I
n looking back on those days, I simply wonder at my own audacity. Am I really and truly the same Merle Fenton who rang at the bell at Prince's Gate and informed the astonished footman that I was the person applying for the nurse's situation? I recall that scene now with a laugh, but I frankly own that that moment was not the pleasantest in my life. True, it had its ludicrous side; but how is one to enjoy the humour of an amusing situation alone? and, to tell the truth, the six foot of plush and powder before me was somewhat alarming to my female timidity. I hear now the man's startled "I beg your pardon, ma'am."
"I have come by appointment," I returned, with as much dignity as I could summon under the trying circumstances; "will you inform your mistress, Mrs. Morton, that I have come about the nurse's situation?"
Of course, he was looking at me from head to foot. In spite of the disguising plainness of my dress, I suppose the word gentlewoman was clearly stamped upon me. Heaven forbid that under any circumstances that brand, sole heritage of my dead parents, should ever be effaced. Then he opened the door of a charming little waiting-room, and civilly enough bade me seat myself, and for some minutes I was left alone. I think nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed before he reappeared with the message that his mistress was now disengaged and would see me. I followed the man as closely as I could through the long hall and up the wide staircase; not for worlds would I have owned that a certain shortness of breath, unusual in youth, seemed to impede me. At the top, I found myself in a handsome corridor, communicating with two drawing-rooms of noble dimensions, as they call them in advertisements, and certainly it was a princely apartment that I entered. A lady was writing busily at a small table at the further end of the room. As the man spoke to her, she did not at once raise her head or turn round; she was evidently finishing a note. A minute later she laid aside her pen and came towards me.
"I am sorry that I could not attend to you at once, and yet you were very punctual," she began, in a pleasant, well-modulated voice, and then she stopped and regarded me with unfeigned surprise.
She was a very lovely young woman, with an indescribable matronly air about her that spoke of the mother. She would have been really quite beautiful but for a certain worn look, often seen in women of fashion; and when she spoke there was a sweetness and simplicity of manner that was most winning.
"Pardon me," with a shade of perplexity in her eyes, "but I suppose my servant was right in stating that you had come by appointment in answer to my advertisement?"
"Yes, madam," I returned, readily; for her slight nervousness put me at my ease. "I have your letter here."
"And you are really applying for the nurse's situation—the upper nurse, I mean; for, of course, there is an under nurse kept. I hope" (colouring a little) "that you will not think me rude if I say that I was not prepared for the sort of person I was to see."
I could have groaned as I thought of my note. Was it possible that I had spelt "advertisement" wrongly, and yet I had the paper before me; my handwriting was neat and legible, but evidently Mrs. Morton was drawing some comparison between my letter and appearance, and I did not doubt that the former had not prepossessed her in my favour.
I became confused in my turn.
"I hope to prove to you," I began, in a very small voice, "that I am a fit person to apply for your situation. I am very fond of children; I never lose my patience with them as other people do, or think anything a trouble; I wish to take up this work from love as well as necessity—I mean," correcting myself, for she looked still more astonished, "that though I am obliged to work for my living, I would rather be a nurse than anything else."
"Will you answer a few questions?" and, as though by an afterthought, "will you sit down?" for she had been standing to keep me company out of deference to my superior appearance.
"I will answer any question you like to put to me, madam."
"You have never been in service youtell me in your letter. Have you ever filled any kind of situation?"
I shook my head.
"You are quite young I should say?"
"Two and twenty last Christmas."
"I should hardly have thought you so old. Will you oblige me with your name?"
"Merle Fenton."
A half smile crossed her beautiful mouth. It was evident that she found the name somewhat incongruous, and then she continued a little hastily, "If you have never filled any sort of situation, it will be somewhat difficult to judge of your capacity. Of course you have good references; can you tell me a little about yourself and your circumstances?"
I was fast losing my nervousness by this time. In a few minutes I had given her a concise account of myself and my belongings. Once or twice she interrupted me by a question, such as, for example, when I spoke of Aunt Agatha, she asked the names of the families where she had lived as a governess; and once she looked a little surprised at my answer.
"I knew the Curzons before I was married," she observed, quietly; "they have often talked to me of their old governess, Miss Fenton; her name is Keith now, you say; she was a great favourite with her pupils. Well, is it not a pity that you should not follow your aunt's example? If you are not clever, would not the situation of a nursery governess be more fitting for you? Forgive me; I am only speaking for your good; one feels a little uncomfortable at seeing a gentlewoman desert the ranks to which she belongs."
My face was burning by this time; of course it must all come out—that miserable defect of mine, and everything else; but raising my eyes at that moment I saw such a kind look on Mrs. Morton's face, such quietly expressed sympathy for my very evident confusion, that in a moment my reserve broke down. I do not know what I said, but I believe I must have been very eloquent. I could hear her say to herself, "How very strange—what a misfortune!" when I frankly mentioned my inability to spell, but I did not linger long on this point.
