave it, and I will see what can +be done. How is it you have been so indiscreet as to remain here? You +ought to have removed yourself, and them, while there was still time."</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle shook her head.</p> + +<p>"We imagined we were of no account, and we have had no news +for several days. We were assured that the tide of battle had flowed in +a different direction."</p> + +<p>"It is everywhere, Mademoiselle—an evil flood, rolling over the +whole of our country. But, look you, I will see what can be done."</p> + +<p>He was as good as his word, and that evening after dark, in an +armoured motor-car, Julie Ledru and her charges were driven for hours +and miles by tortuous ways which kept them out of danger, until they +reached Ghent, where it was still possible to get a train for Ostend.</p> + +<p>Two days later, she landed in England with Rose and Biddy, herself +utterly ruined, her home gone, one of the most pitiful of the refugees.</p> + +<p>But she was welcomed warmly and gratefully by Biddy's father, +and in a few days' time was safe in a warm, comfortable home on the +Irish coast, where Rose, too, was made welcome, until her own relatives +in India could be communicated with.</p> + +<p>It was an experience the two girls would never forget, one which +will remain with them through life as a very poignant personal +experience of the Great War.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i_163.png" width="400" height="197" alt="refugees walking along road" /> +</div><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span></p> + + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_164.png" width="500" height="240" alt="Fleur-de-Lis title" /> +</div> + + +<div class='copyright'><br /><i>Copyright in the U.S.A. by the Century Company.</i><br /></div> + + +<div class='unindent'><span class="smcap">Fleur-de-lis</span> had been christened Marie Hortense Amélie Dupont: +Marie for her mother, Hortense and Amélie in honour of the two +Vicomtesses de Rastignac, sole survivors of the proud old Royalist +family in whose service Marie's mother and grandmother had lived, +and into whose service Marie herself had been born. But when <i>la +petite</i> Marie Hortense Amélie was a mere blossom of babyhood she +forsook the name that the priest had given her as he touched her +downy head with the holy water, and chose instead to be called Fleur-de-lis—a +name, in sooth, much better suited to a noble daughter of +the Rastignacs than to a child of Marie Dupont, maker of tissue-paper +flowers, and Pierre Dupont, street musician.</div> + +<p>Fleur-de-lis had first opened her eyes in a very humble chamber, +but it was large enough to hold a deal of sweet content, which grew +all the sweeter when she came to share it. There were only two rooms +for father, mother, and child, and these were in a dreary tenement +house, for Pierre Dupont, a stranger in a strange land, was having +a desperate struggle with poverty. On being discharged from the +hospital, where he had passed through the dangerous illness that left +him a maimed and broken man, he had to begin the world all over +again, and begin it single-handed, in very truth. There were few +things to which he could turn his one hand; one of them was the +crank of a street-piano, and in a modest example of that modern +instrument of torture he accordingly invested the last of his savings. +He was much too good for it, but by regarding it distinctly as a hated +object which should be discarded the moment something better +appeared, he mastered his aversion, and, by wheeling it through the +streets from morning till night, he managed to live, for there were +always people who wanted to hear it, and others who did not, so +that between the two classes he scraped together enough for his +frugal needs.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> + +<p>Marie was young and pretty and loyal, and when affairs were +most desperate she offered to take the baby Fleur-de-lis and accompany +her husband, gathering the pennies in a tambourine, while he ground +so-called music from the piano with the left arm, that grew so weary +in the monotonous service. But there was not a trace of the mountebank +in Pierre Dupont, nor a drop of beggar's blood in his veins. He +was poor and crippled, but he had still the self-respecting pride of +the peasant whose people had served noble families, and who know +what true nobility is. He could injure the dead-and-gone Rastignacs, +if he must, by trundling about a second-hand street-piano, but he +could at least spare them the insult of adding a monkey or a woman +to the procession. So Maman Marie, loving him more than ever for +his chivalrous regard of her, took up an almost forgotten pastime +of her girlhood, and fell to making artificial flowers, which she sold +to an old woman who stood on the street corners and offered them +to the passers-by.