THE GUITARIST.SOME NEW GUITAR MUSIC.Nowthat the guitar has again become a favourite and fashionable instrument, many girls are searching out and bringing to light guitars which their mothers, aye, and even their grandmothers, played on in days gone by, and they endeavour once more to awake the long silent strings (if any survive) with more or less musical and unmusical results. Presuming that our readers have learnt the rudiments from their master or mistress, or even if they have found them out themselves from such clear tutors as De Marescot’s (Metzler), or Madame Sidney Pratten’s (Boosey), they will find themselves soon able to undertake the accompaniments in a collection of twelve songs arranged for the guitar with much taste and discrimination in album form (1s. 6d.), by Lily Montagu (J. Williams). These include Schubert’s “Who is Sylvia,” Godard’s “Song of Florian;” songs by Cowen, Cellier and A. Horrocks, who sets Charles Kingsley’s wistful lines:—“I once had a sweet little doll, dears.”The poor damsel was lost in the heath one day, and, after bitter lamentation, she was found a terrible wreck long after by her faithful mistress, to whom“... for old sake’s sake, she is still, dears,The prettiest doll in the world.”Most of us have gone through the triste era of our girl-life, when we were obliged to confess to ourselves that we had “grown too big for dolls.”Vol. I. of Alfred Scott Gatty’s well-known plantation songs (Boosey) are now published for guitar, and they “go” capitally.There are some duets for two guitars by Madame Pratten, and their effect is quite charming; we think too that Messrs. Schott still have the old but delightful Opus 87, by Joseph Küffner, namely, twelve (short) duos for two guitars for the use of beginners.To those who wish to add the many Spanish graces there are to their guitar playing, we thoroughly recommend a really clever little 3s. book, particularly dealing with this difficult subject for description. It is entitled “Brilliant Effects on the Guitar,” by Edith Feilden (J. Blockley). Most teaching photographs show the hands in different positions on the guitar, and its dainty exterior is so gaily and well coloured by a representation of the Spanish flag, that it is attractive for a gift book. It is to be obtained of Miss Feilden, Feniscowles House, Scarborough.Mary Augusta Salmond.
THE GUITARIST.
THE GUITARIST.
THE GUITARIST.
Nowthat the guitar has again become a favourite and fashionable instrument, many girls are searching out and bringing to light guitars which their mothers, aye, and even their grandmothers, played on in days gone by, and they endeavour once more to awake the long silent strings (if any survive) with more or less musical and unmusical results. Presuming that our readers have learnt the rudiments from their master or mistress, or even if they have found them out themselves from such clear tutors as De Marescot’s (Metzler), or Madame Sidney Pratten’s (Boosey), they will find themselves soon able to undertake the accompaniments in a collection of twelve songs arranged for the guitar with much taste and discrimination in album form (1s. 6d.), by Lily Montagu (J. Williams). These include Schubert’s “Who is Sylvia,” Godard’s “Song of Florian;” songs by Cowen, Cellier and A. Horrocks, who sets Charles Kingsley’s wistful lines:—
“I once had a sweet little doll, dears.”
“I once had a sweet little doll, dears.”
“I once had a sweet little doll, dears.”
“I once had a sweet little doll, dears.”
The poor damsel was lost in the heath one day, and, after bitter lamentation, she was found a terrible wreck long after by her faithful mistress, to whom
“... for old sake’s sake, she is still, dears,The prettiest doll in the world.”
“... for old sake’s sake, she is still, dears,The prettiest doll in the world.”
“... for old sake’s sake, she is still, dears,The prettiest doll in the world.”
“... for old sake’s sake, she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.”
Most of us have gone through the triste era of our girl-life, when we were obliged to confess to ourselves that we had “grown too big for dolls.”
Vol. I. of Alfred Scott Gatty’s well-known plantation songs (Boosey) are now published for guitar, and they “go” capitally.
There are some duets for two guitars by Madame Pratten, and their effect is quite charming; we think too that Messrs. Schott still have the old but delightful Opus 87, by Joseph Küffner, namely, twelve (short) duos for two guitars for the use of beginners.
To those who wish to add the many Spanish graces there are to their guitar playing, we thoroughly recommend a really clever little 3s. book, particularly dealing with this difficult subject for description. It is entitled “Brilliant Effects on the Guitar,” by Edith Feilden (J. Blockley). Most teaching photographs show the hands in different positions on the guitar, and its dainty exterior is so gaily and well coloured by a representation of the Spanish flag, that it is attractive for a gift book. It is to be obtained of Miss Feilden, Feniscowles House, Scarborough.