Warmed by her strong interest, I detailed boldly what I called my theory. I told her of my love for little children, my longing to work amongst them, how deeply I felt that this would indeed be a gentlewoman's work, that I did not fear my want of experience. I told her that once I had stayed for some weeks at the house of one of my schoolfellows, and that every night and morning I had gone up to the nursery to help the nurse wash and dress the babies, and that at the end of a week I had learned to do it as well as the woman herself, and that she had told my schoolfellow that she had never seen any young lady so handy and patient with children, and that they were happier with me than with their own sister.
"The second child had the croup one night," I continued; "the mother was away, and nurse was too frightened to be of any use. When the doctor came he praised her very much for her prompt remedies; he said they had probably saved the boy's life, as the attack was a severe one. Nurse cried when he said that, and owned it was not she who had thought of everything, but Miss Fenton. I tell you this," I continued, "that you may understand that I am reliable. I was only nineteen then, and now I am two and twenty."
She looked at me again in a gentle, scrutinising way; I could feel that I was making way in her good opinion. Her curiosity was piqued; her interest strongly excited. She made no attempt to check me as I launched out into further defence of my theory, but she only smiled and said, "Very true, I agree with you there," as I spoke of the advantage of having an educated person to superintend the nursery. Indeed, I found myself retailing all my pet arguments in a perfectly fearless way, until I looked up and saw there were tears in her beautiful brown eyes.
"How well you talk," she said, with a sort of sigh. "You have thought it all out, I can see. I wonder what my husband would say. He is a member of Parliament, you know, and we are very busy people, and society has such claims on us that I cannot be much with my children. I have only two; Joyce is three years old, and my boy is nearly eighteen months. Oh, he is so lovely, and to think I can only see him for a few minutes at a time, that I lose all his pretty ways; it is such a trouble to me. His nurse is leaving to be married, and I am so anxious to find someone who will watch over my darlings and make them happy."
She paused, as the sound of approaching footsteps were audible in the corridor, and rose hastily as an impatient, "Violet, where are you, my dear?" was distinctly audible.
"That is Mr. Morton; will you excuse me a moment?" And the next moment I could hear her say, "I was in the blue drawing-room, Alick. I have sent off the letters, and now I want to speak to you a moment," and her voice died away as they moved farther down the corridor.
I felt a keen anxiety as to the result of that conversation. I was very impulsive by nature, and I had fallen in love with Mrs. Morton. The worn look on the beautiful young face had touched me somehow. One of my queer visionary ideas came over me as I recalled her expression. I thought that if I were an artist, and that my subject was the "Massacre of the Innocents," that the mother's face in the foreground should be Mrs. Morton's. "Rachel Weeping for her Children;" something of the pathetic maternal agony, as for a lost babe, had seemed to cross her face as she spoke of her little ones. I found out afterwards that, though she wore no mourning, Mrs. Morton had lost a beautiful infant about four months ago. It had not been more than six weeks old, but the mother's heart was still bleeding. Many months afterwards she told me that she often dreamed of her little Muriel—she had only been baptised the day before her death—and woke trying to stifle her sobs that she might not disturb her husband. I sat cogitating this imaginary picture of mine, and shuddering over the sanguinary details, until Mrs. Morton returned, and, to my embarrassment, her husband was with her.
I gave him a frightened glance as he crossed the room with rapid footsteps. He was a quiet-looking man, with a dark moustache, some years older than his wife. His being slightly bald added somewhat to his appearance of age. In reality he was not more than five and thirty. I thought him a little cool and critical in manner, but his voice was pleasant. He looked at me keenly as he spoke; it was my opinion at that moment that not an article of my dress escaped his observation. I had selected purposely a pair of mended gloves, and I am convinced the finger ends were at once under his inspection. He was a man who thought no details beneath him, but would bring his masculine intellect even to the point of discovering the fitness of his children's nurse.
"Mrs. Morton tells me that you have applied for the situation of upper nurse," he began, not abruptly, but in the quick tones of a busy man who has scant leisure. "I have heard all you have told her; she seems desirous of testing your abilities, but I must warn you that I distrust theories myself. My dear," turning to his wife, "I must say that this young person looks hardly old enough for the position, and you own she has no real experience. Would not a more elderly person be more suitable, considering that you are so seldom in your nursery? Of course, this is your department, but since you ask my advice——" with a little shrug that seemed to dismiss me and the whole subject.
A wistful, disappointed look came over his wife's face. I was too great a stranger to understand the real position of affairs, only my intuition guided me at that moment. It was not until much later that I found out that Mrs. Morton never disputed her husband's will, even in trifles; that he ordered the plan of her life as well as his own; that her passionate love for her children was restrained in order that her wifely and social duties should be carried out; that she was so perfectly obedient to him, not from fear, but from an excess of womanly devotion, that she seldom even contested an opinion. My fate was very nearly sealed at that moment, but a hasty impulse prompted me to speak. Looking Mr. Morton full in the face, I said, a little piteously, "Do not dismiss me because of my youth, for that is a fault that time will mend. Want of experience is a greater obstacle, but it will only make me more careful to observe every direction and carry out every wish. If you consent to try me, I am sure neither you nor Mrs. Morton will repent it."
He looked at me very keenly again as I spoke; indeed, his eyes seemed to search me through and through, and then his whole manner changed.