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 397px;"> +<img src="images/i_157.jpg" width="397" height="600" alt="Fleur-de-Lis painting" /> +</div> + +<p>The two rooms in the tenement house were as neat as care and +thrift could make them. The windows opened only into the court, it is +true, but Pierre and Marie did not need to look out of doors to get +a pleasant view, for they could look at each other, and at the baby; +besides, the glass was spotlessly clean and hung with equally spotless +curtains. The floors were uncarpeted, but there was never a speck of +dust on them. The little kitchen where Marie worked had a not +unappetising fragrance from the <i>pot-au-feu</i> that simmered on the stove; +it had also a gleam of sunshine in it for a few hours each day. Sometimes +when Pierre left his incubus for half an hour and ran home for a +mouthful of bread and soup, he looked at Maman Marie sitting by her +table in the sunshine, her scissors gleaming among the paper-flower +petals, and at Fleur-de-lis, sitting at her feet playing with the rainbow-coloured +scraps, and then he fell on his knees beside them, and, putting +his arm about them both, forgot that it was the only one he had, forgot +that he was poor and crippled, and that the future was all uncertain, +remembering only that he had home and wife and child, and that life, +with all its hardships, was inexpressibly dear to him. For it happens, +sometimes, that a poet's soul is lodged in a very humble tenement, and +a love that would do honour to a knight blossoms and flourishes in the +midst of mean and pitiful surroundings.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 64px;"> +<img src="images/i_165a.png" width="64" height="100" alt="Fleur-de-lis" /> +</div> + +<p>Fleur-de-lis's cradle had curtains made of a bit of tricolour, and +from the centre of the canopy there hung a medal of the Virgin swinging +on a narrow ribbon of blue. The cradle itself was a wooden box, and +Marie, with a maternal ingenuity that surmounted the lack of ordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +materials, had lined the inside of the hood with tissue-paper flowers; +white and blue fleurs-de-lis to match those on the faded satin coverlet, a +fragment of ancient grandeur where the Rastignac coat-of-arms was +intertwined with the Bourbon lilies of France. And when the baby's +vagrant gaze wandered to the flowery heaven above her head, and her +pink fingers reached to touch it and to stroke the soft counterpane, +Maman Marie would tell her the name of the posies; and so after a +time, when she discovered that people and things possessed names, +Marie Hortense Amélie, Mademoiselle Bébé, elected to call herself +Fleur-de-lis. It was the first word she lisped, and she attached it to +herself with the utmost complacency. It was appropriate enough, +for she looked as if she might have been originally intended for a +flower, and then somehow a soul had strayed into the flower, and it +had fluttered down to earth as a child—a curious blossom to come from +lowly stock, a kind of tender and beautiful miracle wrought out of +common clay by the fashioning and refining power of love. At times, +when Marie sat at her work and looked at Fleur-de-lis cooing and +smiling under her tri-coloured curtains, she forgot the strange land +outside the windows, and the Babel of strange tongues in the crowded +tenement, and as her deft, brown fingers shaped the tissue flowers, she +saw in fancy the poppies and the wheat and the lilies of her native +Breton fields. She saw the sun shining on the old château, her +mother hanging a chaplet on the baron's tomb in the little oratory, +the aged baroness walking sadly in the pleasance. All, all were gone. +The château was dismantled. The proud old family, rooted for +centuries to the soil of Brittany, had gradually lost its land and its +riches, till now there was only one frail old dame, poor and childless, +to maintain the ancient title. All these memories, half sad, half +sweet, flitted in and out of Marie's mind as she snipped and trimmed +and twisted and shaped, her head on one side to view the result, +like a little brown pheasant regarding a berry; and if Fleur-de-lis +slept, she hummed a Breton lullaby as she twined her paper nosegays. +What wonder, then, that there was a French air about them that +attracted purchasers?