Mary Augusta Salmond.
A VICE-REGAL DINNER-PARTY.ByA MAJOR’S DAUGHTER.Itwas not because I am a major’s daughter that an invitation came to me one bright autumn morning, but because I was the curate’s wife. We were seated at breakfast when the “command” to meet their Excellencies was handed up. Just like the proverbial curate’s family we were laying in a foundation of stirabout, onlyourporridge was swimming in thick yellow cream, and was daintily served. On the table, besides, was the purest heather honey, a few golden peaches, and hot rolls of crispy bread.“Thank goodness! a clergyman is always in full dress!” quoth the dear curate, as he pulled down his silk M.B. waistcoat. “But you, my dear Eileen, had better meditate on chiffons.”And meditate I did, until I was fairly puzzled. There was the white silk, and the pink one, the yellow brocade, with its beautiful train, and the simple muslin. I was very young at the time, and dearly loved finery.The real vital question of suitability turned on what the invitation meant. Were Lord and Lady L—— coming as royalty, or simply as themselves? The duchess alone could interpret her card, and so to the duchess I went.“Did you not notice that R.S.V.P. was omitted? Put on feathers and veils, and your best bib and tuckers,” said the dear old hostess. “’Tis as King and Queen their Excellencies come.”So, of course, the yellow brocade it had to be, with its low neck, and short topaz-trimmed sleeves.Now, though the curate’s wife was fairly well-to-do in the world, the curate would keep no carriage. It was quite out of the question to drive in a pony-trap to the Castle, so the duchess “loaned” one of her own state chariots! She did more, a few hours before dinner-time a square box was handed in at the Clergy House, containing a mass of copper-coloured William Allen Richardsons, arranged in the newest mode by the duchess’s head-gardener.Most of the house-party were assembled in the huge drawing-room when Mr. Giles, accompanied by his attendant satellites, threw open the door and announced—“The Reverend and Mrs. Smith.”It was blazing, too, with electric light, and sweet with perfume as I walked forward, to be encouragingly greeted by my dear old friend and patron.“Their Excellencies are not down yet,” she said kindly; “but you are just in time——”With this, the door was suddenly flung open again, and everyone stood up, whilst something like a cannon-ball plunged into the room! It was the Lord-Lieutenant! I found out, during the course of the evening, that this was his way of hurrying in, in order that the company might re-take their seats as soon as possible. A few more seconds, then a vision of loveliness in white satin and crystal, and a whole stomacher of magnificent pearls, walked in. It was sweet Lady L——. There were no introductions, and every usual order of procession into the dining-room was reversed. For the duchess went in first, leaning on the Lord-Lieutenant’s arm, immediately followed by the Duke, leading her Excellency. The rest of the company—thirteen couples—followed in stately order, the curate’s wife being last with some insignificant honourable.But she had her revenge! Her husband was the first to speak, as he was called upon by a rap to say grace, and she found herself on Lord L——’s right hand. In order to show why she was there, I must explain that the royal chairs were placed in the centre of the long table, not at each end, and that their Excellencies and our hosts occupied the middle of the room. In a few minutes I had time to notice that their own footmen stood behind the regal party, but that the rest of us were served by the duke’s servants.What a sight was that whole party! Every earl wore his star, and every countess her coronet. Jewels galore glittered everywhere. All the same, the most striking-looking man there was the curate, in his plain black dress, with his beautiful face just as usual—calm and radiant andspirituelle.I do not think that dinner was quite a success, though achefhad been engaged to cook it and two others at a fee of £100. The game was burned, and the ice-puddings were in lumps. There were long pauses between therêlêves, and an ominous wait before all the twelve courses were handed round. I was so much taken up with the scene that I frequently laid down my knife and fork, even before I had tasted the morsels set before me, and found everything whisked away in a second.Nearly two hours that dinner occupied. Then, from behind a palm, our hostess nodded to the other end of the table, and his Excellency stood up. For this moment I had waited in fear and trembling. I knew we had to make the tour of that long table, then back out of the room, for royalty must never see behind the scenes.I had practised a sweeping curtsey before the pier-glass at home. I had gracefully backed from before it over and over again, but when my turn came I grew the colour of my copper roses, and nearly tumbled over my train.Nobody seemed to notice, however, not even James Giles, the major-domo, so I was fairly cool by the time the duchess took me by the arm to introduce me to her Excellency.