I have been told that Nature had been kind to me in one respect by endowing me with a pleasant voice. I believe thatI was freer from vanity than most girls of my age, but I was glad in my inmost heart to know that no tone of mine would ever jar upon a human ear, but I was more than glad now when I saw Mr. Morton's grave face relax.
"You speak confidently," he returned. "You seem to have a strange faith in your own theory, and plenty of self-reliance, but I am afraid that, like most young people, you have only regarded it from one point of view. Are you aware of the unpleasantness of such a situation? If you came to us you might have nothing of which to complain from Mrs. Morton or myself, but we could not answer for the rest of my household; the servants would regard you as a sort of hybrid, belonging to no special sphere; they might show you scant respect, and manifest a great deal of jealousy."
"I have faced all that," I returned, with a smile, "but I think the difficulties would be like Bunyan's lions—they were chained, you know. I do not believe these sort of things would hurt me. I should never be away from the children in the nursery; I should be unmolested and at home."
"Alick!" I could hear a whole petition breathed into that softly uttered word. Mr. Morton heard it too, for he turned at once and then looked at his wife.
"Do you really wish to try this young person, Violet, my dear? It is for you to decide; this is your province, as I said before."
"If she will love our children and watch over them in our absence," she whispered, but I caught the words. Then aloud, "Yes, thank you, Alick, I should like to try her. I think she would make Joyce happy. I can go and see Mrs. Keith this afternoon when I am out driving, and perhaps I could arrange for her to come soon."
"Very well," he returned, briefly, but he spoke in the old dry manner, as though he were not quite pleased. "When you are disengaged will you join me in the library? I have some more letters I want copied."
"I will be ready soon," she said, with a sweet grateful glance at him, as though she had received some unexpected bounty at his hands, and as he wished me good morning, and left the room, she continued, eagerly, "Will you come with me now and make acquaintance with the children. I have seen them already this morning, so they will not expect me, and it will be such a surprise. My little girl is always with me while I dress. I have so little time to devote to them; but I snatch every moment."
She sighed as she spoke, and I began to understand, in a dim, groping sort of way, that fate is not so unequal after all, that even this beautiful creature had unsatisfied wants in her life, that it was possible that wealth and position were to her only tiresome barriers dividing her from her little ones. Her sweetest pleasures only came to her by snatches. Most likely she envied humble mothers, and did not pity them because their arms ached with carrying a heavy infant, aching limbs being more bearable than an aching heart.
A flight of broad, handsomely-carpeted stairs brought us to a long shut-in corridor, fitted up prettily with plants and statuettes. A rocking-horse stood in one corner; the nursery door was open. It was a long, cheerful room, with three windows, looking over the public garden, and fitted up with a degree of comfort that bordered on luxury. Some canaries were singing in a green cage, a grey Persian kitten was curled up in the doll's bassinette, a little girl was kneeling on the cushioned window-seat, peeping between the bars at some children who were playing below. As Mrs. Morton said, softly, "Joyce, darling," she turned round with quite a startled air, and then clambered down hastily and ran to her mother.
"Why, it is my mother," in quite an incredulous voice, and then she caught hold of her mother's gown, and peeped at me from between the folds.
She was a pretty, demure-looking child, only somewhat thin and fragile in appearance, not in the least like her mother, but I could trace instantly the strongest resemblance to her father. She had the straight, uncurling hair like his, and her dark eyes were a little sunken under the finely-arched brows. It was rather a bewitching little face, only too thin and sallow for health, and with an intelligent expression, almost amounting to precocity.
"And where is your brother, my darling?" asked her mother, stooping to kiss her, and at this moment a pleasant-looking young woman came from the inner room with a small, curly-haired boy in her arms.
As she set him down on the floor, and he came toddling over the carpet, I forgot Mrs. Morton's presence, and knelt down and held out my arms to him. "Oh, you beauty!" I exclaimed, in a coaxing voice, "will you come to me?" for I quite forgot myself at the sight of the perfect baby features.
Baby pointed a small finger at me, "O' ook, gurgle-da," he said, in the friendliest way; and I sealed our compact with many kisses.
"Dear me, ma'am," observed nurse, eyeing me in a dubious manner, for probably the news of my advent had preceded me to the upper regions, "this is very singular; I never saw Master Baby take such a fancy to anyone before; he always beats them off with his dear little hand."
"Gurgle-da, ook ook," was baby's unexpected response to this, as he burst into a shout of laughter, and he made signs for me to carry him to the canaries.
I do not know what Mrs. Morton said to nurse, but she came up after a minute or two and watched us, smiling.
"He does seem very friendly; more so than my shy pet here," for Joyce was still holding her mother's gown.
"She will be friends with me too," I returned, confidently; "children are so easily won." And then, as Mrs. Morton held out her arms for her boy, I parted with him reluctantly.
There was no need for me to stay any longer then. Mrs. Morton reiterated her intention of calling on Aunt Agatha that afternoon, after which she promised to speak to me again, and feeling that things were in a fair way of being settled according to my wishes, I left the house with a lighter heart than I had entered it.
(To be continued.)
