By MARGARET INNES.
THE JOURNEY DOWN SOUTH. HOUSEKEEPING. CHINAMEN.
The journey from San Francisco to San Miguel, some six hundred miles, we took by steamer, and it was the most delightful episode of all our Californian experiences. It was the month of April, and with exquisite weather; the sea was like a pond, so calm and still; the sun was not too hot, and there were numberless interesting living things to watch as we moved along the summer sea. Several enormous whales went past, generally in couples, their great fat backs rising out of the water side by side, and passing our boat swiftly and with the greatest ease, when we would see them in a few moments, far in the distance, spurting up big fountains of spray. Not far off from the whales were generally flocks of the tiny whale birds, which seemed to use these monsters as their jackals, feeding greedily on the shoals of fish they drive before them, so greedily indeed, that many of them were too gorged and heavy to rise out of the water and our way, but, after a helpless attempt, would duck under only just in time. The flying fish were more alert, and would rise away out of the water, going many yards through the air before dropping again into the sea, and glittering with every rainbow colour in the sunshine.
The coast scenery is not beautiful; it is too bare and dry-looking, especially after passing Santa Barbara, but the glamour of the southern sun is over everything, and gives all a caressing smile, at any rate, from a distance. It was a delight to see these wonderful effects again, and we felt glad to be once more in the warm sunshine.
When we arrived at the bay of San Miguel late in the afternoon of the fourth day, it looked so radiantly beautiful in the soft glow of the setting sun, as if it might indeed be the gate into a real land of promise; a land flowing with milk and honey.
It is a splendid bay, and the position of the town is quite ideal, and though the most has not been made of its possibilities, many improvements are going on steadily. Given money and taste, it should be one of the most lovely places in the world.
We found comfortable rooms in a boarding-house, and settled down to rest awhile from searching and questioning. The boys went to school as in San Francisco. These free State schools are exceedingly good. The teachers are among the most charming ladies we have met, and the plan of using the same books, and the same system of teaching all over the State, saves much loss of time, since a child coming to a new school can at once be placed in exactly the same position where he left off, in his former school, some three hundred miles away.
But in spite of our determination to let ourselves drift for a time, we were very soon drawn into the same old probing and exploring, more especially as we were delighted with the climate of San Miguel. On the strength of this, and because our English hearts were hungering for some place more homelike than any boarding-house can ever be, we took a little house, hired the necessary furniture, and began our first experiences of Chinamen as general servants.
We had the most wonderful procession of Celestials through the little kitchen before we left that wee house. There was no room convenient for the Chinaman's bedroom, without giving him one close to our own, which was not to be thought of, so the arrangement was, that when supper was over, and the work done, he should retire to Chinatown, coming back in good time in the morning to get breakfast and do his other duties. He seemed quite pleased with this plan, and we got along swimmingly for a fortnight. Then he dropped the news casually to me that he was going to Los Angeles the next day. When I exclaimed at the shortness of the notice, he beamed all over, and said, "Me bling other boy, him allie lightie, him stay."
Before I had quite made up my mind what to do, I heard breathless jabbering in the kitchen, and on going in there, was introduced by Sing Lee to Quong Wong, our new cook. Both of them were very friendly and smiling. No. 1 was showing No. 2 where everything was kept, and giving him what sounded like most eloquent instructions about his duties, both of them being very grave and business-like over this. I did not seem to be needed, and so quietly went back to the sitting-room. Supper was prepared and cooked by the two together to an unending accompaniment of Chinese chatter.
This was the beginning of the procession. Some men stayed a week, others three weeks or a month, and each brought and carefully installed his successor, I taking no part whatever, except to learn a new Chinese name. We had tall fat fellows, tall lean ones, little dumpy ones and spare wiry ones; all of them clever and quick beyond anything I had ever seen or known. They keep themselves exquisitely neat, in their white linen coats and aprons, which seem always to remain spotless. Their hands are perfectly fascinating; such delicate tapering fingers, and such a masterly way of touching everything. One member of the profession, I remember, who had the most dainty taper fingers, was very fond of music, and, seeing that I was interested, sat down very simply at my Broadwood grand (the only piece of furniture which we had brought from Frisco) and played some hymns quite nicely. He used to sing, too, at his work—all day—in a curious high falsetto, of which he seemed very proud. He had learnt to play the piano at the mission schools, where many of them go, and are converted—so they say. But they find the free lessons in English, which are given there, so cheap and convenient, that their motives in being converted are rather mixed. When he left me, it was to go the very next day to San Francisco on most important business, so he said. That, of course, was only the usual way of giving notice, and did not prevent his greeting me smilingly whenever I chanced to meet him in the streets of San Miguel. He came to the rescue also, when, through some hitch, the chain of succession was broken, and I was left to struggle alone in my little kitchen, and he stayed with me till he could find another "boy." I began to be haunted by a story I had heard often repeated. A certain lady was much puzzled and distressed because she could never keep any Chinaman beyond a few days; they would arrive, smiling and seemingly much pleased with everything, but invariably on the third or fourth day they would insist upon leaving at once. At last, in despair, the poor mistress persuaded her Chinaman to explain the mystery to her, before he had carried himself and his bundle away.