</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 381px;"> +<img src="images/i_166.png" width="381" height="100" alt="Three Fleur-de-lis" /> +</div> + +<p>So "hope clad in April green" made life worth living for father +and mother; and, as for Fleur-de-lis, she was a child; and she had love, +and that was enough, and it is sad when we grow so old that it does +not suffice for us. But these days, so full of care and anxiety, of +weariness and self-denial tinged with happiness, came to an end; for +when Fleur-de-lis was two years old, Maman Marie, young and strong, +passionately in love with life, desperately needed by husband and child,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +had to leave them, to journey on alone to another far country, having +just grown wonted to this.</p> + +<p>Then the light went out of the two little rooms that had been +home; indeed, it seemed to go out of the world altogether. Hard +times and yet harder ones descended upon poor Pierre Dupont. +Marie's earnings no longer helped to swell the slender income, and +there were no willing woman's hands to cut and plan and save, to +contrive and embellish. Added to this, the piano suddenly grew +uncertain, and subject to grave musical lapses, attacks of aphasia in the +middle of some tunes, and of asthma in the middle of others; so that +the hoot of the stony-hearted bystander and the ruffianly small boy +became familiar to Pierre's ears; for he could not afford to buy new +cylinders to fit into the old instrument, and to keep it up to the +demands of the street, which is always delighted if you "cannot sing +the old songs," and wishes the latest melody to the exclusion of +everything else.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 252px;"> +<img src="images/i_165b.png" width="252" height="100" alt="Two" /> +</div> + +<p>Fleur-de-lis had been left in the care of a woman for many weeks +after Marie's death, but the sight of her tear-stained face at night, +the tender frenzy with which she lifted her arms to her father when he +came in, the sob of joy with which she buried her head in his coat, the +sigh of content with which she stroked his cheek between every +mouthful of bread and milk as she sat on his knee eating her meagre +supper—all this was too much for his loving heart. He had a small +sum of money that he had been hoarding to attach "Annie Rooney" +and "Comrades" to his unfashionable instrument, that he might +appease the public by the gratification of its darling wishes, and withdraw +the Boulanger march from its sated ears. This money he took +and went to a carpenter's shop in the neighbourhood. After many +explanations in his broken English, and many diagrams rudely drawn +on paper, the carpenter succeeded in building a primitive sort of baby-carriage +on one end of the street-piano. It had two wheels of its own, +and moved somewhat in harmony with the ancient instrument, which +had its difficulties of locomotion nowadays, as well as its musical +weaknesses. It had a drawer in which Fleur-de-lis's playthings were +kept—a battered doll, and boxes of her favourite scraps of bright +tissue-paper, the top of an old cotton umbrella, and a square of rubber +cloth like that which covered the piano when it rained. Here Fleur-de-lis +sat for many hours each day, happy and content. Pierre would +often take her out, and let her toddle by his side until she was tired, +when she would ascend her throne again. She wore a faded corduroy +jacket and an old woollen cap, but the flower-face that smiled above the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +one, and the shower of chestnut hair that fell from beneath the other, +made you forget the poverty of her raiment. She was always clean and +sweet and comfortable, for Pierre, with the gentleness and patience of +a woman, washed and even mended, in a rough sort of a way, that the +child might not wholly miss a mother's care.</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 83px;"> +<img src="images/i_168.png" width="83" height="400" alt="Two Fleur-de-lis" /> +</div> + +<p>Matters were going on in this way, rather from bad to worse, +when one November day father and child turned off a side-street, and +trundled into one of the fashionable avenues of the city. Pierre did +not often wheel his piano in front of brown-stone houses; it was too +old and wheezy to commend itself to localities accustomed to Seidl's +orchestra and the Hungarian band; but he scarcely knew to-day +whither his aimless feet were carrying him. For two weeks he had +gone out in the early morning and evening, leaving Fleur-de-lis asleep, +and had spent an hour or two in a vain quest for employment. But +his speech was broken, and he had only one arm—small wonder that +he failed when hundreds of men with two arms and nimbler tongues +were seeking the same thing and failing. People generally told him +that he ought to have stayed at home in his own country, where he +belonged; but that, as he had not done that, his next best plan was to +get back there at the earliest