Sing among the hollyhocks,"Summer, fare thee well!"Ring the drooping blossomsFor a passing bell.Droop the sunflowers, heavy discsTotter to their fall.Up the valley creep the mistsFor a funeral pall.Lingering roses woefullyIn the cold expire.Heap the dead and dyingFor a funeral pyre.While the gale is sighing,While the wind makes moan,Sigh among the hollyhocksOf the summer flown.
Sing among the hollyhocks,"Summer, fare thee well!"Ring the drooping blossomsFor a passing bell.
Droop the sunflowers, heavy discsTotter to their fall.Up the valley creep the mistsFor a funeral pall.
Lingering roses woefullyIn the cold expire.Heap the dead and dyingFor a funeral pyre.
While the gale is sighing,While the wind makes moan,Sigh among the hollyhocksOf the summer flown.
"SIGH AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKS OF THE SUMMER FLOWN.""SIGH AMONG THE HOLLYHOCKSOF THE SUMMER FLOWN."
Stanley Lucas and Co.
O, hur vidgas ej ditt bröst. Liebe, liebe.Two Lieder. By Maude V. White.—The first, from the Swedish, has also an English set of words; the setting of the second is in German only, being a translation into that language from the Hungarian.—There is a dreamy charm pervading both of these little ballads, which will be best appreciated by truly musical and well-educated singers.
Two Locks of Hair.Song to Longfellow's poetry. By Sabine E. Barwell.—Very simple. The music is dedicated to Charles Santley, our great baritone singer.
Alone with thee.Song by Gilbert R. Betjemann. Compass E to F sharp.—An ambitious song, full of striking modulations and really dramatic effects. The accompaniments are charming.
Ivy Green.A good song for basses or baritones. The words by Charles Dickens, the music by Arthur C. Stericker.—Plenty of go about it, and quite the song for strong, manly voices.
Wandering Wishes.Poetry by Lady Charlotte Elliot (from "Medusa" and other poems). Music by Robert B. Addison.—A very poetical setting of a very fanciful poem.
Our Darling.Ballad by Robert Reece, with music by Berthold Tours.—This justly favourite composer has written the simplest, most touching, and melodious music to a very touching and sad story. It is a compliment to this ballad to recommend it to all who wish for a good cry. It has this advantage over the maudlin griefs of the discontented folk to whom we have called attention in previous notices, that the poor bereaved parents who miss their little darling from the chair in which he used to listen to their fairy stories and tales of distant lands over the sea, are content to regard him as at rest in the heavenly country, and in the angels' care. After all, if you do get the song, your tears will be happy ones.
Edwin Ashdown.
Inez.Zamora.Two Spanish dances for the pianoforte by Michael Watson.—The first is a Habanera, and is redolent ofCarmenand Spanish want of energy. It is more characteristic than the second, although that is a very good reproduction of the typical peasant dance of all districts of the Peninsula.
Daphne.Valse brillante.Celadon.Gavotte. Two drawing-room pieces of more than ordinary merit by J. H. Wallis.—Fairly easy to learn, and effective when learnt.
May-Dew.By Sir Sterndale Bennett; transcribed for the pianoforte by Jules Brissac.—We complained a few months back of someone having converted this lovely song into a part-song; we can only say of the present transformation, that when the voice part is at work all goes fairly well, and from a piano point of view represents the original; but the two bars of symphony before the first and second verses of the song are stripped of all their original life, and a very mangled substitute is offered.
London Music Publishing Co.
The Broken Strings of a Mandoline.Words and music by Edith Frances Prideaux.—The story of a little Italian street-player. The compass is for sopranos; the melody is simple and not very original.
Sketches in Dance Rhythms.1. Waltz; 2. Minuet; 3. Tarantella. By Erskine Allon.—We have before alluded to these sketches, of which Mr. Allon has composed such excellent examples. We prefer No. 1 of the present series, but do not consider these to be equal to former numbers.
Weekes and Co.
Abendlied.Im Rosenbusch.Two songs by J. H. le Breton Girdlestone; the words, by Hoffman von Fallersleben, being translated into English by Dr. Baskerville.—Most interesting little songs, and sure to give pleasure by their sweet simplicity.
Andante.Varied for the pianoforte, and composed by Henry A. Toase. A very quiet, harmless production. Only three variations, and those not so much of the andante as of its accompaniment.
J. and J. Hopkinson.
Intermezzo and Minuet for Pianoforte.By George A. Lovell.—Two very nicely-written little pieces. The minuet is especially attractive.
Barcarole for Pianoforte.By Carl Hause.—A good drawing-room piece. The middle movement in F minor makes an effective contrast to the first part.
Hutchings and Romer.
The Little Sweep.Song. Written and composed by James C. Beazley, R.A.M.—There is no such title as R.A.M. A.R.A.M. and M.R.A.M. we know, but we must protest against this unlawful use of the name of our oldest academy of music. The song is a stirring and dramatic account of how a lost child was recovered by his mother. It is to be declaimed by a contralto.
Hutchings and Co.
