1884 ***




[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

FIFTH SERIES

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 49.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




POISONING.


An examination of the Registrar-general’s annual Report for 1882 gives
some interesting and suggestive statistics as to cases of poisoning,
which we think it may not be out of place to call attention to.
Probably few of our readers will be aware how frequently cases of
poisoning occur in the ordinary course of events. In the year 1881,
for example, there were five hundred and sixty-nine deaths recorded
in England alone from poisoning; while the year 1882 shows a record
considerably in excess of this, namely, five hundred and ninety-nine,
or one in every eight hundred and sixty-three of the total deaths
registered. Fully two-fifths of these cases are classified under the
heading ‘Accident and Negligence’—the remainder are suicides, of which
we will have a word to say by-and-by—and as it is not too much to
assume that in nearly every instance such cases are preventable, we
purpose calling attention to some of the more common causes of these
fatalities, in the hope that the suggestions and warnings thrown out
may not be without their influence in producing more care in the
handling and use of these dangerous substances.

Glancing over the various poisons, we find that the well-known
preparations of opium, laudanum, and morphia—opium itself being
included—head the list, having caused eighty-five deaths through
accident or negligence. This might have been expected from preparations
so largely used in domestic remedies; but the seventy-eight deaths from
lead-poisoning which follow do surprise us, in view of the fact that
the conditions which produce as well as the conditions which mitigate
or counteract the effects of this subtle poison, are now so well known.
Lead is followed by the four stronger acids—hydrochloric, nitric,
sulphuric, and carbolic, which amongst them have caused thirty-four
deaths under the same category. Arsenic, again, caused nine;
phosphorus, eleven; chlorodyne, six; chloral, fourteen; chloroform,
four; soothing syrup, four; with a host of casualties from substances
of minor importance.

Reading between the lines of the Registrar-general’s Report, which
it is not difficult to do, with the help of the medical journals, we
will find that there are two prolific causes of these accidents—first,
the giving or taking of overdoses of certain remedies containing
poisons; and second, the substitution of one bottle or substance for
another, as, for example, where a number of substances are congregated
together, as in the case of the domestic cupboard. In the first class
may be instanced the giving of overdoses of opiates or soothing
preparations to children; the taking of overdoses of narcotics or
soothing compounds, such as chloral, by habitual drinkers; and the
general familiarity which the handling or using of these powerful
agents frequently begets in those habitually using them. In the second
class may be instanced such mistakes as the substituting of one bottle
containing, say, a poisonous liniment, for a mixture intended for
internal administration; the hasty and foolish practice of quaffing off
a draught from any jug, bottle, or dish without examining the contents;
and lastly, mistakes caused from accumulating within easy access
powerful medicines, in the hope that they may come of future use.

Now, every good housewife may not be a trained nurse, but she is almost
certain to be called upon at one time or another to act as nurse, and
she may save herself many a bitter reflection if she would only attend
to the following simple and easy to be remembered rules:

(1) Never give an infant an opiate or other powerful soothing remedy
without first obtaining the sanction of the doctor. No practice is more
common when mothers meet than to talk over their children’s complaints,
suggest remedies, and magnify their several experiences, with the
result that domestic recipes are lauded, approved, and tried too often
in total ignorance either of their suitability or safety. Few mothers
are aware of the important fact, that a medicine containing a narcotic
or soothing ingredient may cure one infant and kill another of equal
strength, age, &c. This varied action of soothing remedies on infants
cannot be too well known or too strongly impressed upon mothers.

(2) Where powerful remedies, particularly such as contain opiates or
chloral, are being administered, the patients should not be allowed
to measure them or repeat the dose for themselves. In the midst of
racking pain or tossing about with sleeplessness, the chances are
that the patient will take a larger dose than that prescribed, to
obtain speedier relief; although it is not even in this that the
principal risk of accident lies. The great risk is that the patient
will repeat the dose before the influence of the previous dose has
exhausted itself; repeating the dose in a state of semi-consciousness
or of complete recklessness, to the total disregard of either quantity
or consequence. It would be well if persons in the habit of taking
laudanum, morphia, chloral, and chlorodyne would keep this danger in
mind.

(3) Never place bottles or packets containing poison alongside of those
intended for internal use. This is one of the most prolific causes of
accidents; and experience has shown that neither the distinctive blue
corrugated bottles, which are now frequently used to hold poisons,
nor labels, are sufficient to insure immunity from accident, even
among trained nurses, where medicines are allowed to be collected
indiscriminately together. (In the act of writing this, a case in point
has come under our observation which well illustrates the fearful
risk that is run in failing to attend to this simple rule. A daughter
was requested by her mother to give her a dose of her medicine. Only
two bottles were on the dressing-room table, the one containing the
medicine required, and the other containing a poisonous liniment. The
daughter saw the liniment bottle, read the label poison, took up the
other bottle containing the mixture correctly, but put it down again
to pick something up, and the second time took up the bottle, but this
time without reading the label, with the result that the liniment was
given instead of the mixture, with fatal results. Similar cases might
be multiplied indefinitely.)

(4) Never put any poison, such as carbolic acid, oxalic acid, or any
other of the stronger acids into beer-bottles, jugs, cups, or other
vessels which both children and adults are apt to associate in their
minds with substances not in themselves dangerous. One can hardly
take up a medical journal without finding some death recorded in this
manner. A bottle or cup is standing on a table or in a cupboard, and
under the impression that it contains beer or spirits, tea or coffee,
or even pure water, some one quaffs the contents, and only finds when
it is probably too late that he has drunk some virulent poison. One
is very apt to say, ‘How stupid!’ on reading such cases, and yet one
of the earliest experiences of the writer was in connection with a
mistake in every respect resembling this, and it well illustrates how
such mistakes may be made by intelligent if not even educated men—men
trained to exercise eyes, nose, and mouth—without their being detected
until too late. A student in the dispensary, one hot dusty day,
feeling thirsty, thought he would slake his thirst not at the tap, but
from the ‘Aqua fontana’ bottle on the shelf. Next this bottle stood
another containing turpentine, both bottles being correctly and plainly
labelled. Feeling confident in his bottle, he carelessly lifted it
from the shelf, took a long draught, and never discovered that he was
quaffing the turpentine until the bottle was withdrawn from his mouth.
Fortunately, nature dealt kindly by the lad, in quickly rejecting the
nauseous liquid.

Lastly, never accumulate powerful remedies, in the belief that they
may be required on some future occasion. It is highly probable that
many of our readers will have a family medicine chest in which there
is a place for every bottle, and in which every bottle must be in its
place, and the whole in beautiful order. This is the very idea for a
medicine cupboard—not only a place for everything, and everything in
its place, but all plainly and correctly marked. As a rule, however,
nothing can be further from the reality than such a picture. The
ordinary domestic medicine cupboard is too frequently a shelf of
some press or dark closet, where all medicines and remedies not in
use—poisonous liniments, poisonous mixtures, simples, and so on—are
all literally huddled together, with nothing to mark their contents
save the stereotyped directions: ‘The liniment for external use,’ or,
‘A teaspoonful three times a day.’ It is not difficult under such
circumstances to picture a typical case of what is almost certain
sooner or later to occur. Johnny, one of the children, is frequently
troubled with a cough, but the east winds having for a time been
propitious, Johnny’s cough mixture is put away in the cupboard.
By-and-by, however, Johnny overheats himself, is again caught by the
east wind, and so his mamma goes to the cupboard for his mixture.
Johnny escapes it may be all the poisonous liniments, for the bottle is
distinctly marked, ‘A teaspoonful three times a day;’ but Johnny does
not by any means escape all risk, for it is more than probable that his
mamma has quite forgotten about his papa’s tonic mixture containing
strychnine, or her own fever mixture containing aconite, or his older
brother’s mixture containing arsenic, and probably many others, all
labelled, ‘A teaspoonful three times a day,’ and all resembling
Johnny’s as much as two peas do each other. This is no fanciful
picture, but one which we have experienced again and again—sometimes
with serious consequences, but more frequently with more fright than
hurt. Still, such a risk should never be run. The agony which a
mother feels when she realises either that she has given, or that her
child has taken an overdose of poison or of some powerful medicine by
mistake, requires to be witnessed to be understood in all its terrible
reality; but once witnessed, we think it might be sufficient to act as
a warning as to getting too familiar or careless in the handling or
storing of such potent agents.

Nevertheless, it is a remarkable fact that some persons never acquire
this caution, even with such a bitter experience as that described. We
remember being called up one midnight to a case of poisoning, where
an ounce of saltpetre had been given for an ounce of Epsom salts. The
mother recollected placing the salts in the cupboard, but she forgot
one other very important fact, that she had also placed the packet of
saltpetre in the same place some time previously, and so she took the
first packet that came to her hand and made it up without the slightest
inspection. Notwithstanding this experience, a week or two later she
made a similar mistake with another poison from the same cupboard. A
phial of croton oil, used to produce an eruption on the chest, was
lifted instead of a phial of olive oil, and poured into the ear to
relieve earache.

Referring for a moment to suicides, of which there were two hundred
and eighty-eight for the same period, we find some curious and
even extraordinary statistics. For example, there is a very great
difference, as a rule, in the agents employed by men and by women
to effect suicide. A class of poisons under the generic name of
vermin-killers, but which in the majority of instances are merely
arsenic or strychnine disguised, have been the agents used by seventeen
females and only seven males. The opium preparations, on the other
hand, very nearly reverse these proportions, having been used by
twenty males and only twelve females. Carbolic acid, again, has been
used by thirteen females and only six males; and so on. Apparently,
the agent used in the majority of cases is determined either by a
facility in the obtaining of the poison, or by a certain familiarity in
the every-day use of it, otherwise we cannot account for the general
use of some slow, uncertain, and frightfully painful poisons such as
carbolic acid and phosphorus. Of more importance, however, than this
are the following facts, which we think require some explanation or
investigation. We find one hundred and one deaths recorded—fifty-eight
by accident and forty-three by suicide—from seven substances alone, not
one of which the legislature at present requires to be labelled poison!
Surely this requires some looking after. We find seventy-eight deaths
(not suicides) from lead-poisoning. We would like to know how far these
seventy-eight deaths are to be accounted for from absorption of the
poison by those working amongst it, and how far they might have been
avoided by ordinary precautions? Lastly, we find one hundred and two
deaths—twenty-six by accident and seventy-six by suicide—from poisons
which should not be sold unless under the strictest regulations. We
would like to know how far these regulations have been observed in
these cases, as we have reason to conclude that there is a laxity
existing somewhere.




ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.

_A NOVELETTE._

BY T. W. SPEIGHT.


CHAPTER XI.

The first thing that struck Colonel Woodruffe on entering the room of
Madame De Vigne was the extreme pallor of her face. She looked like a
woman newly restored to the world after a long and dangerous illness.
Although the window was wide open, the venetians were lowered, while
Mora herself was dressed in black, and in the semi-obscurity of the
room, her white, set face, with its sorrow-laden eyes, had an effect
that was almost ghostlike to one coming suddenly out of the glaring
sunlight. At least so it seemed to Colonel Woodruffe. He felt that at
such a time all commonplace questions would seem trivial and out of
place, so he went forward without a word, and lifting her hand, pressed
it gently to his lips.

‘Read this, please,’ she said as she handed him her husband’s letter.
Then they both sat down.

He read the note through slowly and carefully. As he handed it back to
her, he said: ‘What do you mean to do?’

‘I shall see him at the hour he specifies, and shall tell him that I
have already commissioned you to seek out Sir William Ridsdale and tell
him everything.’

‘Everything?’ he asked.

‘Everything,’ she answered in the same hard, dry voice; a slight
trembling of her long, thin fingers was the only sign that betrayed
the emotion pent up within. ‘Dear friend,’ she went on, ‘I want you at
once to find Sir William and tell him everything as I told it to you on
Wednesday. It will then be for him to decide whether he can accept the
sister of an ex-convict’s wife for his daughter-in-law. If he cannot,
then God help my poor Clarice! But nothing must be kept back from him,
whatever the result may be.’ Then after a little pause, she said,
looking earnestly into his face: ‘Do you not agree with me?’

‘I do,’ he answered. ‘The right thing is always the best thing to do,
whatever consequences may follow. Depend upon it, you will lose nothing
in the eyes of Sir William by throwing yourself on his generosity in
the way you propose doing.—But I have had news. Sir William will be
here—at the _Palatine_—in the course of a few hours.’

‘Ah! So much the better. So will the climax come all the more quickly.
But, my poor Clari! Oh, my poor, darling Clari!’ Her lips quivered, a
stifled sob broke from her heart, but her eyes were as dry and tearless
as before.

The colonel waited a moment, and then he said: ‘What you purpose
telling a certain person at your interview this evening will enable you
to set him at defiance—will it not?’

‘It will—thoroughly and completely. I shall have taken the initiative
out of his hands, and he will be powerless to harm me.’

‘Your fortune?’ he said.

‘Is settled strictly on myself. He cannot touch a penny of it.’ Then,
after a pause, she added: ‘Not that I want him to starve; not that I
would refuse him a certain share of my money—if I could only feel sure
it would keep him from evil courses. But it would never do that—never!
In such as he, there is no possibility of change.’

‘I will make a point of seeing Sir William as soon as he arrives,’ said
the colonel as he rose and pushed back his chair. ‘I suppose that is
what you would like me to do?’

‘The sooner the better,’ answered Mora, also rising. ‘You will come to
me the moment you have any news?’

‘I will not fail to do so. For the present, I presume you will say
nothing to your sister?’

‘Why trouble her till the time comes? Let her linger in her love-dream
while she may. The waking will be a cruel one when it comes.’

‘With all my heart, I hope not!’ answered the colonel fervently. Then,
as he took her hand, he added: ‘We shall meet again in a few hours.’

‘How good you are!’ she murmured, with a little break in her voice.

He shook his head, but would not trust himself to speak. He was more
moved than he would have cared to own. Once more he lifted her fingers
to his lips. Next moment she was alone.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr Dulcimer and Miss Wynter went gaily on their way to the lake. To
hear them talking and laughing, no one would have thought that they had
a care beyond the enjoyment of the passing hour, yet each was secretly
conscious that for them that day might perchance prove one of the
most momentous in their lives. They found a boat with fishing-tackle
awaiting them. Bella shook a little as she bade farewell to _terra
firma_. She felt as an ancient Greek might have felt—that the Fates
were against her—that destiny was stronger than she, and urged her
forward whether she wished it or not. She who had heretofore been so
wilful seemed to have no power of will left in her.

Before long they found themselves at a point near the head of the lake
where Dick had been told that he might possibly find some fish. For a
quarter of an hour or so he plied his rod industriously, but not even a
nibble rewarded his perseverance. ‘Ah,’ said he at last, ‘the fish are
evidently off their feed this morning.’

He did not seem in the least put about by his ill-luck, but laying
his rod across the thwarts, he proceeded leisurely to light his pipe.
Bella watched him nervously. As soon as his pipe was fairly under way,
he looked straight into Bella’s eyes and said: ‘I did not so much come
out here this morning to fish as to secure an opportunity for a little
quiet talk with you.’

‘I can quite believe it. There is something underhand about most things
that you do,’ she answered as she dipped one of her hands carelessly
into the water.

Dick smiled amiably. He delighted in a skirmish.

‘Am I to go back to London to-morrow morning, or am I not? That’s the
question.’

‘Really, Mr Dulcimer, or Mr Golightly, or whatever your name may be, I
am at a loss to know why you should put such a question to me.’

Dick burst into a guffaw.

‘May I ask, sir, what you are laughing at?’

‘At you, of course.’

‘Oh!’ It came out with a sort of snap.

‘You look so comical when you put on that mock-dignified air, that it
always sets me off. Of course I know you can’t help it.’

‘Wretch!’ she retorted, half-starting to her feet. Next moment she sat
down again in mortal terror. The boat was swaying ominously, or so it
seemed to her.

‘Please not to flop about so much,’ he said drily, ‘unless you wish
to find yourself in the water. I’m a tolerable swimmer, and I might,
perhaps, be able to lug you ashore, but I wouldn’t like to guarantee
it.’

Her temper vanished like a flash of summer lightning. ‘Oh, do please
take me back!’ she said, looking at him with a pitiful appeal in her
eyes. Like many town-bred girls, she had an unconquerable dread of
water.

‘You are just as safe here as on shore, so long as you sit still,’ he
answered re-assuringly. And with that he changed his seat and went and
sat down close in front of her.

The colour began to return to her cheeks. He looked so strong and brave
and handsome as he sat there, that she felt ashamed of her fears. What
harm could happen to her while he was there to protect her!

‘Look here, Bella,’ he presently began; ‘where’s the use of you and I
beating any longer about the bush? I must have a distinct answer from
you to-day, Yes or No, whether you will promise to become my wife or
whether you won’t. You know that I love you, just as well as if I told
you so a thousand times. You know that my love is the genuine article,
that there’s nothing sham or pinchbeck about it. Your own heart has
told you that before to-day. There’s something else, too, that it has
told you.’ He paused.

‘Indeed!’ she said, thrusting out her saucy chin a little way. ‘And
what may that be, if you please?’ Her spirit was coming back. She was
not inclined to strike her colours without a struggle.

‘It has told you that you love me,’ he answered slowly and
deliberately, still looking straight into her eyes.

She was silent for a moment. A little spot of deepest red flashed into
each of her cheeks. ‘Indeed, sir, you are mistaken,’ she answered with
a sort of supercilious politeness. ‘I am not aware that my heart has
told me anything of the kind.’

‘Then it’s high time it did tell you,’ was the cool rejoinder. ‘You
love me, Bella, whether you know it or not, and the best of it is that
you can’t help yourself.’

‘Oh! this is too much,’ she cried, and again she half-started to her
feet. The boat rocked a little.

‘You seem to have made up your mind for a ducking,’ said Dick, although
in reality there was not the slightest danger. Next moment she was as
still as a mouse.

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe. ‘Yes, _ma petite_, I’ve got your
heart in my safe keeping; and what’s more, I don’t mean to let you have
it back at any price. The pretty toy is not for sale.’

His audacity took her breath away, yet it may be that she did not like
him less on that account. Certainly Dick’s love-making was of a kind of
which she had had no previous experience.

‘You have got me here by a mean and shabby subterfuge,’ she cried. ‘You
have made a prisoner of me, and now you think you can say what you like
to me.’

‘That’s so,’ he answered equably. ‘Now that I’ve got you here, I mean
to say my say. Idiot if I didn’t!’

Bella had never felt so helpless in her life. This man seemed to turn
all her weapons against herself. And she was afraid even to stamp her
foot!

Richard proceeded to fill his pipe. ‘Don’t you think, _carissima_,
that we have had enough of fencing, you and I?’ he asked as he struck
a match. ‘Don’t you think we had better put the foils aside for the
present and talk a little quiet common-sense?’ His voice had softened
strangely. All his flippancy seemed to have vanished in a moment.

She did not answer. Her eyes were gazing straight over his shoulder
at the great solemn hills in the background—not that she saw them in
reality. He let his match burn itself out, and laid down his unlighted
pipe. Then he leaned forward and took one of her hands in his strong
brown palms. His touch thrilled her. All power of resistance seemed
taken from her. Her bosom rose and fell more quickly, a tender radiance
suffused her eyes, the roses in her cheeks grew larger, and their tints
deepened. Love’s sorcery was upon her. She had drunk of the potion, and
was lost. Never again could she be quite the same as she had been.

What was the ‘quiet common-sense’ he was going to talk? she wondered.
She had her doubts already as to the accuracy of his definition.

‘There comes a time in the lives of most of us,’ he began with unwonted
seriousness and still holding one of her hands, ‘when we are confronted
by two diverging paths, and are called upon to make our choice between
them. At such a crisis you, my dearest, have now arrived. Before you
lie two widely diverging paths, one only of which you can take, and
from which there can be no return. With one of these paths you are
already familiar; you have trodden it for two years; you know whither
it leads, or fancy that you know. If you believe that you will find
your happiness at the end of it, for heaven’s sake, keep to it still!
But if you don’t so believe—why, then, the other path is open to you.’

He paused. She withdrew her hand. He at once began to feel for his
match-box. She regretted that she had not allowed him to retain her
fingers.

‘And that other path leads—whither?’ she asked softly, and with her
eyes still fixed vaguely on the hills behind him.

‘To love in a cottage—or, say, in a semi-detached villa at Camden Town
or Peckham Rye, with one small servant, not overclean.’ Evidently he
had not forgotten what she had said to him on Wednesday. Their eyes
met, and they both broke into a laugh. He put the match-box back in his
pocket and took possession of her hand again.

