"He was chaired all round Covent Garden.""He was chaired all round Covent Garden."
There were however no fatal cases, though some broken limbs and cut faces bore witness to the rough scenes of an election in 1806.
"Marjorie almost ran into Miss Leigh.""Marjorie almost ran into Miss Leigh."
(Continued from page147.)
'Get help,' Marjorie heard in faint accents. It was Alan's voice which recalled the shaft to her mind, and sent a thrill of terror through her. With scarcely power to reply, she had to pull herself together before she could summon up resolution to move. The bottom of the steps was not far off; she had only to turn round to mount them again, and once in the open air she was safe. How shestumbled up she never knew; but as soon as the evening air blew in her face she felt as if a load had been lifted from her heart. Ordering Bootles to keep guard, she flew up the path to the cliff, reproaching herself for her long delay there that afternoon. It would take some time to reach home, and then she must find her father, and get men and a rope. She did not know if Alan were hurt; but, in any case, his position was terrible. How had he got there? Was this also the work of Thomas? Tears were streaming from her eyes as she reached the cliff, and ran along the path to the entrance of the Wilderness. The sun had set, but the sky was still glowing, tinting with its warm colours the long, level clouds. The foreign vessel had disappeared, and as she flew along the cliff-path, she glanced hastily towards the spot where she had last seen it. Suddenly the heavy boom of a gun rent the air. Frightened at the sound, she paused a moment, and saw the white smoke curling slowly away into the evening haze, as the dark hull of a gunboat came into sight rounding the rocky promontory.
There was no time, however, to think what it all meant. It was wrong to have delayed even for an instant. Alan must be rescued before he went mad with the horrors of that shaft—that dreadful darkness! Through the Wilderness she ran at the top of her speed, and she was flying across the lawn when she almost ran into Miss Leigh by a sudden encounter round the shrubbery walk.
'Where have you been?' cried the governess, angry and excited at the absence of her pupil from the schoolroom tea, and still more at her reckless manner of running. 'You might have hurt me very seriously, Marjorie. How dare you——
But Marjorie, with a wave of her hand, had gone. There was no time for reproaches; they could very well keep for a more convenient season. Colonel De Bohun was in his dressing-room, preparing for dinner, when she rushed in without even a preliminary knock, and poured out her story with an urgent plea for haste. He quickly resumed his coat, and Marjorie had the satisfaction of seeing him take the work of rescue in hand at once. A couple of grooms were soon following them across the lawn, Marjorie leading, and as they went Miss Leigh wondered what new mischief the children had been up to.
The rescue party had not gone far before they met Estelle's nurse looking anxious and 'flustered.' No one could reply to her question concerning the little girl, but Colonel De Bohun sent her on to Miss Leigh. It was possible the child might have remained in the schoolroom, and had tea with Georgie. Marjorie knew better. The Colonel wondered at her sober face and her silence. He had no suspicion how wrong things were.
The Smuggler's Hole and the steps to the caves were a revelation to him. He looked grave when he found the entrance had been discovered. Both entrances had been carefully blocked up for many years, and he hoped the secret of their existence had been forgotten. He had not explored that part of Sir Leopold Coke's property since he was a young man, and he was not pleased to find that his children had shown more inquisitive interest in these dangerous places. There was no time for asking how they made their discoveries. Their energies must be devoted to the rescue of Alan. Alan, they found, when they let a rope down, weak and shaken as he was, could yet tie the rope round his waist, and steady himself as he was drawn up the shaft. He got better as soon as he began to walk, but the Colonel thought it best to put off all questions till the morning.
Bootles, after Alan's rescue, left the passage most unwillingly. His behaviour was inexplicable. He kept running backwards and forwards in the strangest manner. Marjorie wondered what was the matter with him, and the Colonel impatiently called him to heel.
'One would imagine something was wrong,' he exclaimed, annoyed by the dog's whines.
Marjorie related what had happened in the cave.
Scarcely had she spoken when James, Lady Coke's butler, stepped out of the shrubbery path—
'My lady has sent me for Lady Estelle, sir,' he said.