“It is as good as a presentation at Court, my dear,” she whispered, “and will give you theentrée.”I had often rehearsed this scene, and in imagination had seen Lady L—— standing up stately, and receiving the curate’s wife very frigidly. Behold the contrary.Seated on a stool before the blazing fire, with all her lovely dress crumpled up under her, Lady L—— was “roasting her bones,” as she said. She jumped up like a girl when the duchess led me towards her; and I really think she admired the yellow brocade.“I hope I shall soon see you at Court,” she said pleasantly, as I kissed her hand. “And your husband too. The brave stand made by the Church of —— in all her difficulties makes us value every one of her clergy and their wives, even if they are bits of girls like yourself.”Then she laughed, and I laughed, and we found out we had each a beautiful home-ruler at home about the same age, who ruled us with a rod of iron. So we had a pleasant chat until I forgot I was the curate’s wife and she her Excellency.Suddenly the cannon-ball shot in again, in a great hurry, and we rose to our feet. A few presentations had been made to him in the dining-room, and soon everyone was chatting like ordinary folk over coffee cups and cream. About eleven o’clock cards were got out, and the curate and “his reverence’s honoured lady” left. I nearly backed into Mr. Giles as I did so, and he very nearly laughed, but not quite. I never saw Giles laugh.As we were driving home under the big elms and pines, we kept silence awhile. The first remark came, of course, from me.“I’m very hungry,” in a plaintive voice.“And I’m starving,” was the response, as the curate slipped his arm round his little wife’s yellow brocade waist.“American crackers and apples?” I suggested.“And a big fire,” said his reverence, drawing my furs closer round me. “You are frozen.”So, over a blazing fire in our bedroom, we ate crackers and apples to fill the vacuum left by curiosity even after a vice-regal dinner-party.
ByA MAJOR’S DAUGHTER.
Itwas not because I am a major’s daughter that an invitation came to me one bright autumn morning, but because I was the curate’s wife. We were seated at breakfast when the “command” to meet their Excellencies was handed up. Just like the proverbial curate’s family we were laying in a foundation of stirabout, onlyourporridge was swimming in thick yellow cream, and was daintily served. On the table, besides, was the purest heather honey, a few golden peaches, and hot rolls of crispy bread.
“Thank goodness! a clergyman is always in full dress!” quoth the dear curate, as he pulled down his silk M.B. waistcoat. “But you, my dear Eileen, had better meditate on chiffons.”
And meditate I did, until I was fairly puzzled. There was the white silk, and the pink one, the yellow brocade, with its beautiful train, and the simple muslin. I was very young at the time, and dearly loved finery.
The real vital question of suitability turned on what the invitation meant. Were Lord and Lady L—— coming as royalty, or simply as themselves? The duchess alone could interpret her card, and so to the duchess I went.
“Did you not notice that R.S.V.P. was omitted? Put on feathers and veils, and your best bib and tuckers,” said the dear old hostess. “’Tis as King and Queen their Excellencies come.”
So, of course, the yellow brocade it had to be, with its low neck, and short topaz-trimmed sleeves.
Now, though the curate’s wife was fairly well-to-do in the world, the curate would keep no carriage. It was quite out of the question to drive in a pony-trap to the Castle, so the duchess “loaned” one of her own state chariots! She did more, a few hours before dinner-time a square box was handed in at the Clergy House, containing a mass of copper-coloured William Allen Richardsons, arranged in the newest mode by the duchess’s head-gardener.
Most of the house-party were assembled in the huge drawing-room when Mr. Giles, accompanied by his attendant satellites, threw open the door and announced—
“The Reverend and Mrs. Smith.”
It was blazing, too, with electric light, and sweet with perfume as I walked forward, to be encouragingly greeted by my dear old friend and patron.
“Their Excellencies are not down yet,” she said kindly; “but you are just in time——”
With this, the door was suddenly flung open again, and everyone stood up, whilst something like a cannon-ball plunged into the room! It was the Lord-Lieutenant! I found out, during the course of the evening, that this was his way of hurrying in, in order that the company might re-take their seats as soon as possible. A few more seconds, then a vision of loveliness in white satin and crystal, and a whole stomacher of magnificent pearls, walked in. It was sweet Lady L——. There were no introductions, and every usual order of procession into the dining-room was reversed. For the duchess went in first, leaning on the Lord-Lieutenant’s arm, immediately followed by the Duke, leading her Excellency. The rest of the company—thirteen couples—followed in stately order, the curate’s wife being last with some insignificant honourable.