He led her to a dark corner of the kitchen, and showed her some Chinese writing high up on the wall, which be interpreted, "too much talkee here." That was all. But it had been enough to upset all the comfort of the household.
Probably after that she took the hint and let her Chinaman do the work in his own way, with as few words or instructions from her as possible. They are so marvellously clever in taking up the work of a new place the very moment they arrive, exactly as though they had been always in this one house only, that it is no wonder they resent any interference; and the sooner one learns to leave them entirely to themselves, the sooner one reaches some kind of peace.
However, I found to my relief, that no secret sign had gone out against myself or the house; the difficulty was the long daily walk to Chinatown. With their small feet and uncomfortable shoes, they are all bad walkers, and each in turn had tired of the effort, and handed the place over to a friend. This explanation, kindly given me by Mr. Kee Mane, who kept the Chinese stores, lifted a weight from my mind, and I resigned myself to continuing my lessons in fresh Chinese names.
(To be continued.)
By NORA HOPPER.
By JEAN A. OWEN, Author of "Forest, Field and Fell," etc.
THE PERSEVERING SPIDER.
Can any pleasant moral lesson be learned from the spider? I fancy some of our readers asking—the spider, whom many regard as the most treacherous, cruel, and unrelenting of those creatures who lie in wait for prey? By the song "Will you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly," in the nursery, several generations of children have been early prejudiced against this useful and most intelligent insect.
When they are a little older, it is true, the spider is held up to them as a wonderful example of perseverance in that story of King Robert the Bruce, who, when he was banished from his country, lying in concealment in a miserable hovel, and considering whether it would not be well to give up the struggle to secure his own, and with it restore freedom to his country, was attracted by the sight of a spider hanging at the end of a thread and trying to swing from one part of the cabin roof to another in order there to fix its line. Six times whilst the King watched it attempted to do this and failed. The Bruce remembered then that he also had made just six attempts—that is, fought six battles with his enemies, and without success. "Now," thought he, "if that spider tries a seventh time and succeeds, I will take it as a good omen for myself, and will also try my fortune a seventh time." The spider reached the beam, and Bruce went forth to victory after victory.
The disgust aroused by the spider is by no means a just one, and the fear some people have of these insects is most unreasonable and absurd. In tropical countries the bites of some are dangerous, but not nearly so much so as is supposed. Our own spiders are harmless enough. I never destroy the webs they make in my garden, the circular nets which they stretch from one branch to another, which are considered by experts to show a perfection of weaving, whilst those webs which are woven in odd corners of our dwellings reveal an intelligence in their arrangement which is perfectly marvellous. I heard a clever man say lately that spiders were the greatest engineers in the world.
In some corner of your room you may study the horizontal net, covered with dust, perhaps, which is the base of the structure. Irregularly-crossed threads above this cause the prey to become entangled, and its end is inevitable. Most ingenious is the den in which the hunter is hidden in waiting. It consists of a circular tunnel with a double outlet. One of these, being horizontal, opens on to the web. The other is vertical, with a passage below, which serves as a trapdoor, whilst from the former the spider darts out on his prey. As soon as a fly has been destroyed—its blood sucked—it is seized by its captor and dragged to the tunnel to be thrown out at the trapdoor. This is no doubt lest the débris should alarm other flies. The hunter can also escape itself, when necessary, by this exit. This does not often happen, perhaps, and the main use of the trapdoor, says M. Pouchet, an interesting French naturalist, is to get rid of the remains of the spider's repasts.
"The poison apparatus of spiders," says the same author, "is precisely analogous to that of serpents, only it is of microscopic size. It possesses mobile teeth, hollow fangs which distil the poison into the wound, and this is secreted by a peculiar gland situated in the interior of the palpi attached to the under jaws which effect the bite. In the large tropical species this lethal fluid is so active that it kills in an instant animals of a far superior size, and is often employed against the birds which the spiders seize on the trees." The so-called Bird-eating Spider attacks the lovely humming-birds. It is called the Great Spider in South America, and its cocoon is three inches long and one broad.