possible moment. If they had had time +to hear his justification for cumbering the earth of this free country, +he might have told them that he left France a strong young man, with +a strong young wife, and nearly fifteen hundred francs for the inevitable +rainy day; but that the rainy day had turned out to be a continual +downpour. He was wondering in a dull, vague sort of way, as they +rattled along over the cobblestones, why there was not bread for the +mouths that needed it. He wondered why, through no fault of his +own, he should have been maimed and crippled, why the loss of wife +should have followed the loss of limb, why there was not enough +work in the world for the people who were willing to do it, why +the children in the luxurious carriages that swept past him should +be swathed in furs while Fleur-de-lis's hands were blue in her ragged +mittens.</p> + +<p>The universe was a mystery to Pierre Dupont. Search it as he +might, he could find no key to its curious distribution of miseries and +injustices. It seemed to him that, if some people would be content to +take a little less, there might be a little more for him; but he was by +no means certain of the soundness of this comfortable theory. A little +less gold plate on that harness, for instance, a yard less of lace on the +gown of that lady just stepping into her brougham, a single diamond +from her marquise ring—no, that superficial and snarling philosophy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> +did not help Pierre; there was neither envy nor rage in his heart as yet; +only a dull despair, a groping in the dark for a reason. Many of these +fortunate people, he supposed, deserved their fortunes, and had earned +them. They were cleverer than he, and had friends and opportunities +not vouchsafed, perhaps, to him. But why, since he was not clever, +and since he had neither friends nor opportunities, should he have been +deprived first of his principal means of self-support, and then of his +consolation, his courage, his other and braver self?</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 83px;"> +<img src="images/i_168.png" width="83" height="400" alt="Two Fleur-de-lis" /> +</div> + +<p>And now it was the anniversary of Marie's death. That made the +day even harder to bear; for in some subtle way the remembrance of +certain hours or moments in a dear dead past is always more bitter +when we say to ourselves with a sigh, "It was just a year ago." Nature +was in no buoyant mood. A cold, drizzling rain, which ought to have +been snow, fell from time to time. The chill dampness made people +draw their wraps closer, and look drearily at the sky. Even the +children appeared less joyous than usual. Men turned up the bottoms +of their trousers and the collars of their coats, and hurried past one +another with a gruff nod that would have been a smile on a sunny day. +The bare branches of the trees shivered in the wind, and a few snowbirds +huddled themselves together cheerlessly here and there, as if even +they wished themselves farther south.</p> + +<p>Pierre took out the rubber-cloth to cover his piano, and as he did +so he saw two children at the second story of a fine house near by. He +expected to be ordered away by a butler in livery at the moment he +disclosed the limitations of his musical instrument, but one could never +tell, the butler might be wooing the parlour-maid, so he drew up in front +of the drive-way. Fleur-de-lis had just walked several blocks, and, on +being lifted into her carriage, hoisted the dilapidated cotton umbrella +and wrapped her doll in an extra bit of calico. Pierre turned the +crank; the piano began on "Love's Young Dream." It seemed to him +that, with every revolution of the handle, he twisted the chords of his +aching heart, and that presently it would break, as the battered old +cylinders threatened to do, and for the same reason; because, alas! too +many tunes had been played upon them. When ill-fortune descends +too thick and fast upon the human spirit, unless it can draw fresh +accessions of strength from within, from without, from above, it sinks +inevitably into despair. Man may be conscious that he is made in the +image of God, fitted to endure, to conquer, all things, but for the time +he is common human clay, he faints and dies, or falls into a cowardly +lethargy that is worse than death. Such a moment had come to +Pierre Dupont. In his first crushing blow he had had a wife to stand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +shoulder to shoulder with him. He had now his passionate devotion +to his child; but in cold and weariness, in hunger and friendlessness, ill-fortune +and despair, would love be able to keep itself pure, noble, self-denying, +hopeful? There were ways of forgetting, of dulling one's self, +of blotting out memory for hours together.