But she had her revenge! Her husband was the first to speak, as he was called upon by a rap to say grace, and she found herself on Lord L——’s right hand. In order to show why she was there, I must explain that the royal chairs were placed in the centre of the long table, not at each end, and that their Excellencies and our hosts occupied the middle of the room. In a few minutes I had time to notice that their own footmen stood behind the regal party, but that the rest of us were served by the duke’s servants.
What a sight was that whole party! Every earl wore his star, and every countess her coronet. Jewels galore glittered everywhere. All the same, the most striking-looking man there was the curate, in his plain black dress, with his beautiful face just as usual—calm and radiant andspirituelle.
I do not think that dinner was quite a success, though achefhad been engaged to cook it and two others at a fee of £100. The game was burned, and the ice-puddings were in lumps. There were long pauses between therêlêves, and an ominous wait before all the twelve courses were handed round. I was so much taken up with the scene that I frequently laid down my knife and fork, even before I had tasted the morsels set before me, and found everything whisked away in a second.
Nearly two hours that dinner occupied. Then, from behind a palm, our hostess nodded to the other end of the table, and his Excellency stood up. For this moment I had waited in fear and trembling. I knew we had to make the tour of that long table, then back out of the room, for royalty must never see behind the scenes.
I had practised a sweeping curtsey before the pier-glass at home. I had gracefully backed from before it over and over again, but when my turn came I grew the colour of my copper roses, and nearly tumbled over my train.
Nobody seemed to notice, however, not even James Giles, the major-domo, so I was fairly cool by the time the duchess took me by the arm to introduce me to her Excellency.
“It is as good as a presentation at Court, my dear,” she whispered, “and will give you theentrée.”
I had often rehearsed this scene, and in imagination had seen Lady L—— standing up stately, and receiving the curate’s wife very frigidly. Behold the contrary.
Seated on a stool before the blazing fire, with all her lovely dress crumpled up under her, Lady L—— was “roasting her bones,” as she said. She jumped up like a girl when the duchess led me towards her; and I really think she admired the yellow brocade.
“I hope I shall soon see you at Court,” she said pleasantly, as I kissed her hand. “And your husband too. The brave stand made by the Church of —— in all her difficulties makes us value every one of her clergy and their wives, even if they are bits of girls like yourself.”
Then she laughed, and I laughed, and we found out we had each a beautiful home-ruler at home about the same age, who ruled us with a rod of iron. So we had a pleasant chat until I forgot I was the curate’s wife and she her Excellency.
Suddenly the cannon-ball shot in again, in a great hurry, and we rose to our feet. A few presentations had been made to him in the dining-room, and soon everyone was chatting like ordinary folk over coffee cups and cream. About eleven o’clock cards were got out, and the curate and “his reverence’s honoured lady” left. I nearly backed into Mr. Giles as I did so, and he very nearly laughed, but not quite. I never saw Giles laugh.
As we were driving home under the big elms and pines, we kept silence awhile. The first remark came, of course, from me.
“I’m very hungry,” in a plaintive voice.
“And I’m starving,” was the response, as the curate slipped his arm round his little wife’s yellow brocade waist.
“American crackers and apples?” I suggested.
“And a big fire,” said his reverence, drawing my furs closer round me. “You are frozen.”
