No. 43.—Vol. I.
Price 1½d.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1884.
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DINNER-PARTIES OUT OF DOORS.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
QUEEN MARGERIE.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.
THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS.
VACCINATION.
NO TEARS.
No. 43.—Vol. I.
Price 1½d.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1884.
Walking one wintery day along the promenade of a well-known Lancashire watering-place, a large notice-board at the entrance of the pier attracted our attention. A closer inspection showed that it bore the announcement: ‘Feeding the sea-gulls from the pier-head every day at noon.’ Curious to see what manner of performance this might be, we paid the entrance-money, took a ticket for the tram-carriage which was just about to start, and speedily found ourselves being whirled smoothly along towards the end of the ‘first pier,’ as it is called, which stretches across the sands for something like three-quarters of a mile towards the deep channel. A short walk was necessary before reaching the end of the extension pier, and there we found numbers of visitors congregated, all, like ourselves, evidently waiting for the performance to begin. Around, lay huge baskets of fish-offal; but where were the expected guests? On every side, far as the eye could reach, was a long expanse of flat sand, merging into the sea-line, with not a vestige of rock to afford foothold or shelter for wild-fowl of any kind. Yet, stay. By the margin of the waves, where it is now low water, are what look like huge glistening white boulders, forming a continuous boundary, whose snowy surface reflects the light, and glitters and flashes under the rays of a December sun, set in so blue a sky as more nearly to approach that of Italy than any we have yet seen in our sombre-tinted British Isles.
Twelve o’clock strikes; a piercing whistle sounds, and even while we are watching, these granite boulders—as, despite the geological formation of the place, we persist in fancying them to be—literally take to themselves wings, and fly towards us, a nearer approach showing them to be vast aggregations of sea-gulls, which have been waiting till the appointed signal should summon them to dine. No transformation scene in a pantomime ever took place with more startling rapidity. Round the pier-head, where all had been still and quiet, was now the bustle and whirring noise made by countless gulls, each one intent upon getting a share of the good things provided. On they come; now swooping along in graceful flight right down to the surface of the water, anon darting aloft with the coveted prize; poised momentarily in mid-air, to see where a descent may most profitably be made, or engaged in a keen struggle for the possession of some particularly toothsome morsel. The whirl and commotion and changing beauty of the scene, it were impossible to describe. Rendered tame by having experimentally proved that the food scattered is no mere decoy meant to lure them to destruction, but the outcome of an honest effort for their sustenance and protection, they come so close as to afford every opportunity for studying their free and graceful flight and the beauty of their form and colour.
Something, we know not what, unless it be the fearless confidence with which these wild-birds respond to the offered kindness, showing no dread of the many spectators, carries us back in thought to the shores of sunny Italy, and above all to Venice, that Queen of the Adriatic, who, dethroned though she be, yet casts the spell of her irresistible charm over all whose hearts beat responsive to the touch of beauty in art; and those no less impressionable spirits over whom the hallowing influence of long-past ages holds a sway so potent, that both alike are fain to acknowledge her as empress of a far wider realm than any which can be measured by mere geographical limitations. Let us take our stand in the Piazza di San Marco, with its glorious many-domed cathedral, its campanile pointing to the heavens, its ducal palace, clock-tower, Moorish arcades, and that vastness of proportion, whose impressiveness is heightened by the stillness so foreign to our modern life in other cities where horse and vehicular traffic create an incessant, deafening hum. Two o’clock sounds from the Torre dell’ Orologio. Immediately we hear the soft swish of multitudinous wings, and down from the turrets and{674} pinnacles where they have been poised, ever-watchful, though motionless, come the gentle, fearless doves to be fed. So tame are they, that to move aside out of your path as you attempt to cross the piazza, never seems to enter into their minds; and if, in your turn, you purchase and begin to scatter a little parcel of corn, the pigeons very soon find it out, and swarm over and upon you with the utmost confidence in your friendly intentions towards them. Such a picture, we imagine, is not to be paralleled elsewhere—one, for its suggestiveness, quite equal in interest to those artistic treasures which lie so close at hand.
Yet a third scene takes us to the grounds of a country-house in the north of England. Here, during the intensely cold winter of 1878-9, when for weeks everything was ice-bound, and all vegetation hidden under a thick coating of snow, myriads of birds were saved from perishing miserably of starvation through the thoughtful kindness of the owner, who for weeks, running into months, provided, twice daily, huge buckets of ‘stirabout,’ whose contents were emptied on to a sort of wooden platform placed over the snow on the lawn. (For the information of those who are not acquainted with the term, we may say that ‘stirabout’ is nothing but coarse oatmeal mixed with water and slightly boiled.) Very pretty was the scene witnessed at feeding-time. Small birds, such as robins, finches, sparrows, tomtits, &c., would cluster on the neighbouring bushes, which were literally bent down with their weight, and reminded one of the ropes of onions so often seen in country places. These birds showed no sort of shyness, but evidently looked upon the food provided as simply their just recompense for helping to free the fruit-trees from insect pests. Large birds, too, used to come of species rarely seen near houses. Perhaps the prettiest sight of all was to watch the squirrels, which seldom, however, made their appearance until the birds had finished. Cautiously up the slope of the lawn they would come, and then very contentedly sat munching away, their bright eyes restlessly glancing here and there; but at the very faintest sound, there was a sort of twinkle, and like a flash of lightning, the squirrels had vanished from sight.
Fresh from recollections such as these, which the feeding of the sea-gulls had brought vividly to memory, upon returning slowly down the pier, we were unpleasantly roused by seeing that five out of every six ladies we met were found to wear either wings or whole birds as the so-called decoration of hats and bonnets. To say nothing respecting the very questionable taste of wearing things which bear the semblance of death, the wholesale slaughter of small birds which goes on to satisfy the requirements of recurring fashion, cannot be too strongly deprecated. On economic and utilitarian grounds, it is no less bad, than from the more humanitarian standpoint, which makes us unwilling needlessly to destroy creatures so full of life and joyousness as are these winged denizens of earth and sky. In view of the threatened injury to agriculture, an American periodical recently drew attention to the great destruction of swallows which resulted from the demand for their breasts and wings to ornament ladies’ bonnets, and called for the enforcement of those laws which our cousins on ‘the other side’ have been wise enough to pass forbidding the killing of insectivorous birds. Turning to an English fashion-book, we read the description of a fancy-ball dress where swallows formed the staple adornment. Bouquets of whole birds were to be placed upon the skirt and bodice; birds in the hair, even wings upon the shoes! Unhappily, the plumage of doves and swallows happens to harmonise with the shades of gray which were worn, just as some years since did the breast of our poor friend cock-robin suit with the deeper-toned hues which were then affected by our élégantes. The result was that, around London at anyrate, robins were for some time quite a rarity.
Surely any one who has witnessed such scenes as those we have so imperfectly tried to describe, would hardly again order her milliner to use birds as a decoration for dresses and bonnets. This special form of cruelty, like so many other of our mistaken dealings with the animal creation, probably springs more from ‘want of thought’ than from ‘want of heart.’ Its effects, however, are no less baneful than if they were the deliberate outcome of a desire for wholesale slaughter. The question is confessedly a difficult one, for it would be absurd to say that there is anything wrong per se in wearing the plumage of pheasants, partridges, pigeons, cocks, and other birds which are killed for purposes of food. The misfortune is, that when birds and wings are once recognised as ‘the thing’ to wear, all birds, songsters as well, will of a certainty be pressed into the service.
In the ‘Ladies’ Column’ of a French journal we have read: ‘Perhaps fashion has never before laid the whole animal world to such an extent under contribution. Not only are all sorts of insects, lizards, spiders, bees, &c., imitated with marvellous fidelity to nature, but the dead bodies of the creatures themselves are fastened on hats and in the hair by means of golden pins. Nor is this all—upon hats, and sometimes dresses, are seen stuffed birds, cats, mice, squirrels, and even monkeys.’ The article went on to say: ‘We must acknowledge that such innovations are more startling than graceful. On some bonnets, one sees the heads of cats nestling amidst the folds of lace; others have quite a family of mice, poking their little pink noses into knots and loops of ribbon. It is a good thing that the animals are only stuffed ones; else, if two bonnets thus adorned were placed in juxtaposition, there would assuredly be a battle-royal.’
Lately, in England, we have ourselves seen bonnets and muffs which had tiny kittens cosily reposing amidst the folds of silk and velvet. Such gross violations of every canon of good taste and{675} right feeling lead us to ask, with something like a sigh of despair, what will the end be? In the name of Humanity, we would entreat our lady friends to spare, at anyrate, our Birds.
Pansy and her grandfather, Eben Morris, were the persons whose arrival at the Masons’ Arms had interrupted Tuppit and his brother. Even had Wrentham’s attention been disengaged, the light in the room was too dim for him to recognise the girl before he was dragged out to the balcony.
Pansy had left home in a woeful state of mental perplexity; ashamed of her conduct to Caleb, anxious to hide from every one and to suppress in herself the silly fancies which had induced it. On alighting from the train at Liverpool Street, she was as much frightened by suddenly encountering Coutts Hadleigh as if he had been the Evil One himself.
‘Whither away, my forest nymph?’ he said with a smile in which there was nothing more than the careless freedom he would have taken with any pretty maid of the servant rank. ‘What brings you to Babylon?’
‘I am going to visit a sick friend,’ she answered, turning away her face.
‘And when will you be back? We cannot afford to lose you from Ringsford.’
‘I do not know—but I am in a hurry, sir;’ and she attempted to pass.