The shadows of evening were deepening into night before any alarm about Estelle had been felt at the Moat House. The weather being fine and clear, it was scarcely dark even at eight o'clock. The moon, now just past the full, almost turned night into day. Lady Coke had felt no uneasiness, therefore, when seven o'clock came. She imagined Estelle had been invited to spend the evening at Begbie Hall. Hitherto, however, whenever the cousins wanted her to remain, a message had been sent, in order to spare Aunt Betty any anxiety. But no such message had been received, and the clock having struck eight, then nine, without the little girl appearing, she grew anxious. Mademoiselle Vadevant was also becoming fidgety, though she strove to hide it.
'It is time for Estelle to be in bed,' remarked Lady Coke, at last. 'I am surprised that Mrs. De Bohun has kept her so late. Has Nurse gone for her?'
'Oui, madame; more than an hour ago.'
'Nine o'clock is very late for young children to be up. Will you kindly ring the bell? I will send James to bring her back without further delay.'
Mademoiselle offered to go herself, but Lady Coke insisted on dispatching James. He was her factotum, in whom she had greater faith than in any member of her household. His calm manner, which nobody had ever seen ruffled, suited her and she felt quite safe when a matter was in his hands. If Estelle needed any protection—which was not likely in their own grounds—he would be the right person to send. Having given her orders, Lady Coke felt more comfortable, each moment expecting to hear Estelle's merry voice. She sat listening unconsciously. Time, however, slipped on without bringing either James or Nurse. When, finally, ten o'clock struck, she stood up, pale but determined.
'Mademoiselle,' she said, her voice as low as ever, though her anxiety could be detected in its quiver, 'will you please send me my maid, with my garden-hat and cloak? I am going to Begbie Hall myself. You will kindly accompany me. Something must be strangely wrong.'
At that moment the sound of a man's step on the gravel under the windows made her pause, listening eagerly for the child's light tread. The steps came up the verandah, and Colonel De Bohun appeared in the open casement. Without a moment's delay he went up to his aunt, putting an arm tenderly round her. One glance at his pale face was sufficient.
'Godfrey, what is it?'
She was trembling, so that without support she could not have stood.
'Sit down, dear Aunt, and let me tell you,' he said, with more calmness than he felt.
He greatly dreaded the effect of his communication. Though she was always cheerful, active, and upright, he could not forget that she was old, and that any shock might be disastrous to her.
'Tell me,' she said, looking up into his face.
'We all imagined Estelle to be with you till her nurse came to fetch her. I was out when she came. The fact is, we had rather a fright about Alan. He had fallen down a hole in the rocks, and we were obliged to go to his rescue. He was got out with some difficulty, and on our way home we came across James, who told us of your anxiety about Estelle. Neither Marjorie nor Alan had seen her since they had left her reading to Georgie on the roof of the ruin. Marjorie, who had heard the door bang, found no one there when she reached the place, and the door was closed. Fearing something wrong, I sent James off at once for Peet, in order to see if the poor child had been accidentally locked into the forbidden room.'
'Yes?' whispered Lady Coke.
She looked so weak and shaken that the Colonel made her sit down in her armchair before he would go on with the story.
(Continued on page166.)
Some people used to find fault with Dr. Johnson because, they said, he was greedy in eating and drinking. He would often take twelve or fourteen cups of tea at a meal. This seems a good deal, but we must remember that in his time teacups were small, and the fashion was to hand them round only half-filled. There is a story that one lady, when the Doctor was taking tea in her parlour, rudely refused to pour him out any more after he had had about a dozen cups, and he, quite as rudely, retorted that her tea was really not worth drinking.
This China drink, as it was called at first, did not for some time become the popular beverage it is now, mainly owing to its high price. It seems that at first tea was taken without milk. An old book of 1657 states that the English were encouraged to take tea, because it was recommended by doctors in France, Italy, and other countries of Europe, so that evidently other nations had tea-drinkers before England. In September 1660, Samuel Pepys notes that he had his first cup of tea, or 'dish,' as it was called. Many people called the plant 'tay,' in the eighteenth century, and that name is heard occasionally even now. The early price varied from four sovereigns, to twice the sum, for a single pound; afterwards the price was lowered, and the quantity brought over increased. At the end of the reign of Charles II. only five thousand pounds were imported annually; by 1700, the number had become twenty-one thousand, and in 1721, over a million pounds.