So, over a blazing fire in our bedroom, we ate crackers and apples to fill the vacuum left by curiosity even after a vice-regal dinner-party.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.ByJESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.CHAPTER XXIV.Itwas one o’clock in the morning when a carriage drove up to the door of the Larches, and Mrs. Asplin alighted, all pale, tear-stained, and tremulous. She had been nodding over the fire in her bedroom when the young people had returned with the news of the tragic ending to the night’s festivity, and no persuasion or argument could induce her to wait until the next day before flying to Peggy’s side.“No, no!” she cried. “You must not hinder me. If I can’t drive, I will walk! I would go to the child to-night if I had to crawl on my hands and knees! I promised her mother to look after her. How could I stay at home and think of her lying there? Oh, children, children, pray for Peggy! Pray that she may be spared, and that her poor parents may be spared this awful—awful news!”Then she kissed her own girls, clasped them to her in a passionate embrace, and drove off to the Larches in the carriage which had brought the young people home.Lady Darcy came out to meet her, and gripped her hand in eager welcome.“You have come! I knew you would. I am so thankful to see you. The doctor has come, and will stay all night. He has sent for a nurse——”“And—my Peggy?”Lady Darcy’s lips quivered.“Very, very ill—much worse than Rosalind! Her poor little arms! I was so wicked, I thought it was her fault, and I had no pity, and now it seems that she has saved my darling’s life. They can’t tell us about it yet, but it was she who wrapped the curtain round Rosalind, and burned herself in pressing out the flames. Rosalind kept crying ‘Peggy! Peggy!’ and we thought she meant that it was Peggy’s fault. We had heard so much of her mischievous tricks. My husband found her lying on the floor. She was unconscious; but she came round when they were dressing her arms. I think she will know you——”“Take me to her, please!” Mrs. Asplin said quickly. She had to wait several moments before she could control her voice sufficiently to add, “And Rosalind, how is she?”“There is no danger. Her neck is scarred, and her hair singed and burned. She is suffering from the shock, but the doctor says it is not serious. Peggy——”She paused, and the other walked on resolutely, not daring to ask for the termination of that sentence. She crept into the little room, bent over the bed, and looked down on Peggy’s face through a mist of tears. It was drawn and haggard with pain, and the eyes met hers without a ray of light in their hollow depths. That she recognised was evident, but the pain which she was suffering was too intense to leave room for any other feeling. She lay motionless, with her bandaged arms stretched before her, and her face looked so small and white against the pillow that Mrs. Asplin trembled to think how little strength was there to fight against the terrible shock and strain. Only once in all that long night did Peggy show any consciousness of her surroundings, but then her eyes lit up with a gleam of remembrance, her lips moved, and Mrs. Asplin bent down to catch the faintly-whispered words—“The twenty-sixth—next Monday! Don’t tell Arthur!”“‘The twenty-sixth’! What is that, darling? Ah, I remember—Arthur’s examination! You mean if he knew you were ill, it would upset him for his work?”An infinitesimal movement of the head answered “Yes,” and she gave the promise in trembling tones—“No, my precious, we won’t tell him. He could not help, and it would only distress you to feel that he was upset. Don’t trouble about it, darling. It will be all right.”Then Peggy shut her eyes and wandered away into a strange world, in which accustomed things disappeared, and time was not, and nothing remained but pain, and weariness, and mystery. Those of us who have come near to death have visited this world too, and know the blackness of it, and the weary waking.Peggy lay in her little white bed and heard voices speaking in her ear, and saw strange shapes flit to and fro. Quite suddenly as it appeared, a face would be bending over her own, and as she watched it with languid curiosity wondering what manner of thing it could be, it would melt away and vanish in the distance. At other times again it would grow larger and larger, until it assumed gigantic proportions, and she cried out in fear of the huge, saucer-like eyes. There was a weary puzzle in her brain, an effort to understand, but everything seemed mixed up and incomprehensible. She would look round the room and see the sunshine peeping in through, the chinks of the blinds, and when she closed her eyes for a moment—just a single, fleeting moment—lo! the gas was lit, and someone was nodding in a chair by her side. And it was by no means always the same room. She was tired, and wanted badly to rest, yet she was always rushing about here, there, and everywhere, striving vainly to dress herself in clothes which fell off as soon as they were fastened, hurrying to catch a train to reach a certain destination; but in each instance the end was the same—she was falling, falling, falling—always falling—from the crag of an Alpine precipice, from the pinnacle of a tower, from the top of a flight of stairs. The slip and the terror pursued her wherever she went; she would shriek aloud, and feel soft hands pressed on her cheeks, soft voices murmuring in her ear.One vision stood out plainly from those nightmare dreams—the vision of a face which suddenly appeared in the midst of the big grey cloud which enveloped her on every side—a beautiful face which was strangely like, and yet unlike, something she had seen long, long ago in a world which she had well nigh forgotten. It was pale and thin, and the golden hair fell in a short curly crop on the blue garment which was swathed over the shoulders. It was like one of the heads of celestial choirboys which she had seen on Christmas cards and in books of engravings, yet something about the eyes and mouth seemed familiar. She stared at it curiously, and then suddenly a strange, weak little voice faltered out a well-known name.