Chapter III

Captain Bowood came forward. ‘Sir Frederick, your servant; glad to see you,’ he said in his hearty sailor-like fashion.

‘I am glad to see you, Captain,’ responded the Baronet as he proffered his hand. ‘How’s the gout this morning?’

‘So, so. Might be better—might be worse.—You here, Miss Saucebox!’ he added, turning to Elsie. ‘Why are you not at your lessons—eh, now?’

‘As if anybody could learn Latin roots on a sunny morning like this!’ Then, clasping one of his arms with both her hands, and looking up coaxingly into his face, she said: ‘You might give me a holiday, nunky dear.’

‘Why, why? A holiday indeed!—Listen to her, Sir Frederick. The baggage is always begging for holidays.’

‘But the baggage doesn’t always get them,’ was the answer with a pretty pout. Then, after another glance at the long-haired stranger, who was already busy with the piano, she said to herself: ‘It is he; I am sure of it. And yet if I had not heard his voice, I should not have known him.’

Captain Bowood at this time had left his sixtieth birthday behind him, but he carried his years lightly. He was a bluff, hearty-looking, loud-voiced man, with a very red face, and very white hair and whiskers. A fever, several years previously, had radically impaired his eyesight, since which time he had taken to wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. He had a choleric temper; but his bursts of petulance were like those summer storms which are over almost as soon as they have broken, and leave not a cloud behind. Throughout the American Civil War, Captain Bowood had been known as one of the most daring and successful blockade-runners, and it was during those days of danger and excitement that he laid the foundation of the fortune on which he had since retired. No man was more completely ruled by his wife than the choleric but generous-hearted Captain, and no man suspected the fact less than he did.

‘I drove over this morning,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘to see you about that bay mare which I hear you are desirous of getting rid of.’

‘Yes, yes—just so. We’ll go to the stable and have a look at her. By-the-bye, I was talking to Boyd just now, when your name cropped up. It seems he met you when you were both in South America. Oscar Boyd, engineering fellow and all that. You remember him, eh, now?’

‘I certainly do remember a Mr Boyd; but it is many years since we met.’ Then to himself the Baronet said: ‘Can this be the other man? Oh! Lady Dimsdale.’

‘A very agreeable fellow,’ said the Captain. ‘Here on a visit for a couple of days. A little matter of business between him and me to save lawyers’ expenses.’

‘The other man, without a doubt,’ thought the Baronet. ‘His wife must be dead.’

Miss Brandon had slipped unobserved out of the room. She was now sitting in the veranda, making-believe to be intent over her Latin verbs, but in reality waiting impatiently till the coast should be clear. She had not long to wait. Presently she heard the Captain say in his cheery loud-voiced way: ‘Come along, Sir Frederick; we shall just have time to look at the mare before luncheon;’ and a minute later, she heard the shutting of a door.

Then she shut her book, rose from her seat, and crossing on tiptoe to the open French-window, she peeped into the room. ‘Is that you, Charley?’ she asked in a voice that was little above a whisper.

‘Whom else should it be?’ answered the young man, looking round from the piano with a smile.

‘I was nearly sure of it from the first; but then you look such a guy!’

‘She calls me a guy! after all the trouble I have taken to get myself up like a foreign nobleman.’ Speaking thus, he took off his spectacles and wig, and stood revealed, as pleasant-looking a young fellow as one would see in a day’s march.

Elsie ran forward with a little cry of surprise and delight. ‘Now I know you for my own!’ she exclaimed; and when he took her in his arms and kissed her—more than once—she offered not the slightest resistance. ‘But what a dreadful risk to run!’ she went on as soon as she was set at liberty. ‘Suppose your uncle—good gracious!’

‘My uncle? He can’t eat me, that’s certain; and he has already cut me off with the proverbial shilling.’

‘My poor boy! Fate is very, very hard upon you. We are both down on our luck, Charley; but we can die together, can’t we?’ As she propounded this question, she held out her box of bon-bons. Charley took one, she took another, and then the box was put away. ‘A pan of charcoal’—she went on, giving her sweetmeat a gustatory turn over with her tongue—‘door and windows close shut—you go to sleep and forget to wake up. What could be simpler?’

‘Hardly anything. But we have not quite come to that yet. Of course, that dreadful Vice-chancellor won’t let me marry you for some time to come; but he can’t help himself when you are one-and-twenty.’

‘That won’t be for nearly four years,’ answered Elsie with a pout. ‘What a long, long time to look forward to!’