‘You know that all I can offer you is a warm heart and a slender
purse,’ he said. ‘Not much, I grant, from a worldly point of view;
still, I believe cases have been known where two people have been
venturesome enough to start in life together on a capital as
ridiculously insignificant as that just named, and have not been
unhappy afterwards. On the other hand, you know the brilliant future
which your aunt predicts for you, if you will only be an obedient girl
and do as she wants you to do; that is to say, if you will only marry
the first rich man who proposes to you, whether you care for him or
whether you don’t. Well, there are many young ladies nowadays who seem
to find their happiness in that direction. Why shouldn’t you? As you
said yourself the other day, you are a piece of human bric-à-brac to
be knocked down to the highest bidder.’

‘Don’t, don’t!’ she cried with quivering lips.

‘Be mine, then!’ exclaimed Dick passionately. ‘Become the wife of the
man who loves you, and save yourself from further degradation. At
present you are a slave—a chattel. Break your fetters, cast them behind
you for ever, and come to my arms: there is your proper home!’

‘O Dick, what would my aunt say—what would she do?’ she asked in an
uncertain, tremulous voice.

‘There! now you’ve done it!’ he exclaimed with a laugh, that yet
sounded as if there were a tear in it.

‘Done—what?’ she asked in amaze.

‘Told me all that I want to know!’ he cried in triumph. ‘If your aunt
is the only obstacle—I don’t care for ten thousand aunts! You are
mine—my own—and all the she-dragons in the world shall not tear you
from me!’

Bella saw the uselessness of further resistance, and, like a sensible
girl, she capitulated without another word.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Friday morning broke clear and sunny, Lady Renshaw’s good temper,
which seemed somehow to have evaporated in the rain and fog of the
previous day, came back to her in a lump as it were. She spent an extra
half-hour over the mysteries of her toilet, donned one of her most
becoming costumes, and descended to the breakfast-room, on conquest
bent. But, alas, when she reached the room she found no one there
to conquer; the enemy was nowhere to be seen. She had the _salle_
almost to herself. Then it began to dawn upon her that there was
just a possibility that both Dr Mac and the vicar might have ‘made
tracks’ thus early in the day on purpose to escape her. And yet such
an idea was almost too preposterous for belief. Had they not both been
unmistakably infatuated on Wednesday, each in his own peculiar way?
Had they not both been palpably jealous of each other? Why, then,
should they try to shun her on Friday? Why should forty-eight hours
make such a vast difference in their feelings? But, perhaps, there was
something in the background of which she knew nothing. Perhaps some one
had been prejudicing the two gentlemen against her. If such were the
case, she could only set it down as the handiwork of that obnoxious
Miss Gaisford. She had felt from the first that she could never like
the vicar’s sister; and besides, was it not just possible that Miss
Gaisford herself might be setting her cap at the doctor? If so, poor
thing, it evidently would be labour in vain.

This thought put her ladyship into a somewhat better humour. Matters
should be altered on the morrow. She would make an heroic effort, and
rise with the lark, or at least early enough to breakfast at the same
time that the gentlemen partook of that meal. It would be her own
fault, then, if she allowed them to slip through her fingers. The poor
dear vicar might go as soon as he had served her purpose in keeping
alive the doctor’s jealousy; but the latter individual she meant to
bring, metaphorically, to his knees before he was many days older, and
she never for a moment doubted her ability to do so. Miss Gaisford,
indeed! Ah ha! let those laugh who win.

She found herself in the sitting-room by the time she arrived at this
triumphant peroration. It was empty. Lady Renshaw, in accordance
with her usual tactics when no one was about, began to pry and peer
here and there, opening such drawers in the writing-table as did not
happen to be locked, turning over the paper and envelopes, and even
submitting the blotting-pad to a careful examination; she had heard
that strange secrets had sometimes been revealed by the agency of a
sheet of blotting-paper. Nothing, however, rewarded her perquisition.
She next crossed to the chimney-piece. Careless people occasionally
left envelopes, and even letters, on that convenient shelf. Here, too,
her search was without success. She felt somewhat aggrieved.

Suddenly her eye was caught by a gleam of something white just inside
the scroll-work of the fender. She had pounced upon it in an instant.
It proved to be merely a scrap of half-charred paper; but when she
had opened it, which she did very carefully, she found it to be
covered with writing. It was, in fact, a fragment of the letter given
by Madame De Vigne to Colonel Woodruffe. The colonel had watched
the flames devour the letter, till it was all gone except the small
portion held between his thumb and finger. This he had dropped without
thought into the fender, where it had till now remained, untouched by
the housemaid’s brush. Lady Renshaw went to the window, and having
first satisfied herself that no one was watching her, she put on her
glasses, and tenderly straightening out the paper on the palm of one
hand, she proceeded to decipher it. The fire had left nothing save a
few brief sentences, which lacked both beginning and end. Such as they
were, however, they seemed pregnant with a sinister significance. Her
ladyship’s colour changed as she read. She was nearly certain that
the writing was that of Madame De Vigne; but in order to make herself
certain on the point, she turned to an album belonging to Clarice which
lay on the table, in which were some verses written by her sister and
signed with her name. Yes—the writing was indisputably that of Madame
De Vigne!

Once more she turned to the scrap of paper and read the words. She
wanted to fix them in her memory. They ran as follows:

‘My husband ... five years ago ... sentenced to penal servitude.... You
now know all.’

‘The key of the mystery, as I live!’ cried Lady Renshaw triumphantly.
‘The widow of a convict! Well might she not care to speak about her
past life. Ah ha! my fine madam, your reign is nearly at an end. I
wonder what Mr Etheridge will say to this. He may be back by now. I
will go in search of him at once. But for whom can the letter have been
intended? In any case, she seems to have repented writing it, and to
have burnt it rather than send it.’

She took a book off the table and placed the fragment carefully between
the leaves, so as to preserve it intact. She then went in search of
Mr Etheridge. That gentleman and Clarice had just returned from their
excursion. Their first care was to examine the letter-rack in the
hall. There they each found a telegram. Clarice tore hers open with a
fluttering heart. This is what it said:

‘Nothing seen here of governor. Telegram from him to Blatchett. Am to
return to Windermere by first train. Hurrah! Governor will meet me at
_Palatine_ to night. Queer, very. No matter. Shall see you as well.’

Clarice turned first red and then white. The terrible Sir William
coming to the _Palatine_—and to-night! It was enough to flutter any
girl’s nerves. She turned to Mr Etheridge and put the message into his
hands. ‘Read it,’ was all she could say.

He had just finished reading his own message, which seemed to be a very
brief one.

‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked nervously, as he returned the
paper to her with a smile.

‘I think it’s about the wisest thing Sir William could do. He
ought to come and see with his own eyes, instead of sending other
people. Of course, the fact of his summoning Mr Archie to London,
and then declining to see him, can only be put down to the score of
eccentricity—though I have no doubt the boy has enjoyed his little trip
to town.’

Clarice looked at him a little reproachfully. As if Archie could enjoy
being anywhere where she was not!

‘I must go and tell Mora the news,’ she said. ‘But oh! Mr Etheridge, do
you think Sir William will want to see me?’

‘I think it very likely indeed.’

‘I was never so frightened in my life. I wish I could hide myself
somewhere till to-morrow.’

‘Pooh, pooh, my dear young lady; Sir William is not an ogre. He is only
a man, like the rest of us.’

‘But he is Archie’s papa.’

‘Is that any reason why you should be frightened at him?’

She nodded her head with considerable emphasis. But at this juncture
Lady Renshaw was seen approaching, and Clarice fled.

‘Can you favour me with a few minutes’ private conversation, Mr
Etheridge?’ said her ladyship.

‘Willingly, madam. Shall we take a stroll on the lawn, as we did
before? There seems to be no one about.’

‘That will do very nicely. I will just fetch my sunshade and then join
you.’ Which she accordingly did. ‘You may recollect, Mr Etheridge, that
one portion of our conversation this morning had reference to Madame De
Vigne?’ began her ladyship in her most confidential manner.

‘I have not forgotten, madam.’

‘Since that time I have made a most surprising discovery—a discovery
I feel bound to say which only tends to confirm the opinion I then
ventured to express. Will you be good enough, my dear sir, to look at
this, and then tell me what you think?’

She opened the book at the page where she had inserted the scrap of
paper, and placed it in his hands.

He stopped in his walk while he read it; but his face was inscrutable,
and Lady Renshaw could gather nothing from it. Presently he lifted his
eyes from the paper and stared at her for a moment or two, his bushy
eyebrows meeting across the deep furrow in his forehead.

‘Where did you obtain this from, may I ask? And what is the meaning of
it?’

‘As you will have observed, it is evidently a fragment of a burnt
letter. I picked it up quite by accident on the floor of the
sitting-room. The writing I know for a fact to be that of Madame De
Vigne. As for the meaning of it—your penetration, my dear sir, is
surely not at fault as regards that?’

‘It is a curious document, certainly—a very curious document,’ remarked
the old man drily.

‘It is more than that, Mr Etheridge,’ remarked her ladyship in her most
tragic tones—‘it is a revelation! Who is this husband of whom mention
is made? Who is this convict who is so openly alluded to? Are they, or
are they not, one and the same man, and if so, is he alive or dead?
Those are points, I should imagine, on which Sir William will require
to be fully enlightened; for, of course, Mr Etheridge, you will see how
imperative it is that the paper should at once be laid before him. What
a very, very fortunate thing that I happened to find it in the way I
did!’

‘Yes, madam, Sir William shall see the paper, undoubtedly. A very
fortunate thing, as you say, that your ladyship happened to find it,
and not any one else, for you, madam, I am quite sure, are discretion
itself.’

‘Just so—just so,’ responded her ladyship uneasily.—‘What a strange
old man!’ she said to herself. ‘I don’t know what to make of him this
morning.’

‘Permit me to whisper a secret in your ladyship’s ear,’ resumed Mr
Etheridge with his odd little smile. ‘I have had a message. Sir William
will be here—here at the _Palatine_—in the course of a few hours.’

Her ladyship could not repress a start. Here was news indeed!

‘But not a word to any one at present, I beg,’ continued the old
gentleman. ‘I want Sir William’s arrival to be a surprise.’

‘Ah, just so,’ answered her ladyship with a complacent nod.—‘It will be
like a bombshell thrown into their midst,’ she added to herself. Then
aloud: ‘Not a word shall pass my lips, Mr Etheridge. By-the-bye, do you
think it at all likely that Sir William will require to see me—I mean
with regard to the scrap of paper?’