The Christian's Armour.Oratorio. By Joseph L. Roeckel; the text compiled by Mrs. Alexander Roberts from Ephesians vi.; interspersed with hymns from several sources.—A useful work for services of song or chapel festivities. There is a sameness about the work, and it suggests a weary feeling towards the close. The choruses are mostly rather weak chorale. Occasionally an evidently fugal subject is announced, which is never destined to form the subject for a fugue. However, the story is well put together, the music is quite easy, and many choirs, unable to conquer greater difficulties, will feel at home in this so-called "oratorio."
Six Morceaux de Salon.Pour violin, avec accompagnement de piano. Par Guido Papini. Op. 66.—The author of "La Mécanisme du jeune Violiniste" has given us in these little pieces a charming addition to therépertoireof the amateur violinist. Specially tender and expressive is No. 4. The piano shares with the violin both the difficulties and the interests of each of themorceaux.
Victoria Gavotte.For piano. By Tito Mattei.—A capital piano piece. We presume from the title that this is Signor Mattei's contribution to the Jubilee Commemoration.
Robert Cocks and Co.
Gladys.Rustic Dance. Composed for the pianoforte by Howard Talbot.—A bright, telling piece. It would be very useful as anentr'actein your Christmas charades.
For Old Sake's Sake.Song for contraltos. By Behrend.
W. Morley and Co.
Watching the Embers.Song. Composed by Ciro Pinsuti to Weatherly's words.—With a pretty refrain, but for the most part made up of a series of common phrases. It is to be obtained in B flat, C, and D minors.
Childie.Song. By Behrend. Published in keys to suit all voices.—The song is very similar to all his others. An old lady advising a child to die young.
The Biter Bit.Song. Words and music by Henry Pontet.—A warning to any who would marry for money, and not for love. In learning the above three songs I am sure that singers will be as much distracted as I have been by little squares like lottery coupons announcing that somebody else's song cost £250. If this statement could appear elsewhere—say on separate slips—the songs would be more pleasant to read.
Henry Klein.
The Land of Song.Song for tenors and sopranos by that clever composer, Franz Leideritz. Not so original as "Flowers from Home," the memory of which still delights us.
Orsborn and Tuckwood.
Sailing Across the Sea.Song. By Vernon Rey.—Prettily told and easy to learn.
Merry Melodies.A series of duets for two violins for schools and classes, arranged by Arthur Graham. We see from the title-page that there are to be arrangements of the works of eminent composers, but the names are not given.
W. J. Willcocks and Co.
Offertoire and Fugue in B flat.Grand Offertoire, founded upon subjects in Schumann's Quintet, op. 44.—These are two finely-written organ solos by George F. Vincent. Valuable additions to our stock of English organ music.
Marriott and Williams.
Twenty Miles to London Town.Song. Written and composed by Gerald M. Lane.—Mr. Lane is more fortunate in his music than in his words. The ballad—for genuine English ballad it is—is of the "Bailiff's Daughter of Islington" type, and is published in F, G, and A.
Captor and Captive.A song of Araby. By Edwin J. Quance.—A good stirring song for baritones.
Bowerman and Co.
Deuxième Nocturne pour Piano.Par G. J. Rubini.—An unpretending piano piece of the Gustave Lange type.
Allemande.—Concentrated white velouté (see velouté) sauce, seasoned with nutmeg and lemon juice, and thickened with yolks of eggs and cream.
Angelica.—A plant, the stalks of which are preserved with sugar; as it retains its green colour it is pretty for ornamenting sweet dishes, cakes, etc.
Appareil.—This word is applicable to a preparation composed of various ingredients, as appareil de gateau (mixture for a cake).
Aspic.—Name given to clear savoury jelly, to distinguish it from sweet jelly. Cold entrées, which are moulded and have the ingredients set in jelly, are also called aspics.
Assiette volante.—A small dish (holding no more than a plate) which is handed round the table without ever being placed on it. Things that must be eaten very hot are often served in this way. Little savouries, foie-gras, or cheese fondus in paper cases are thus handed.
Au bleu.—An expensive way of boiling fish. A broth is made by boiling three onions, two carrots, two turnips, some parsley, pepper, salt, sufficient water, a tumbler of white wine, and a tumbler of vinegar together; the scum is removed as it rises, the fish is simmered in the broth. This broth is called Court bouillon. Fish cooked thus is eaten hot or cold, with suitable sauce.
Baba.—A Polish cake of a very light description.
Bain marie.—A sort of bath-saucepan, which stands on a stove with hot water in it, and has small bright saucepans stood in the water for the contents to cook slowly without reducing or spoiling them. A bain marie has no cover.
Bande.—The strip of paste that is put round tart; sometimes the word is also applied to a strip of paper or bacon.
Barde de lard.—A slice of bacon. To barder a bird is to fasten a slice of bacon over it.
Béchamel sauce.—Equal quantities of velouté sauce and cream boiled together. The sauce was named after a celebrated cook.
Beignets.—Fritters.
Beurre noir.—Butter stirred in a frying-pan over a brisk fire until it is brown, then lemon-juice or vinegar, and pepper and salt are added to it.
Beurre fondus.—Melted, that is to say oiled, butter.
Bigarade sauce.—Melted butter, with the thin rind and the juice of a Seville orange boiled in it.
Blanch.—To parboil or scald. To whiten meat or poultry, or remove the skins of fruit or vegetables by plunging them into boiling water, and then sometimes putting them into cold water afterwards, as almonds are blanched.