HE rich men have their gardens,With blossoms rare and sweet,Where lilies bloom, and rosesAnd honeysuckles meet;And flowers that are the choicestWithin their grounds are seen,I only have the blossomsThat grow upon the green.But I think God made the daisies,That are so fair to see,Just for the little children—The little ones like me.The nobles have their paintingsThat hang upon the walls,Of wealthy lords and ladies,And vales and waterfalls,And soldiers out at battle,And sailors on the deep;I only look on fields and lanes.And flowers that wake and sleep,But I think God made the fields and hills,And the bright blue sky I seeAs pictures for the children—The little ones like me.
The owner of a vegetable-garden one day noticed that a basket which had just been filled with new turnips became suddenly emptier. He questioned the gardener, who likewise could not understand the matter, and proposed, as a certain means of discovering the thief, that they should hide themselves behind a hedge which was near. This was done. After some minutes they saw the house-dog go straight to the basket, take a turnip in his mouth, and then make his way to the stable. Dogs do not eat raw turnips; our watchers therefore followed the thief, and discovered that the horse, his stable mate, was also concerned in the affair.
Wagging his tail, the dog gave the horse the turnip, and the horse, of course, did not require much pressing. The gardener angrily seized his knobbed stick in order to chastise the dog, but his master held him back. The turnips went on disappearing in exactly the same way, and the scene repeated itself until the supply was exhausted.
The dog had long made this horse his favourite, while he seemed to consider a second horse which was in the same stable not worthy of a glance, much less a turnip.
"The dog gave the horse the turnip.""The dog gave the horse the turnip."
"The pike seized the wretched stoat.""The pike seized the wretched stoat."
Along the river Wey, which flows through Hampshire and Surrey, there is much wild scenery still, though some parts have been altered of late years. Many small streamlets, bogs and marshes, ponds and pools, are delightful to the lover of Nature, no less than to the sportsman. Boys with nets chase big dragon-flies, fat-bodied moths, and swift butterflies, and men with guns watch for birds, large or small, which are numerous. The young birds are also in danger from foxes, who leave the woodland to hunt by the waterside.
The fish draw many anglers to the river, for the pools and streams have plenty of fish, not only the small and common kinds, but the trout, which is eagerly followed to its haunts. Besides trout, the ferocious pike or jack is not uncommon, good specimens being taken by various baits, for a jack is not particular what it eats. When cooked, it is a fish generally liked, though it seldom comes into the shops for sale. It is rather a handsome fish, being marked with green and bright yellow.
A clever jack will do much to obtain a choice morsel. Roaming along the banks of the Wey, a man came upon what had once been a good house, in front of which stood a row of fine yews. It was fast going to ruin, and, indeed, only a few rooms were occupied. While he was examining it, the occupier, who knew him slightly, asked him to come in and have some mead, made from his own honey. After talking a little while, the host began to tell him his troubles about his young ducks. They went out for water excursions, as young ducks must, but his wife did not let them stop out late, because of the foxes; but on the way home, some of them had lately disappeared mysteriously. He offered to show the spot, and took his visitor there. The little ducks crossed a broad piece of open water to get upon a sloping board just as they reached the place; down into the stream they went, sometimes two at once. The visitor asked his guide whether he had seen any jack. He said that there were plenty, and that he had caught several; but there was one big fellow he had noticed which would not take the bait offered.
'That is the offender!' cried the man; 'he swims up the stream, picks up a fish here and there till the tiny little ducklings, which are a delicacy to him, are on the water. If there is one the right size to suit him, he has it; if not, he goes back to other food. Afterwards he returns to deep water, but is here again in the evening when the ducks come home.'
What was to be done was the next question. How could this artful jack be caught, if he was too dainty to take ordinary bait? Then they thought of a capital plan. They got a long, straight pole, and fastened to it a strong bit of pike-line. A dead wood-mouse was obtained and secured to the line, and at the proper time gently floated over the place where the ducklings had vanished. The plan answered capitally. Mr. Jack came, seized the mouse, and was hauled out of the water, and no more ducklings were lost.
Another instance of a jack's greed was told in one of the newspapers. A shepherd was passing an ornamental lake one day, when his dog started a stoat, which ran out from some bushes near the water. The stoat, being pursued, at last actually jumped into the lake, and swam away. The shepherd was still watching it, as it swam bravely on, when suddenly the nose of a large pike shot out of the water close by, and the fish was seen making straight for the animal. In a few moments it had seized the wretched stoat, and though the latter struggled hard for its life, all was in vain. The jack forced the animal beneath the water, and neither were seen again.