‘Stop a minute; you don’t know your way about the city. Where does your friend live?’
‘I know the way quite well, thank you, sir,’ she replied nervously, without giving the address.
‘Oh, that’s all right, then. I thought I might save you some time and trouble by putting you on the right track.’
That was the whole of their conversation, and without looking at him, she hastened to Gracechurch Street, where she obtained an omnibus which carried her to the Green. Making her way through a narrow lane of small houses in various stages of dilapidation, and through crowds of ragged, gamboling children whose ages ranged from two to ten years, she came to a comparatively open space. There was a wheelwright’s yard with samples of his trade—fragments of wheels, whole wheels, three or four broken-down carts of tradesmen—strewn about. The wheelwright had some idea of beautifying this oasis in the crowded district; for on the window-sills of his wooden house there were chrysanthemums in bloom, and the bare twigs of a rose-tree trained against the wall, suggested that in summer there might be pleasing perfumes and sights even in the midst of squalor.
Opposite was a blacksmith’s shop, and nestling underneath the side of it, a cobbler’s stall, where the occupant was busy singing a music-hall song as he stitched and hammered. Passing between the wheelwright’s and the smith’s places, she came to a square plot of ground—about an acre in extent—which was divided into patches for the use of the dwellers in the surrounding cottages. These were of one story, red-tiled, with whitewashed walls, and with many indications of attempts to cultivate flowers. It was like dropping out of the town into an old country village; and indeed this was a relic of the ancient village of Camberwell.
Pansy found that her grandfather’s illness had been much exaggerated by the neighbour who had reported it, or that he had made a sudden recovery, for when she arrived he was dressed and shuffling about his little room, making preparations to start on what he called his ‘business round,’ whilst in a squeaky voice he kept on mumbling his favourite phrase: ‘Oh, I am so happy!’ This agreeable announcement he made on all occasions whether well or sick, and at times it formed as grim a satire on the common lot as if a death’s-head sang a comic song.
He was a little man, and his shoulders being bent and contracted, his stature was not much more than that of a dwarf. Although his body was thin, his face was ruddy, set in a horseshoe of ragged gray hair. His features were large—the chin particularly prominent—the brow such as would have suggested intellect, but the dull faded eyes had little speculation in them. Neither features nor eyes had the least expression of laughter, whilst he was proclaiming himself in the highest glee. The absurd phrase sounded more like a whine than a cry of exultation.
He had been a greengrocer for over forty years, and in that capacity had daily made the round of the district to supply customers; but his wife had been the real manager of the business. This good woman, with shrewd foresight, insured their joint lives for the modest annuity of thirty pounds, to be paid to the survivor. On her demise the old man, then unfitted for hard work, was thus provided for. But he could not get over the habit of going his daily ‘business round;’ the only houses at which he now called, however, were the various taverns and ale-houses on his route, and he always found in several of them some cruel wags who were ready to give him ‘two pen’orth’ of beer or gin in return for the sad exhibition of an old man in his dotage talking nonsense and squeaking out snatches of ballads.
No persuasion could induce him to change his mode of life; and it was probably as an obstinate protest against the persuasion that he adopted his grotesque refrain of ‘Oh, I am so happy!’ Even on the first day of Pansy’s arrival he insisted on going out as usual, and she was obliged to be content with the promise that he would return early. He was later than usual, however, and Pansy, resolute to rescue him from this pitiable course, decided that she would in future meet him before he had completed his round and entice him home. The first attempt was successful; the second landed her with him in the Masons’ Arms—and she did not regret it after the discovery she made through the conversation between Wrentham and his brother of what mischief had been at work against Philip and Madge.
She was glad to be able to do something to show her gratitude and affection; Madge had been always a good friend and adviser—especially in her own present trouble. So, having seen her grandfather safely housed, she travelled down to Willowmere.
The gravity with which Dame Crawshay{676} received her, and the sad look in Madge’s eyes, caused the visitor to fear for an instant that they were offended with her; but she quickly understood that it was their own sorrow which had made the change in their manner. There was another reason, however, for the expression in Madge’s eyes—sympathy for the pain which the girl must feel when she learned that Caleb Kersey had been arrested on suspicion of having set fire to the Manor, and that the evidence was strong against him. For the present, Pansy was only told about the fire, and her immediate exclamation was:
‘Is father hurt?’
‘No, he is quite well, and poor Mr Hadleigh is lying in his cottage. As soon as he can be moved, he is to be brought here, and we are turning this room into a bedroom, so that he may not have to be carried up-stairs.’
‘And the young ladies?’
‘Miss Hadleigh is still with her father; Miss Caroline and Bertha are here.’
‘And thou’lt have to stay here to-night, too,’ broke in the dame as she continued her rearrangement of the lighter pieces of furniture; ‘there cannot be a corner for thee in the cottage.’
Pansy gave thanks to the dame, and went on to say that it was her intention to return to her grandfather in the morning, but she would ‘see father before starting.’
‘I did not intend to be back so soon,’ she went on, with an awkward glance first at Madge, next at Aunt Hessy. She did not know how to convey her information with the least offence. ‘But there was something I heard about Missy and Master Philip this afternoon that I thought she ought to know—that you all ought to know.’
‘About Philip and me!’ exclaimed Madge, the colour heightening in her cheeks as she wondered if it could be possible that the broken engagement had already become the subject of common gossip.
‘Sit thee down, Pansy,’ said Aunt Hessy, ceasing to work, ‘and tell us plainly what thou hast heard.’
Thus encouraged, the girl repeated with considerable accuracy the substance of the conversation she had overheard.
‘And as I fancied,’ Pansy concluded, ‘that though you knew of the mischief, you might not know how it was being put right—I came straight to tell you.’
There was a pause. The treachery of Wrentham to Philip and the villainous insinuations with which he had endeavoured to poison his mind regarding Madge in order to distract him and prevent him from looking too closely into business details—the whole wicked scheme was made clear to Aunt Hessy. Madge saw at once how grossly Philip’s generous confidence had been abused, but at the moment she did not quite understand why Wrentham in carrying out his plot should be so foolish as to try to slander her to Philip—she knew he could only try to do it, for not one word against her would be credited for an instant by her lover. And yet!... He had been so strange of late in many ways: he had shown so much displeasure with her for maintaining Beecham’s secret—what may he not have suffered from brief doubt, although he did not believe in anything ill that was suggested to him.
‘Thou art a good girl, Pansy,’ said Aunt Hessy, kindly, but without any sign of agitation, ‘and we thank thee for coming to us with what is really good news—that the man is found out.’
‘Ay, mistress, I thought that would be good news for you—and his own brother is against him!’
‘I am sorry for the poor brother.—Now go into the kitchen and get supper with the maidens: make friends with Jenny Wodrow, for she will be thy bedfellow to-night.’
Pansy obeyed, although she would have intensely liked to have had some sign from Madge to show how the news had affected her.
‘I will see you before bedtime,’ said Madge in answer to the look; ‘I have something to tell you.’
But Madge’s friendly intention to break the news to her of Caleb’s position was frustrated. Jenny Wodrow, the maiden to whose graces Pansy had been directed to recommend herself, although good-natured in the main, had been ready to give more of her favour to the stalwart Agitator than to any of the other lads about. That all the shafts levelled at him with her bright eyes and soft tongue fell pointless, she attributed rightly to the charms of the gardener’s daughter. In church, in field, or at the harvest-home, Caleb had no vision for any one but Pansy. The maidens saw, understood, and discreetly turned their thoughts elsewhere.
Jenny was ready enough to follow their example, but she felt aggrieved and a little spiteful, especially as Pansy, not being precisely ‘in service,’ seemed to take a place above those who were ‘quite as good as her any day, and maybe her betters.’ Jenny continued to think of Caleb Kersey, and at present her head was full of his misfortunes. So, in the bright kitchen where the huge fire was reflected on rows of shining dish-covers and platters, and the supper of bread and cheese and beer was being served on a massive white deal table, the chatter of the maidens was all about the latest wonder, the burning of the Manor, and the parlous state of Mr Hadleigh.
‘Ay, and who d’ye think they’ve taken up and put in prison for burning the big house?’ said Jenny shrewishly, as she looked full in her rival’s face. ‘Who but Caleb Kersey; and if the master dies, hanging will be the end on’t.’
Pansy was frightened. She became red and then so white that young Jerry Mogridge, who was not given to close observation of anybody when engaged with his meals, growled at Jenny.
‘It’s darned spite that. Can’t you let the wench take supper in peace.’
‘She didn’t mean no harm,’ retorted a young ploughman who had his own reasons for acting as Jenny’s champion. ‘How was she to know that hearing the news was to spoil Miss Pansy’s supper. Ain’t she like the rest ov us?’
‘You keep your tongue in your jaw—it ought to be big enough for it, I believe,’ snorted Jerry, his mouth full of bread and cheese, his mug of beer raised to his lips.
{677}
‘I’ll teach you, young man, to speak without splutter,’ cried Jenny, administering a smart slap to poor Jerry’s back with a result fatal to the contents of his mouth and mug.
The roar of laughter elicited by the coarse jest might have provoked Jerry—half choked though he was—to further argument, had he not been too well aware of the more immediate importance of securing the huge brown jug in order to replenish his cup.
Pansy had slipped out of the kitchen during this passage-at-arms. She was full of self-reproaches. Caleb arrested—in jail—in danger maybe of hanging! And all through her fault! If Caleb had emigrated, she might have consoled herself with the idea that in rejecting him she had done him a great kindness—for every strong man made a fortune in the colonies, she understood. But to think that she, however innocently, had some share in driving him to this terrible crime—that was a thought which made the poor girl’s heart and brain ache.