Blanquette.—A kind of fricassée.
Boudin.—A very delicate entrée prepared with quenelle forcemeat or with fine mince.
Bouquet garni.—A handful of parsley, a sprig of thyme, a small bay leaf, and six green onions, tied securely together with strong thread.
Bouilli.—Boiled meat; but fresh beef, well boiled, is generally understood by this term.
Bouillie.—A sort of hasty pudding. Bouillie-au-lait is flour and milk boiled together.
Bouillon.—Thin broth or soup.
Braise.—To stew meat that has been previously blanched, very slowly with bacon or other fat, until it is tender.
Braisière.—A saucepan with a lid with a rim to it, on which lighted charcoal can be put.
Brider.—To put thin string or thread through poultry, game, etc., to keep it in shape.
Brioche.—A sort of light cake, rather like Bath bun, but not sweet, having as much salt as sugar in it.
Brandy butter.—Fresh butter, sugar, and brandy beaten together to a cream.
Caramel.—Made by melting a little loaf sugar in a saucepan, and as soon as it is brown, before it burns, adding some water to it. Sometimes used as a colouring for stews. Made into a syrup by adding more sugar after the water, it is a very good pudding sauce.
Casserole.—A stew-pan. The name given to a crust of rice moulded in the shape of a pie, then baked with mince or a purée of game in it.
Cerner.—Is to cut paste half way through with a knife or cutter, so that part can be removed when cooked to make room for something else.
Charlotte.—Consists of very thin slices of bread, steeped in oiled butter, and placed in order in a mould, which is then filled with fruit or preserve.
Chartreuse of vegetables.—Consists of vegetables tastefully arranged in a plain mould, which is then filled with either game, pigeons, larks, tendons, scollops, or anything suitably prepared.
Chartreuse à la Parisienne.—An ornamental dish made principally with quenelle forcemeat, and filled with some kind of ragoût, scollops, etc.
Chausse.—A jelly bag.
Compote.—Fruits preserved in syrup. Apple and any other kind of fruit jelly. This term is also used to designate some savoury dishes, prepared with larks, quails, or pigeons, with truffles, mushrooms, or peas.
Consommé.—Strong and clear broth used as a basis for many soups and gravies.
Conti(potage). Lentil soup.
Contise.—Small scollops of truffles; red tongue, or other things that are with a knife inlaid in fillets of any kind to ornament them, are said to be contisés.
Court bouillon.—Seeau bleu.
Croquettes.—A preparation of minced or pounded meat, or of potatoes or rice, with a coating of bread-crumbs. Croquettes means something crisp.
Croquantes.—Fruit with sugar boiled to crispness.
Croustades.—An ornamental pie-case, sometimes made of shaped bread, and filled with mince, etc.
Croutons.—Sippets of bread fried in butter; used to garnish. They are various sizes and shapes; sometimes served with soups.
Cuillerée.—A spoonful. In most French recipes I have found ten spoonfuls equal to a quarter of a pint of fluid.
Cuisson.—The name given to the liquid in which anything has been cooked.
Dariole.—A sort of cake served hot. The name of small round moulds in which various little cakes are baked or puddings steamed.
Daubière.—An oval stew-pan in which daubes are cooked. Daubes are meat or fowl stewed in sauce.
Dégorger.—To soak in water for a longer or shorter time.
Dés.—Very small square dice.
Désosser.—To bone; to remove the bones from fish, meat, game, or poultry.
Dorer.—To paint the surface of tarts or cakes with a brush, with egg or sugar, so that they may be glazed when cooked.
Dorure.—The glaze one uses for pastry; sometimes beaten white of egg, sometimes yolk of egg and cold water, sometimes sugar only.
Entrées.—A name for side dishes, such as cutlets, fricassées, fricandeaux, sweetbreads, etc.
Entrées(cold).—Consist of cutlets, fillets of game, poultry, &c.; salads of various kinds, aspics, ham, and many other things.
Entremets.—Second course side dishes. They are of four kinds—namely, cold entrées, dressed vegetables, scalloped shellfish, or dressed eggs, and lastly, sweets of any kind, puddings, jellies, creams, fritters, pastry, etc.
Escalopes.—Collops; small round pieces of meat or fish, beaten with a steak beater before they are cooked, to make them tender.
Espagnole.—Rich, strong stock made with beef, veal and ham, flavoured with vegetables, and thickened with brown roux. This and velouté are the two main sauces from which nearly all others are made. The espagnole for brown, the velouté for white.
Etamine.—See Tammy.
Etuver.—To stew meat with little moisture, and over a very slow fire, or with hot cinders over and under the saucepan.
Faggot.—A bouquet garni.
Fanchonettes and florentines.—Varieties of small pastry, covered with white of egg and sugar.
Faire tomber à glace.—Means to boil down stock or gravy until it is as thick as glaze, and is coloured brown.
Farce.—Is ordinary forcemeat, such as is used for raised pies.
Feuil etage.—Very light puff paste.
Flamber.—To singe fowls and game after they have been plucked.