Graham was a very good sort of chap, and everybody liked him except when he was playing practical jokes. It is all very well to score off another fellow occasionally, but when it comes to making him howl in school, and get sent up for a private interview with the Doctor, it is going a bit too far.
Three times in one week the master of the Lower Fourth had had to send some one up, and each time it was Graham's fault. The third time the Doctor himself happened to be in the room, and I noticed that, though he actually canedme, it was Graham that he looked at most.
Some of us say that the Doctor has eyes in the back of his head, because he sees so many things that he is not expected to see, and I was sure that day that he had an eye on Graham.
After the third caning, we had a committee meeting in my study, and decided that something must be done. Wilson wanted to drop Graham into the pond, and Rupertson suggested that two chaps should hold him down while the three who had been caned through his jokes gave him a good thrashing; but Shepherd, the smallest boy in the Fourth, hit on the best idea, and that was to pay him back in his own coin.
Shepherd had heard him planning with another boy in his dormitory to dress up as a ghost that very night, and come into ours, and scare us into fits, and we determined that the most scared chap should be Graham himself.
We had all been in bed about a quarter of an hour when there was a rustling sound at the door, and in glided a figure that might have made us creep if we had not been prepared for it. It had a great head, with glaring, fiery eyes, which made one feel a little uncomfortable, even though we knew it was only a turnip. Its body did not show, but only great shining bones, which Graham had painted on his pyjamas with phosphorus, just as Shepherd had told us he meant to do.
We kept dead silence till he got to the middle of the room, and then Shepherd gave the most horrible groan I ever heard. He imitated a real one splendidly; it finished with a kind of choke.
That was our signal, and we all sprang up and crowded round his bed.
'You have done it now!' cried Rupertson in a terrified voice.
'He's not bad!' gasped the 'ghost.'
'Yes, he is,' replied Rupertson. 'See how white he looks!'
'Who is it?' groaned Graham.
'Sergeant,' said Rupertson.
'No, it is Wilson,' said another voice.
'No, it is not, it is Cranbourne,' said a third; but all the time we never allowed Graham to get anywhere near the bed, so as to look close.
'He can't be hurt,' repeated Graham. He had thrown down the turnip, and though we could not see his face, we guessed from his voice that he was as badly scared as we had meant him to be.
'Perhaps he could be brought round by artificial respiration,' suggested Shepherd. 'One of you fellows fetch up Smith quickly. He understands that sort of thing.'
Graham did not wait for the suggestion to be made twice. He ran, and, as we heard afterwards, he burst into the study where Smith, the Captain of the House, and, it so happened, the Doctor himself, were having a talk.
'He is dying!' screamed Graham. 'Come quickly and try and save him.'
'Who is dying?' cried the Doctor in amazement.
'Wilson, or Sergeant, or Cranbourne,' gasped Graham.
So they both followed Graham upstairs as fast as they could go—only to find our dormitory perfectly still and quiet, and every one in it apparently fast asleep.
'Wilson! Sergeant! Cranbourne! where are you?' called out the Doctor.
'Here, sir,' answered each boy sleepily, sitting up in bed as if suddenly awakened.
'Is anything the matter with you?' inquired the Doctor.
'Nothing, sir,' they each replied in a surprised voice.
'What is the meaning of this, Graham?' asked the Doctor, sternly.
'I—I don't know sir!' stammered Graham.
'You bring us up here,' continued the Doctor, 'by declaring that three of your schoolfellows are dying, and I find them all perfectly well and sound asleep.'
Graham said nothing, but wriggled wretchedly from one leg to another, hoping that the Doctor would not notice the painted stripes on his pyjamas or the turnip-head, which was peeping out from under one of the beds.
'Perhaps you will also explain what brings you into this dormitory at all?'
But Graham did not attempt any further explanations, and the Doctor went on: 'I have known for some time, Graham, that you were a little too fond of playing practical jokes, but if you are going to try them on the masters, you will soon find that you are carrying things too far. Smith, is there a cane handy you could lend me?'
We all felt rather sorry for Graham during the next few minutes. It is not pleasant to interviewthe Doctor when he is feeling very angry. Not that I think he really suspected Graham of playing a practical joke on him, for he must have seen how thoroughly scared he was when he burst into the study. But the fact was that he had been looking out for an opportunity of teaching Graham a lesson for some time, and when it came, he made use of it without asking too many questions.