Thinking of the creatures of prey and their quarry is always a painful subject. Yet we know surely that the all-wise Creator would not order the balance of nature to be kept up in this way if it involved cruelty. There is cruelty in some of the methods of vivisection—in the horrible way, for instance, in which one French scientist at least has studied and tested by torture how far a poor loving mother dog will bear being maimed, before it can be induced to leave its offspring. And there is a brutality, as demoralising to the men who have to carry out their master's orders in felling oxen for the market, as it is torturing to the poor beasts. Nature's methods of killing are, as a rule, mercifully rapid. It seems to be a part of the Creator's plan that some of His creatures should live on the rest, and "some," says a thoughtful writer on God's providence, "have suggested that such a state of things implies a reflection upon the Divine goodness, ... but by the means now specified some classes of animals are held in check which would otherwise so multiply as to become an intolerable nuisance."
And so we consider with complacence the fact that the cat kills the mouse, the owl catches up the field vole and the beetle; the swallow rids the air of insect pests which would render life intolerable, the ladybird lives on the aphides that devour our plants—those fat green insects which destroy our roses and honeysuckle.
The spider does his own appointed work in a way which shows astute intelligence. Death is the common lot, and most of the creatures preyed on pass swiftly away in the full height of enjoyment without lingering sickness or decay. I have known a spider's web put to a very odd purpose by a lady I knew well in New Zealand, a very successful poultry rearer. When her chickens had "the pip," she declared that she cured them by a buttered pill consisting of spiders' webs. And I have known also Chinamen give dying men, as a last remedy, a tiny chicken pounded up in a mortar, bones, feathers, and all, and welded into a huge pill. They declared that it often cured when all else had failed. But this is a digression.
To return to our spiders. Besides the geometric spiders (sic) we have the gossamer spiders, little creatures that make floating webs in the air and on the ground in the autumn. These avail themselves cleverly of the currents of air in attaching their lines, raising their arms to test the direction of the light winds. Her webs are often destroyed by rain or wind, or broken by some large creature like a bee or a wasp getting entangled in one; but the patient worker is not so discouraged as to give up. She patiently fasts, until the damage is repaired. And spiders seem to be weather prophets, for it has been stated that when it threatens to become wet and stormy, the outdoor spider will make the threads which support its net short, but if they expect finer, settled weather, these will be long. As is the case with ants, some species are more provident than others, and one has been described which suspended its prey in the meshes above and below the centre of the net, having quite a well-stocked larder. In the Fen countries a raft of a ball of weeds, held together by slight silken threads or cords, is often observed, on which the spider floats down a stream in quest of drowning insects.
The "Mason Spider's" home consists of a hole several inches deep in the ground, and perfectly cylindrical. It is lined with hangings. The one nearest the rough sides is thick, and carelessly woven. Over this, like a skilful decorator, he places a hanging of fine silk, carefully wrought. The door or lid of this dwelling is furnished with a cushion of silk inside, whilst above it is made of the same material as the soil, so that when the master is at home there is nothing to reveal that fact, his door being closed. Layers of earth and silk compose the lid.
Kate Dalrymple, as the old Scottish ballad tells us, was "Aye eident and thrifty." Eident is a rare word, expressive of great perseverance and application. "To be called eident and thrifty" was the greatest commendation to the good graces of the desired mother-in-law. I am not sure, however, apart from this, that it is always a very desirable thing to be coveted as a wished-for daughter-in-law. A very shrewd friend of mine, a witty Scotchwoman, when young was told that the mother of one of her suitors was very anxious that she should marry him. "'Deed," said the girl, "I'd sooner marry a man whose mother was not so anxious to get him married." And she was quite right.
But to be persevering as well as brave, and to be gifted with physical energy and endurance, is a rare endowment for any woman. Mrs. Scott Gatty, in one of her stories, tells of a preacher who used to say, "Girls, be brave; boys, be pure." I used to hear this story many years before, as a child. It was told then of an old superintendent of a Sunday-school. He would say, "Boys, they bid you be brave and girls be pure; but I say, Girls be brave and boys be pure." Then the world would be far on in a better way than it is now.
"The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in kings' palaces," says the wise man in Proverbs xxx. 28. What a picture in a few simple words of the industry, courage and perseverance with which this little creature is gifted! and of the reward which would seem to be implied. Shall we seem to be straining the image if we allow our thoughts to be carried by this picture to the home of our heavenly King, where, as we are promised, our eyes shall see Him "in His beauty"? "To patient faith," says the hymn, "the prize is sure."