‘I think it very likely indeed, madam.’

‘In that case, I will hold myself in readiness. I have long desired the
pleasure of Sir William’s acquaintance. We could scarcely meet under
more agreeable auspices.’ Then suddenly grasping Mr Etheridge by the
sleeve, she said in her deepest tones: ‘I felt sure from the first
moment I set eyes on her that this Madame De Vigne was an impostor!’

‘Dear me!’ ejaculated the old gentleman with uplifted hands. ‘What
acumen—what acumen!’

Her ladyship smiled a superior smile. ‘For the present I will say
Ta-ta. You will not forget that I shall be in readiness to see Sir
William at any moment?’

‘I will be sure not to forget. _Au revoir_, madam—_au revoir_.’

Lady Renshaw walked back to the hotel with the serene consciousness of
having performed a meritorious action. Through her instrumentality an
impostor would be unmasked, and in so far, Society would owe her a debt
of gratitude. The service, too, was such a one as Sir William would not
be likely to forget. Suddenly, a great, an overwhelming thought flashed
across her mind. Sir William was a widower, but by no means a very old
man—at least, so she had been given to understand; and in any case, he
was not too old to marry again, if the whim were to take him. What if
he were to—— The mere idea of such a thing made her heart go pit-a-pat.
There was a mirror in the corridor. She simpered at herself in it as
she passed and gave a tug at one or two of her ribbons. Undeniably, she
was still a fine-looking woman. Far more unlikely things had happened
than that which her thoughts had barely hinted at. What was it that the
parrot in its gilded cage at the top of the stairs said to her as she
passed? Did her ears deceive her, or was it a fact that it screamed
after her, ‘Lady—Lady—La-dy Ridsdale?’




COOKING CLASSES FOR CHILDREN.


‘I have been reproaching myself,’ was the piteous plaint of Mrs Butler
(Fanny Kemble) in her _Records of Later Life_, ‘and reproving others,
and honestly regretting that, instead of Italian and music, I had not
learned a little domestic economy, and how much bread, butter, flour,
eggs, milk, sugar, and meat ought to be consumed per week by a family
of eight persons.’ This is the lesson that great part of the world
of women has still to learn. We have allowed mere accomplishments,
the fringe and lace of life, to draw our attention from those solid
and necessary things which a woman must know if her home is to be
comfortable, and which a man knows nothing about except that in their
results they make him contentedly happy or utterly miserable. A woman
can obtain a more sensible, more thorough, in every way a better
education in book-knowledge now than at almost any previous period of
our national life; but the gain has been made at a price. Reaction is
required, and indeed has set in already. We may see its fruits in the
schools of Cookery for Ladies established in all our great towns; in
the classes for dressmaking, clear-starching, and ironing; in the newly
awakened interest in domestic economy as a science, in the countless
books on that subject and on cookery published during the last few
years.

The work is by no means done yet. That there are many to be taught and
much to be learned, we may gather from a glance at the questions asked
on such subjects in our principal ladies’ papers; where but the other
day we find a newly married lady wishing to know if, on an income of
five hundred pounds a year, without house-rent, she can keep a butler,
a cook-housekeeper, a housemaid, a carriage and pair of horses, and a
pony and cart!

But we wish to turn now to the wants of another class, and see what has
been done and what can be done for our poorer sisters, who sorely need
our help in this matter.

If it be true that education is the work of drawing out the mental
powers of children so as to fit them thoroughly for their work in life,
then we certainly for a time overshot our mark in elementary schools,
so far as the girls were concerned. We taught them many things which
they did not need to know, and could not learn thoroughly for want
of time—much which almost unfitted them for their probable places
in life as working-men’s wives; and we left untaught altogether all
the womanly and useful arts of life except sewing. Good management
has become rarer and rarer in the homes of town working-men; the
thrifty, careful housewives seem as units among scores of careless,
bad—because ignorant—mismanagers. The early age at which girls go to
work in factories increases the evil; and, till lately, nothing which
was taught at school helped to remedy it. Here, too, however, the
change has begun, and now, in the Board Schools of London, Liverpool,
Birmingham, Glasgow, and other large towns, the practical teaching of
cookery holds almost as important a place in the education of girls as
the teaching of sewing. But the question remains for the managers of
voluntary schools: Is cooking worth teaching? Can it be successfully
taught in our schools? Will it pay?

These are important questions; but they may all—even the last, which
comes very near to the hearts of all managers—be answered, we believe,
with a simple ‘Yes.’ Within the writer’s own knowledge, since the
establishment of cookery classes in elementary schools, case after
case has occurred where a girl of ten, eleven, or twelve has been
able to cook food well for a whole family; or in sickness, has been
the only person able to make beef-tea or gruel or to beat an egg. No
one who has not seen could guess or would believe what the cooking
in working-men’s homes too often is, or what waste and extravagance
arise out of utter ignorance; and even where the mother has not been
laid aside, it has been found that the girl’s knowledge, brought fresh
from school, has worked a reformation in the family management. Nor
is this all. The influence of the classes upon the girls attending
them is very good, especially when the children are drawn from the
very lowest ranks. The girls brighten up. Perhaps for the first time
they are learning something that really interests them, and seems a
link between home-life and school; they learn to weigh, to measure,
to calculate quantities, and they see the use of these things. Let no
one imagine that a cookery class is not educational. In the hands of
a competent teacher, it is an object lesson, an arithmetic lesson,
a general-knowledge lesson, and a lesson in common-sense. Even the
personal appearance of the children often improves; cleanliness,
neatness, orderliness are all encouraged; and in some schools, the
effect upon the scholars has been most curiously marked.

If this be so, surely we may admit that cookery is worth teaching. Can
it be taught successfully? We believe it can. But before attempting to
prove this, we must give a quotation from the Code of March 1882: ‘In
schools in which the inspector reports that special and appropriate
provision is made for the practical teaching of cookery, a grant of
four shillings is made on account of any girl over twelve years of age
who has attended not less than forty hours during the school-year at
the cooking class, and is presented for examination in the elementary
subjects in any standard.’

The forty hours allowed by government are divided into twenty lessons
of two hours each, which, taken once a week, can be finished in half
a year. The lessons given are found to succeed best if they are
alternately demonstration and practice—that is, at one lesson the
children watch the teacher, who shows them how to cook any given
dishes, carefully explaining the processes and the nature of the food;
and at the next lesson the children put what they have learned in
practice, and cook the same dishes themselves under the superintendence
of the teacher. Fifteen children are sufficient for a practice class,
though of course more can attend a demonstration. A very moderate-sized
classroom is large enough; and tables can be formed of boards on
tressels or on the backs of desks. Many classrooms already contain a
range large enough for all purposes; but if not, one can be fitted
up at a cost of three pounds, or a portable stove can be had for
thirty shillings. The utensils are few and simple; but of course the
first cost of them is considerable—about five pounds.[1] A teacher is
supplied by any of the principal training Schools of Cookery for a
fee of five pounds for twenty lessons and her travelling expenses. If
several schools in the same neighbourhood take lessons during the same
period, this last item can be much reduced.

The children work in five sets of three each. They are taught all the
simple processes of cooking, and the reason in any given case for using
one in preference to another. They are furnished with printed recipes
for each dish they cook; they are taught—and this is most important—to
clean properly and to put away all the utensils they use. They are
questioned as they proceed, to see that they understand what they are
doing; and at the end of the course, they go through both a verbal and
a practical examination; and certificates are awarded by the School of
Cookery, independent of examinations by Her Majesty’s inspector.

Here are a few sample recipes; and it must be remembered that special
pains are taken to suit the dishes taught to the requirements of the
district, many ways of cooking fish being taught in seaports, for
instance; while in country places, vegetables, bacon, and eggs are more
used.

_Brown Lentil Soup._—Half-pound brown lentils, 1½d.; one carrot, four
cloves, an ounce and a half of dripping, 1½d.; two quarts of water;
small bunch sweet herbs, three onions, pepper and salt, 1d. Wash the
lentils well in several waters; leave to soak in two quarts of water
for twenty-four hours. Slice and fry the onions in the dripping; let
them take a nice brown, but not burn. Cut up the carrot into small
pieces; fry it lightly also. Now put in the lentils and the two quarts
of water in which they were steeped; add the herbs and the cloves, but
not the pepper and salt. Boil all for three hours, adding more water,
to make up the waste from boiling. Add pepper and salt to taste. If
possible, put the soup through a coarse wire-sieve.

_Savoury Rice._—Rice, half-pound, 2d.; dripping, half-ounce, 1½d.; two
onions, one carrot, pepper and salt, 1d.; cloves, parsley, and thyme,
½d. Wash the rice, throw it into a saucepan full of boiling water and
a little salt. Add an onion stuck with four cloves and the carrot cut
up. Let it boil fast for fifteen or twenty minutes. Take care there is
plenty of water. To try the rice, take a grain and rub it between the
thumb and finger. When it will rub quite away, drain off all the water,
and let the rice dry before the fire. While the rice is boiling, put
half an ounce of dripping in a saucepan on the fire, and when quite
hot, fry in it a sliced onion. Take a tablespoonful of flour, sprinkle
it over the fried onion in the pan, stirring it with a spoon. When the
flour is brown, add half a pint of water, the parsley and thyme well
chopped, with salt and pepper. Boil it up; stir in the rice, and serve.

_Exeter Stew._—Meat, 9d.; flour, 1½d.; suet, 1d.; dripping, 1d.; herbs
and onion, 1½d. Put into a pan two ounces of dripping; set it on the
fire; and when it is quite hot and a faint blue smoke arises from it,
put in an onion, cut small. Let it brown well; then add a tablespoonful
of flour, and when that is browned also, one pint of cold water,
pepper, salt, four cloves, and a little mace. Cut one pound of beef
into small pieces; put them in, and let it simmer, not boil, for two
hours. Put in a bowl a quarter-pound of flour; a little salt, pepper,
chopped parsley, thyme, and marjoram; two ounces of finely chopped
suet, and half a teaspoonful of baking-powder. Make into a paste with
cold water; form into small balls, and drop them into the stew half an
hour before it is wanted.