Anyhow, that was the last practical joke Graham ever played.
AY dawns cold: upon the paneArtists are at work again,Tracing ferns and fragile leaves,Birds that nest beneath the eaves,Tiny scenes of Fairy-land,Just to help us understandAll about the fairy men,Who in summer haunt our glen.Every morn's a picture-book,If you will but rise and look!
The animal kingdom in British East Africa looks upon the two thousand one hundred and ninety miles of telegraph wire, strung throughout that region, as a novelty to be made use of. A number of creatures are trying to adapt the wires to their own special purposes, and so the routine of the telegraph business is more or less crowded with incidents of an unusual character. The monkeys are simply incorrigible. Many of them have been shot and thousands frightened; but they cannot get over the idea that the wires are put there for them to swing upon. They have ceased to pay much attention to the locomotive, and even the shrieks of the whistle are not permitted to interfere much with their athletic performances in mid-air.
Three wires are strung on the same line of poles for five hundred and eighty-four miles between the Indian Ocean and Victoria Nyanza, where the monkeys give very complicated performances. In one place they have even succeeded in twisting the wires together.
The giraffe is also a source of annoyance. He sometimes applies sufficient force to the bracket on which the wire is fastened to twist it round, causing it to foul other wires. The hippopotamus is also a nuisance, because he uses the poles for rubbing-posts and sometimes knocks them over.
These creatures, however, do not steal the wire. When the copper wire was stretched north-east from Victoria Nyanza, through the Usoga country, the natives cut out considerable lengths of it, and at one time about forty miles of wire were carried away and never recovered. Passing caravans also found that they could help themselves along the way bycutting the wire and using it in the barter trade. The temptation was great and not always resisted, for wire would buy anything the natives had to sell. But after a great deal of energy this wire-stealing has been stamped out, and it is to be hoped it may be a thing of the past.
There are probably not many of my readers who cannot tell a starfish or a sea-urchin at sight, that is to say, a grown-up starfish or urchin; but to distinguish between them, or even to recognise them at all, in the days of their infancy is a very different matter. Indeed, only those who devote their lives to the study of these creatures are able to do this, and the facts which their labours have brought to light are curious indeed, though so complex that it would be impossible to describe them here in full detail.
Fig. 1.—Young Starfish.Fig. 1.—Young Starfish.
An outline, however, of what we may call the story of the starfish can be told readily enough, and without in any way losing aught either of its importance or its interest.
Fig. 2.—Young Starfish, second stage.Fig. 2.—Young Starfish, second stage.
Fig. 3.—Young Starfish, third stage.Fig. 3.—Young Starfish, third stage.
Briefly, among the starfish people—and including also the sea-urchins and sea-cucumbers, the curious brittle-stars and feather-stars—parental care is the exception, and not the rule. Having cast their eggs adrift upon the sea, the mothers of the families leave the rest to nature. Let us follow the history of one of these eggs. No sooner is it adrift than it begins a very remarkable career. Starting at first as a tiny ball, it divides next into two precisely similar balls, and since these divide again and again in like manner, we have in a few hours a mass of little balls, intimately connected with one another, and resembling a mulberry in appearance, enclosing a hollow space. (Fig. 1.)
This stage reached, the end of the first chapter in the life of the starfish is closed. He has grown so far, it should be noticed, without eating; but for further progress food is necessary. Now, this food cannot be taken in without a mouth and some sort of stomach. These are formed by the simple device of tucking in one side of the ball, just as one might push in one side of an indiarubber ball; the rim of the hollow thus formed becomes the mouth, and the hollow into which it leads is the stomach, while within the space lying between the outer wall and that portion of the wall which is pushed in—which corresponds to the inside of the indiarubber ball—the body that is to be begins to be formed. To grasp this thoroughly, first of all take such a rubber ball as I have described, and push in one side. Compare it with the illustration (fig. 2).
Soon after the formation of the mouth, our growing starfish develops his first organs of locomotion. Now, these are neither arms nor legs, but take the form of short hair-like growths, endowed with the power of rapid waving motion, whereby the body is propelled through the water. These are to be seen in the picture of one of these little creatures, shown for clearness sake as if cut in half. (Fig. 3.)