The spider, we might say, is essentially of an aspiring nature. She weaves her net high up in corners where the duster and broom of the busy housemaid will not easily reach her. She fasts long and is not drawn away from the spot where she expects to get the reward of her patience. Many of us can work hard and well by fits and starts, but we weary of sustained effort, and we are "found sleeping." Or like the pilgrims to the Celestial City we are tempted to stray and delight ourselves in flowery "Bypath meadows." Play, healthy recreation, we must have, but it must be such as helps us in the race of life and not such as weakens our purpose and hinders us from reaching the desired goal. I look back sometimes on the companions of my girlhood, and I must often acknowledge that certain boys and girls whom we were wont to reproach as being dull plodders, have beaten many of their fellows in the battle of life.
There is a species of spider which carries, attached to her body, a round, white, silky bag of eggs, just about as big as a pea. It is heavy, but nothing would induce the affectionate mother to part with it. The French naturalist, Bonnet, in order to test this love for her offspring, once threw such a mother spider into the hole of an ant-lion, in the sand where the great insect lay in hiding for its prey. The poor spider tried to run away but the ant-lion caught at the bag of eggs and tried to drag it under the sand. At last he succeeded in breaking the gluten by which her bag was attached to her. Instantly the spider seized this in her jaws and she struggled hard to bear it away. It was in vain however; her precious burden was dragged under. Then the poor mother might have escaped with her own life, but she preferred death to the loss of her offspring, and if the naturalist had not taken her out of the pit she would have been buried with them. She would not leave the spot however, although Bonnet tried to make her do so, by moving her with a little twig, over and over again. In reading this one cannot help wishing that she had not been so tortured. Some of our scientists, as I said before, have pushed their studies of moral qualities in the so-called brute world to a most unjustifiable extent, it would seem.
When the young of this affectionate mother are hatched, and they have got out of the bag where they were kept so safely, they attach themselves to her body. She carries them everywhere she goes and feeds them until they are able to fend for themselves.
Referring to persevering industry, we recall the pretty story of William Cobbett's courtship and marriage, as told by Dr. Smiles, from his "Life." Cobbett was a practical man, full of blunt common sense. When he first saw the girl who afterwards became his wife, she was only thirteen years of age, he being twenty-one, and at the time sergeant-major in a foot regiment stationed at St. John's in New Brunswick. Passing her father's door, on a cold winter's day, he saw the girl out in the snow, scrubbing a washing-tub. "That's the girl for me!" he cried, mentally, and he set about making her acquaintance. As soon as he could get discharged from the army, he determined that he would persuade her to become his wife. The girl returned to Woolwich with her father, who was also a sergeant-major, but in the artillery. The night before they left St. John's, her lover sent her a hundred and fifty guineas which he had saved, begging her to accept it, so that she might not be obliged to do any hard work until he also could return to England and marry her. She took the money, and it was five years before Cobbett obtained his discharge and was able to go to see the girl he loved. "I found," he said, "my little girl a servant of all work—and hard work it was—at five pounds a year, in the house of a Captain Brisac; and, without hardly saying a word about the matter, she put into my hands the whole of my hundred and fifty guineas unbroken." Soon afterwards they were married, and he delighted later in attributing to her "the comfort and much of the success of his after life." In his "Advice to young men" he drew from his wife his picture of a true and womanly helpmate, with "a vividness and brightness and, at the same time, a force of good sense that have never been surpassed by any English writer."
What Sarah Martin, who was left an orphan very young, and who as a woman went out dressmaking first at one shilling a day, was able to achieve in visiting and helping to reclaim poor prison women, and not only them but dissolute men and boys, loving, praying, and watching by them, you ought all to read fully. I think the story of her life was published by the Religious Tract Society. She gave six and seven hours to this work every day. For twenty years she did this without help or reward—her grandmother having left her ten or twelve pounds a year; the rest of her income coming from her hard work during part of each day as a dressmaker. At last the gaol committee told her that she must become their paid servant at twelve pounds a year or "be excluded from the prison." Although she shrank from this payment of her labours of love, she had to accept it, or give up her charge, and for two years she had that poor stipend until her health failed. She was in point of fact schoolmistress and chaplain and seamstress to the scum of Yarmouth. But what a reward was hers!
In my last paper I quoted Matthew Arnold's lines—
"Les beaux esprits se rencontrent," and it will perhaps interest some of you, as it has done myself, to hear that Professor Tyndall used to say of Professor Faraday that "in his warm moments he formed a resolution and in his cool ones he made that resolution good." We cannot all be active scientists or philanthropists, but let us end this little study by resolving that we will be less discouraged and hindered by difficulties in our own special work, or by the consideration of what we are apt to deem our unfitness for the appointed task, our own inadequacy, than we have hitherto been.
(To be continued.)
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of "Sun, Moon and Stars," "The Girl at the Dower House," etc.
A FRENCH CONSCRIPT.
Roy did not soon lose sight of those words of Ivor—"Why, Roy, don't you know that you are the one bit of cheer left to us?"