“Rosalind!” it cried, and a quick exclamation of joy sounded from the side of the bed. Who had spoken? The first voice had been strangely like her own, but at an immeasurable distance. She shut her eyes to think about it, and the fair-haired vision disappeared and was seen no more.There was a big, bearded man also who came in from time to time, and Peggy grew to dread his appearance, for with it came terrible stabbing pain, as if her whole body were on the rack. He was one of the Spanish Inquisitors, of whom she had read, and she was an English prisoner whom he was torturing! Well, he might do his worst! She would die before she would turn traitor and betray her flag and country. The Savilles were a fighting race, and would a thousand times rather face death than dishonour.One day when she felt rather stronger than usual, she told him so to his face, and he laughed—she was quite sure helaughed, the hard-hearted wretch! And someone else said, “Poor little love!” which was surely an extraordinary expression for a Spanish Inquisitor. That was one of the annoying things in this new life—people were so exceedingly stupid in their conversation!Now and again she herself had something which she was especially anxious to say, and when she set it forth with infinite difficulty and pains, the only answer which she received was a soothing “Yes, dear, yes!” “No, dear, no!” or a still more maddening “Yes, darling, I quite understand!”—which she knew perfectly well to be an untruth. Really these good people seemed to think that she was demented, and did not know what she was saying. As a matter of fact it was exactly the other way about; but she was too tired to argue. And then one day came a sleep when she neither dreamt, nor slipped, nor fell, but opened her eyes refreshed and cheerful, and beheld Mrs. Asplin sitting by a table drinking tea and eating what appeared to be a particularly tempting slice of cake.“I want some cake!” she said clearly, and Mrs. Asplin jumped as if a cannon had been fired off at her ear, and rushed breathlessly to the bedside, stuttering and stammering in amazement—“Wh—wh—wh—what?”“Cake!” repeated Peggy shrilly. “I want some! And tea! I want my tea!”Surely it was a very natural request! What else could you expect from a girl who had been asleep and wakened up feeling hungry? What on earth was there in those commonplace words to make a grown-up woman cry like a baby, and why need everyone in the house rush in and stare at her as if she were a figure in a waxwork? Lord Darcy, Lady Darcy, Rosalind, the old French maid—they were all there—and, as sure as her name was Peggy Saville, they were all four, handkerchief in hand, mopping their eyes like so many marionettes!Nobody gave her the cake for which she had asked. Peggy considered it exceedingly rude and ill-bred; but while she was thinking of it she grew tired again, and rolling round into a soft little bundle among the blankets, fell afresh into sweet refreshing slumbers.(To be continued.)
ByJESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.
I
twas one o’clock in the morning when a carriage drove up to the door of the Larches, and Mrs. Asplin alighted, all pale, tear-stained, and tremulous. She had been nodding over the fire in her bedroom when the young people had returned with the news of the tragic ending to the night’s festivity, and no persuasion or argument could induce her to wait until the next day before flying to Peggy’s side.
“No, no!” she cried. “You must not hinder me. If I can’t drive, I will walk! I would go to the child to-night if I had to crawl on my hands and knees! I promised her mother to look after her. How could I stay at home and think of her lying there? Oh, children, children, pray for Peggy! Pray that she may be spared, and that her poor parents may be spared this awful—awful news!”
Then she kissed her own girls, clasped them to her in a passionate embrace, and drove off to the Larches in the carriage which had brought the young people home.
Lady Darcy came out to meet her, and gripped her hand in eager welcome.
“You have come! I knew you would. I am so thankful to see you. The doctor has come, and will stay all night. He has sent for a nurse——”
“And—my Peggy?”
Lady Darcy’s lips quivered.
“Very, very ill—much worse than Rosalind! Her poor little arms! I was so wicked, I thought it was her fault, and I had no pity, and now it seems that she has saved my darling’s life. They can’t tell us about it yet, but it was she who wrapped the curtain round Rosalind, and burned herself in pressing out the flames. Rosalind kept crying ‘Peggy! Peggy!’ and we thought she meant that it was Peggy’s fault. We had heard so much of her mischievous tricks. My husband found her lying on the floor. She was unconscious; but she came round when they were dressing her arms. I think she will know you——”
“Take me to her, please!” Mrs. Asplin said quickly. She had to wait several moments before she could control her voice sufficiently to add, “And Rosalind, how is she?”
“There is no danger. Her neck is scarred, and her hair singed and burned. She is suffering from the shock, but the doctor says it is not serious. Peggy——”
She paused, and the other walked on resolutely, not daring to ask for the termination of that sentence. She crept into the little room, bent over the bed, and looked down on Peggy’s face through a mist of tears. It was drawn and haggard with pain, and the eyes met hers without a ray of light in their hollow depths. That she recognised was evident, but the pain which she was suffering was too intense to leave room for any other feeling. She lay motionless, with her bandaged arms stretched before her, and her face looked so small and white against the pillow that Mrs. Asplin trembled to think how little strength was there to fight against the terrible shock and strain. Only once in all that long night did Peggy show any consciousness of her surroundings, but then her eyes lit up with a gleam of remembrance, her lips moved, and Mrs. Asplin bent down to catch the faintly-whispered words—
“The twenty-sixth—next Monday! Don’t tell Arthur!”