Fig. 4.—Nearly full-grown Starfish.Fig. 4.—Nearly full-grown Starfish.
A little later our young starfish has assumed a new shape. Here there is a large mouth and stomach, while the swimming hairs have all been cast off except a few arranged in the form of two bands; and, later still, the creature takes the extraordinary form shown in fig. 4. Swimming by the motion of waving hairs is now a thing of the past; instead, long arms have been developed, which perform this work much more effectually, and these arms are supported by a hard, chalky skeleton. Soon another little pushing in of the body takes place, and, lo, out of this grows the body of the starfish that is to be! (as is the middle of fig. 4). In about forty-five days from the beginning of this eventful history, the feet and body appear sticking out of the body, whose growth we have been watching; and, in a very short time after, this chalky skeleton is destroyed, and the rest of this infantile body cast away, leaving the fully formed starfish with an entirely new skeleton! Thus, then, wonder of wonders, this curious creature possesses during its lifetimetwo distinct skeletons!
Fig. 5.—Young Sea-urchin.Fig. 5.—Young Sea-urchin.
Fig. 6.-Young Rosy Feather-star.Fig. 6.-Young Rosy Feather-star.
Fig. 7.—Rosy Feather-star.Fig. 7.—Rosy Feather-star.
The sea-urchin and sea-cucumber undergo similar changes. (See fig. 5.) So also does the beautiful rosy feather-star, but with certain modifications too interesting to be passed over. In what we call its larval body, or its period of childhood, the body takes the form of a cylinder, as you see in the picture, with a little tuft of swimming hairs at the bottom, and bands of the same round the body (fig. 6.) Within this body, as in the starfish, a new body is gradually formed. Then, as you see in the picture, the inside of the egg-shaped body takes the form of a long stalk of stony plate, surmounted by a number of square plates pierced with holes, and these last only are destined to survive in the body of the adult. Soon after this stage is reached, the swimming body comes to rest, because the stalked body which it contains has reached its full development, and takes over the threads of life. As a consequence, the barrel-shaped swimming body, now useless, is thrown off, much as a caterpillar throws off its skin, leaving the newly fashioned body, shaped like a filbert-nut, but rounder, fixed by its stalk to the ground. In a very little while, however, it puts forth a number of beautiful moving arms. It is now a sea-lily! And now follows another change. Breaking away from the traditions of its tribe—the sea-lilies—it cuts itself off from the stalk, and grows in its place a number of short finger-like processes, and lo! from a sea-lily it becomes the rosy feather-star! (What this looks like you can see in fig. 7.) Once more it is able to swim, and this is done by waving movements of the long arms. When desirous of rest, it drops to the bottom of the sea, and clutches hold of some bit of rock or branch of seaweed by means of the bunch of 'fingers' below the body, which we have just described.
W. P. Pycraft, F.Z.S., A.L.S.
The Lees were a clever family; all their friends said so. Tom was good at games, and had carried off several prizes at the school sports; Percy was a first-class reciter; Emma sang, and played the piano; whilst Alice drew very well, and had a larger collection of picture post-cards than any other girl she knew.
Rosie, however, the youngest, was not in any way remarkable: 'Indeed, you would hardly think her one of us—she is so unlike the rest,' Alice would say, with a slighting glance at the little sister who never did anything particular; only worked and helped, and was at everybody's beck and call.
Rosie was used to being made of small account, and did not mind it much. When a rich aunt of the Lees announced her intention of coming to pay them a visit, and then perhaps choosing one of the young people to be her companion during a long stay in London, it did not for a moment occur to the little girl that she could be the favoured one. She listened without jealousy to the chorus of brothers and sisters, planning what they should do in the event of being chosen.
'I would go to a cricket match at Lord's,' said Tom. 'And I,' said Emma, 'to some of the best concerts.' Alice had fixed her heart on seeing the picture galleries, and Percy was resolved to hear some great speakers. Each of them thought it very likely that he, or she, would be Aunt Mary's choice.
Aunt Mary, when she came, kept her own counsel. She was kind to all her nephews and nieces, but did not single out one more than another. It was not until the last day of her stay arrived that she said to their mother, 'If you will let me have Rosie for a companion, my dear, I shall be only too glad to take her to town, and give her a really pleasant time.'