He had not perhaps hitherto been more disposed to put himself into the place of another than most boys of thirteen; but the events of the last few months had tended to make him thoughtful; and close intercourse with Ivor could hardly fail to pull him mentally upwards.
Denham was not only considerably better educated and better read than the average young officer of his day—a matter for congratulation in respect of Roy's present education—but also his intellectual gifts were well above the average level. The main force of the man lay, however, rather in the direction of character than of pure intellect. There was about him a soldierly directness and simplicity, and a thoroughness which often belongs to that type of nature. Whatever might befall, he would do his duty, not only with no thought of consequences to himself, but in the most direct and complete mode possible.
He was a good man as well as a most gallant soldier, and that in the best sense of the word. He was one who might say little, but who would at all costs do what he believed to be right. He was honourable, true, pure-minded, chivalrous towards women, tender towards little children, reverent and faithful towards his God. He was indomitable in courage, when he faced a foe; but so soon as fighting ceased he would be the first to succour a wounded enemy. All this means largely, as has been earlier stated, that Denham Ivor had taken shape under the influence and the example of John Moore. Ivor was the pupil, Moore the master.
The prolonged banishment from England and captivity in France were a terrible trial to him; not only because he was cut off indefinitely from the girl whom he loved with whole-hearted devotion, but because also he was cut off in his young full vigour from every hope of promotion and honour, and debarred from serving under the Commander whom he loved with a devotion no less whole-hearted. Yet he seldom spoke about the greatness of the trouble. It seemed as if his spirit of soldierly obedience had taught him submission to the Divine Will.
It is easy to see that a friendship of this kind could not fail to be good for Roy. And the friendship was not such in name only, for there were advantages on both sides. Much as Ivor could do for the lad, in the way of teaching him and keeping him out of mischief, there was an opposite view of the matter. Roy, by his light-heartedness and his spirit of unconquerable fun, could and did do much to lighten the weight of the young Guardsman's wearisome captivity.
Thus far Roy had done it, not knowing. Now the fact had dawned upon him, as a novel idea, that he might be some little help to Ivor. He was delighted; yet almost immediately he found the task less easy than when he had carried it out unconsciously.
The journey from Fontainebleau to Verdun, a matter of one hundred and seventy miles or more, would be no great matter in these days of steam-power, but it was a considerable matter in those times of slow travelling. It seemed to weigh upon Ivor's spirits more than anything had yet weighed upon them; or Denham was less successful in hiding what he really felt. Mrs. Baron was brighter than for months past; her relief at not being forced to leave her husband or to part yet with Roy tending to cheerfulness; and Colonel Baron, glad to see her happy, was the same himself. Roy as usual was in good spirits. Ivor alone appeared to have parted with his elasticity. He did not give in to the mood of depression, but it was patent enough to Mrs. Baron, whose concerned gaze wandered often in his direction.
No one except Ivor himself could know the haunting vision of Polly Keene, which floated before his eyes, through all those miles of driving, driving, ever farther away from where he craved to be. He might respond readily to Roy's chatter; but so soon as silence recurred, up again would come that picture of Polly, with her soft velvet eyes, her delicate colouring, her arch smile. And then he would hear the tender yielding in her voice, as she confessed that she did like Captain Ivor—well, just a little! and that she might perhaps be willing to marry him—well, some day!
Out of this Denham would awake to the dreary flat of the surrounding country, in its wintry colouring; and the wonder would suggest itself—how many years might not creep slowly by before that could ever be? He might even grow old and grey in this miserable banishment before he should see Polly again. Why not?
In those times wars had been wont to last in one unbroken stretch, for such periods as seven years, ten years, twenty years, thirty years.
Would Polly be content to wait for him?
This question took him by surprise one day, with nothing especial to call it forth. Ivor had not before so much as thought of the reverse possibility. The idea that she might not be willing to wait came freshly; but having once come, it did not soon depart.
He never afterwards lost the impression of that moment. The scene around was deeply stamped upon his mind, in connection with the one thought.
They had just reached the end of a stage, and were entering a small town, where fresh horses would be in waiting. Ivor was listening to Roy, responding in a half-absent fashion, and gazing down the street, when, without prelude or warning, that query burst upon him.
Would Polly indeed be willing to wait? Did she care enough? She was very young; hardly more than a child in age. If he were to be years away from her, the two never meeting, letters seldom passing between them, could he expect—would it even be fair and reasonable to expect—that he should remain enshrined in her heart, as surely as she would remain enshrined in his? Polly had known him intimately but a few weeks, though their acquaintance extended farther back; and impressions made upon the mind and imagination at seventeen are not always deep or lasting. Moreover, Polly was exceedingly pretty, quite unusually charming. Other men would wish to marry her. Could he expect such constancy on her part, as to wait through long years for her absent lover, refusing every other chance that might present itself? What would her grandmother think and say? Polly, with all her charms, was a portionless maiden.