“‘The twenty-sixth’! What is that, darling? Ah, I remember—Arthur’s examination! You mean if he knew you were ill, it would upset him for his work?”
An infinitesimal movement of the head answered “Yes,” and she gave the promise in trembling tones—
“No, my precious, we won’t tell him. He could not help, and it would only distress you to feel that he was upset. Don’t trouble about it, darling. It will be all right.”
Then Peggy shut her eyes and wandered away into a strange world, in which accustomed things disappeared, and time was not, and nothing remained but pain, and weariness, and mystery. Those of us who have come near to death have visited this world too, and know the blackness of it, and the weary waking.
Peggy lay in her little white bed and heard voices speaking in her ear, and saw strange shapes flit to and fro. Quite suddenly as it appeared, a face would be bending over her own, and as she watched it with languid curiosity wondering what manner of thing it could be, it would melt away and vanish in the distance. At other times again it would grow larger and larger, until it assumed gigantic proportions, and she cried out in fear of the huge, saucer-like eyes. There was a weary puzzle in her brain, an effort to understand, but everything seemed mixed up and incomprehensible. She would look round the room and see the sunshine peeping in through, the chinks of the blinds, and when she closed her eyes for a moment—just a single, fleeting moment—lo! the gas was lit, and someone was nodding in a chair by her side. And it was by no means always the same room. She was tired, and wanted badly to rest, yet she was always rushing about here, there, and everywhere, striving vainly to dress herself in clothes which fell off as soon as they were fastened, hurrying to catch a train to reach a certain destination; but in each instance the end was the same—she was falling, falling, falling—always falling—from the crag of an Alpine precipice, from the pinnacle of a tower, from the top of a flight of stairs. The slip and the terror pursued her wherever she went; she would shriek aloud, and feel soft hands pressed on her cheeks, soft voices murmuring in her ear.
One vision stood out plainly from those nightmare dreams—the vision of a face which suddenly appeared in the midst of the big grey cloud which enveloped her on every side—a beautiful face which was strangely like, and yet unlike, something she had seen long, long ago in a world which she had well nigh forgotten. It was pale and thin, and the golden hair fell in a short curly crop on the blue garment which was swathed over the shoulders. It was like one of the heads of celestial choirboys which she had seen on Christmas cards and in books of engravings, yet something about the eyes and mouth seemed familiar. She stared at it curiously, and then suddenly a strange, weak little voice faltered out a well-known name.
“Rosalind!” it cried, and a quick exclamation of joy sounded from the side of the bed. Who had spoken? The first voice had been strangely like her own, but at an immeasurable distance. She shut her eyes to think about it, and the fair-haired vision disappeared and was seen no more.
There was a big, bearded man also who came in from time to time, and Peggy grew to dread his appearance, for with it came terrible stabbing pain, as if her whole body were on the rack. He was one of the Spanish Inquisitors, of whom she had read, and she was an English prisoner whom he was torturing! Well, he might do his worst! She would die before she would turn traitor and betray her flag and country. The Savilles were a fighting race, and would a thousand times rather face death than dishonour.
One day when she felt rather stronger than usual, she told him so to his face, and he laughed—she was quite sure helaughed, the hard-hearted wretch! And someone else said, “Poor little love!” which was surely an extraordinary expression for a Spanish Inquisitor. That was one of the annoying things in this new life—people were so exceedingly stupid in their conversation!
Now and again she herself had something which she was especially anxious to say, and when she set it forth with infinite difficulty and pains, the only answer which she received was a soothing “Yes, dear, yes!” “No, dear, no!” or a still more maddening “Yes, darling, I quite understand!”—which she knew perfectly well to be an untruth. Really these good people seemed to think that she was demented, and did not know what she was saying. As a matter of fact it was exactly the other way about; but she was too tired to argue. And then one day came a sleep when she neither dreamt, nor slipped, nor fell, but opened her eyes refreshed and cheerful, and beheld Mrs. Asplin sitting by a table drinking tea and eating what appeared to be a particularly tempting slice of cake.
“I want some cake!” she said clearly, and Mrs. Asplin jumped as if a cannon had been fired off at her ear, and rushed breathlessly to the bedside, stuttering and stammering in amazement—
“Wh—wh—wh—what?”