‘We have only to be true to each other, which I am sure we shall be, and it will pass away far more quickly than you imagine. By that time, I hope to be earning enough money to find you a comfortable home.’

‘There’s my money, you know, Charley dear.’

‘I don’t mean to have anything to do with that. If I can’t earn enough to keep my wife, I’ll never marry.’

‘Oh!’

‘But I shall do that, dear. Why, I’m getting five guineas a week already; and if I’m not getting three times as much as that by the time you are twenty-one, I’ll swallow my wig.’

‘Your uncle will never forgive you for going on the stage.’

‘O yes, he will, by-and-by, when he sees that I am making a fair living by it and really mean to stick to it—having sown all my wild-oats; and above all, when he finds how well they speak of me in his favourite newspaper. And that reminds me that it was what the _Telephone_ said about me that caused old Brooker our manager to raise my screw from four guineas a week to five. I cut the notice out of the paper, you may be sure. Here it is.’ Speaking thus, Master Charles produced his pocket-book; and drew from it a printed slip of paper, which he proceeded to read aloud: ‘“Although we have had occasion more than once to commend the acting of Mr Warden”—that’s me—“we were certainly surprised last evening by his very masterly rendering of the part of Captain Cleveland. His byplay was remarkably clever; and his impassioned love-making in the third act, where timidity or hesitation would have been fatal to the piece, brought down the house, and earned him two well-merited recalls. We certainly consider that there is no more promising _jeune premier_ than Mr Warden now on the stage.” There, my pet, what do you think of that?’ asked the young actor as he put back the slip of paper into his pocket-book.

But his pet vouchsafed no answer. Her face was turned from him; a tear fell from her eye. His arms were round her in a moment. ‘My darling child, what can be the matter?’ he asked.

‘I—I wish you had never gone on the stage,’ said Elsie, with a sob in her voice. ‘I—I wish you were still a tea-broker!’

‘Good gracious! what makes you wish anything so absurd?’

‘It’s not absurd. Doesn’t the newspaper speak of your “impassioned love-making?” And then people—lovers, I mean—are always kissing each other on the stage.’

‘Just as they do sometimes in real life;’ and with that he suited the action to the word.

‘Don’t, Mr Summers, please.’ And she pushed him away, and her eyes flashed through her tears, and she looked very pretty.

Mr Summers sat down on a chair and was unfeeling enough to laugh. ‘Why, what a little goose you are!’ he said.

‘I don’t see it at all.’ This with a toss of her head. Certainly, it is not pleasant to be called a goose.

‘You must know, if you come to think of it, that both love-making and kissing on the stage are only so much make-believe, however real they may seem to the audience. During the last six months, it has been my fate to have to make love to about a dozen different ladies; and during the next six months I shall probably have to do the same thing to as many more; but to imagine on that account that I really care for any of them, or that they really care for me, would be as absurd as to suppose that because in the piece we shall play to-morrow night I shall hunt Tom Bowles—who is the villain of the drama—through three long acts, and kill him in the fourth, he and I must necessarily hate each other. The fact is that Tom and I are the best of friends, and generally contrive to lodge together when on our travels.’

Elsie was half convinced that she _had_ made a goose of herself, but of course was not prepared to admit it. ‘I see that Miss Wylie is acting in your company,’ she said. ‘I saw her in London about a year ago; she is very, very pretty.’

‘Miss Wylie is a very charming woman.’

‘And you make love to her?’

‘Every night of my life—for a little while.’

Elsie felt her unreasonable mood coming back. ‘Then why don’t you marry her?’ she asked with a ring of bitterness in her voice.

Again that callous-hearted young man laughed. ‘Considering that she is married already, and the happy mother of two children, I can hardly see the feasibility of your suggestion.’

‘Then why does she call herself “Miss Wylie?”’

‘It’s a way they have in the profession. She goes by her maiden name. In reality, she is Mrs Berrington. Her husband travels with her. He plays “heavy fathers.”’

Miss Brandon looked mystified. Her lover saw it.

‘You see this suit of clothes,’ he said, ‘and this wig and these spectacles. They are part of the “make-up” of a certain character I played last week. I was the Count von Rosenthal, in love with the beautiful daughter of a poor music-master. In order to be able to make love to her, and win her for myself, and not for my title and riches, I go in the guise of a student, and take lodgings in the same house where she and her father are living. After many mishaps, all ends as it ought to do. Charlotte and I fall into each other’s arms, and her father blesses us both with tears in his eyes. Miss Wylie played the Professor’s daughter, and her husband played the father’s part, and very well he did it too.’