The whole question rolled itself out before Denham's mental gaze, as they drove along the chief street of the place, exciting less attention than commonly on such occasions. With his bodily eyes he saw little, yet in a manner he was aware that a considerable stir prevailed, and he heard, almost without hearing, Roy's rapid questions.
"I don't in the least know," he replied mechanically, as they came to a halt before the inn.
"Den, look! What a lot of people outside the maison de ville! What's it all about? And don't some of them look miserable? What are they after?"
"I have not the slightest idea. Something seems to be wrong. Easy to find out."
The mystery was soon explained. This happened to be a day appointed for drawing for the conscription; and around the door of the little town hall opposite were gathered the near relatives of the young fellows who were eligible. There was no mistaking the dread written upon their faces.
One woman in particular drew notice. She was bent and old in appearance, with grey hair, though very likely not beyond middle age; and she wore a short, very full skirt, with a long-waisted bodice, and big brass buckles on her shoes. From under the wide-brimmed hat her face waited with a consuming eagerness for news, the lips working, the eyes staring.
"I wonder if she's got a son. I hope, if she has, he won't be taken," exclaimed Roy. "What are they doing inside?"
"Drawing lots, to see who must go to the wars. All the young men in the neighbourhood, of a certain age, have been called together, probably; and then those who are passed by surgeons as whole and healthy are made to draw lots. Some will escape, and some will have to go."
"O look—they are coming out. And something is being said—what is it?"
"Hush—the names of those who are drawn."
All listened intently; and the elderly woman, clasping her worn hands, leant forward, with a face of concentrated suspense.
"Jean Paulet——" sounded clearly.
A bitter wailing cry burst from her, drowning what followed.
She held out wild appealing arms. "Mon fils! Mon fils!" she gasped, and dropped senseless to the ground.
"Can nothing be done?" exclaimed Mrs. Baron, in distress. "The poor creature! George, will they not let him off? Surely they need not be so cruel as to take him away!"
"I am afraid the only chance would be a substitute—and not much hope of that."
"Do ask. Find out something. Do, please."
Denham crossed the road with his rapid stride, followed closely by his shadow, Roy, while the Colonel came after in more leisurely style. The poor woman's friends were attending to her, and Ivor, always the Colonel's spokesman in a foreign language, made inquiries of a respectable man, perhaps a small shopkeeper, standing by. The man shrugged his shoulders as he replied. It had to be, he said, not unkindly but resignedly. All young men equally were subject to the conscription, and he who "fell" had to go. There was no escape, no remedy. None, except through the purchase of a substitute, and Marie Paulet, he feared, could not manage that. She was a good woman, truly estimable, and he was sorry for her, yes, sincerely sorry; but what was to be done? The First Consul required soldiers, and, in fact, he would have them! Another expressive shrug.
How much would be required for a substitute? Eh bien—one hundred livres would doubtless suffice. Mme. Paulet, foreseeing this day, had toiled hard and saved assiduously during many years; but with her utmost exertions, as he knew, for she had told him, she had managed to get together only fifty-five livres. No substitute could be obtained for only fifty-five livres. No, no, impossible! Jean would have to go, and his mother would grow used to it, like other mothers. How soon? Sans doute he would be marched away at once—immediately—to the nearest depôt, there to be exercised. The thing had to be. There was no remedy. All France was giving up her best men, by tens of thousands, to feed the Army. In parts already none but women and old men remained to till the soil.
Was Mme. Paulet a widow? asked Denham.
"Oui, oui, oui, oui," the man said, fast as the words could come. Certainly she was a widow; but then she was not over sixty, nor was Jean her only son. Had she been over sixty, and depending for her subsistence upon an only son, then vraiment her case would have been easily pleaded. Marie Paulet was under fifty in age, though she looked more, since she had toiled hard and had known much sorrow. She had a second son too, young and somewhat lame, but able to work, though in truth more of a burden than an assistance. Jean, however, would have to go. This was a supplementary conscription for the year, more men being urgently required by the First Consul.
Jean Paulet stood with a face of sullen despair beside his mother, saying not a word. He was scarcely over nineteen, only one fortnight past the day, Ivor's informant remarked; and he looked young, being loose-limbed and shambling, though broad-shouldered.
"Ask them how much they could make up among themselves towards the purchase of a substitute. Some may be willing to help."
Denham obeyed, and a discussion took place in raised voices. The two Englishmen waited gravely, Mrs. Baron watching affairs from the coach, while Roy stood close by, scanning the conscript with interested gaze. Marie Paulet sat upon the cold ground, weeping bitterly.