_Christmas Pudding._—Flour, one pound, 2d.; baking-powder, a
teaspoonful and a half, ¼d.; ginger, half a teaspoonful, ¼d.; suet,
quarter-pound, 2d.; treacle, half-pound, 1d.; raisins, two ounces, ½d.;
currants, two ounces, ½d.; milk (skim), ½d. Chop the suet finely; stir
all the dry ingredients well together; add the treacle, warmed, and
about a teacupful of skim-milk. Stir well; put it into a greased tin or
basin; cover with paper; steam it in a pan of boiling water for an hour
and a half or two hours.

No one who has seen how well these and many other dishes are cooked
by the children entirely without assistance at their practical
examination—no one who has heard how well and intelligently they
answer questions on the subject, can doubt that cooking can be taught
successfully in our schools. The one question remains, Does it pay? The
outlay is of two kinds—the primary outlay, which will not recur, for
stove and utensils; and the recurring expenses of teacher’s salary,
food, and fuel. In many places, friends of education, learning the
need, have fitted up classrooms with all that was required at a cost
of about seven to eight pounds. In Liverpool, the Education Council
offered to fit up six classrooms in voluntary schools as centres at
which several neighbouring schools could attend; but as many poor
schools are without such benevolent friends, the Northern Union of
Schools of Cookery has petitioned the Science and Art Department to
give grants for this purpose.

The teacher’s salary, as already mentioned, is about five pounds, with
a varying sum in addition for travelling expenses. The average cost of
the food to be cooked is about thirty-seven shillings for the whole
course. The additional amount of fuel used is very trifling; therefore,
the expenses stand: Teacher’s salary, £5; food, £1, 17s.; travelling
expenses, say 10s.—Total, seven guineas. To meet these expenses,
there are the following sources of income: The government grant of
four shillings a head for fifteen girls, £3; extra pence paid by the
children for their cooking lessons, twopence each for twenty lessons,
£2, 10s. This payment cannot be enforced; but it is found that in most
cases, even among the poorest, it is willingly paid, as the parents
value the lessons. Sale of food cooked, at cost price, £1, 17s.—Total,
seven guineas.

It may be mentioned that the food sells more readily among the very
poor children than among those who are better off. There is little or
no difficulty in disposing of it without loss.

It will be seen that this calculation allows of no margin whatever.
If all goes well, there is neither profit nor loss. But it cannot be
expected that everything will be perfectly successful; the children
will miss a lesson now and then, or some dish will be spoiled. We would
wish, therefore, to remind managers that there is another source of
income open to them. It is both easier and better to teach cookery
and domestic economy together than separately; and every girl who in
the cooking class is earning a grant of four shillings, may also earn
another four shillings if she passes in domestic economy, without
any additional outlay or cost. Only, we would urge all managers to
be careful always to secure a properly qualified teacher, holding
a diploma from some good School of Cookery, and trained to teach
children. Lastly, the experience of the manager of a large Roman
Catholic school in a very poor district may be quoted. ‘I would hardly
hesitate to say’—we give his own words—‘that not only will a class
of cookery in elementary schools pay itself, but will even become a
pecuniary advantage; and for this reason, parents look with much favour
upon the teaching of cookery; and whereas it is too often the case that
they withdraw their children from school the moment they are free to
do so, and so prevent a school from receiving a grant for them by their
passing an examination, I can say from experience that my class of
cookery has been the means of retaining at school several children who
would otherwise have left, and for each of them I expect a substantial
grant. I have also observed that since the introduction of this
subject, the children who attend this class attend much more regularly.’

With this testimony we may conclude, hoping that some at least of
those who glance at this paper may agree with the words of an old
working-woman, a grandmother, and herself a model of thrift, care, and
good management, who, when the cookery classes at the Board Schools
were mentioned before her, exclaimed: ‘Deed, and that’s the sensiblest
thing I ever heard of them Boards doing!’ and may therefore be willing
to do a little, either by giving time, money, or influence, to help
forward this good and greatly needed work.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] _List of Utensils for an Artisan Practice Class._—Three tin
saucepans, two quarts, 6s.; three do., three pints, 4s. 6d.; three do.,
one pint, 1s. 6d.; one fish-kettle, 3s.; three small frying-pans, 1s.
9d.; one colander, 1s.; three strainers, 1s. 6d.; one set measures, 1s.
6d.; one scale and weights, quarter-ounce to one pound, 8s. 6d.; three
dripping-tins, 2s. 6d.; two small wire-sieves, 3s.; three graters,
1s. 6d.; six wooden spoons, 1s.; six iron tablespoons, 1s.; six do.
teaspoons, 3d.; six round tin moulds, 3s.; twelve knives, 7s. 6d.; six
vegetable knives, 2s.; three forks, 1s. 6d.; six chopping-boards, 9s.;
three rolling-pins, 2s.; one spice-box, 6d.; one handbowl, 1s. 3d.;
one knifeboard, 9d.; two galvanised tubs, 4s.; one galvanised bucket,
1s. 3d.; one water-can, 3s.; three scrubbing-brushes, 2s.; three
sink-brushes, 1s.; one set blacklead brushes, 2s.

_Crockery._—Three large bowls, 3s. 6d.; three smaller do., 2s. 6d.; six
small basins, 1s.; twelve handless cups, 6d.; twelve plates, 1s. 6d.;
three round baker’s, 9d.; three larger do., 1s. 3d.; three jugs, 1s.
6d.; three pie-dishes, 9d.

_Linen._—Six kitchen cloths, 3s.; one roller towel, 1s. 3d.; one hand
do., 4d.; three dishcloths, 6d.

_Sundries._—Kitchen paper, house flannel, soap, soda, blacklead,
bath-brick, oil, 5s.—Total, £5, 2s. 7d.




AN AMATEUR ‘CABBY.’


In ‘my salad days’ I was a striking example of that class of young
men who are unfortunately weighted with an extra crop of wild-oats to
dispose of ere they are transformed into conventional, steady-going,
tax-paying members of the community. My personal allowance being
considerable, I was able to indulge in all the follies of a man about
town. Fortunately or unfortunately, I soon probed to the bottom of
things, and speedily tasted the ashes in the cup of pleasure, so that
one folly after another was discarded and relegated to the limbo of the
past, until, like Heliogabalus, I sighed for a new delight, and would
have paid liberally for a fresh sensation. The turf and its wretched
gambling associations palled upon me; I was weary of the theatre,
both before and behind the curtain. The senseless chatter of my young
associates in the club smoking-room roused a feeling of boredom almost
intolerable. At this period, the great Cab question was the topic of
the hour. The character and remuneration of the London cabman were
discussed at every dinner-table in the metropolis. There were two
parties in this discussion, which advocated views totally opposed to
each other. On the one hand, the earnings of Cabby were described
as wealth; on the other, as poverty. He was portrayed as drunken,
extravagant, uncivil, and in fact as only fit to be the associate of
the most vile. The reverse side of the medal was that of a man sober,
frugal, civil, and so courteous in his intercourse with his fares,
that the late Lord Chesterfield might have taken lessons of him in
politeness.

A sudden determination possessed me. I would be a cabman for the nonce.
At all events, for twelve hours I would don the badge and learn for
myself the truth of the matter. I frequently employed the same cabman
on the rank in Piccadilly. He drove a thoroughbred mare, and his hansom
was a model of neatness and elegance. So I took an early opportunity
of interviewing the man, whose name was Smith; although in those days
‘interview’ was not classed as an active verb. I told him I wished to
hire his cab for a night. At first, Mr Smith was hazy as to my meaning.
I asked him how much he paid for the hire of his vehicle. He replied:
‘Seventeen shillings per night.’

‘Very well,’ I said; ‘I will give you that sum for the use of your cab
for twelve hours, and hand you over besides, the amount in fares I may
chance to receive during that period.’

I could see that my friend entertained doubts for a moment as to my
sanity; but I speedily explained matters to him.

Mr Smith shook his head, and said he might lose his license if the fact
became known to the police that he had lent his badge, and so on, and
that an intimate knowledge of London streets was indispensable.

I pooh-poohed both these objections, especially the last, asserting
that I was capable of making a map of Western London, if circumstances
required it.

Eventually, Mr Smith agreed to my proposal, giving me several hints as
to my conduct; I remember one of these being, that I must on no account
ply for hire, as it is termed, while driving through the streets, but
wait till I was hailed.

The eventful hour arrived in due course, and at nine o’clock I met Mr
Smith by appointment in a quiet street in the parish of St James. It
was October; and the night being chilly, I wore an overcoat, somewhat
the worse for wear, and a wide-awake, which I could slouch over my
eyes, if occasion required; for my chief fear was, that I might, by an
unlucky chance, be recognised by some of my numerous acquaintances. I
mounted the box, and nodding gaily to Mr Smith, left that individual
transfixed with wonder that a gentleman of means and position should
voluntarily undergo the pains and penalties of a cabman’s life, even
for so brief a period as twelve hours.

I have stated that the mare was a thoroughbred, and in doing so I am
only recording a literal fact. In the famous days when Andrew Ducrow
reigned supreme at Astley’s Theatre, there was a very popular drama
which depicted the life of a racehorse through all its vicissitudes,
till it found itself in the shafts of a sand-cart. There is an
undoubted instance of a horse (Black Tommy, 1857) which only lost the
Derby by a short head, figuring subsequently in the shafts of a cab in
Camden Town.

For a time I imagined that I was the centre of observation, especially
by the cabmen on the ranks. Suddenly I was hailed by a short thick-set
man with a very red face, who in an imperious tone shouted ‘Orme
Square,’ and plunged into the recesses of my cab. I was floored
completely! My boasted knowledge of the topography of the metropolis
was at fault. I had never heard of Orme Square. I ventured to ask my
fare if he could direct me to the place. His surprise and indignation
were so excessive that I feared for a moment he would succumb to a fit
of apoplexy. But he relieved himself by a burst of strong language
such as I had rarely listened to in my life before. My first impulse
was an angry reply, but I fortunately nipped that impulse in the bud.
The line of Jerrold the dramatist occurred to me: ‘A rich man feels
through his glove, and thinks all things are soft.’ For the first
time I realised what a cabman has occasionally to submit to, and what
a Janus-headed thing Society was in its intercourse with the rich
and the poor. But it is a remarkable fact that although Orme Square
is situated in the Bayswater Road, immediately opposite Kensington
Gardens, not one Londoner in ten can define its locality. It is a small
unpretending square, with three sides only, the fourth side being the
great thoroughfare I have mentioned. I excused my ignorance by saying
that I was new to the neighbourhood. As I drove along, I placed my
present experience to the credit of the much-abused cabby. I received
my exact fare, for which I politely thanked my irritable friend, for
I was resolved I would do nothing to increase the prejudice existing
in so many quarters, against my brother-cabmen, but practise civility
under all temptations to the contrary.