(To be concluded.)
When I look back on my schoolboy days, there is one scene that always stands out before me with peculiar force and vividness; there is one occurrence that happened then more deeply graven than any other upon my memory; and that is no small thing to say, for I can call to mind any number of exciting things that took place when I was at Greychester. I could tell of many a victory that we gained, against heavy odds, by land or water; for there was scarcely a Greychester lad who could not pull an oar, as well as handle a bat, with more or less dexterity; and both on the cricket-field and on the river our opponents always found us pretty stubborn antagonists. I could tell many a story of our adventures and hairbreadth escapes, and of those little exploits and mischances of my own in which I figured as the hero or culprit, as the case might be, from the day on which I received my first ‘swishing’ until I left as top of the Sixth. There is a grim sort of interest, I always fancy, about one’s first sound thrashing, that makes it, in a fashion, a landmark in a schoolboy’s career. Even now I remember how I came by mine. It was soon after I entered the school, and I was in the third form—Tunder’s. Old Tunder, we called him, not that he really was old, for he was not much over forty, but to a schoolboy with the best of life before him, forty seems a patriarchal age. Tunder was anything but a profound scholar, and he was, moreover, very near-sighted, so that there was perhaps some reason for the boys of his form being much more distinguished for their proficiency in the art of practical joking than for their attainments in any branch of knowledge. Anyway, the third-form room was a very hotbed of mischief.
It happened that about this time we had hit upon a novel and pleasant form of amusement with which to beguile the monotony of our studies, Tunder’s defective vision giving us ample opportunity for the recreation. There were to be had at the Greychester toyshops little wooden frogs made to jump with a spring. It was a matter of intense and absorbing delight to us to range our frogs in line and test their powers by seeing which would take the longest jump. The excitement on these occasions was great. Tunder’s cane was constantly being brought into use, but until one ill-fated day I managed to escape it. One hot summer afternoon, Smithson Minor, who sat next to me, brought out of his pocket a couple of new spring-frogs, and making me a present of one, proposed that we should have a match between them, just to see what they were like. Now, if I had had my wits about me, I should have suspected that some snare lay hidden under this unusual generosity on the part of Smithson Minor, for, as a rule, he was not of a giving sort, and rarely parted with anything but for full and ample consideration. But I suspected nothing; the day was warm; a little relaxation from our struggles in decimal fractions seemed desirable, and old Tunder was safely moored at his desk just in front of us, correcting exercises, so that Smithson’s proposal appeared both kind and opportune, and met with a ready acceptance on my part.
But Smithson Minor, though I knew it not, was a traitor, and compassed my ruin; for the frog which he had given me was equipped with a spring of some fourfold strength. Somewhere in the course of his researches at the toyshops he had come across it, and his keen scent for mischief had quickly detected a rare opportunity for fun. He got his fun—at my expense. The frogs were carefully stationed at the lower edge of the desk, Smithson Minor giving them a last touch, just to see, he said, that it was a fair start, but in reality to point mine in a particular direction. The course would be the upward slope of the desk; ample space, we thought—at least I thought—for the most actively disposed jumper; and if by chance one of them did overshoot the mark and tumble on the floor, then we should have the additional excitement of recovering it at the risk of drawing on to us Tunder’s attention and Tunder’s cane. Everything was ready; the critical moment came. The frogs jumped, and mine won—won easily, beating all previous records, for it soared majestically into the air and swooped down full on to old Tunder’s nose! He regarded it quietly for a moment or two, and then taking it into his hands, said slowly and sarcastically: ‘The proprietor of this ingenious toy has evidently more leisure on his hands than he knows how to dispose of; if he will kindly step this way, I will give him something that will engage his attention for a time.’
I stepped that way, and found him as good as his word. I went back to my place sadder, if not wiser, than when I left it; and for that day and for several days to come, I found that{678} a sitting posture was not altogether free from discomfort.
Poor old Tunder! he was not a bad sort of fellow after all. He left the school not very long afterwards, and then we found out how many kindly and generous things he had done in a quiet unobtrusive sort of way. I don’t suppose his salary as an under-master was a very large one, and I know from what he said himself that he had no private income, so that he must have practised considerable economy and self-denial to have been able to indulge in those unsuspected acts of charity in the poorer parts of Greychester which came to light after he had gone. I have lost sight of him for some time; but if he should still be living, and should chance to read these lines, he will see that in spite of the spring-frog episode, I can still speak of him with respect, and even affection.
But I am wasting time in gossiping about so paltry an affair as my first flogging, and almost forgetting that I have a story of a very different kind to tell—a story so tinged to a certain extent with sadness, that even now it costs me something to relate it. Indeed, I should not do so, did I not think that—apart from the passing interest it may have—it may serve in some cases to point a moral and give a warning.
Two of my particular chums at school were Frank and Charlie Stewart, popularly known as the two young Hotspurs. Why, I will tell you. They were fellows of the real good sort, as we used to say, good run-getters in a cricket-match, and pulling a first-rate oar. Not that they were dunces either, for they were never very low down in their forms, and they had a quickness and readiness that carried them above fellows of more plodding industry. They had one fault—I suppose every schoolboy has one, many more than one—and it was this failing that gained them their nickname. Kindly and good-natured enough as a general rule, each of them had a quick and impetuous disposition, which was liable, under no very great provocation, to blaze out into hot passion. They resented anything like dictation or unfair treatment so much, that their high spirit could at times scarcely brook even a fair and proper opposition to their ideas and opinions, and instead of trying to gain their argument, they would lose their temper. But, to do them justice, there was nothing sullen, or mean, or vindictive about them; and their fits of temper were shortlived. They tried earnestly to guard against their besetting weakness, sometimes succeeding, and always bitterly lamenting afterwards if they failed. Occasionally, they came to words between themselves; but in a moment or two they would be as friendly as ever again, pulling a pair together, or tossing for sides at cricket. Once, however, they came to blows, and it is that scene which is so vividly painted on my memory.
Like myself, the Stewarts were town-boys, and as our homes were not very far apart, we generally went to and from school together, the intimacy thus formed being gradually ripened by congenial tastes and pursuits into a warm and lasting friendship, which made them almost like brothers, and their house quite a second home to me. Their father, who had been a retired naval officer, possessed of ample independent means, had died a year or two before, and they lived with their widowed mother and a sister—a child, when first I knew her, of about six or seven. Margerie her name was—Queen Margerie, in a playful way, they always called her; and well she deserved her title, for she held absolute and sovereign sway over every heart in the household, and indeed over all who knew her.
I wish I were a word-painter, so that I could portray Queen Margerie as I see her in my mind’s eye now. I wish a more skilful hand than mine could place the portrait before you—the portrait of a child—somewhat small for her age, you might say, and perhaps somewhat fragile-looking—with clustering soft brown hair, brightened here and there by a gleam of gold; hazel eyes, always lit up with mirth and happiness, except when the story of some one’s troubles filled them with tears; and soft cheeks, where the shadow of ill-humour seemed never to find a resting-place. And then, what pretty ways she had; talking in such a demure, old-world fashion, with a voice deep for a child, and yet with such music in it, and doing everything so pleasantly and lovingly, that no wonder those about her made her their idol.
Chief among the idolaters were her two brothers. If I had not seen it, I should never have thought that two school-lads could have been so tender and loving to a child. No trouble and no self-sacrifice did they grudge her, gratifying her wishes, as far as lay in their power, as soon as they were uttered; often, indeed, anticipating them before they were spoken. It was curious, and yet pleasant, to see how they would come to her with the story of their feats and adventures, like knights of old, who valued most their victories in the jousts in that they gained them the smile of the queen of the tournament. If either of them had won a prize, or made the top score in a match, or done some other redoubtable thing, his chief pleasure was in the thought of Queen Margerie’s delight at the news. ‘Tell me all about it,’ she would say, nestling eagerly close to him, ‘tell me every word—every word from beginning to end.’ Then would he give her a full and graphic account, she listening with growing interest the while, and gazing at him with a look of pride, until the tale was ended; and then her joy at the history of his success was to him his crowning reward.
Queen Margerie, how mother, brother, servants adored thee! I believe if the sacrifice of their own lives had been necessary to preserve thine, not one of them would have hesitated a moment to pay the price.
‘They overdid it,’ do you say? Nay, believe me, they did not, for a child in the home may be among the very richest gifts for which heaven claims our gratitude. A child’s presence may fill with sunlight the house which else would be wrapt in gloom; a child’s influence may preserve purity in the mind which but for it might become stained and corrupted; a child’s love may serve to keep warm the heart which the cares and worries of life might otherwise make cold and selfish.
‘I wonder,’ said Frank Stewart once to me, in an abstracted sort of way, as if he had been{679} pondering over some weighty matter—‘I wonder what we should do if anything were to happen to Margerie; if she were to—to go away.’
‘Go away!’ I replied in wonderment. ‘How can a child like that go away? What do you mean?’
He made no answer, but went on, as if in continuance of his own remarks: ‘It would kill my mother, and I think it would me, if Margerie were to’—— Then he stopped short.
I began to understand his meaning; but I said no more, for this was a sort of mood I had never seen Frank Stewart in before, and I did not know how to meet it. So the conversation ceased, and for a time I forgot all about it.