‘Her husband allowed you to make love to his wife?’ said Miss Brandon, with wide-open eyes.

‘Of course he did; and he was not so foolish as to be jealous, like some people. Why should he be?’

Elsie was fully convinced by this time that she had made a goose of herself. ‘You may kiss me, Charley,’ she said with much sweetness. ‘Dear boy, I forgive you.’

Suddenly the sound of a footstep caused them to start and fly asunder. There, close to the open French-window, stood Captain Bowood, glaring from one to the other of them. Miss Brandon gave vent to a little shriek and fled from the room. The Captain came forward, a fine frenzy in his eye. ‘Who the deuce may you be, sir?’ he spluttered, although he had recognised Charley at the first glance.

‘I have the honour to be your very affectionate and obedient nephew, sir.’

The Captain’s reply to this was an inarticulate growl. Next moment, his eye fell on the discarded wig. ‘And what the dickens may this be, sir?’ he asked as he lifted up the article in question on the end of his cane.

‘A trifle of property, sir, belonging to your affectionate and obedient nephew;’ and with that he took the wig off the end of the cane and crammed it into his pocket.

‘So, so. This is the way, you young jackanapes, that you set my commands at defiance, and steal into my house after being forbidden ever to set foot in it again! You young snake-in-the-grass! You crocodile! It would serve you right to give you in charge to the police. How do I know that you are not after my spoons and forks? Come now.’

‘I am glad to find, sir, that your powers of vituperation are in no way impaired since I had the pleasure of seeing you last. Time cannot wither them.—Hem! I believe, sir, that you have had the honour of twice paying my debts, amounting in the aggregate to the trifling sum of five hundred pounds. In this paper, sir, you will find twenty-five sovereigns, being my first dividend of one shilling in the pound. A further dividend will be paid at the earliest possible date.’ As Mr Summers spoke thus, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small sealed packet and placed the same quietly on the table.

The irate Captain glanced at the packet and then at his imperturbable nephew. The cane trembled in his fingers; for a moment or two he could not command his voice. ‘What, what!’ he cried at last. ‘The boy will drive me crazy. What does he mean with his confounded rigmarole? Dividend! Shilling in the pound! Bother me, if I can make head or tail of his foolery!’

‘And yet, sir, both my words and my meaning were clear enough, as no doubt you will find when you come to think them over in your calmer moments.—And now I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning; and I hope to afford you the pleasure of seeing me again before long.’ Speaking thus, Charles Summers made his uncle a very low bow, took up his hat, and walked out of the room.

‘There’s insolence! There’s audacity!’ burst out the Captain as soon as he found himself alone. ‘The pleasure of seeing him again—eh? Only let me find him here without my leave—I’ll—I’ll—— I don’t know what I won’t do!—And now I come to think of it, it looks very much as if he and Miss Saucebox were making love to each other. How dare they? I’ll haul ’em both up before the Vice-chancellor.’ Here his eye fell on the packet on the table. He took it up and examined it. ‘Twenty-five sovereigns, did he say? As if I was going to take the young idiot’s money! I’ll keep it for the present, and send it back to him by-and-by. Must teach him a lesson. Do him all the good in the world. False hair and spectacles, eh? Deceived his old uncle finely. Just the sort of trick I should have delighted in when I was a boy. But Master Charley will be clever if he catches the old fox asleep a second time.’ He had reached the French-window on his way out, when he came to a sudden stand, and gave vent to a low whistle. ‘Ha, ha! Lady Dimsdale and Mr Boyd, and mighty taken up with each other they seem. Well, well. I’m no spoil-sport. I’ll not let them know I’ve seen them. Looks uncommonly as if Dan Cupid had got them by the ears. A widow too! All widows ought to be labelled “Dangerous.”’ Smiling and chuckling to himself, the Captain drew back, crossed the room, and went out by the opposite door.

THE COLOUR-SENSE.

The phenomenon of Colour is one with which all who are not blind must of necessity be familiar. So accustomed, indeed, have we been to it throughout all our lives, that most of us are inclined to take it for granted, and probably trouble ourselves very seldom as to its true cause. A brief discussion, therefore, of the nature of the Colour-sense may, we trust, prove not uninteresting to our readers.

What, then, is colour? It is obvious that it may be considered in two ways; we may either discuss the impression it makes on the mind, or the real external causes to which it is due. Viewed in the first light, colour is as much a sensation as is that of being struck or burnt. Viewed from the latter stand-point, it is merely a property of light; hence, in order correctly to understand its nature, we must first briefly examine the nature of this phenomenon.