"About fifteen livres seems to be the outside, sir. They are poor here. It is a marvel how the woman has managed to save so much. But I am ready to give fifteen livres."
Colonel Baron's eyebrows stirred. "More than you can afford, I should have imagined, but you know your own business best. Well, tell them that if they can find a substitute for one hundred livres, you will give that, and I will give another fifteen. Of course, we can't wait now to see the end of the affair. Tell them we promise it on the word of an English gentleman—that's understood everywhere. Give our Verdun address to the Curé yonder—he looks an honest man. For my part, I doubt if a substitute can be procured, the drain on the country has been so severe of late. But they may succeed. Anyhow, it will soften matters a little to the poor woman. One rather grudges letting the money go into French pockets, but I defy anyone with proper sensibilities to stand out against that poor creature's misery."
Denham listened with his air of half-military, half-courtly, attention to this somewhat prolonged exposition of the Colonel's views. Then he explained what "Monsieur le Colonel Anglais" had said, failing to make clear his own share in the matter, though from no lack of power to express himself. The scene that followed was eminently French in its abandon of joy. One of the young men present, who was eligible but who had not been drawn—had not tombé, as the saying was—came forward, and offered for the sum of one hundred livres to go as the substitute for Jean Paulet. This settled matters; and without hesitation Colonel Baron produced notes for the amount he had named, Denham adding his own donation with a rapid movement, which drew no attention.
Whereupon enthusiasm rose to its height. The people of the town, with whom Marie and her son were plainly favourites, shouted their approval; while Marie crept close to Colonel Baron, knelt at his feet, sobbed out her wordless rapture, and even kissed his hands, to the Colonel's discomfiture.
"I say, Den, I'm going back to the carriage. Say whatever you choose to them. It's all right, but I vow this sort of thing doesn't quite suit a Britisher. And it strikes me you haven't made 'em understand that you're doing as much as I am. Tell 'em that, and talk as much as you think right, and then come along."
A murmur in French from Roy to Jean Paulet gave the further explanation, which would not have been forthcoming from Denham; and he had to submit to some of the vehement demonstrations from which his Colonel had basely fled. Denham endured them, with a certain reticent indifference of manner, which did not mean true indifference. A slightly quizzical smile stirred his lips, but the dark eyes, bent upon poor old Mme. Paulet, were infinitely kind.
Then he too made a move towards the coach; and Roy, lingering one moment more, held out a hand to Jean, who seemed half stunned with his unexpected escape.
"Bon jour, monsieur," the boy said frankly. "I'm glad you are not going to fight against the English just yet."
Jean muttered broken words—something of a faltering hope and prayer that a day might come when he should have it in his power, perhaps—who could tell?—to do some benefit for Monsieur le Colonel, or for Monsieur le Colonel's friend.
It seemed very unlikely—most unlikely—that he and these passing English prisoners should ever meet again, still more that he should be able to do aught for them. Yet most improbable events do take place in this world of ours. Roy had not that day seen the last of Jean Paulet.
As the coach started, in the midst of grateful acclamations, Marie Paulet held up mute hands, tears streaming down her faded cheeks. Such a look was hers, that even Colonel Baron was conscious of moisture in the region of his eyes, though by no means easily moved to outward emotion. Mrs. Baron was weeping outright, with the thought of what such a parting would be between Roy and herself. As for Denham—nobody managed to get a clear sight of his face for a quarter of a minute.
Then once more they were rolling along the interminable roads, Roy declaiming with boyish vehemence against Napoleon, and wondering whether Jean Paulet would ever again be drawn, and would have after all to go. They found a good deal to say on the question, and for a while the interest of the subject kept them going.
But Denham's mind, like a spring slowly released, went back before long to the one engrossing question, which for a space had been thrust into the background. Would Polly indeed wait for him—no matter how long his imprisonment might last? Or would she grow tired of waiting, forget his love and some day become the wife of another?
He could not look that possibility in the face with any sort of inward composure. It held him in thrall, both day and night, through the remainder of this wearisome journey.
Roy was perplexed, during the last two or three days of their progress towards Verdun, at Ivor's absorption of mind. For the first time in his experience, his remarks failed repeatedly to reach the other's understanding. So new a phase of matters was bewildering. Not, however, till they were within three hours of Verdun did he note his friend's face with sufficient care to exclaim—
"I say, Den, I do believe you're tired! Are you?"
"Been a dull companion to-day—have I?"
"Why—but, Den!" Roy spoke in accents of amazement. "You never used to be anything of that sort! You never usen't to have anything at all the matter with you."
"Didn't I? All right—what do you want me to look at now?"