It was one afternoon some time after this that the Stewarts, one or two other fellows, and myself, were going home from school, not quite in our usual spirits, for a cricket-match we had played the day before had ended—rather unusually for us—in our suffering a disastrous defeat. True to human nature, instead of taking kindly to our reverse of fortune, we tried to find a pair of shoulders on which we might conveniently put the whole load of blame, and the owner of the shoulders happened to be Frank Stewart, who had been the captain of our Eleven, and who, we thought, had not managed matters very discreetly. In the course of our discussion on the subject, the two brothers irritated each other to such an extent that they came to blows. We tried to pacify them; but in vain. I am afraid that, like every British schoolboy, we had just a sort of lurking fondness for a good fair fight, which made the fray not without interest for us. Anyway, we watched it so intently that we did not see a childish figure come to the garden-gate leading to the Stewarts’ house, and pausing a little to take in what was passing, run quickly down the road towards us. We saw and heard nothing until Queen Margerie was close to the struggling lads, calling on them piteously to stop; but in a moment—blinded and deafened with excitement—one of them stumbled against her, and fell—dragging the other with him—heavily over her to the ground.
The boys quickly rose unhurt, but the child never stirred. There she lay, the poor little face deadly pale, except where there were a few stains of blood from a bruise on the temple; and one arm seemed to have suffered some injury. There was for a moment a faint look of recognition, just a feeble attempt to smile, and then there was unconsciousness.
The whole thing took place so suddenly that none of us at first could realise it. For an instant or two the Stewarts seemed perfectly dazed, kneeling by the child, and calling her by name, as if she were only making a pretence of being hurt, and would spring into their arms presently. Then the truth seemed to burst upon them, restoring their self-possession; for, taking the little form gently to his breast, Frank Stewart strode hurriedly homewards, entreating us, as he went, to bring a doctor. We lost no time on our errand, and medical help was soon at hand. Shortly afterwards, we heard that the arm was fractured, but that that was not so serious as the injury to the head, from which the gravest results might be feared.
We did not see the Stewarts again at school during that term, of which a few days only remained. For three days they watched with their mother by the child’s bedside, scarcely ever taking food or sleep. At times she was conscious, and gave them one of her old looks, or feebly held out her hand to touch theirs. Once or twice she rallied enough to speak a little, but not a word passed her lips about her injuries or the cause of them. She only asked them not to forget her when she had gone, for she seemed to think that the shadows would soon be falling about her.
Once, I remember, when I called to make inquiries, Frank Stewart came down to see me. I scarcely knew him, he looked so altered. ‘It is bad enough to see her dying,’ he said, sobbing: ‘but to think of its being my fault!’—and he broke down utterly.
What words of comfort could a schoolboy utter in the presence of such grief? What could I say, when I feared they were only waiting for the King’s messenger to take Queen Margerie where pain and weariness are not known? For though the doctor said there was a chance, that chance seemed but a slender one.
Fifteen years since then, is it? Why, it scarcely seems as many months. How well I remember it, and yet my schoolboy days ended long ago, and now I am a staid married man. My wife, to tell the truth, is sitting near me as I write, and now and then she comes and looks over my shoulder at what I have written, saying with a smile that she wonders how I can exaggerate as I have done once or twice. I turn the tables on her by replying that instead of being a help to me, she is my greatest hindrance, for as long as she is in the room I am always neglecting my work to look at her. And that is the truth. I am continually looking at her, because, to my mind, she is the prettiest picture one can look at. She has soft brown hair, with here and there a gleam of gold, bright hazel eyes, and a gentle face without a trace of ill-humour. It is true you may see on her forehead the faintest traces of a scar, but then, I say, it is a beauty-mark. Sometimes she says, in a make-believe solemn way, that she wonders how I could have married any one with one arm stiff and good for nothing. But I know she is only joking, for I don’t think her arm is a whit worse now than any one else’s.
But I am not the only one who worships her. There are her two brothers, for instance, who are quite as foolish as I am. The elder of them is a lieutenant in the navy, and he misses no opportunity of sending her wonderful treasures and curiosities, which he collects for her on his travels. Before long, our modest-sized dwelling will be a storehouse of marvels. The other, a young lawyer, who lives with his widowed mother, is a perfectly infatuated brother, and under one pretext or another is always coming to see that all is going well with his idol. I tell him sometimes, laughingly, that I shall become jealous if this sort of thing goes on; that I shall forbid him the house, and bar the doors against him! But my threats are of little use; for he says that neither husband nor bolts nor bars shall{680} prevent his coming, like a loyal subject, to pay allegiance to Queen Margerie. For the one slender chance did prevail, and my story ends happily after all.
The day was an hour older. The heat of the afternoon sun was tempered by a fresh breeze from the hills, which had sprung up a little while ago. The windows of Madame De Vigne’s sitting-room stood wide open, and the curtains waved to and fro in the breeze, but the room itself was empty.
In a little while a sound of knocking was heard; but there being no response, the door was presently opened, and Jules, followed by Lady Renshaw and Miss Wynter, entered the room.
‘Pardon, milady, but Madame De Vigne is not here,’ said Jules.
At this moment Nanette, madame’s maid, entered the room, seeing which, Jules made his exit. ‘You wish to see madame?’ inquired Nanette.
‘When she is at liberty,’ said her ladyship graciously.
‘What name shall I give madame?’
‘I am Lady Renshaw; and this is my niece, Miss Wynter.’
Nanette courtesied and went.
Lady Renshaw proceeded to make herself at home, appraising the ornaments on the chimney-piece, peering into a photograph album, turning over a book of engravings, trying a drawer or two in the cabinet, and so on.
‘Really a charming room; quite the best in the hotel, I have been given to understand,’ she remarked. ‘To think of the audacity of this Madame De Vigne in engaging such a room for herself and party! But these adventuresses are nothing if not audacious. Yes, a charming room; and it will suit us admirably. And then the view—oh! the view’—going to the window and peering out through her glasses. ‘It is magnifique—très magnifique.’
Miss Wynter was sitting languidly in an easy-chair: she had a knack of picking out the cosiest and softest chair in a room.
‘But you have not yet told me your reason, aunt’——
‘For wishing to make the acquaintance of this Madame De Vigne. I will enlighten you.’
At this juncture Nanette re-entered the room. ‘Madame will be down in the course of a few minutes, if your ladyship will please to wait.’
‘A French maid, too!’ burst forth Lady Renshaw the moment the girl had left the room. ‘One would like to know how this woman came by her money. Most probably at the gaming-table.’
‘O aunt!’
‘Happily for you, my dear, you know little of the world. You have never been to Monaco, for instance. I have.—But to explain to you my reasons for wishing to make the acquaintance of this—this person.’ Her ladyship sat down and opened her fan. ‘On glancing through the Visitors’ Book this afternoon—a thing which I always do as soon as I arrive at a strange hotel—I found there the name of Mr Archibald Ridsdale.’
‘Aunt!’
‘I was not greatly surprised, after the note I received from Mrs Delorme, Mr Ridsdale’s aunt, a few days before leaving town. She wrote something to this effect: “I am given to understand that that foolish nephew of mine is philandering somewhere among the Lakes in company with those two adventuresses who have got him in their toils. Should you come across the party in your travels, write me all particulars you can pick up concerning them; and should any opportunity offer itself, I hope you will do all that lies in your power to extricate Archie from this dreadful entanglement.”—Well, my dear, as good fortune would have it, here they all are—Mr Archie and the two adventuresses—in this very hotel.’ And Lady Renshaw fanned herself complacently.
‘But under what pretext do you propose to introduce yourself to Madame De Vigne?’
‘You will learn when the time comes,’ answered her ladyship with a diplomatic smile. ‘Meanwhile, I have something very serious to say to you.’
‘Yes, aunt.’
‘The season before last, Mr Ridsdale paid you very marked attention—very marked indeed. He really seemed quite taken with you; and it must have been entirely your own fault that you let him slip through your fingers in the way you did. I was never more annoyed in my life. But there is just a possibility that it may not be too late even now to repair your wretched blunder.’
‘But Mr Ridsdale is engaged, is he not?’
‘O my dear, engagements nowadays are lightly made and as lightly broken. It is quite possible that by this time the foolish young fellow may be thoroughly cured of his infatuation for this young woman, whom nobody seems to know anything about, and may be longing for some friendly hand to snap the thread that binds him to her. It is quite possible that when he sees you again he may’—— Here her ladyship nodded meaningly at her niece. ‘You know what I mean. Now, if the slightest chance is given you, I beg that you will play your cards differently this time! Think! the only son of one of our richest and oldest baronets! What a position would be yours! What a’—— Suddenly her ladyship caught sight of something outside the window. She rose and crossed the room and peered out through her glasses. ‘Why, I declare there’s that young curate again, sitting under a tree all alone with his book!’
Miss Wynter’s languor vanished in a moment. She started to her feet. ‘Where, aunt?’ she asked eagerly.—‘Yes, poor fellow; he does look rather lonely, doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t suppose you have the slightest notion who the young man really is?’ said her ladyship, with the air of a person who has made a grand discovery.
Bella threw a startled look at her aunt. ‘No—no—of course not. How should I?’ Then coaxingly: ‘But who is he, aunty dear?’
{681}
‘The son of a bishop, my dear.—What do you think of that?’
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the young girl with a gasp, as well she might. ‘But how did you find that out, aunt?’
‘You remember that he told us his name was Mr Golightly?’
Bella nodded assent.
‘Well, on reaching the hotel I asked to see the Clergy List, where I found that the only Golightly mentioned there is the Bishop of Melminster. It’s by no means a common name, and this young man must be the bishop’s son. I’ve not a doubt of it in my own mind.’