According to modern scientific men, light is not a material substance, but consists of a kind of motion or vibration communicated by the luminous body to the surrounding medium, and travelling throughout space with an enormous velocity. The medium, however, through which light-waves travel is not air, nor any of the ordinary forms of matter. Of its real nature nothing is known, and its very existence is only assumed in order to account for the observed phenomena. It must be very subtle and very elastic; but it is a curious fact that the nature of the vibrations in question would seem to preclude the supposition that it is a fluid, these being rather such as would be met with in the case of a solid. To this medium, whatever its true nature may be, the name of _ether_ is given.

The sensation, then, which we know by the name of Light is to be regarded as the effect on the retina of the eye of certain very rapid vibrations in the _ether_ of the universe. All these waves travel with the same swiftness; but they are not all of the same length, nor of the same frequency; and investigation has shown that it is to this difference of wave-length that difference of colour is due. In other words, the impression to which we give the name of a certain colour is due to the effect on the retina of vibrations of a certain frequency. This conclusion is arrived at by a very simple experiment, in which advantage is taken of the following principle. So long as a ray of light is passing through the same medium, it travels in one straight line; but in passing obliquely from one medium into another of different density, its path is bent through a certain angle, just as a column of soldiers has a tendency to change its direction of march when obliquely entering a wood or other difficult ground. Now, this angle is naturally greatest in the case of the shortest waves, so that when a ray of light is thus bent out of its course—or, as it is called, ‘refracted’—the various sets of vibrations of which it is composed all travel in different directions, and may be separately examined. In fact the ray of light is analysed, or broken up into its component parts. The most convenient apparatus to employ for this purpose is a prism of glass. It is found, as is well known, that if a beam of ordinary sun-light be allowed to pass through the prism and be then received on a screen, it is resolved into a band of colours succeeding one another in the order of those of the rainbow. Such a band of colours is called a ‘spectrum.’

Now, of the visible portion of the spectrum the red rays are those which undergo the least refraction, while the violet rays are bent through the greatest angle, the other colours in their natural order being intermediate. From what has been said above, it is evident that, this being the case, the portion of the light consisting of waves of greatest length and least frequency is that which produces on the eye the sensation of red, and that each of the other colours is caused by vibrations of a certain definite length. We are speaking now of the visible part of the spectrum. As a matter of fact, the waves of least and greatest frequency make no impression on the eye at all; but the former have the greatest heating power, while the latter are those which chiefly produce chemical effects such as are utilised in photography.

Having now arrived at the nature of colour, we are in a position to apply these facts to the discussion of coloured substances.

When light falls on a body, a portion of it is turned back or, as it is called, ‘reflected’ from the surface; another part is taken up or ‘absorbed’ by the substance; while, in the case of a transparent body, a third portion passes on through it, and is said to be ‘transmitted.’ Most bodies absorb the different parts of the light in different proportions, and hence their various colours are produced. The colour of a transparent substance is that of the light which it transmits; while an opaque body is said to be of the colour of the light which it reflects, or rather of that part of it which is irregularly scattered.

There are three colours in the solar spectrum which are called ‘primary,’ owing to the fact that they cannot be produced by mixtures. These are red, violet, and deep olive green. The generally-received idea that red, blue, and yellow are primary colours, is by recent scientific authorities not regarded as tenable; it arose from observations on mixtures of pigments rather than of coloured light. For instance, objects seen through two plates of glass, one of which is blue and the other yellow, appear green; but this by no means justifies us in saying that a mixture of blue and yellow light is green. For remembering that the two glasses do not appear coloured by reason of their adding anything to the light, but rather through their stopping the passage of certain rays, we shall see that the green light which is finally transmitted is not a mixture of yellow and blue at all, but is rather that portion of the light which both of the glasses allow to pass. The blue glass will probably stop all rays except blue, violet, and green; the yellow glass, all but green, yellow, and orange. The only light, therefore, which can pass through both glasses is green. The same remark applies to mixtures of pigments, each particle being really transparent, though the whole bulk appears opaque. It is easy, however, to obtain real mixtures of coloured lights by employing suitable arrangements, of which one of the simplest consists of a disc painted with alternate bands of colours and rapidly rotated. By such means it is found that a mixture of blue and yellow is not green, but white or gray, and that yellow can itself be produced by a mixture of red and green in proper proportions. The late Professor Clerk Maxwell made an interesting series of experiments on colour mixtures by means of an apparatus known as Maxwell’s Colour-box, by which any number of colours could be combined in any required proportions.