I suppose it was about one o’clock, and I was proceeding leisurely
along Oxford Street, the ‘stony-hearted step-mother,’ as De Quincey
styles it in his immortal work, admiring the effect of the long vista
of gas lamps in the deserted street, when I heard a woman’s voice: ‘Are
you going Pimlico-way?’ I turned, and beheld two young girls, in gaudy
finery and painted cheeks. I replied that my services were at their
disposal. I suppose there was something in the words and manner of my
answer which created surprise in their minds, for they stared curiously
in my face before jumping into the cab.

In a few seconds I was careering along at the rate of ten miles an
hour. What a situation for the son of the much-esteemed rector of
Cawley-cum-Mortlock! My fares sang snatches of the popular melodies
of the day, sometimes as a solo, sometimes as a duet. When we arrived
at our destination, they sprang out of the cab and inquired my fare.
I replied: ‘Two shillings.’ The countenance of the younger assumed a
plaintive expression as she whispered: ‘Give the poor cabby an extra
tanner, Loo; I daresay he has a wife and children at home.’

As I did not wish to obtain money under false pretences, I modestly
disclaimed the honour of paternity, at the same time pocketing my fare.
As I did so, two gentlemen approached, and my feelings of dismay may
be imagined when I recognised in one of them Mr Spalland, my father’s
curate! There was a gas-lamp close at hand, so that my features must
have been plainly discernible. The girls had just bidden me good-night.
Observing the look of wonder and horror on Mr Spalland’s features, I
boldly took the bull by the horns, and exclaimed: ‘Cab, sir?’

‘The very voice!’ cried the curate. ‘What a marvellous resemblance!’
Then he whispered a few words to his companion, who was a stranger to
me.

‘Nonsense!’ came from his lips. ‘The thing is impossible.—What is your
name, cabby?’

‘Here is my ticket, sir,’ I promptly replied. ‘John Smith, Lisson
Grove.’

The curate indulged in another prolonged stare, and then they both
entered the cab, and I drove them to an address where I was as well
known as in my own home. I managed to drive rapidly away as soon as I
had deposited the worthy curate and his friend, as I did not wish to
undergo the critical examination of the hall porter, who might not have
been put off so easily.

At this moment I observed a crimson glow in the sky, which was clearly
caused by some conflagration, but evidently at a very considerable
distance. Notwithstanding, a man almost insisted on my driving him to
the scene of the fire, no matter what might be the distance. This I
declined to do, alleging that my horse was tired; and after a volley
of objurgations, the fellow departed, making some strong remarks about
the independence of cabmen and their large earnings. Up to this time, I
had not earned the amount of the hire of the horse and cab. Whether my
experience on this point was special or normal, I am unable to judge,
but I could easily picture the despair of a cabman who in similar
circumstances would have but a gloomy outlook for the morrow. True,
there were several hours remaining, and it was impossible to tell what
they might produce.

The aspect of a mighty slumbering city at early dawn is a remarkable
spectacle. The line of Wordsworth involuntarily recurred to me:

    And all that mighty heart is lying still.

London at sunrise was by no means a novel sight to one who had kept
‘early hours’ for some years; but I do not think I was ever so
impressed with the sight as I was when perched on that elevated seat
at the back of a hansom cab. The first faint streaks of red in the
distant east, succeeded by a pale primrose light, and then the gradual
dispersal of the midnight gloom, was inexpressibly lovely. The scenes
I had witnessed had aroused certain trains of thought, more or less
painful, as I beheld the varied fortunes of my fellow-creatures, the
struggle for a bare existence, the sins and follies created in a great
measure by ‘iron circumstance.’

With the history of my final fare I must conclude this veritable
account of my experience as a cab-driver. It was exactly a quarter
to six, and I was crawling along Holborn, when a man of gentlemanly
appearance and address emerged rapidly from a side-street, and
springing into my cab, said: ‘Cabman—Victoria. If you can catch the six
o’clock train for Newhaven, I will pay you double fare.’

I glanced at the church clock, and found I had exactly a quarter of an
hour to accomplish a distance of nearly three miles. Fortunately, the
streets were comparatively empty, and I sent the mare along at a pace
of something like twelve miles an hour. Although I had only seen the
face of my fare for a couple of seconds, the expression and features
are indelibly impressed on my memory. It was a handsome face, but the
eyes were more like those of a hunted stag than of a human being. The
colour of the face was ashen gray, and I fancied the teeth chattered
somewhat as he addressed me. But the last circumstance I attributed
to the cold raw October morning. I felt so curious about my fare that
I cautiously lifted the small wooden flap in the roof of the cab, and
felt almost pleased to behold him imbibing brandy from a flask. One or
two policemen peered at the cab as it flew past, apparently undecided
whether or not to take cognisance of the excessive speed; but I cared
not; I felt as anxious to catch the train for Newhaven as if my life
depended on it. At length I sighted Victoria Station. The minute-hand
wanted two minutes to six. Passing a half-sovereign through the trap,
my fare shouted: ‘Never mind the change!’ and sprang out of the cab.

Involuntarily, I paused to watch the end of the affair. I saw him leave
the pay-box with the ticket, and then in half a minute I heard the
shriek of the engine, and congratulated myself on having accomplished
my task. Ere I could drive from the entrance of the booking-office,
another hansom deposited two men, who simultaneously rushed to the
booking-office. The horse of the cab was covered with lather, and
seemed completely blown. The men appeared again on the pavement with
vexation and disappointment plainly written on their features. Suddenly
their eyes lighted on the cab which I drove. They advanced, and the
shorter man of the two said: ‘Cabman, we are police-officers. Have you
just brought any one who was anxious to catch the six o’clock express?’

I had felt certain they were officers of justice. How is it that
policemen out of uniform and servants out of livery are always
distinguishable? There is a hall-mark, so to say, which stamps them.

I stated all I knew, which, as the reader knows, was not much. Then
they left me.

Whether they utilised the telegraph for the arrest of the unhappy
fugitive—a forger, as they told me—I never knew.

I examined my takings, and found they amounted to one pound five
shillings, making a profit of eight shillings. But it is not the luck
of every cabman to have as a fare a runaway forger who will pay so
liberally as ten shillings for three miles.

Mr Smith was quite satisfied with the result, and expressed his
willingness to lend his horse and cab again on similar terms. But this
was my first and last cab-drive. I cannot explain it, but that night
was a turning-point in my career. I married soon afterwards; and not
even the wife of my bosom is aware that her husband once officiated in
the character of a London cab-driver!




COLONEL REDGRAVE’S LEGACY.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.

Mr Septimus Redgrave had attained the mature age of fifty without
losing either of his pet theories—that this world is anything but a
vale of tears, and that the wicked people in it are decidedly in the
minority. These comfortable doctrines were no doubt attributable to the
fact that Mr Redgrave was in the enjoyment of a small independence,
was master of his own time, possessed of good health, and had never
ventured on the uncertain voyage of matrimony. He had occupied the same
chambers in Bury Street, St James’s, for nearly a quarter of a century,
was a member of one of the oldest clubs in Pall Mall, a virtuoso
on a small scale, and a regular attendant at the picture-sales at
Christie’s. His natty, well-costumed figure was always to the fore
on the view-days, elbowing millionaires and picture-dealers in the
inspection of works of art, although his modest income precluded him
from becoming a purchaser, except in very exceptional cases.

His only near relatives were two maiden sisters, who were several years
his senior, and resided at Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight. Their names
were Penelope and Lavinia respectively, and they were generous in
their advice on all occasions to their brother, whom they could never
realise as anything but a child, and consequently requiring guidance
and sisterly control. In truth, the intellect of their brother was none
of the brightest, of which fact he himself had a dim suspicion; but as
a slight compensation in lieu thereof, he availed himself of no small
share of a quality which could only be described as cunning, in the
ordinary acceptation of the word.

He had resided in Bury Street for some ten years, when his landlady,
Mrs Jones, announced that in consequence of her failing strength and
increasing years, her daughter Martha was about to resign her position
as companion to an old lady at Bristol, and assist in the management
of the house in Bury Street. Miss Jones duly arrived, and presented
a very agreeable spectacle. A florid-complexioned, black-eyed girl
of twenty, very vivacious and energetic, and by no means devoid of
education or natural ability. The domestic comforts of Mr Redgrave were
materially increased by the advent of Miss Jones, and he showed his
gratitude at certain times and seasons in a very marked and material
manner. Her birthday was always remembered by the precise bachelor on
the first floor; nor were Christmas or the New Year forgotten. It will
never be known whether the brain of Mrs Jones had originally conceived
the ambitious scheme of a union between the family of Redgrave and
that of Jones; but it is certain that as time went on, such a plan was
entertained by both mother and daughter. There was but fifteen years’
difference in their ages, and Martha was not only possessed of good
looks, but educated and accomplished. But the lynx eyes of the landlady
could never detect the smallest peg on which to hang a claim on behalf
of the incomparable Martha. Although frank and free in his intercourse
with the good-looking Hebe who ministered to his comforts, the actions
of Mr Redgrave were always regulated by the rules of the strictest
decorum; and if, during his occasional absences from town, the epistles
of Martha were couched in a somewhat sentimental tone, they met with
no response in the replies of the cautious and simple lodger of Bury
Street. Probably neither Mrs Jones nor her daughter had ever heard of
the celebrated French proverb, that ‘all comes to him who waits,’ but
it is nevertheless certain that they mutually acted on this maxim.

Years rolled on, and no change occurred in the relations existing
between lodger and landlady; Mr Redgrave was now fifty, and Miss Jones
thirty-five. The roses had long since departed from her cheeks, and the
sparkle from her black eyes, but, like Claude Melnotte in the play, she
still ‘hoped on.’ She felt that she was practically indispensable to
the unsusceptible and phlegmatic bachelor, and trusted that he would
eventually realise the fact, and reward his faithful housekeeper by
making her his wife.