Lady Renshaw had evidently a fine faculty for leaping to conclusions from very insufficient data.
‘O aunt, how clever you are!’ was the comment of the wicked Bella.
‘That’s as it may be, my dear,’ was the complacent answer. ‘What are our brains given us for but to make proper use of them.’
‘Don’t you think Mr Golightly very nice-looking?’ asked Miss Wynter with the most innocent air imaginable.
‘Intellectual-looking, no doubt. He has the air of a man who habitually burns the midnight oil. I have no doubt that the dear bishop has inculcated him with studious habits.’
It will be observed that her ladyship’s English was occasionally a little slipshod, especially when she lugged long words into her sentences with which she had only a bowing acquaintance.
Miss Wynter turned away to hide a smile. ‘What fun it will be to tell all this to Dick, by-and-by!’ she said to herself.
‘We must cultivate him, my dear,’ resumed her ladyship, who evidently deemed two strings better than one, to her niece’s bow. ‘In these days, a bishop’s son is not by any means to be sneered at. Who knows but that he may take a fancy to you! You must endeavour to sit next him at dinner, and draw him gently on to talk of the subjects that interest him, and then of course you will discover that you are deeply interested in the same subjects yourself.’
‘I will do my best, aunt,’ responded Bella softly.
At this moment the door opened, and Madame De Vigne entered the room. The two ladies rose simultaneously to their feet.
‘Lady Renshaw?’ said madame inquiringly, with a slight but stately inclination of the head.
Her ladyship bowed in some confusion. ‘Madame De Vigne, I presume?’ she contrived to stammer out. For once in a way her self-confidence had deserted her.
‘Yes,’ was the simple answer, but still with the same look of inquiry in the large, lustrous, melancholy eyes.
Never in her life had Lady Renshaw felt herself so much like an intruder. She recovered herself somewhat behind the shelter of a little cough. Then she said: ‘Before explaining my intrusion, allow me to introduce my niece, Miss Wynter.’
The two ladies bowed, and the eyes of the elder one kindled with a smile. There was something in the girl’s face that attracted her.
‘An adventuress indeed!’ exclaimed Bella to herself. ‘Aunt never made a greater mistake in her life.’
Her ladyship had recovered her fluency by this time. ‘I must lay the blame of our intrusion, Madame De Vigne, on the shoulders of Mr Archie Ridsdale?’
‘Of Mr Ridsdale, Lady Renshaw?’
‘Archie is quite an old friend both of Bella and myself.’
‘I am pleased to make the acquaintance of any friends of Mr Ridsdale,’ responded Madame De Vigne gravely.—‘Will you not be seated?’
The three ladies sat down, Miss Wynter artfully choosing a seat near the open window, whence she could glance occasionally at Mr Dulcimer, who, to all appearance, was still intent upon his book.
‘And now to make a full confession,’ began her ladyship smilingly, as she first opened and then shut her fan. ‘When we arrived here this afternoon and requested to be shown to a private sitting-room, we were informed that the hotel was full, and that there was not one to be had for love or money. So I made up my mind that till a private room should be vacant, my niece and I would have to content ourselves with the accommodation of the ladies’ coffee-room. But, O my dear Madame De Vigne, I had not been in the room ten minutes, before I found that it would be an utter impossibility for us to stay there. Such a strange medley of people I was never among before. Association with them, even temporarily, was altogether out of the question. So told Bella not to have our trunks unpacked, but that, after a little refreshment, we would endeavour to find some other hotel where we could be properly accommodated. But at this juncture I discovered that Mr Ridsdale was staying here with a party of friends in their own suite of rooms. Then a happy thought struck me, and I said to my niece: “Considering our long friendship with dear Archie, I wonder whether we should be looked upon as intruders if we were to go to Madame De Vigne and beg of her to find space for us in a corner of her sitting-room during the two or three days we intend staying in this place.”’ Here her ladyship, being slightly out of breath, paused for a moment.
Miss Wynter had first turned red and then pale while listening to her ladyship’s apology. ‘O auntie, auntie, what fibs you are telling!’ she murmured under her breath.
‘So now, dear Madame De Vigne, you know all,’ resumed her ladyship. ‘If we shall incommode you in the slightest degree, pray tell us so at once, and’——
Madame De Vigne held up her hand in gentle deprecation. ‘Not another word is needed, Lady Renshaw,’ she said. ‘What you ask is a very small favour, indeed. Pray, consider this room as yours during your stay. It will please me much to know that you do so.’
‘Isn’t she nice!’ said Bella to herself admiringly. ‘If I were a man I believe I should fall in love with her.’
‘You are really very kind, and I am more obliged to you than I can say,’ remarked Lady Renshaw with her most expansive smile. ‘Archie too, dear boy, will be immensely gratified when he finds us installed here.’ Then after a momentary pause, she added: ‘Do you purpose making much of a stay among the Lakes, may I ask?’
‘I can scarcely tell. Our little holiday may{682} come to an end in two or three days, or it may extend to as many weeks.’
Bella’s gaze had been intently fixed on Mr Dulcimer. ‘I do believe he is winking at me over his book!’ she cried to herself. ‘But he has audacity enough for anything.’
‘Pardon the question, dear Madame De Vigne, but am I right in assuming that, like myself, you have been left desolate and forlorn in this vale of tears?’
‘I am a—a widow, if that is what you mean, Lady Renshaw.’
‘Then is there one more bond of sympathy between us. Never can I forget my own loss. It was five years last Monday since poor dear Sir Timothy died. But I see him every night in my dreams, and I carry his portrait and a lock of his hair—he had not much hair, poor darling—with me wherever I go. He was not handsome; but he was a most excellent creature. He left me all he possessed, and—and he only lived two years and a half after our marriage!’
The affecting picture was too much for her ladyship’s feelings; she pressed her perfumed and delicately embroidered handkerchief to her eyes. Madame De Vigne, with a slightly disdainful expression on her pale features, sat as cold and unmoved as a statue.
‘How ridiculous of aunt to carry on in that style!’ thought Bella to herself with a very red face.
Madame De Vigne turned to the young girl. ‘Is this your first visit to the Lakes, Miss Wynter?’
‘Yes; I have never been so far north before.’
‘I hope you will be favoured with as fine weather as we have had. They tell me that in these parts it sometimes rains for a week without ceasing.’
‘O dear, how very depressing. I shouldn’t like that at all.’
By this time Lady Renshaw was ready to resume the attack. ‘Pardon me, dear Madame De Vigne, but judging from the name, I presume your husband was not an Englishman?’
‘He was a Frenchman, Lady Renshaw.’
‘Some of the most charming men I have ever met were Frenchmen. Am I right in assuming that your loss is of an older date than mine?’
‘I lost my husband several years ago.’
‘Ah, then, Time has no doubt softened the blow to you. I am told that it generally does; but, for my part, I feel that I can never cease to mourn poor, dear Sir Timothy.—In all probability you have spent much of your life abroad?’
‘I have lived abroad a great deal, Lady Renshaw.’ As she spoke these words she rose abruptly and crossed to the other side of the room. ‘This woman is insufferable,’ she said to herself. ‘She must have some motive for her questions. What can it be?’
‘There’s something in her life she wants to hide. I scent a mystery,’ remarked Lady Renshaw to herself with a fine sense of complacency.
Miss Wynter had again become absorbed in furtively watching Mr Dulcimer. ‘Poor Dick, how sanctimonious he looks! But then, to be sure, he’s the son of a bishop!’ she whispered to herself with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Next moment the door was opened, and in came Miss Gaisford and Miss Loraine. At the sight of strangers they stopped suddenly. Madame De Vigne came forward. Lady Renshaw and Miss Wynter rose.
‘Lady Renshaw—Miss Wynter—permit me to introduce to you Miss Gaisford and my sister, Miss Loraine.—Penelope, Clarice—Lady Renshaw and her niece, Miss Wynter—friends of Mr Ridsdale.’
The two girls shot a critical glance at each other, as girls always do when they are introduced.
‘The girl Archie’s engaged to!’ remarked Bella under her breath. ‘Well, she’s awfully handsome; nobody can deny that. I suppose that by the side of her I look a regular gipsy. That gown she’s got on was never made in town. Quite a country cut. But how well she carries it off.’
‘What a very pretty girl!’ was Clarice’s unspoken comment. ‘Only I never remember hearing Archie mention her name.’
As Lady Renshaw peered at Clarice through her eyeglass she instinctively felt that if young Ridsdale were really engaged to this splendid young creature, any hopes she might have cherished of winning him away from her side were likely to end in smoke. She at once admitted to herself that whatever pictures of the two sisters she might previously have drawn in her mind’s eye were totally unlike the reality. If these women were adventuresses, they certainly didn’t look it, so far as her experiences of such beings went. None the less did it seem certain that Archie was being inveigled into a marriage against which his father would no doubt resolutely set his face. There was no knowing what strange turn Fortune’s wheel might bring about. Meanwhile she must watch and wait and keep her own counsel.
‘May I be permitted to assume, dear Madame De Vigne, that, with the exception of Mr Ridsdale, your little party is now complete?’ queried her ladyship.
‘Not quite, Lady Renshaw. We are still short of two friends—the Rev. Mr Gaisford and Dr M‘Murdo, whose acquaintance you will doubtless make a little later on.’
‘And that of their wives?’ asked her ladyship languidly with a graceful sweep of her fan.
‘They haven’t any; they are bachelors,’ interposed Miss Gaisford brusquely.