It would, however, be beyond the scope of the present paper to discuss the many important results which followed from his investigations. Helmholtz believed the three primary colour sensations to be due to the action of three sets of nerves at the back of the retina, each of which is excited only by vibrations within a certain range of frequency; and this theory is now generally held. In the case of some persons, the sensation corresponding to red is wholly absent, and the spectrum appears to consist of two colours with white or gray between. The nature of these colours is, for obvious reasons, difficult to determine; but one doubtless nearly corresponds to our sensation of blue, while the other is a deep colour, probably dark green. Persons thus affected are usually called ‘colour-blind;’ but this epithet is a misnomer, and the term ‘dichroic vision’ has been suggested for the phenomenon instead.

We have already remarked that our range of vision is comparatively narrow, the extreme portions of the spectrum making no impression on the retina. But we have no reason to think that these limits have been the same in all ages. The evidence would rather tend to show that the human eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development, which enables it to distinguish between colours which the ancients regarded as identical, and may in future render it able to perceive some portions at least of the parts of the spectrum which are now invisible. The Vedas of India, which are among the most ancient writings known, attest that in the most remote ages only white and black could be distinguished.

It would seem as if the perception of different degrees of intensity of light preceded by a long time the appreciation of various kinds of colours. After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come to the conclusion that red was the first colour to become visible, then yellow and orange; and afterwards, though at a considerable interval, green, blue, and violet in order. Various passages in the Old Testament have been cited as proof that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in Ezekiel i. 27 and 28, where the prophet compares the appearance of the brightness round about the fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in the day of rain’—which passage has been cited by Mr Gladstone in his article in the _Nineteenth Century_ for October 1877, as indicating a want of appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients. This is not quite clear, however, as the appearance round about the supernatural fire might have assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most important evidence on the apparent want of capacity among the ancients to discriminate between colours is that afforded by the writings of Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus, could neither have perceived green nor blue. The point has been carefully examined by Mr Gladstone, who comes to the conclusion that this estimate is quite within the mark. Inquiring in detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he shows that almost all must be in reality regarded as expressing degrees of intensity rather than of quality, and that the few exceptions are all confined to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky of the southern climes where Homer lived must have appeared to him as of a neutral gray hue. Of course, the suggestion that the writings usually assigned to Homer were in reality the productions of many authors, does not invalidate the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute any defect in vision to the poet which was not equally manifested by his contemporaries.

It is curious that the distinction between green and blue is not yet perfectly developed in all nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese often confuse these colours in a remarkable manner. This and other facts suggest that the development of the colour-sense is not yet completed; and that in the future our range of perception may be still further enlarged, so that the now invisible rays may be recognised by the eye as distinct colours.

‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

Not long before the death of George Eliot, on a return trip to London by the Midland route, I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a flying visit to Coventry, where the great writer had spent many of her happiest days. There I was privileged by having for escort one of her most valued friends; and many interesting reminiscences were for our benefit called to mind, especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine own romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty of its situation had made on her mind. Next morning, every favourite haunt of hers was searched out and commented on, as well as the interesting points of the quaint old city of Coventry; and bidding good-bye to our hospitable friends, I departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester, there to wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh, feeling satisfied that the hours had been well spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters, who at once took me and my belongings under his especial protection, and when he had seen me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas of the luxurious waiting-room, he retired, bidding me take a quiet forty winks, and keep my mind quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of the arrival of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I begun to feel the loneliness of my situation, when the door opened, and a female figure entered, rather unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to be pushed in, while a deep male voice advised that she should rest by the fire, and not put herself about so. By a succession of jerks, she advanced to the chair by the fire opposite to my sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as she had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution, began to unburden her mind, her words flowing from her mouth at express speed, regardless of comma or full stop.

‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so like men.—Ain’t it now, miss? Ah, I dessay you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before now, and know ’ow downright masterful and provoking they can be at times. I tell you _w’at_, miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve got to say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that it should be so.—Not put myself about! I’d like to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’

I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred to disturb her composure or to put her about, my voice at once disclosing that I hailed from the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic nature.

‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why, I _am_ put about; yes—no use trying to appear as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss! Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to our ’ouse by the telegraph-boy. His mother, a widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not many doors from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it was for father. I opened it; and there, staring me right in the eyes were them words: “_Step-mother is lying a-dying._”—Not put about! I’d just like to know ’ow anybody could ’ave been anything else than put about, after _that_. Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s my ’usband—is a great go-to-meeting-man. Why, at that very moment he might be at the church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the Building meeting, or he might ’ave been at a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been at any other meeting under the sun. And w’atever was I to do? for there was the telegraph-boy; there was the telegram, with the words as plain as plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I put on my bonnet and shawl; I ’urried to father’s office—he is a master-builder, is father, with sixteen men under him and three apprentices; and John, my son, for partner. I rushed in quite out of breath, not expecting to find any one there at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s my son—and says I, without taking time to sit down, though I was like to drop: “John, w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy has brought a telegram for father to say, ‘step-mother is a-dying.’”

‘Now, miss, I just put it to you, if them telegrams, coming so sudden at hours w’en no one expects postmen’s knocks, and bringing such news as that, ain’t enough to put any one about! Augh! Men are so queer; there’s no nerves in their bodies, and can’t understand us women. I’ve no patience with them. There was John—that’s my son—w’at did he do? Why, look at me quite composed, as if it weren’t no news at all, and says he: “Don’t put yourself about, mother. Father has gone off not many minutes ago to the paddock, to give little Bobbie a ride.” And with that he takes down a time-table, to look at it for the last train, puts on his hat, calls for a cab, and says quite composed: “Jump in, mother. We’ll go in pursuit of father, and then we’ll catch the train quite easily.” It seemed to me the horse just crept up the ’ill like a snail; only John would ’ave it they were going faster than their usual pace. W’en we came to our door, w’at do you think we saw, now, miss?—No; you’ll never guess, I dessay. Why, _father_, to be sure! Yes; there he was; and there was the pony; and there was little Bobbie—all three of ’em just about to start for a long ride into the country. I ’ad carried the telegram in my pocket; and do you know, miss, after all my flurry and worry, w’at did John—that’s my ’usband—say, think you?—Augh! Men are so unreasonable, and w’at’s more, such cool and ’eartless pieces. Yes; that’s w’at _they_ are; and I don’t care who hears me a-saying it.

‘John—that’s father—after he had read the telegram, he turns to me, and says he: “Why, mother, ’ave your senses left your ’ead altogether? W’atever made you carry off the telegram! Couldn’t you ’ave stayed quietly at ’ome, instead of putting yourself about in this here fashion? If you ’ad, we’d ’ave been at the station without any hurry at all, by this time.”

‘I felt too angry to speak, I do declare, miss. I think the older men grow, the more aggravating they get to a sensitive nature. So I gathered the things together father said we’d better take with us, into my travelling-basket, without as much as a single word—a stranger coming in would ’ave thought me dumb—while father sent a man back to the paddock with little Bobbie and the pony. We then got into the cab once more; and here we are, with John—that’s my son—a-looking after the tickets and the luggage; and father smoking his pipe outside as cool as cool. O dear, if they wouldn’t put me out with their “Keep cool, mother; no need to fluster and flurry so, mother”—“Take it easy, good ooman; don’t put yourself about”—I’d bear it better, I certainly should.

‘Is step-mother nice? you ask. Oh—well—that’s just as you take it. Some people say she’s nice; some say she’s quite the opposite. But’—and here she drew her chair closer to me, and in a more confidential tone, continued: ‘I tell you _w’at_, miss—I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother, in spite of her religious pro-fession and san’timonious ways, is cantankerous. No use a-trying to hide it—step-mother is just w’at I say, _can-tankerous_. I’ve said it before; I say it again—she’d show her cantankerousness to the very last. And han’t my words come true, for here she is lying a-dying, and Mary-Anne’s wedding fixed for Friday of this very week!—O my—now that I come to ’ave a quiet moment to think, w’atever am I to do? It’s so unreasonable of step-mother! Why, the dressmaker was coming this very evening to fit my dress on for the second time—a new black silk it is—and w’atever will _she_ think, w’en she finds I’ve gone off without as much as a good-bye message? You see, miss, Mary-Anne is going to marry into quite a genteel family. Father, and John—that’s my son—he comes to me not many weeks gone, and says he: “Mother, I ’ope you are going to ’ave a nice dress for this wedding. I ’ope it will be a silk or a satin you decide to buy.” And says I: “John, you know w’at father is, and ’as been all his life—a just man to all; but a man who looks upon gay clothes as not necessary. And then, John, you know as well as I do that father is rather close-fisted w’en money has to be paid out—like his own father before him, who was looked upon by all as the most parsimonious man in the town. I don’t say father is quite as bad; but close-fisted I _do_ say he is, John; and you know it. Were I to say: ‘Father, I’d like to ’ave a silk dress for this wedding’—and I don’t hide the fact from _you_, John, that I certainly should—he’d just laugh. I know it beforehand. He’d say: ‘Why, mother, ’aven’t you been content with a good stuff-dress all our married life, and can’t you go on to the end so? I’ve over and over again said my wife looked as well as most women in the town of Leicester.’”