"Is it because you're a prisoner? Do you know, I couldn't get to sleep last night for ever so long—not till past eleven—thinking about it all. I say—don't you hate old Boney? I do. He makes everybody unhappy. Just think of that poor Marie and her son; if you and papa hadn't been there, she would have lost Jean, and perhaps she'd never have seen him again. Wasn't it horrid? And I don't see how men can fight properly, when they don't want to fight at all. Our soldiers fight, because they choose, not because they're made to whether they want it or not. I'm sure Jean didn't want to be a soldier, or he wouldn't have been so glad to get off."
Mrs. Baron leant across to say softly, "Roy, do leave Denham in peace for a little while."
"Why, ma'am, he likes me to talk. He always says so."
Mrs. Baron looked again towards Ivor, with a dubious expression.
(To be continued.)
"Willie only took a Horse."
Horse-stealers in our time are a good deal handicapped by a change that has come over public opinion. The Government used to hang them, but the populace were by no means horrified at the crime.
Here is a story indicating considerable former leniency in popular thought. A horse-coper "took" a horse and was discovered and convicted, but owing to some assistance he had given the police, he received a light sentence.
He settled in a Norfolk village, turned an honest stock-breeder, and prospered greatly; but there was always a rumour that he had been convicted of some sort of stealing.
A farmer's daughter, however, fell in love with him and he asked her from her father.
"No," said the old yeoman; "I've nothing against you, but no child of mine shall wed a man who has been in trouble for stealing."
The daughter cried and implored, and at last sobbed out, "Willie only took a horse."
"Why," exclaimed the farmer, "didn't ye say so before! Here have I been treating a respectable man as if he had been a thief!"
The Dead Defunct.
A learned weaver, in stating his case before the provost of Irvine in Ayrshire, in the days when hand-loom weaving was a leading industry in that town, having had occasion to speak of a party who was dead, repeatedly described him as the defunct.
Irritated by the iteration of a word which he did not understand, the provost exclaimed—
"What's the use o' talking so much about this child you call the defunct? Cannot ye bring the man here and let him speak for himsel'?"
"The defunct's dead, my lord!" replied the weaver.
"Oh, that alters the case," gravely observed the wise provost.
The Art of Conversation.
"Tell me," pleaded the artless maid, "wherein lies the secret of the art of conversation."
The sage struck the attitude he was wont to assume when in the act of imparting wisdom and said—
"My child, listen!"
"I am listening!" breathlessly she answered.
"Well, my child," he rejoined, "that is all there is in the art of conversation."
How to be free from Discontent.
A philosopher offered sacrifice every day in the temple of Jupiter and made always the same prayer.
At last Jupiter grew tired of hearing over and over again the one request and said, "What would you have?"
"I crave to become a contented man," replied the philosopher. "Never yet have I enjoyed a really peaceful day, for I have never been entirely contented. Even now, aged as I am, there is always something that I long for."
"Consider well what you ask," said the god sternly; "there is but one way in which you can secure the boon you seek."
"And what is that?" asked the philosopher eagerly.
"I must strike you dead; for in death only can man be free from discontent."
"Upon consideration," replied the philosopher, "I think I should be better contented to remain discontented."
And so saying he put on his hat and hastily withdrew from the temple.
Don't be Discouraged.
How she showed her Gratitude.
The present Bishop of Gibraltar, Dr. Sandford, tells the following story. When a young man, and a shy, very shy curate, he called to see an old woman among his parishioners, who complained to him that all she had to live on was half-a-crown a week which she received from the parish.
"And out of that, sir," she went on, "I have to pay two shillings for rent, a shilling for firing, sixpence for bread, fourpence for——"
"Stop, stop, my good woman," said the young curate, "you can't pay all that out of half-a-crown."
"Yes, sir, but I do," she persisted, "I pay——" and she ran through her accounts again.
Finding she was not to be convinced of her arithmetical errors, and that she was both poverty-stricken and deserving, Mr. Sandford promised to send her an extra half-crown on his own account each week.
"For this she rewarded me," says the bishop, "by coming much more regularly to church, but to my horror she never caught my eye while I was in the reading desk or pulpit without promptly jumping up and bobbing me a little curtsey to show her gratitude. Imagine my feelings as a shy young curate."
How The Ducks were Taught.—An officer in the British navy tells us that on one of his voyages, he saw a Chinaman, who kept ducks for a living, practise an odd piece of ingenuity. In the daytime the ducks were permitted to float about on the river, but at nightfall they were carefully collected. The keeper, when it began to grow dark, gave a whistle, when the ducks always flew towards him with violent speed, so they were all invariably safe at home in less than a minute. How do you suppose he had educated his flock so effectually? He always beat the last duck.