Rosie's surprise, and her disappointment for the sake of her brothers and sisters, silenced the rest: when they could speak, it was to ask each other what their aunt could possibly see in her. If they had overheard a talk between Mrs. Lee and Aunt Mary, later in the day, they might have understood.
'Your other young people are charming,' said Aunt Mary, 'so bright and clever; but they are a little—just a little—too apt to be wrapped up in themselves and their own pursuits. If Rosie goes with me, I shall have some one who will think of me too, for the child does not seem to know what selfishness is.'
Some old customs die out very slowly, and even in the neighbourhood of go-ahead London there are many districts where the waits still go round a few days before Christmas. But the waits do not treat you with music for love—they come for payment afterwards.
Why were these Christmas serenaders called waits? About that matter, we find that opinions differ. One old author says that the waits we have now, represent the musical watchmen, who were well known in many towns during the Middle Ages. They sounded a watch at night, after the inhabitants of the town had gone to bed, and then some of them marched about the streets to prevent disturbances and robberies—in fact, acted rather like our modern policemen. 'Wait' it is supposed means 'watch,' and they had to be in attendance upon judges or magistrates; at the courts of many of the kings, too, there were the waits who attended upon royalty, and who had to perform on their instruments, if music was wanted, by day or night. Another idea was, that the waits who are connected with Christmas season are meant to be a sort of rude imitation of the angelic host, who sang in the fields at Bethlehem at the birth of Christ. This would seem to men in the Middle Ages a very natural way of illustrating the sacred story.
The old Romans are also said to have had a kind of waits, who were called Spondaulæ; it was their business to attend upon the priests in the temples of Jupiter. They sang a poem, accompanied by some wind instrument, while incense was being burnt, or a sacrifice offered.
(Continued from page159.)
'Directly Peet appeared with the key,' continued Colonel De Bohun, 'we made a thorough search, and I do not think there was a nook or corner we did not examine, even to a considerable distance down the passage. There was, however, no trace of Estelle. We found in the inner room that the window had been broken, and a rope was still hanging from it. That window is not more than three feet from the floor of the room; but, as you know, the drop from it into the moat must be at least twenty feet. Whether the child managed to scramble out by means of the rope, or whether she was carried out, I don't know. Peet insists that Thomas has had a hand in the matter. A very valuable orchid, which he had been cultivating in that inner room, has disappeared, and Peet feels sure that Thomas has stolen it.'
Colonel De Bohun began to tell Lady Coke of the attempts made by Thomas and another man to enter the ruined summer-house, as witnessed by Alan and Marjorie, and of Alan's adventure in the cave, but she had become so faint that he was alarmed. Mademoiselle ran off to fetch a glass of water, while he did his best to soothe her. She begged, however, for further details.
Very unwillingly, he went on to tell her how they had dug for a couple of hours in the effort to penetrate the mass of stones and earth which the bang of the door had shaken down from the roof. It was extremely dangerous work, and he had not dared to urge the men to go on with it, after their efforts revealed no trace of the child. They had also entered the passage from its cliff end, under the guidance of Alan, but had not been able to proceed far, the fall of the roof making it almost as perilous as from the summer-house end.
'There is one strange thing about this unfortunate business,' he continued, 'which we cannot explain. The dog, Bootles, that had been with Estelle, was found in the wood, just at the entrance to the passage. He appeared to be in great distress, and anxious that we should follow him to the beach.'
'And did you go there?'
'Yes, but we found nothing to help us in our search. He ran about, snuffing and moaning, and it was only with some trouble we got him to come away with us.'
'Search till you find the child, Godfrey,' urged Lady Coke, taking the water which Mademoiselle had now brought to her. 'I shall know no peace till she is restored to me. My little girl! Confided to me at her dead mother's wish! How have I fulfilled my trust?'
Her distress exhausted her so much that Colonel De Bohun was rejoiced to see his wife enter the room, saying she intended to remain the night with her aunt. The Colonel almost carried his aunt upstairs, promising that the search should not be given up as long as the faintest hope of tracing the child remained.
Thomas, for whom a hunt was at once started, had disappeared, and with him the stranger. No one had seen them; but gradually a rumour got about that a boat was missing from among the many on the beach of Tyre-cum-Widcombe, and it was whispered that no one knew the coast better than the young gardener.