Flans.—A flan is made by rolling a piece of paste out rather larger than the tin in which it is to be baked, then turning up the edge of the paste to form a sort of wall round. Flans are filled with fruit or preserve, and baked.
Foncer.—To put slices of ham or bacon in the bottom of a saucepan, to line a mould with raw paste, or to put the first layer of anything in a mould—it may be a layer of white paper.
Fontaine.—A heap of flour with a hollow in the middle, into which to pour the water.
Fondu.—Or fondue. A cheese soufflé.
Fricandeau.—Fillets of poultry or the best pieces of veal, neatly trimmed, larded, and well glazed, with their liquor reduced to glaze. They are served as entrées.
Fricassée.—A white stew, generally made with chicken and white sauce, to which mushrooms or other things may be added.
Fraiser.—A way of handling certain pastry to make it more compact and easier to work.
Frémir,frissonner.—To keep a liquid just on the boil—what is called simmering.
Galette.—A broad flat cake.
Gateau.—Cake. This word is also used for some kinds of tarts, and for different puddings. A gateau is also made of pig's liver; it is therefore rather difficult to define what a "gateau" is.
Gaufres.—Or wafers. Light spongy biscuits cooked in irons over a stove.
Glacer.—To glaze; to brush hot meat or poultry over with concentrated meat gravy or sauce, so that it shall have a brown and shiny appearance. Glaze can be bought in skins. Glacer, in confectionery, means to ice pastry or fruit with sugar.
Gniocchi.—Small balls of paste made with flour, eggs, and cheese to put into soup.
Gramme.—A French weight. An ounce avoirdupois is nearly equal to thirty grammes.
Gras.—Made with meat and fat.
Gratins(au).—Term applied to certain dishes of fish, game, poultry, vegetables, and macaroni dressed with rich sauces, and generally finished with bread-crumbs or bread-raspings over the top.
Gratiner.—Is to brown by heat, almost burn.
Grenadins.—Similar to a fricandeau, but smaller; grenadins are served with vegetable purées.
(To be continued.)
"HE STRUCK ACROSS UNBEATEN PATHS.""HE STRUCK ACROSS UNBEATEN PATHS."
W
hen John Smith, as for reasons of his own he called himself, left Pierre, he pulled his hat well over his eyes and started off across the downs in the direction of Lewes. He knew the country well, and partly on this account, partly because he did not wish to be recognised, he struck across unbeaten paths, where he was not likely to meet anyone, avoiding the high roads as much as he could, and travelling as near as possible as the crow flies, over downs and meadows to the village he was seeking. It was a good six miles, and he had neither time nor inclination to pause and look at the scenery around him, so full of charm to those who live among it, so repellent at first to the stranger's eye, which has not been educated to notice the various tints and colours which sweep over the soft rounded outlines of those purple downs, but is at once caught by the grey hollows of the hills and the patches of white chalk which peep out every here and there on the steeps, and at a distance look like the perpetual snow of Alpine regions. The scenery of the Sussex Downs is like the Sussex people in this respect—it requires to be well known to be thoroughly appreciated; cold and reserved at first, it is only on better acquaintance you learn the sterling worth, the truth, the real kindness of heart, and the hospitality which characterise the Sussex people. And the downs themselves will not yield all their beauty at once; you must live among them to thoroughly know and love them; cold and grey and monotonous as they look at first, in the autumn especially, you will see what a variety of colours they can show when the fields are golden with corn, and the downs themselves richly dotted with wild flowers, and the clouds cast fleeting shadows over the slopes, and the purple and green of the nearer hills melt away into delicate blues and rosy greys in the distance. And then in winter the clouds play such tricks with the soft rounded hills and their white chalk sides, which chalk will reveal itself in all its nakedness every here and there, that it is often easy to imagine yourself in Switzerland, and difficult exceedingly to tell where the downs end and the clouds begin, so softly have they blended together, those grey clouds, those white and purple downs. No, the downs are not monotonous to those who look with careful eyes, at least, though the casual observer may see nothing in them but multitudes of sheep. Unique they may be, unlike the rest of England they certainly are, but not monotonous. And then the dales, with the villages nestling in the bottom, are so picturesque, and the green pastures, separated by dykes, have a homelike appearance, with the small black Sussex cattle with their long white horns, at least to a Sussex eye.
Over some of these meadows the carpenter, with the little French baby in his arms, now made his way. Hitherto he had been lucky and had met no one, but now he was approaching a village a few miles from Lewes, which, for the purposes of this story, we will call Bournemer, and though the sun had set, it was still too light for him to risk being recognised, so he still kept to the fields, which he could the more easily do, as the house he sought was nearly a mile from the village. At last he saw it standing in the next field with a clump of trees on one side of it; it was little more than a cottage, though from the sheds adjoining it might have been taken for a small farmhouse; it was sheltered from the north by the down at the foot of which it lay, its red roof telling well against the soft grey background in the evening light. Itfaced the field, the road at the foot of the down running at the back of it, and already there was a light in one of the lower rooms; the front door was closed, but the gate of the field was open, details which the carpenter took in at a glance, and interpreted to mean that the shepherd was gone to fold his sheep for the night, and his wife was at home awaiting his return to supper.