About this time, Colonel Redgrave, a cousin of Septimus, arrived
from India, accompanied by two ladies named Fraser, of whom we shall
presently have occasion to speak. Colonel Redgrave had for many years
maintained a somewhat desultory correspondence with our bachelor. The
officer was an elderly man, and not in the enjoyment of very good
health. On his arrival at Southampton, he proceeded to the residence of
his female cousins at Shanklin, and accepted their invitation to make
Oswald Villa his temporary home until he could decide on his future
arrangements. Naturally, Mr Redgrave paid a visit to his military
cousin. They had not met since they were boys; and the astute colonel
was evidently much perplexed at the singular combination of simplicity
and shrewdness presented by his London kinsman. Whether the impression
created was favourable or the reverse, it is the object of this
narrative to show.

Six weeks after the arrival of Colonel Redgrave in England, his cousin
was seated at breakfast in his apartments in Bury Street, seriously
cogitating the advisability or the reverse of a lengthened tour on the
continent for his autumn holiday, when the question was settled in a
somewhat unexpected manner. Miss Jones appeared with a black-edged
letter in her hand. The writing was that of Miss Redgrave, and the
post-mark ‘Shanklin.’ With trembling fingers, Septimus opened the
envelope. ‘Colonel Redgrave had died suddenly of heart disease at
Oswald Villa.’ This was the gist of the epistle; and Mr Redgrave was
required forthwith at Shanklin, to be present at the funeral and to
hear the contents of the will of the deceased. Miss Jones was duly
acquainted with the sad news; and in response to her inquiry as to
the probable destination of the wealth of the late Colonel Redgrave,
Septimus professed entire ignorance; and having given vent to some
expressions of impatience and vexation at this marring of his Swiss and
Italian tour, gave instructions to Miss Jones to see to the packing
of his portmanteau without any delay; for the fair Martha was not
only a quasi-valet, but secretary and librarian, the catalogue of Mr
Redgrave’s books being carefully kept up to date.

In less than a week, the funeral obsequies of the late Colonel Redgrave
had been duly performed, the will read; and Septimus Redgrave,
considerably to his astonishment, found himself sole legatee, and the
fortunate possessor in round figures of twenty thousand pounds!

       *       *       *       *       *

Two months have elapsed since the death of Colonel Redgrave, and
Septimus is still in residence at Shanklin. His continental tour
has been indefinitely postponed; but his soul now yearns for his
accustomed London haunts, in spite of the attentions lavished upon him
by his sisters. And if the truth must be told, he misses the constant
watchfulness of Martha, that keen anticipation of his slightest wish,
so uniformly displayed by the housekeeper of St James’s. It is a lovely
morning in September, and from the drawing-room windows of Oswald
Villa, the blue waters of Sandown Bay can be seen in charming contrast
to the white cliffs of Culver, while above, the sky rivals that of
Naples in its cerulean tint. Miss Redgrave and her sister Lavinia are
nominally engaged in crewel-work, but actually their attention is
concentrated on the immediate future of their beloved brother under
the altered condition of his affairs. Miss Redgrave is tall and thin,
with a severe expression of countenance, which belies her excellent
qualities of head and heart. Her sister Lavinia is short and stout,
with a very submissive manner, and presents a striking contrast to her
somewhat imperious sister. Her vocation in life appears to consist of
approving and indorsing the views and plans of her elder sister. Like
the French Senate during the Imperial _régime_, she never originated a
course of action, but expressed entire approval of the acts submitted
to her. Occasionally, when especially pressed by her sister for an
opinion, she would give vent to an original notion, which excited the
outward contempt of Miss Redgrave, but inwardly created considerable
feelings of alarm, as these occasional lapses from her ordinary course
by Lavinia were of the nature of second-sight, and the prophecies of
the younger sister invariably came to pass.

‘Septimus talks of returning to London,’ exclaimed the elder sister
with a keen glance at Lavinia, who smiled assent. ‘You do not seem to
realise what mighty issues hang on that event,’ continued Miss Redgrave
in a tone of considerable asperity.

Lavinia still remained mute, though her countenance expressed keen
interest.

‘You are very provoking, Lavinia, considering you are by no means
deficient in penetration as to motive, and analysis of character.’

‘Explain, dear Penelope.’

‘Septimus must not return to London a free man. I mean, he must present
himself in Bury Street an engaged man.’

‘I am afraid that will be a somewhat difficult task to accomplish,’
replied Lavinia with an irritating acid smile.

‘Nevertheless, it must be done,’ said Penelope with a tone of decision
worthy of the Iron Duke.

‘But how?’ inquired Lavinia.

‘Surely you remember the existence of that creature—Martha Jones. The
fact of our brother having inherited a fortune will inspire her with
fresh courage. New methods of attack will at once be resorted to, and
the assault will never cease till she has reduced the fortress to
submission. I never saw Miss Jones but once, but that was sufficient.’

‘I fully agree with you, my dear sister,’ said Lavinia; ‘but where do
you propose to find a suitable partner for Septimus?’

‘We have no occasion to look far. Under this very roof is a lady
adapted in every sense to make dear Septimus a suitable partner.’

‘I suppose you mean Mrs Fraser?’ mildly observed Lavinia.

‘Precisely. Mrs Fraser is, I should say, forty, possessed of a
comfortable income, clever, and just the kind of woman to shield our
brother from all the evils and temptations of this mortal life.’

‘I only see two difficulties,’ responded Lavinia: ‘Septimus may not
like Mrs Fraser, and Mrs Fraser may not like Septimus.’

‘Ridiculous!’ said Penelope. ‘Who ever heard of a widow scarcely out
of her thirties who would not jump at a man of fifty with nearly two
thousand a year!’

‘I admit the chief difficulty will lie with Septimus,’ placidly replied
Lavinia. ‘He is very self-willed at times.’

‘Leave that part of the affair to _me_,’ exclaimed Penelope with
haughty confidence.

Further discussion was summarily put an end to by the entrance of
the individual in question. We must confess that although he wore
‘the livery of woe,’ the countenance of Septimus was not expressive
of any considerable grief for the loss of his ‘well-beloved cousin.’
Constantly before his mental vision floated the Bank Stock, India
Bonds, and Three per Cents of which he had so recently become the
possessor. Frequently during the day he checked himself in the middle
of a lively air of Offenbach or Sullivan, which he found himself
humming with considerable gusto. He would pause suddenly, and mould his
features into a becoming expression accordingly. Mr Redgrave looked
considerably older than his years, his hair and whiskers being quite
gray, and his features somewhat wrinkled. But he was always dressed
with scrupulous care, and in the days of the Regency would have been
dubbed a ‘buck’ of the first water.

‘Have you seen the Frasers this morning, Septimus?’ inquired Penelope.
‘I mean, since breakfast.’

‘They have gone as far as Luccombe Chine with young Lockwood. I
preferred a quiet read of the _Times_.’

‘Septimus, will you give us a few minutes of your valuable time?’

Mr Redgrave, accustomed to defer to the wishes of his elder sister
in most things, submissively seated himself in front of Penelope and
prepared to listen accordingly.

‘Lavinia and I have been discussing your improved fortune and
prospects. Although your sisters have led a very retired and secluded
life, they have some knowledge of human nature, and are quite prepared
to learn that their only brother has been the target for every selfish
and intriguing woman with whom he has been brought in contact. The only
safeguard appears to us to be an engagement with some suitable person.’

The aquiline features of Septimus flushed somewhat as he replied: ‘If
you mean that I am to sacrifice my liberty when I am best prepared
to enjoy it, you will excuse my saying that you are tilting at a
windmill. If you think so highly of matrimony, why don’t you swallow
the prescription yourself?’

If it be objected that this retort can scarcely be considered such as
should proceed from the lips of a gentleman, it must be borne in mind
that Septimus was an irascible man, and that when he lost command of
his temper he always lost at the same time command of his tongue.

‘The relative positions of a woman and a man are vastly different, so
far as matrimony is concerned,’ replied Penelope. ‘The woman must sit
at home till she receives an offer; the man can seek a wife in every
circle of society.’

This was a great admission on the part of Penelope, who would never
have avowed to any man—except a brother—that her spinsterhood was aught
but the result of her own free-will. It will be observed that both the
sisters ignored all danger from such a quarter as the ambitious damsel
of St James’s; at anyrate they would have considered it derogatory to
their own self-respect to own (to Septimus) such a fear.

‘You are no longer a young man, Septimus. We are both your seniors. Our
last days would be inexpressibly soothed if we could feel that your lot
in life was fixed, and that the fortune you have inherited would not
become the prey of intriguing adventuresses. There is a lady in this
house who entertains strong feelings of regard for you. She is young,
handsome, and accomplished. You do not require money in a wife; but
the lady we allude to is not by any means a beggar. Let us both advise
you to lose no time in making up your mind, or a certain good-looking
lawyer may be before you. No more at present. The lady, who will, I
devoutly trust, eventually become our sister, is even now approaching
the house.’

Septimus turned his eyes in the direction of the garden. Two ladies and
a gentleman were slowly walking along the path. Presently, the younger
one suddenly left her companions and tripped into the drawing-room
through the open French-window.


CHAPTER II.

Mrs Fraser was the widow of Major Fraser, and quite came under the
description of being ‘fat, fair, and forty.’ Her late husband had
been the lifelong associate of Colonel Redgrave; so, when the widow
announced her intention of quitting India for England, there to take
up her permanent abode, her sole companion being her only child, a
girl of some nineteen years, the colonel decided to accompany her.
The gossips in the cantonments had quite decided that after a decent
interval Mrs Fraser would become the wife of Colonel Redgrave; but all
such speculations were put an end to by his sudden death. The Frasers
were now staying at Oswald Villa, the elder Miss Redgrave, as the
reader has just seen, having formed a plan of uniting her brother in
marriage to the handsome widow. Blanche Fraser was a miniature copy
of her mother. The same dazzlingly fair complexion, the same laughing
blue eyes, the same luxuriant light hair; and, if the truth must be
told, the same love of admiration and flirting, distinguished alike
both mother and daughter. There was only one alloy to the happiness
of the widow—the dreadful conviction that youth was slowly but surely
deserting her. The fact might perhaps have been concealed somewhat, but
for the visible presence of a marriageable daughter. So, with many a
sigh, the widow yielded to the inevitable, and determined to choose a
partner in life while a certain portion of youth and good looks still
remained to her. At the present moment, her choice had fallen on the
handsome companion of her walk to Luccombe Chine. Mr Frank Lockwood
had been the lawyer of the Redgrave family ever since his father had
vacated that position by death. He was now about three-and-thirty, was
agreeable and good-looking. As it was now the vacation, the lawyer
was staying at Oswald Villa, in response to the pressing invitation
of Miss Redgrave. The widow had acted on the principle of making hay
while the sun shines, and had exerted all her fascinations on the man
of law; but in vain. Mr Lockwood was very gallant, but the heart of Mrs
Fraser whispered that hitherto her efforts had been void of success.
Still, perseverance, as we all know, achieves wonders, and so the widow
resolved to adopt as her motto—_Perseverando vinces_, and hope for the
best. Blanche, as we have said, tripped into the room, exclaiming as
she did so, ‘O Mr Redgrave, you have lost such a treat! I did so miss
you; you were the one thing needful to complete our enjoyment during
our delightful walk.’