</p> + +<p>His wants were comparatively simple; but, since he could not +realise them, why not give up the struggle? He did not wish for +a carriage or a palace; he wished to give up his vagrant life for some +labour by which he could maintain himself and give his child a start +towards honest womanhood. That was not extravagant, surely, and if +God were indeed in His heaven, and all were indeed right with the +world, it seemed to Pierre that it was none too much to ask.</p> + +<p>He finished "Love's Young Dream," and began the "Boulanger +March." A young girl of eighteen or nineteen, with an open book in +her hand, joined the children at the window. She had a beautiful, +rather serious face, and it brightened into amusement, and then into +earnestness, as she caught sight of the quaint vehicle, of the child under +the faded umbrella, and of the empty sleeve of the musician. Pierre +ground on mechanically; it was "I dreamt that I dwelt in Marble +Halls" now, and he hoped that a dime would be flung from the window +before he came to "Within a Mile of Edinboro' Town," for that was +the weakest part of his repertoire. The group still stayed at the +window, and the crisis could not be delayed. The piano jerked through +several bars, stopped and repeated, wheezed and returned to the +"Boulanger March," then bounded again to "Edinboro' Town," and, +after several ineffectual attempts to finish it, made an asthmatic dash +into "No One to Love." Pierre looked anxiously under the <i>porte-cochère</i> +for the resentful butler; but the children shrieked with renewed +delight, and the young girl, going away from the window, presently +appeared, running down the drive-way, and slipping on her jacket as +she came. She approached the edge of the side-walk, for there was no +group about the piano, and, after a brief interview with Pierre, she left +a piece of silver with him, and went upstairs to her mother.</p> + +<p>Janet Gordon was a great anxiety to her family. She was possessed +of the most extraordinary ideas, and no one could tell whence +they came, unless she became infected by them in some mysterious +fashion, as one is by microbes; at all events, she had never inherited +them in the legitimate way. At present, it is true, she had not been +introduced to society, but unless a great change of heart should make +itself apparent in a few months, she threatened to be no ornament to +her set, and no source of pride to an ambitious mother.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 64px;"> +<img src="images/i_165a.png" width="64" height="100" alt="Fleur-de-lis" /> +</div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Please look out of the window, mama," she said, bringing a breath +of raw air into her mother's flower-scented sitting-room.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gordon rose languidly, her tea-gown trailing behind her. +"What is it? Anything more than an organ-grinder who has been +rasping my nerves for five minutes? Oh, I see what you mean; +what an extraordinary combination—a child in one end of the +machine! Tell Héloise to give the man a dime, dear."</p> + +<p>"I have given him a quarter myself, and have had a little talk +with him; he is quite different from the ordinary organ-grinder, +mama."</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course," said Mrs. Gordon good-naturedly; "all your +geese are swans, dear; a dime was quite enough for him."</p> + +<p>"But he has only one arm, you see, mama."</p> + +<p>"Of course, they never have; that is one of the tricks of the +trade. They bind one arm down to the side, and then slip the coat +over it. If you notice the man to-morrow he will have the left sleeve +hanging empty, and be playing with the right arm—it is more +effective."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure there is no deception in this case, mama."</p> + +<p>"Well, have it your own way, child; but pray don't take off his +coat to investigate, or you'll be catching some dreadful disease. It +does seem strange that poor people should always be so odiously dirty, +when water costs nothing."</p> + +<p>"This man is as clean as possible, and so is the baby. Her name +is Fleur-de-lis; is it not quaint?"</p> + +<p>"Just what I should expect; the dirtier and commoner they are, +the more regal and fanciful are the names they give their children. I +suppose your Fleur-de-lis is redolent of garlic, like the Pansies and +Violets of her class."</p> + +<p>"No, she is not. She is as sweet as a rose; but her face is almost +blue with cold."</p> + +<p>"Of course; what can the man expect if he trundles her about in +this weather? But I suppose he does it to enlist public sympathy. I +wonder why foreigners choose this particularly obnoxious way of getting +a living; and, if they must do it, why they go about with a decrepit old +instrument like that."