Thomas was just such a person as Lady Coke had described to the children when she told them the story of Dick. Little bluntings of conscience had begun his downward career—temptation not at once resisted—then the gradual yielding as the bribe became more dazzling. And this was how it happened.
The Moat House was celebrated for its orchid-houses. In no part of his work did Peet take so deep an interest as in the care of these beautiful and curious plants. But keen as was his pride and delight in them, it was fully shared by his mistress, Lady Coke. She visited the hothouses constantly, frequently bringing her guests to enjoy the sight of the flowers in full blossom.
Peet had a brother in India, who belonged to the Woods and Forests Department, and now and again he had received roots and seeds from him of some more than commonly beautiful plants found in the wilds of the jungle. Sometimes the attempt to grow these had proved a failure; but some had richly rewarded the effort. The pleasure taken in the cultivation of the flowers, and the value of many of them, was pretty well known to all the under-gardeners, Thomas among them.
It appeared that Peet had lately received a small parcel from India, which had been packed with even more care than usual. Being busy he had not had time to examine it till his work was done, when, as he smoked dreamily in his armchair, he suddenly remembered the little bundle he had put away in his room. Mrs. Peet was with Dick, who always went to bed early, and the old gardener was glad to seize the opportunity to examine his treasure alone. On removing the outer covering, and opening the box, he discovered a bulb carefully wrapped in cotton fibre, and under it was a closely written sheet of paper. It was a note from his brother, relating how he had come across the most curious plant of the orchid tribe he had ever yet seen. It was not a profuse grower, and he had only succeeded in finding one or two specimens, in the crevices of rocks at the entrance to a cavern. This cavern was half-way up a mountain, and in a cooler climate than most of the plants he had sent previously. After giving certain particulars as to soil and habits, he added: 'Its value should be great, as I believe it to be a new variety—a cave orchid—an unknown species as far as I know.'
Peet examined the bulb, and sat pondering with the letter in his hand. He was feeling drowsy after his day's work in the heat of August, and it was in a half-dream that he pictured to himself the scene his brother described. In the same dreamy way he regretted that no cave answering to the conditions was available in which he could experiment with the new plant. Still pondering, he must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he heard was the voice of his wife, saying, as she laughingly shook him by the shoulder, 'Why, Father, whatever is the matter?'
He looked up sleepily.
'You're calling out about that there ruined summer-house, and the inside room, and a plant, as if the whole thing was to be shouted from the house-tops. A secret, too, for you cry, "Now, don't you be telling my lady. It's quite a new thing." What does it all mean, anyhow?'
Peet growled, but roused himself, confessing he had been dreaming. No more was said, but the dream had started ideas at which he smiled even to himself, and carried out, half ashamed of his queer fancies. He would keep the plant a secret; it should be cultivated in the inner room of the ruin, the broad south window of which would provide all the warmth necessary. He would also carry out his dream by making the orchid a gift to Lady Coke. Had she not been an angel of goodness to him and his? What more beautiful an offering could he make in return for all she had done? Poor Peet! it was his way of proving his gratitude.
The very care with which he guarded his secret had roused the curiosity of Thomas, and he had spoken of it contemptuously to a friend, a gardener on a neighbouring estate. It so happened that at that very moment the man had with him a Dutchman, who had come on business to England, and had run down to pay a visit to his friend. When Thomas turned to go, this man offered to accompany him a little way. He soon found out all that Thomas could tell him about the new plant, which certainly was not much. Thomas was encouraged, however, to discover all he could, and promises of a rich reward were held out if the plant proved to be as rare as Thomas imagined. The man, being a dealer in bulbs, was fully aware of the probable value of such a discovery, and took pains to enlarge on the huge prices paid for new specimens. Thomas, as a boy, had readThe Orchid Hunters, and was not wholly ignorant of the vast sums spent in sending men out to various parts of the world, especially India and South America, to seek for new treasures in these beautiful plants. He listened, therefore, with eagerness, but at the same time assured himself he did not intend to steal the plant. He would only discover all he could, especially where it was to be found, which the Dutchman told him was the most important point.
It had indeed been 'here a little, there a little;' so little that Thomas had considered it was not worth thinking about. A bit of information that was all. Yet it had led to the theft of what he knew to be of great value, and to the loss of his kind mistress's little ward. It might well be said, 'How great a matter a little fire kindleth!'
(Continued on page172.)