‘O-h. Bachelors are always interesting creatures in the eyes of our sex, Miss Gaisford. But it is possible that the gentlemen in question may be on the eve of changing their condition?’
‘Will this woman’s questions never cease?’ murmured Madame De Vigne to herself.
‘Not at all, Lady Renshaw—not at all,’ responded the vicar’s sister. ‘They know too well when they are well off.’
‘O fie, now, Miss Gaisford! You must not turn traitress to your sex. What are we sent into the world for if not to make the men happy!’
‘It seems like it to any one who reads the daily papers,’ was the grim response.
‘By the way, dear, what has become of Mr Ridsdale?’ asked Madame De Vigne of her sister.
‘He has gone as far as the post-office. He{683} thought that the letter he has been expecting for the last few days might perhaps be waiting there for him.’
‘A letter from his father, without a doubt,’ muttered Lady Renshaw. ‘Probably the one containing Sir William’s final decision.’
Clarice had crossed to the window to speak to Miss Wynter. Suddenly she gave a little start. ‘Why, I declare there’s Archie over yonder, talking to that young curate whom we saw this afternoon. They seem to be acquainted. And now they are coming this way.’
‘Good gracious! Dick coming here!’ exclaimed Miss Wynter under her breath.
Archie Ridsdale entered the sitting-room from the veranda, followed—bashfully—by Mr Richard Dulcimer, otherwise Mr Golightly.
‘Ladies all,’ began Archie, ‘allow me to introduce to you my old friend and college chum, Dick Golightly—one of the best of fellows when you come to know him, but, like the snail, of a most retiring disposition—one of those people, in fact, whom it takes a deal of persuasion to coax out of their shell.—Golightly, don’t blush, there’s a dear boy; the ladies won’t eat you.—Madame De Vigne—Miss Gaisford—Miss Loraine. You will know them all better by-and-by.—Now don’t, for goodness’ sake, be a snail.’—Then turning, he exclaimed with a well-feigned start: ‘Ah! Lady Renshaw, as I live!’ and with that he held out his hand, which her ladyship grasped with much cordiality.
‘This is indeed an unlooked-for pleasure,’ he went on. ‘I never see your ladyship without being reminded of what the poet says: “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.”’
‘Fie, you naughty boy’—tapping him with her fan—‘you are not a bit improved since I saw you last.’
‘Allow me,’ continued Archie. ‘My friend, Mr Golightly—Lady Renshaw.’
‘I think that I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr Golightly before—for a few minutes on the lawn this afternoon.’
Richard murmured something inaudible in reply. He was twisting his hat between his fingers, and shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. He tried his hardest to call up a blush, but failed ignominiously.
Archie had turned to Bella.
‘Surprises will never cease. My dear Miss Wynter, I am more delighted to see you than I can express. Words are powerless in a case like this.—Golightly, let me make you a happy man for ever by introducing you to Miss Bella Wynter—one of the most charming and at the same time most dangerous belles of the season.—Miss Wynter, do, for mercy’s sake, take this unsophisticated youth under your wing, and try to coax him out of his shell.’
‘Isn’t that rather a mixed-up metaphor, Mr Ridsdale?’
‘’Twill serve, as Mercutio says. You know my meaning.’
‘Mr—a—Mr Golightly,’ said her ladyship.
Richard turned, and the dowager motioned him with her fan to take a seat beside her on the ottoman.
‘O Archie!’ said Bella in a whisper, ‘what a dreadful scrape you have got poor Dick into by bringing him in here!’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ responded Mr Ridsdale with a grin. ‘For pure impudence, I don’t know any young man of his years who’s a match for Dicky Dulcimer. And as for throwing dust in Lady Renshaw’s eyes, the scoundrel will revel in it—absolutely revel in it.’
‘Poor, dear aunty, if she only knew!’ said Bella with a touch of compunction, which, however, by no means tended to dim the sparkle in her eyes.
‘And how was the dear bishop, Mr Golightly, when you last heard from him?’ inquired her ladyship in her blandest tones.
Dick stared, as well he might. ‘The bishop, Lady Renshaw!’ he stammered.
‘I mean your dear papa, of course. When I was quite a girl, I was several times at Melminster.’
‘O-h!’ answered Dick with a prolonged indrawing of his breath. ‘I crave your ladyship’s pardon. When last I heard from Melminster, every one there was quite well.’
A light had begun to dawn on him. ‘She takes the bishop for my father, whereas he’s only my godfather. Evidently the name has misled her,’ he said to himself with an inward chuckle. ‘Well—bless her stupidity! It’s no part of my duty to enlighten her.’
‘I am so glad to hear it,’ continued her ladyship innocently. ‘The duties of such an exalted position must be very trying to the constitution. For myself, I am happy to say that I have always been a stanch upholder of the Establishment.’
Mr Golightly bowed, but had no reply ready.
‘I hope that we shall have the pleasure of a good deal of your society, Mr Golightly, during the time you stay in these parts.’
‘Thanks. Delighted, I’m sure,’ lisped that model young man. ‘Mamma has always been wishful that I should cultivate the society of ladies as much as possible. Men nowadays—at least, lots of them—are so fast and slangy, don’t you know. I always like to do as mamma bids me.’
‘A most exalted sentiment. I wish all young men thought as you do, Mr Golightly. I should very much like to make the acquaintance of your mamma. She must be a most estimable lady. I suppose, now, that you lead a very quiet and domesticated life at the palace?’
‘At the palace! Oh—ah—yes, very quiet.’ Then he added to himself: ‘By Jove, though, I haven’t been at the palace for nearly a dozen years—not since poor old dad’s fortune collapsed. Bishops, like other people, find it convenient to forget old friends when they have a mind to do so.’
‘Charming young lady, Miss Wynter,’ Master Dick ventured to remark presently to her ladyship.
‘I’m pleased you think so. Bella’s a sweet girl, though I say it who ought not. She is looking towards us. I believe she has something to say to you, Mr Golightly.’
‘Has she? Then perhaps your ladyship will kindly excuse me.’ He rose, glad enough to get away from the dowager, and crossed to his lady-love.
‘A young nincompoop, if ever there was one!’{684} was the complimentary remark that followed him. ‘Bella ought to be able to twist him round her little finger.’
‘At last, my darling!’ whispered the young man as he drew a chair up close to Miss Wynter.
‘You dreadful, dreadful Dick!’
‘What would I not venture for your sake, my pet!’
‘I’m not your pet.’
‘Deny it, if you dare. But what put all that rigmarole into her ladyship’s head about my father the bishop, and’——
But at this moment the dull clangour of the dinner gong made itself heard throughout the hotel. There was a general movement in the room.
‘I will talk to you later on. You may sit next me at dinner, if you can contrive it,’ whispered Bella hurriedly before she joined her aunt.
‘Be careful in what way you talk to Mr Golightly,’ remarked the latter lady in an undertone. ‘Above all, no frivolity; and don’t forget that you have been brought up in a pious family.’
Archie came bustling up. ‘Now, Lady Renshaw, permit me the honour.—Golightly, I leave you to look after Miss Wynter and Miss Loraine.—By the way,’ he added, ‘what has become of the vicar and his friend the doctor?’
‘It is only that Septimus is late as usual,’ answered Miss Pen. ‘That big trout has detained him, and Dr M‘Murdo is with him. No doubt they will turn up by the time dinner is half over.’
‘Are you not going to join us at dinner, dear Madame De Vigne?’ inquired the dowager with much suavity.
‘Not to-day, I think, Lady Renshaw. Will you allow me for once to plead a woman’s usual excuse—a headache?’
‘So sorry.’ Then to herself: ‘She dines alone. Another evidence of a mystery.’ Then aloud: ‘And you, dear Miss Gaisford?’
‘I? Oh, I never miss my dinner. They charge it in the bill whether one has it or not. Even now the savoury odours of the soup reach me from afar. I will join you anon.’
‘What an odd creature! Inclined to be satirical. I don’t think that I shall like her,’ was the other’s unspoken remark as she sailed out of the room on Mr Ridsdale’s arm.
Mr Golightly followed with the two young ladies.
Miss Gaisford drew a long breath of relief as soon as the door was shut.
‘And now, if I may be so inquisitive, pray, who is our redundant friend?’
‘You know as much of her as I do,’ replied Madame De Vigne. ‘Introducing herself as a friend of Mr Ridsdale, she asked permission to share our sitting-room on the plea that all the other private rooms in the hotel were engaged. Under the circumstances of the case, I scarcely saw my way to decline her request.’
‘Oh, we all know how soft-hearted you are, my dear friend. She would not have found me such an easy victim. If I am not mistaken, Master Archie was as much annoyed as he was surprised at finding her here.’
‘I suppose we shall have the infliction of her company all evening,’ remarked Madame De Vigne with a little shrug of resignation.
‘I had forgotten that for the moment,’ answered Miss Pen musingly. Then she added quickly: ‘No—no; of all nights in the year, she shall not worry you to-night. When dinner is over, I will assign Dr Mac to her—together with Septimus. They shall take her down to the lake to see the moon rise—they shall even make love to her, if need be, so long as they keep her out of the way.’ Then, after glancing at her watch, Miss Pen went on, with a change of tone: ‘Another quarter of an hour and Colonel Woodruffe will be here!’
Madame De Vigne did not answer.
Miss Pen took one of her hands. ‘Mora—dear friend,’ she said, ‘you will treat him kindly to-night—more kindly than you did before?’
‘I shall not treat him unkindly.’
‘You will not refuse him what he asks? He is a noble, true-hearted man, of whose love any woman might be proud. You will not say No to him this time? You have made up your mind that this time the answer shall be Yes?’