</p> + +<div class="figright" style="width: 252px;"> +<img src="images/i_165b.png" width="252" height="100" alt="Two Fleur-de-lis" /> +</div> + +<p>"Yes, his piano is very old, but he cannot afford to rent a better +one just at present. He said, in his broken English, 'I had not the +"Marche Boulanger," neither "Comrades," ma'mselle; it was then I +had what you call bad luck, and now, <i>mon Dieu!</i> it is that I have not +"Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay."' And, as for the child, he does not allow her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +to take the money. I was dropping the quarter into her hand, when he +touched his cap, and said, '<i>Pardon</i>, give it to me, ma'mselle, <i>s'il vous +plaît</i>. You see, if ze monees keep putting in her hand she will grow up +one leetle beggair; she does not make ze muzeek, she does not push ze +piano—<i>bien</i>, she s'all not take zee monees."</p> + +<p>"Extraordinary!" murmured Mrs. Gordon satirically, as she fitted +the cushions to her back more luxuriously; "you must repeat that +speech to your father. I actually believe that a new order of philosophic +mendicant is springing up to match the new charity. The new charity +does not wish to pauperise poverty, and the new poverty does not wish +to be pauperised; it is really very amusing."</p> + +<p>"He is forced to take the child with him, because she has no mother," +explained Janet.</p> + +<p>"Of course she has no mother; they make it a point to have no +mother, or, if they have, they say they never knew who she was nor +where she is."</p> + +<p>"They know where this mother is," said Janet gravely, "for she +died a year ago to-day."</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 381px;"> +<img src="images/i_166.png" width="381" height="100" alt="Three Fleur-de-lis" /> +</div> + +<p>"Really, Janet, you exasperate me beyond measure, talking with +these low people, and allowing them to fill your mind with their falsehoods. +What is it you wish to do? You have given the man a quarter +already; that will quench his thirst for the present—Héloise, don't take +Fifine out without her blanket; she has been shivering on the rug before +the fire. Go back to your books, Janet. There will always be poor +organ-grinders, and most of them will have lost some of their arms or +legs, and all of them will have motherless, or worse than motherless, +children. It's the way of the world, and if you had the wealth of the +Indies you could never set things right—and, Héloise, come back a +moment; tell Madame Labiche that all three gowns must be sent home +to-morrow; and that I shall give her no more orders if she copies any +detail of my costumes for her other customers; and don't forget the +American Beauties, two dozen, the longest stems, and give that piano-child +at the gate ten cents more as you pass—I know it is not right, +Janet, but you are so insistent. The societies tell you never to bestow +alms without first looking into the case and finding whether it is really +deserving; but I am too weakly benevolent, and too lazy, besides, ever +to restrain—Janet, are you mad? Close that window at once!" And +Mrs. Gordon almost shrieked as she held down her frizzes with both +hands to shield them from the raw wind that rushed in from outside. +She would not have spoken so peremptorily had it not been for the +effect of the damp air on her coiffure. When her front <ins title="Transcriber's Note: original reads 'air'">hair</ins> was crimped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +and protected from the assaults of the atmosphere she was an amiable +woman and could discuss any subject with calmness; but, deprive her of +twenty little gold-wire hair-pins daintily darned into her auburn frizzes, +and the invisible hair-net that Héloise pinned on with such nicety, and +she would not have listened to any argument in the world, even if it +concerned the salvation of her own soul.</p> + +<p>"I was only going to speak a word to the man, mama," said Janet +apologetically.</p> + +<p>"I believe you've been reading Tolstoi," returned her mother, going +to a mirror to repair damages. "Heavens! what a fright you've made +me! I wish those Russians would keep their universal brotherhood +ideas, and their cholera germs, at home."