Septimus gazed keenly at the fair speaker; she was certainly very
pretty, and decidedly clever, and palpably partial to his society.
He might do worse than pass the remainder of his days with such a
delightful companion. To be sure, there was a certain disparity in
years; but every one knows that women age faster than men, and there
were innumerable instances in public life of similar disproportions as
to age. He would certainly treasure up the advice of his sister as to
the choice of a wife. So it was with more than his customary urbanity
that Septimus replied: ‘An old man such as I am would have been but a
poor acquisition, Miss Fraser.’

Blanche peered with an expression of mock gravity into the gray eyes of
Septimus. ‘An old man! Have you never heard of the old saying?—A man is
as old as he feels, a woman as old as she looks. How old do you feel,
Mr Redgrave?’

‘I feel almost a boy, Miss Fraser, when in your society; I feel a
centenarian when I am ill in my solitary rooms in London.’

‘Then the deduction from that observation,’ replied Blanche, ‘is, that
to enjoy perpetual youth, you should be perpetually in my society.’

‘A charming prescription, Miss Fraser; I wish it were a possible one.’

Mrs Fraser and Mr Lockwood here entered the room. ‘Take care, Mr
Redgrave,’ said the widow; ‘you will find Blanche a sad flirt. I have
only just been warning Mr Lockwood against her.’

This was a double shot, intended equally for Blanche and Mr Lockwood,
who had, in the widow’s opinion, been somewhat too attentive to Blanche
recently.

Penelope here intervened. ‘My brother is hankering after the fleshpots
of Egypt, Mrs Fraser; in other words, is longing for “the sweet shady
side of Pall Mall.” Can you not persuade him to remain?’

‘Let me try _my_ influence,’ interposed Blanche coquettishly. ‘You will
remain, will you not, _dear_ Mr Redgrave?’

Septimus felt a thrill pass through his frame as Miss Fraser took
hold of one of his hands and looked up in his face with a beseeching
look, while Mr Lockwood threw himself with an air of vexation into an
armchair and made an attempt to read yesterday’s _Times_.

‘You _must_ promise, Mr Redgrave,’ said Blanche.

‘I promise to obey you in all things,’ said Septimus, as, with an air
of old-world gallantry, he raised her fingers to his lips.

From that hour, one thought and one only occupied the mind of Mr
Redgrave: Should he adopt the advice of Penelope, and make Miss Fraser
an offer of his hand and heart? It was a tremendous step for one who
had passed the greater part of his life in studying how best he could
minister to his own selfish comfort and happiness. But on the morning
of the second day after the scene we have just described, Septimus
determined to put his fortune to the test. He chanced to find the fair
Blanche alone sitting under the jessamine-covered veranda, engaged in
reading a novel. Attired in white, with a blue sash round her slender
waist, her light brown hair falling in careless profusion on her
well-turned shoulders, Miss Fraser presented a bewitching spectacle.
As Septimus approached, Blanche shot a captivating glance from beneath
her long dark lashes, and with a graceful movement, invited Septimus to
seat himself beside her on the bench.

‘I hope you are not in the crisis of your tale, Miss Fraser?’

‘No; I am in the second volume only, which is always flat and
uninteresting and skippable.’

‘I am glad to hear it, for I am anxious to have a little serious chat
with you.’

Blanche placed her hands together in the form of supplication. ‘Oh,
please, don’t, Mr Redgrave! I have just had a lecture of half an hour’s
duration from mamma, and that was serious enough, in all conscience.
Why will our parents and guardians expect us to have the wisdom of
Solomon and the virtues of Dorcas before we are out of our teens!’

‘Perhaps I used a wrong word; I wished to speak to you about love.’

‘Oh! how delightful! Have you fallen in love _at last_, Mr Redgrave?’

Septimus did not like the phrase ‘at last,’ but he continued: ‘Also I
wished to speak about matrimony.’

Blanche shook her head gravely. ‘That is a very serious subject.’

‘And yet matrimony is the natural sequence of love.’

‘Alas! yes,’ sighed Blanche.

So far the discussion was not encouraging; but Septimus resolved to
persevere. ‘I have fallen in love with a lady who is at present under
this roof.’

Blanche clasped her hands in wondering surprise, and gasped forth one
word—‘Mamma!’

‘No, Miss Fraser; my affections are settled on her lovely daughter.’

‘Me!’ exclaimed Blanche. ‘Impossible! Oh, Mr Redgrave, you are joking!’

‘I was never more serious in my life, Miss Fraser. Why should you think
it impossible that I should have fallen in love with you? I am in the
prime of life; I have sufficient means’——

‘O pray, Mr Redgrave, forbear! What you ask is impossible; I am
engaged, indeed I am, although mamma does not know it. You won’t tell
her, will you, Mr Redgrave? Promise me you will not.’

‘Certainly not; but I must inform my sisters, for it was owing to their
encouragement that I have made this proposal. They led me to suppose
that you were favourable to my suit.’

‘What a singular delusion! no; I don’t mean that—misapprehension.’

Septimus rose from the seat. ‘Then we resume our former relations, Miss
Fraser?’

Blanche rose, and as she made a low courtesy, said: ‘If you please, Mr
Redgrave.’

Septimus strode away in a towering rage with his sisters for having
inflicted upon him such unnecessary humiliation, and entering
the drawing-room, found Penelope and Lavinia calmly engaged in
tambour-work. One glance was sufficient to inform the sisters that
their brother was not in the best of tempers.

‘Septimus, what has happened?’

‘Everything that is disgusting and unpleasant. I have been fool enough
to take your advice. I have proposed to the lady selected by you for my
wife two days ago, and have been refused with ridicule and contempt.’

‘Impossible, Septimus!’

‘The lady is already engaged.’

‘Impossible, Septimus!’

‘But I have promised to keep her engagement a secret from her mother.’

‘From her mother! Of whom are you speaking, Septimus?’

‘Why, of Blanche Fraser, to be sure.’

‘Blanche! It was her mother we alluded to as our future sister-in-law!’

Tableau!

       *       *       *       *       *

By a singular coincidence, Mrs Fraser was closeted with Mr Lockwood
in the library of Oswald Villa during the love-scene of Septimus with
Blanche. The widow had gone to the library under the pretence of
fetching a particular volume, well knowing that she would find the
handsome solicitor in that apartment. Mr Lockwood was deeply immersed
in Burton’s _Anatomy of Melancholy_, but rose from his seat as Mrs
Fraser entered.

‘I did not mean to disturb you, Mr Lockwood; I merely wanted a volume
of Tennyson.’

‘Pray, don’t apologise, Mrs Fraser. Your visit is very apropos, for I
was very anxious to have a few minutes’ private conversation with you
on a matter affecting all my future life.’

The widow gracefully accepted the chair Mr Lockwood placed for her, her
cheek flushing, and her pulse throbbing as a small voice whispered:
‘The moment has at length arrived; and Frank is neither made of stone,
nor so impervious to my fascinations as I supposed.’

‘It is in your power, my dear Mrs Fraser, to make me the happiest of
men.’

A film passed over the eyes of the widow at this sudden statement of
the lawyer.

‘With your keen penetration and knowledge of the human heart, you must
have long since perceived that I am hopelessly in love, and that the
object of my affections is at this moment a resident of Oswald Villa.’

‘I suspected as much; I will not deny it, dear Frank.’

Mr Lockwood took the plump and trembling fingers of the widow in his
own and gently pressed them. The widow cordially and instinctively
returned the squeeze. ‘May I hope, dear Mrs Fraser?’

‘Dear youth, you may!’ murmured the widow, as her head gently sank on
his shoulders.

The countenance of Mr Lockwood expressed some considerable surprise
at the phraseology adopted by Mrs Fraser, but he attributed it to the
natural emotion of the situation.

‘Then I may tell dear Blanche at once?’ said Frank.

‘Yes; she must know it sooner or later,’ said Mrs Fraser.

‘Blanche already knows of my attachment,’ said Mr Lockwood.

‘Was she not very much surprised, dear Frank?’

‘Well, I cannot say that she was, exactly.’

‘I feared she might think there was too much disparity of age,’ said
the widow.

‘Only fourteen years,’ replied Lockwood.

‘No, Frank, you are joking,’ said the widow, playfully tapping his
cheek; ‘not more than seven.’

‘Pardon me, Mrs Fraser. I am thirty-three, and Blanche is nineteen.’

The room and its contents spun round before the horrified gaze of the
unhappy widow. All was clear to her now. For a few brief happy moments
she had been living in a fool’s paradise. The dream was over. But,
like a judicious woman of the world, Mrs Fraser collected her agitated
thoughts and rapidly executed a change of front.

‘You will make some allowance, Mr Lockwood, for my natural agitation at
the idea of losing a beloved daughter. Blanche is a dear good child,
and you gained a treasure when you won her young affections. But you
must have patience. I cannot afford to lose her yet, she is still so
young.’

‘My dear Mrs Fraser, I am the happiest of men,’ replied the enraptured
Lockwood, overjoyed at the speedy success of his suit.




MISTLETOE.


    A cold dark night,
      Some falling snow;
    A gleam of light,
      A ruddy glow.

    A quaint old hall,
      Some warriors grim,
    Whose shadows fall
      Grotesque and dim.

    A maiden fair,
      A gleam of gold
    Upon her hair—
      The story old.

    While the storm’s breath
      Sweeps o’er the snow,
    One kiss beneath
      The mistletoe.

    Ten Christmas Eves
      Have come and gone,
    And each one leaves
      Me still alone.

    That fair sweet maid
      Of years ago
    Has long been laid
      Beneath the snow.

    While the wind drives
      Against the pane,
    In fancy lives
      My love again.

    The firelight fades,
      The embers glow,
    One kiss beneath
      The mistletoe.

            NORA C. USHER.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._