"He will be back soon. I must be quick; now is my time," said the carpenter to himself, making his way towards the house by the clump of trees, which afforded him a little shelter. Here he paused for a few minutes, and, after listening intently, put the baby on the ground while he took off his shoes. Then, picking it up, he crept quickly and noiselessly across the path towards the front door, on the step of which he laid his burden, and then crept back to the trees, where he put on his shoes, and with the purse which Léon had given him for the baby's maintenance in his pocket, he made his way back to the boat on the beach, congratulating himself on the success of his scheme. No one, he argued, was any the worse for it, while he was one thousand francs the better. He had wronged no one, as the baby was sure to be well taken care of. John Shelley was certain to take it in, and would probably think the Lord had sent it to him, and, with a chuckle over the shepherd's simplicity, he went his way.
The baby was asleep when he deposited it on the doorstep, but it woke shortly after, and began to cry lustily for food, but the doors and windows being all closed, its wailing did not penetrate to the inside of the house. But before the carpenter had been gone half an hour footsteps approached the house, and the shepherd and his dog entered the gate of the field in which it stood. A fine, big, handsome man looked this shepherd as he paused to fasten the gate; about thirty years old, fair, with a florid complexion, blue eyes, and a long, yellowish beard, a face more remarkable for its kindly good humour than for its intelligence. He was dressed in a long smock, and he carried a crook, so that there was no mistaking his occupation, of which, by the way, he was very proud; his father and his grandfather and their fathers and grandfathers had been shepherds before him for many generations, and that he should ever be anything else than a shepherd was the last idea likely to enter John Shelley's mind. A shepherd by birth and education, he followed his calling with an ardour which would have amounted to passion in a warmer temperament. His sheep were his first thought on waking, his last as he closed his eyes at night, and he understood them and their ways thoroughly. The life suited him exactly; it might be a lonely life, wandering for hours on the downs without meeting a living creature day after day, except, perhaps, occasionally a neighbouring shepherd, but he was used to it. It might be an anxious life, especially in lambing time, but he was lucky, and rarely lost any lambs. It might be a dangerous life sometimes in the winter fogs, rambling about on the hills with the risk of falling into a chalk pit and breaking his neck, but he was always too anxious about his sheep when overtaken by a fog to think of his own danger. Then the wages were good, and the same all the year round, with the chance of making some extra money in the shearing season, and so much a head on each lamb that he reared; and to all intents and purposes he was his own master, for the farmer to whom the sheep belonged entrusted the management of the flock entirely to him.
But while the shepherd was fastening the gate the dog ran to the baby, whose cry had reached his quick ears before it did his master's, and having sniffed all round it, he set up some short, quick barks, and ran back to the shepherd, calling his attention to the baby as plainly as his inability to speak would allow him.
"What is it, Rover? what is it? Down, sir, it is only the baby crying; the window must be open," said the shepherd, as he approached the house, but Rover, as if to contradict his master, ran up to the bundle on the doorstep, and barked louder than ever.
John Shelley took longer to take in the fact that an infant was lying crying on his doorstep than his dog had done. He stooped and looked, and took off his hat to rub his head thoughtfully and stimulate his brain that he might grasp the idea, and then he stooped again, and this time picked up the baby, and throwing open the door of the large kitchen, with its sanded floor of red bricks, stood on the threshold, holding out the wailing child, and saying—
"Look here, Polly, see what I have found on the doorstep."
Mrs. Shelley, who was sitting working, with her foot on a cradle which she was rocking gently to and fro, more from habit, since the baby was asleep, than for any real reason, looked up and saw in her husband's arms a bundle wrapped in a red shawl embroidered with gold.
"What is it, John?" she asked; but a cry from the bundle answered the question, and she sprang to her husband's side in astonishment.
She was a tall, good-looking woman, five or six years younger than the shepherd, with brown hair and eyes, and a rich colour in her cheeks, which came and went when she was excited; a bright intelligent face, not beautiful, scarcely handsome in repose, but which at times was so animated that she often passed for a very pretty woman.
"Give it to me. Oh, John! John! where can it have come from? The dear little creature! And see what lovely things it has? Only look at this satin quilt in which it is wrapped, and, see, John, a toy of coral with gold bells! My pretty one, hush! hush! hush!" And Mrs. Shelley rocked the child in her arms; but her astonishment and admiration got the better of her motherly instinct for a moment, and she proceeded with her examination of its clothes. "Its nightdress is the finest cambric and trimmed with real lace, and see this exquisite handkerchief tucked in for a feeder; look! there is a coronet on it, John. I verily believe the 'Pharisees,' as the children say, brought it. Do go and see if there is a fairy ring in the meadow, then I shall be sure they did!"
Now, Sussex peasants—shepherds, especially—were very superstitious in the days in which this baby was found, and both John Shelley and his wife half believed that the fungus rings, so often found on the downs, were made by the fairies, or "Pharisees," as they called them. So, partly to see if he could find any further clue to the child, partly to look for the fungus ring, John Shelley took a lantern and went out to explore the premises.
As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Shelley, who was an impulsive woman, gave the little stranger the supper that by right belonged to her own infant.