</p> + +<p>"Dear mama, I scarcely know who Tolstoi is, except that he wrote +a novel about Anna somebody that you will not let me read. I do not +know what Tolstoi thinks about the wrong in the world, or how he +means to right it. I am not as sentimental as you and papa seem to +fancy. I am not certain that I ought to wrap that cold little child in +my new seal jacket, and run bare-headed by the side of the organ +collecting pennies for the poor one-armed man. I know that if I +should go down into the slums I should find a thousand others, and +that if I worked from year's end to year's end, and spent papa's entire +fortune, I could not make them all comfortable. But don't you believe, +mama, when, once in a while, need, poverty, and sorrow seem to +come directly in contact with plenty and riches and happiness, that +it means something, and that we ought to stop and think out something +special?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm sure I don't know, child; you confuse me so with your +persistence, and I can't think of anything while he sticks fast in the +middle of 'Edinboro' Town.' Give him half a dollar, if you like—anything +to get rid of him, though he succeeds wonderfully in amusing +the children."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to give him any more money, mama," said Janet, +with a sigh. "I only feel as if I must not lose sight of the child—there +they are going!"</p> + +<p>Pierre covered his piano, pinned the rubber-cloth more tightly +round Fleur-de-lis's throat, and was preparing to move off in the +direction of home, when Janet darted into the nursery, and, flinging +open the window in front of the children, called impetuously in her +clear young voice; "Bon soir, Fleur-de-lis! Bon soir, monsieur! +Revenez bientôt, je vous prie!"</p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 381px;"> +<img src="images/i_166.png" width="381" height="100" alt="three Fleur-de-Lis" /> +</div> + +<p>Pierre's face lighted with surprise and pleasure, and, as he took off<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +his cap he stammered excitedly, "Dis bon soir, bébé! Je vous remercis +mille-fois, ma'mselle; je reviendrai!"</p> + +<p>He wheeled his piano to the shed where he kept it under cover at +night, and carried Fleur-de-lis home on his arm. After he had +undressed her and laid her in her crib, he took a crucifix from a drawer +where, in a moment of bitterness, he had hidden it the day before, and, +kissing it, restored it to its accustomed place above the head of his bed.</p> + +<p>And the anniversary of Marie's death did not go out in utter blackness +after all; nor was it entirely because of the two pieces of silver that +had unexpectedly swelled the day's receipts. He had felt the magic of +a friendly voice; the beautiful little lady had spoken to him in his +native tongue; she had drawn a fragment of his story from him, and +thus relieved the weight at his heart; she had smiled on the child, and +kissed her; she had asked him to come again. And as he fell asleep +he whispered, "Merci, mille-fois, ma'mselle; je reviendrai."</p> + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i_174.png" width="500" height="400" alt="Talking to man on street" /> +</div> + +<div class='blockquot'><span class='small'><i>Published by Hodder & Stoughton, St. Paul's House, Warwick Square, London, B.C., and printed in Great Britain by +Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. Ten Colour Plates engraved and printed by Henry Stone & Son, Ld., +Banbury and London, and four by the Bushey Colour Press.</i></span></div> + +<hr class="chap" /> +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> + +<p>Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Some of the images of the paintings were moved +from their original locations in the text to positions where the actual stories occur. +Below is a list of the pages that the paintings originally followed:</p> + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="original painting locations"> +<tr><td align="left">Charlie the Cox</td><td align="left">page 12</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Ant Lion</td><td align="left">page 44</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">A Spell for a Fairy </td><td align="left">page 92</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Fleur-de-Lis</td><td align="left">page 124</td></tr> +</table></div> + + +<p>Page 56, "abear" changed to "bear" (I can't bear)</p> + +<p>Page 125, "their" changed to "there" (there is only our)</p> + +<p>Page 125, "Barbette" changed to "Babette" (Babette, the elderly)</p> + +<p>Page 138, "air" changed to "hair" (her front hair was)</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Princess Mary's Gift Book, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRINCESS MARY'S GIFT BOOK *** + +***** This file should be named 39592-h.htm or 39592-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/5/9/39592/ + +Produced by Chris Curnow, Emmy and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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