‘“But,” says John—that’s my son—“mother, you owe your duty certainly to father. I’m not going against it; but w’at I says is: You owe your duty to your son also; and w’en I wish _my_ mother to look better than she’s ever done before, why—to oblige me—you’ll go and purchase the best silk-dress in town, ’ave it made fashionable, with frills and all the fal-de-rals and etceteras; send in the account in my name; and if father makes any objections, why, let him settle the matter with _me_.”

‘You see, miss, John is getting to be so like father—both _firm_, very; and if they take a notion of any kind w’atever into their ’eads, you’d move this station as soon as move them from their purpose; so the dress ’as been bought; and w’at father will say to it—for it’s to be made in the height of the fashion—_I_ can’t say.’

A few judicious questions about the step-mother who was lying a-dying, drew from my companion that the said old lady was rich as well as cantankerous; and that, as there were other relations who might step in to the injury of the worthy builder, who was her only stepson, it was, to say the least, but prudent to be on the spot.

‘Ah, yes, miss,’ she exclaimed, stretching her hands out to keep the heat of the fire from her face, ‘this is a very strange world. Only on Sunday, the vicar was preaching to us against worldly-mindedness, telling us that as we came naked into the world, so we left it, carrying nothing away. But, miss, step-mother ain’t like the most of people; and she’s going to manage to take with her as much money as she possibly can.—How is she going to do it? Why, miss—she’s going to ’ave a coffin!—No need to look surprised, miss. O yes; we all bury our dead in coffins; but w’at kind of a coffin is step-mother going to ’ave, do you think? No; don’t try to guess, for you’d be down to Scotland and up again before it would ever come into your ’ead.—No; not a velvet one, nor a satin; but a _hoak_ one.—Yes; I thought you would get a scare. A _hoak_ coffin is w’at it is to be. And she’s going to ’ave bearers—six of ’em. Each bearer is to ’ave ’at-bands and scarfs, and two pounds apiece. And if all that pomp and tomfoolery ain’t taking so much money out of the world with her, I don’t know w’at _is_. W’en John—that’s father—heard of it, says he to me: “Mother, if you survives me, bury me plain, but comf’able;” and says I: “Father, if you survives me, I ’ope you will do the same by me—plain, but comf’able; for I tell you w’at, father, I’d not lie easy underground thinking of the waste of good money over such ’umbug.”’

Here the waiting-room door opened hurriedly, and the worthy woman bounded to her feet at the one word ‘Mother!’ pronounced in such a decided tone that I too was standing beside her before I knew what I was doing, with all my wraps tossed higgledy-piggledy on the floor. Advancing with her to the door, she got out of me that my immediate destination was Scotland—a place, to her mind, evidently as remote as the arctic regions; and in her astonishment, she forgot the necessity there was to hurry to get in to her train, now ready to start again. She even seemed to forget that step-mother was lying a-dying, as she insisted upon introducing me to her husband, whose huge body was wrapped in a greatcoat, with tippet after tippet on it up to his neck. ‘Only to think, John—this lady is going to Scotland all alone, John! She’ll be travelling all night.—O dear, however are you to do it, miss; ain’t you afraid?—Yes, John; I’m coming.—Good-bye, miss; we’ve ’ad quite a pleasant chat, I do assure you; the time seems to ’ave flown.’

I hurried her along the platform, whispering to her as I did so: ‘I hope step-mother will rally a bit; that if she must pass away, it may be next week, so that Mary-Anne may get her wedding comfortably over.’ At the very door of the carriage she paused, seized my hand, shook it warmly, as she exclaimed: ‘Well, now, you ’ave a feeling ’eart; but I don’t expect her to be so accommodating. No; I’ve said it before, and I say it again—step-mother is—_can-ta_—— Why, w’atever is the matter?’

Next thing that happened, the little woman was lifted up bodily in her son’s arms—a counterpart of his father—and deposited in the carriage; while her husband, in spite of his lumbering large body, succeeded in jumping in just as the patience of all the railway officials was exhausted, and the signal given to start the train. Before it was lost to view, a white handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye, causing a smile to rise over the calm features of John the younger, who, lifting his hat politely to me, bade me good-evening, adding: ‘Mother is no great traveller, so she is easily put about. Dessay if she went often from ’ome, she’d learn to be more composed.’