‘Does a woman ever really make up her mind beforehand?—is she ever quite sure what her answer will be till the crucial moment has come?’
‘Thank goodness, my mind is generally made up about most things; but then, I’ve never been in love, and hope to goodness I never shall be. Still, with so much of it about, there’s no knowing. Like many other things, it may be catching.—But now, I must run off, or those good people will have gobbled up all the soup.’ At the door she turned. ‘Mora, I will never forgive you if the answer is anything but Yes—yes—yes!’
‘There goes as true-hearted a friend as any woman need wish to have,’ said Mora. She sighed, and rose and crossed to the window. ‘If I could but open my heart to her!—if I might but tell her everything! But not even to her dare I do that. And yet he must know—he must be told! What will he say—what will he do when he has read my letter? Ah me! I tremble—I am afraid.’
On the side-table stood an ebony and ivory writing-desk. This she now proceeded to open with a tiny key which hung from her châtelaine. From it she took a letter, and then relocked the desk.
‘Shall I give it him, or shall I not?’ she asked herself, as she held the letter between a thumb and finger of each hand and gazed intently at it. ‘It is not too late to destroy it. No one in the world need know that it was ever written. The temptation! the temptation!’
For a few moments she stood thus, gazing fixedly at the letter, as though there were some power of fascination in it, her tall figure swaying slightly to and fro. Then she roused herself as if from a dream, and said to herself: ‘No! I should be unworthy of his love, I should despise myself for ever, were I knowingly to let even the shadow of deceit come between us. There must be no more hesitation.’ She crossed to the chimney-piece and laid the letter on it. ‘Lie there till he comes,’ she said. ‘I will not touch you again—for fear.’
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She shivered slightly, as if struck by a sudden chill, and going back to the window, she sat down in an easy-chair near it. A clock on the chimney-piece struck the hour with silvery tone. She started. ‘A few minutes more and he will be here,’ she said. She lay back in her chair, her head pressed against the cushions, her eyes closed, her slender fingers intertwined, in an attitude of utter abandonment. ‘Oh!’ she murmured, ‘if the ordeal were but over!’
(To be continued.)
The sudden appearance and subsequent disappearance of a volcanic island off the coast of Iceland, reminds us that there are natural wonders going on around us which cannot well be equalled in the pages of romance. This island had the shape of a flattened cone rounded at the top. It rose from the sea about twenty miles from the mainland. Last century, a similar phenomenon presented itself near the same place; but that island too had only a brief existence. It is not surprising that such structures should in course of time be demolished by the action of the waves, for these islands mostly consist of very loose materials, such as slag, ashes, and pumice-stone, which are readily acted upon by the surf. The disappearance of the island may, however, be due to other influences than that of the sea.
Some interesting particulars of the voyage of the Danish gunboat Fylla to the arctic regions have been published. This vessel was sent out by the Danish government on an exploring and surveying expedition, which has occupied four months, during which time the coast of Greenland has been explored to a very high latitude. Besides this work, many meteorological observations have been made, whilst dredging and trawling for specimens have been steadily pursued. Amongst the valuables so collected, and which have been divided into sections Botanical, Zoological, and Mineralogical, each under the care of a professor, is a meteoric stone weighing about two thousand pounds. Details of the expedition will be published at Copenhagen.
There are at present two large waterways in Africa upon which the attention of many nations is fixed—namely, the Nile and the river Congo. The interest regarding the first is of a military character, with which these pages have little to do; but with regard to the Congo there is much to claim our attention. Mr H. M. Stanley has recently addressed the London Chamber of Commerce upon the subject, and has given a most interesting account of his personal experiences among the tribes inhabiting the valley of the great river. He describes the natives as being peaceful and anxious to trade with more civilised nations. The International African Association, of which Mr Stanley is a member, was formed some years ago under the auspices of the king of the Belgians, to put down slavery in this region, and to secure a system of free trade for the commerce of the world. Traders of all nations are invited by the Association to bring their goods to the river Congo, which presents, including its affluents, a navigable river of three thousand miles. When cordial relations between traders and natives have been established, the Association will consider the object of its existence to have been gained, and will be dissolved. The sole hindrance to the successful carrying out of the programme seems to be the presence of Portuguese settlers at the mouth of the river, which they claim to have discovered about four hundred years ago. They regard this discovery as an excuse for levying a heavy toll on every vessel ascending the river.
A clever system, by which shafts can be easily sunk in watery soils and quicksands, the invention of Herr Poetsch, was recently described in a paper read before a French Technical Society. The space where the shaft is to be sunk is marked out by a series of hollow iron tubes, which are driven into the ground, and form a ring round the site. In these hollow tubes are introduced smaller tubes, pierced with holes, through which a refrigerating liquid is forced in a continuous current until the ring of tubes is bound together by a wall of ice. By this means, the intrusion of sand and water is prevented while the sinking of the shaft is being accomplished. At a colliery in Prussia, belonging to Messrs Siemens, this plan has been successfully adopted. Indeed, it is difficult to see how the coal, which was overlaid by a quicksand, could have been won by any other means.
A novel method of street-paving has been tried with some success in Berlin; but as its trial only covers twelve months of traffic, it can hardly be held to have proved its superiority over other systems. The material is asphalt, but not treated in the usual manner. Bricks impregnated with the compound, under which treatment they lose their natural brittleness and become elastic, and capable of resisting heavy pressure and damp, are laid in rows just like the wood-blocks used for a similar purpose in this country. The new paving is said to last well and to afford a sure foothold to horses. There is certainly an opening for improvement in our present systems of paving.
Mr Hiram S. Maxim, whose name is well known in connection with a system of electric lighting which was introduced by him a few years back, has invented a machine-gun which has lately been exhibited in London, and which gives some remarkable results. This gun has a single barrel only, which is protected from undue heating by a water-jacket. The cartridges are supplied to it in a continuous canvas belt, not unlike the belt carried by sportsmen. The recoil of the gun at each discharge is utilised in bringing{686} forward the next cartridge, forcing it into position, cocking the hammer and pulling the trigger, so that the gun when once set going is automatic. If its attendant were killed in action, the weapon would in fact go on firing its complement of cartridges until the last one was expended. The rate of discharge can be regulated from once a minute to the astonishing maximum of six hundred per minute. The same system of belt-feeding has been applied by Mr Maxim to ordinary rifles fired from the shoulder; and it is probable that the attention of our War authorities will be called to the matter.
How few of us realise the fact that there are among the sixty-three hitherto known elements of which this world is composed, no fewer than fifty metals. A large number of these are so rare that they cannot be said to have much importance; but frequently the so-called rare metals are, as knowledge advances, stepping over the boundary-line which separates them from metals having a commercial value. Of these, aluminium and magnesium hold a foremost place. But now another metal, iridium, often found associated with platinum and gold, is coming into use. (Possession of or dealing with iridium has hitherto been forbidden by Russian law, because it was found that gold was adulterated with it. When gold so treated was afterwards worked at the Mint, the individual particles of iridium indented the rollers, played havoc with the machinery generally, and entailed great loss on the government.) It was discovered a few years ago that this hard and intractable metal can be readily fused by the addition of phosphorus, the resulting material retaining all the hardness of the original metal. Hitherto, iridium has been used almost solely for pen-points. There are now, however, many uses found for it, among which we may mention draw-plates for wire, the wearing parts of various philosophical instruments, and contact-points for telegraphic apparatus.
An improvement in the art of glass-blowing has been introduced at the works of Messrs Appert, at Clichy, of which it may be said that it is remarkable that it was not adopted many years ago. Glass-blowers are by reason of their occupation subject to various diseases of the lips and cheeks, while the hot atmosphere in which they are compelled to work renders their frames peculiarly liable to other disorders. Instead of using the breath from the lungs to distend the bubble of molten glass, Messrs Appert have adopted the method of storing air under pressure for that purpose. The results are satisfactory in every way. The workman’s health is greatly improved, and so is the quality of his work, while the rapidity of production is naturally much increased.
The prorogation of parliament means not only the release from work of the members thereof, but is also a welcome relief to that class of newspaper readers who care little for acrimonious debate. During the recess, space is found for much interesting matter that would otherwise be lost, and those with hobbies, useful and otherwise, have opportunity for airing their knowledge and their grievances. For instance, we usually find in the newspapers many interesting letters on natural history; and the doings of particular birds, beasts, and fishes form the subject of much curious correspondence. The old question whether the ubiquitous sparrow is the friend or foe of the farmer has once more been raised. The evidence on this point is very conflicting, and leads one to assume that the sparrow is mischievous or useful according to local circumstances. One correspondent calls to mind a curious collection of the contents of the crops of various birds which was shown by a Frenchman at the Great Exhibition of 1851. This exhibit clearly showed that the bulk of the food was insectivorous, the grain being a minimum. On the other side of the discussion, we may refer to a paper lately read at a Farmers’ Club in Chester in which it was alleged that sparrows’ crops had been found with an alarming amount of wheat in them, and operations for reducing the numbers of the feathered pilferers were advocated. Still, the evil may be counterbalanced by the good.
It has lately been proved by direct experiment at Marseilles that the lower animals can be inoculated with the virus of cholera obtained from a human patient, and that death ensues with the same symptoms as are exhibited by mankind. It is believed that this fact will offer a sure method of diagnosing a case of true cholera, a guinea-pig or a dog serving as a necessary victim. Another curious observation has been made respecting this dread disease. The gastric juice and the bile tend to act as destroyers of the microbes. These secretions are most abundantly brought to bear during a meal, but hardly at all when liquid nourishment alone is taken into the stomach. It would therefore appear that there is much less risk in drinking contaminated water with food, than if it were merely taken alone to quench the thirst.