From that hour I have never ceased to regret that I did not ask the good-natured young builder to forward me a local paper with the account of the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt there would be due notice taken of such an interesting personage, as she lay in state in her ‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the flowing scarfs and hat-bands. Sharp as my friends generally give me credit for being, I own I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore obliged to leave my story without an end, not being able even to add that the fair Mary-Anne’s wedding came off on the appointed day, or was postponed till after the complimentary days of mourning were past. I cheer myself with the thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm man and a sensible, would insist upon the previous arrangements standing good, seeing that the bridegroom—a most important fact I have omitted to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly granted to him by his employers. Why, now that I think of it, my countryman the railway porter would have sent me any number of papers, judging by the kindly interest he took in my behalf, and the determined manner he fought for a particular seat for me in a particular carriage when the time came for my train to start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks; blood’s thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never you fear, now that the Scotch guard has ta’en up your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and went steaming out of the station with my worthy friend hanging on by the door, calling to me: ‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my auld mother would be downright pleased to see you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’

All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly so by dreams of old women of every age and style. Now I was hunting for the porter’s nameless mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the step-mother who was lying a-dying. Again I was an active assistant at a marriage ceremony, with the fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations, leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously at the idea of travelling to Scotland. Once more I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in my determination not to be smothered under an oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands, and bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box from the luggage-rack above me.

FRENCH DETECTIVES.

‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only personally unknown to the general public, but, save in exceptional cases, even to each other. It is known where they may be found at a moment’s notice when wanted; but, as a rule, they do not frequent the prefecture more than can be helped. They have nothing whatever to do with serving summonses or executing warrants. There are among them men who have lived in almost every class of life, and each of them has what may be called a special line of business of his own. In the course of their duty, some of them mix with the receivers of stolen goods, others with thieves, many with what are called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few with those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver and other property of a like valuable nature. Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers and horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have each all their special agents of the police, who watch them, and know where to lay hands upon them when they are wanted. A French detective who cannot assume and act up to any character, and who cannot disguise himself in any manner so effectually as not to be recognised even by those who know him best, is not considered fit to hold his appointment. Their ability in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one of them made a bet that he would in the course of the next few days address a gentleman with whom he was acquainted four times, for at least ten minutes each time, and that he should not know him on any occasion until the detective had discovered himself. As a matter of course, the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted every one who came near him. But the man won his bet. It is needless to enter into the particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course of the next four days he presented himself in the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a fiacre-driver, a venerable old gentleman with a great interest in the Bourse, and finally as a waiter in the hotel in which the gentleman was staying.

‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’

My little child, with clustering hair,
Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,
Though in the past divinely fair,
More lovely art thou now.
God bade thy gentle soul depart,
On brightly shimmering wings;
Yet near thy clay, thy mother’s heart
All weakly, fondly clings.

My beauteous child, with lids of snow
Closed o’er thy dim blue eyes,
Should it not soothe my grief to know
They shine beyond the skies?
Above thy silent cot I kneel,
With heart all crushed and sore,
While through the gloom these sweet words steal:
‘Not lost, but gone before.’

My darling child, these flowers I lay
On locks too fair, too bright,
For the damp grave-mist, cold and gray,
To dim their sunny light.
Soft baby tresses bathed in tears,
Your gold was all mine own!
Ah, weary months! ah, weary years!
That I must dwell alone.

My only child, I hold thee still,
Clasped in my fond embrace!
My love, my sweet! how fixed, how chill,
This smile upon thy face!
The grave is cold, my clasp is warm,
Yet give thee up I must;
And birds will sing when thy loved form
Lies mouldering in the dust.

My angel child, thy tiny feet
Dance through my broken dreams;
Ah me, how joyous, quaint, and sweet,
Their baby pattering seems!
I hush my breath, to hear thee speak;
I see thy red lips part;
But wake to feel thy cold, cold cheek,
Close to my breaking heart!

Soon, soon my burning tears shall fall
Upon thy coffin lid;
Nor may those tears thy soul recall
To earth—nay, God forbid!
Be happy in His love, for I
Resigned, though wounded sore,
Can hear His angels whispering nigh:
‘Not lost, but gone before.’

FANNY FORRESTER.

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

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_All Rights Reserved._

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[Transcriber’s note: The following changes have been made to this text.

Page 47: wa’t to w’at—“know w’at _is_.”]