Mr James M. Share, R.N., sends us from South Africa a description of a leak-stopper which he has invented, and which, from its simplicity and cheapness, should command the attention of shipowners. It is founded on the old system of hanging a sail over a ship’s side to stop the inrush of water when from a collision or other cause a ship’s side suffers injury. Mr Share’s stopper consists of a strong canvas sheet rolled up upon an iron stove-pipe. By suitable gearing, the contrivance can be dropped overboard in any required place, when the sheet unrolls and covers the leaky place. It will therefore be seen that the invention aims at doing in a ready and workman-like manner that which has been done in haphazard fashion from time immemorial. We have particular pleasure in calling attention to this invention from the circumstance that its contriver does not intend to patent it, but offers it freely as a useful contribution to the means of saving life at sea.
An English firm has patented an ingenious invention for the better control of level-crossing gates on railways. The gates will be worked by manual labour in the signal-box. These gates, which are of light iron instead of the old-fashioned heavy wood, are closed and opened by means of rods and chains working on wheels connected with the back style of the gate. These wheels are covered in with cast-iron ‘wells’ or ‘boxes,’ and part of the top of these is movable, permitting free and easy access to the underground workings. The rods are protected by channels of wood, iron, or brick.
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The capabilities of bicycles and tricycles must be reckoned among the wonders of the age. Lately, the distance between London and Edinburgh was covered in three days by a tricycle rider. This feat was surpassed a week later by another traveller, who accomplished the four hundred miles in two days and nine hours, considerably more than half the distance being travelled in the first twenty-four hours. A medical writer in the Lancet warns all ‘cycle’ riders to beware of large wheels which are accompanied by small saddles. He says that unless a good-sized seat is provided, serious evils may result.
The second trial of the new French balloon, which, on its first ascent, is reported to have travelled several miles against the wind in a predetermined direction, seems to have been a failure. In the meantime, a Russian aëronaut is constructing a balloon at St Petersburg which is shaped like a cigar, is to carry sails, and will hold a steam-engine, a crew of sixteen men, and a huge amount of ballast. Its contriver reckons upon a speed of one hundred and sixty miles per hour. We shall be curious to learn how this new machine behaves itself.
The ‘Refuse Destructor’ is the name of a very useful furnace recently invented by Mr Stafford, the borough engineer of Burnley, which has been doing such efficient work in consuming street and other refuse by fire that it promises to be extensively adopted in other towns. Street sweepings, the offal from slaughter-houses and fishmongers’ shops, and unpleasant matter of all kinds treated in this furnace are rendered not only harmless, but are converted into a residuum which can be utilised for mixing with mortar and for other purposes. Hence the machine can be made almost self-supporting. The erection of the plant at Burnley cost only one hundred pounds; but here there happened to be an idle chimney-stalk, so that there was no need to build one for the purpose. At Richmond, Surrey, a furnace on the same principle is in course of erection, and this will probably form a model for other metropolitan suburbs.
In New York, a Company—called the New York Steam Company—is supplying light, heat, and power to a large section of the city. One building alone has steam furnished to it by means of a six-inch pipe. With this supply it runs its elevators and works dynamo-machines for eighteen hundred electric lights, the surplus steam being utilised for heating purposes. The business of the Company is steadily increasing, and it is believed that in another year many of the leading thoroughfares in New York will be heated and lighted by its agency.
Recent experiments by Dr B. W. Richardson have demonstrated that the killing of animals can be accomplished without any pain whatever, and the suggestion that all slaughter-houses should be provided with the means of accomplishing this must be supported by all humane persons. At first it was believed that the desired end could be gained by employing an electric current, and certain accidents which have occurred within the last few years in connection with electric-lighting machinery will serve to remind us that electricity can be made a most effective life-destroyer. But electric apparatus is too cumbrous and costly as well as too dangerous to intrust to unskilled hands. The recent experiments point to carbonic oxide and chloroform as being the best agents for the purpose in view.
An electric lighthouse has recently been erected on the island of Raza, at the entrance of the Bay of Rio Janeiro. The lighthouse stands upon a rock two hundred and thirty feet above the sea, and the building itself is eighty-five feet high. The light is thus three hundred and fifteen feet above the sea. The electric current is produced by a continuous current Gramme machine, working at the rate of seven hundred revolutions, and feeding a light of two thousand candle-power. The Gramme machine is worked by a stationary surface-condensing steam-engine, this arrangement being occasioned by want of fresh water. To provide for accidents, an oil-lamp is always kept in readiness, and the whole of the engine fittings are very cleverly made double in case of a breakage. The light is revolving, and has two white disks and one red one, succeeding one another at certain intervals, and is said to be visible at thirty-five miles.
Last month we referred to an exhibition of insects injurious to plant-life in connection with a flower-show at Frome. It seems that this town must now divide the honour of such an exhibit with Portobello, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, where two glass cases were displayed at the local flower-show lately, containing specimens of various insects injurious to plants and flowers. A prize was awarded to the exhibitor who had with praiseworthy diligence collected and shown more than fifty specimens of such insects.
In the month of August, a grilse measuring fourteen inches in length was taken from the Scottish salmon-rearing pond at Howietoun. This and many others in the pond were raised from the ova and milt of salmon taken from the river Teith in December 1880. The specimen was a female, with the ova well advanced. This, according to Mr Francis Day, solves the question that our salmon may not only be reared in a healthy state in suitable ponds of fresh water, but also, if properly cared for, will breed without descending to the sea. Last year, the milt of the parrs (young of the salmon) from this pond was successfully used for breeding purposes.
Every invention or improvement calculated to alleviate human suffering is deserving of our approbation, and should be widely made known. As it is well known that smallpox and contagious fevers are often communicated during the conveyance of patients even in properly constructed ambulances through the streets to the fever hospitals, it has occurred to Dr Gayton, Senior Medical Officer of the Metropolitan Asylums Board, to substitute for the present open glass or wooden louvre shutters adopted in these carriages, a double layer of perforated metal, inclosing an absorbent material saturated with a ‘germicide,’ or destroyer of the minute microscopical particles which tend to propagate disease. Fresh air is admitted through modified and improved ‘Tobin’ ventilators of a horn-shape, with the large end opening externally; whilst the smaller extremity is provided, inside{688} the van, with a disinfecting air-chamber, constructed like those attached to the other apertures or windows. It is gratifying to know that these improved ambulances are in use by the Metropolitan Asylums Board in conveying patients to their different hospitals both ashore and afloat.
Another clever invention for saving life and limb has been brought out by Mr J. Lindley, of the Clifton and Kearsley collieries, to prevent accidents from the breaking of the winding-rope when raising or lowering a cage full of miners. This consists in connecting the lower ends of the top rods to a pair of levers mounted on each side of the cage, the other end of the levers being forked and connected to opposite ends of a pair of links which are fastened to the ordinary wooden or iron guide-rods. As soon as the cage is released by the breaking of the rope, the inner arms of the levers rise and force the links together. The inner side of the forks being provided with wedge projections, which come in contact with similar projections on the sides of the links, the cage remains suspended, wedged fast to the guide-rods, instead of being hurled to the bottom, to the probable destruction of its unfortunate occupants. This useful invention should be at once adopted in every colliery and mine in the kingdom, for as a ‘life-saving’ apparatus it certainly admits of no doubt.
The following communication from a medical man connected with the Smallpox Ambulance Service of London will be welcomed by all who are interested in the subject of vaccination.
‘Having read,’ says the doctor, ‘with interest the article on “Vaccination” in your Journal of September 20, and being brought much in contact with smallpox—about three thousand cases having passed through my hands during the last few months—I hope you will allow me to offer a few remarks on some of the points treated of in your Journal.
The question of the relative protection of calf lymph and of humanised lymph is, as you say, not settled. One of the principal authorities of the present time on smallpox strongly disapproves of calf lymph, and I have been told by others connected with smallpox hospitals that they had known smallpox develop in persons recently vaccinated with calf lymph.
The experiments on animals with cholera bacilli recently described in the medical papers seem to show that the infecting agent, whether it be the bacilli or a materies morbi transported by them, undergoes very important changes by being “cultivated” in the system of animals of a different species from those from which it was first taken.
With respect to the possibility of transmitting certain constitutional diseases by vaccine lymph, I may mention that an eminent authority on smallpox tried to inoculate himself with lymph from diseased children, and came to the conclusion that it is possible, but so difficult, that in practice this risk may be excluded.
With regard to the possibility of infants escaping registration, and consequently vaccination, I have found that the number of unvaccinated persons who come under my care is so small that we may look on the system for securing vaccination of infants as practically nearly perfect, so far as London is concerned.
The protection given by vaccination is not absolutely complete. Persons exposed to smallpox in small rooms, where the doors and windows are rarely open, and the poison is undiluted by abundance of fresh air, contract smallpox whether vaccinated or not. The severity of the disease in the two cases differs, however, so greatly as to establish without doubt the value of vaccination. On the other hand, practical immunity against smallpox is given by comparatively recent vaccination or re-vaccination, when the patient is surrounded by plenty of fresh air, and proper attention is given to cleanliness of the patient’s person and clothing; and amongst the hundreds of persons employed in the metropolitan smallpox hospitals, a case of death from smallpox, when re-vaccination has been successfully performed, is unknown.’
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