“Cake!” repeated Peggy shrilly. “I want some! And tea! I want my tea!”
Surely it was a very natural request! What else could you expect from a girl who had been asleep and wakened up feeling hungry? What on earth was there in those commonplace words to make a grown-up woman cry like a baby, and why need everyone in the house rush in and stare at her as if she were a figure in a waxwork? Lord Darcy, Lady Darcy, Rosalind, the old French maid—they were all there—and, as sure as her name was Peggy Saville, they were all four, handkerchief in hand, mopping their eyes like so many marionettes!
Nobody gave her the cake for which she had asked. Peggy considered it exceedingly rude and ill-bred; but while she was thinking of it she grew tired again, and rolling round into a soft little bundle among the blankets, fell afresh into sweet refreshing slumbers.
(To be continued.)
GOOD CHEER FOR WOMEN WORKERS.A Short Sketch of “Kent House,” the Y. W. C. A. Home for Students and Others at 91, Great Portland Street, London.By the Hon. SUPERINTENDENT.Theirnumber is so great now that the most old-fashioned and conservative of us are bound to recognise women workers as a separate factor in our national life.There has been a gradual, though very evident, upheaval in our social system during the last few years; new occupations are opening to women on every side, and girls flock to London and other large centres to fit themselves for these. They are the women of the future, keen, eager for the fray, with fresh interests, hopes and ambitions—a motley crowd gathered from every section of middle-class society.It is both a happiness and an education to come into close personal touch with fresh young lives whose work will so greatly affect the well-being of England in the near future. For in each life there lie elements of the eternal and the divine, capacities for good or evil. It is a time for building. Character, tastes, habits, faith, may either be unformed or in a transition state. When the floods rise and storm winds blow, strong foundations laid at the outset of a girl’s independent career will help her to resist and stand firm.We are a large community of women at Kent House, most of us young and untried, though among the older ones we are glad to number a few lecturers, teachers, and writers, besides nurses from one or other of the great nursing associations of London. Friends in need these last, especially in the winter-time, when chills and other small ailments attack our ranks like foes to be fought and conquered.“Such a lot of women living together, and so little bickering and snarling!” a visitor exclaimed the other day. But I think most of us are too busy to be cantankerous, and our common womanhood, lived out in homelike surroundings, links us too closely together for petty word-wars.Happy, well-filled student life forms the principal element of the household, though I was amused one day to find that even students may be unlearned in the etymology of words. One of our candidates for admission emulated the immortal M. Jourdain, who talked prose without knowing it, by remarking doubtfully, “I am not a student. I only go to Bedford College for classes.”Most of the girls sleep in cubicles separated by thin wood partitions, the rooms being reserved for the older ladies, except two or three double rooms apportioned to girls who chum together.Conversation is carried on freely “over the cubicle wall,” and listeners may sometimes overhear scraps illustrating the good comradeship andbonhomieof student life.“Oh, Molly,” cries one girl to her mate next door, “when you leave the Slade and set up a studio, and Harold and I are earning enough to marry on, won’t we have many a jaw about jolly old Kent House left behind!”Kent House prices are framed to meet slender resources. For twelve shillings weekly a girl can provide herself with a snug little cubicle and good breakfast and supper. The dining-hallmenuis of a varied order, always tea, coffee, and cocoa without stint, a roast joint, and two or three made dishes, fish or soup, bread and butter, and jam or marmalade.Dinner and afternoon tea are not included in the fixed board tariff, but paid for at table, restaurant fashion—uniform charge 9d. and 4d., respectively.Anyone who orders “five o’clock tea” is served with a pot freshly made for each person, bread and butter, muffins, or tea-cake. We are glad to welcome non-residents to both these meals.“But how can you make the concern pay at such prices?” asks some cynical political economist.I answer, illogically of course, as I am a woman, “Wedomake it pay.”Conversation at meals is by no means confined to the English tongue, for visitors of all nationalities throw themselves on the hospitality of Kent House. English “as she is spoke” by French and Germans makes many a quaint piece of word-painting.A Dutch lady, describing her struggles with the letter “h,” raised a merry laugh at one of the supper-tables.“I go to the Wood Saint John,” she remarked, “and I say to the gend’arme, ‘Which bus, if you please, sare, take I?’ He say to me quite short ‘Hatless’; but I find it not. Then I ask one other. He say to me, ‘You would mean Atlas—no?’ But I say, ‘No, I do not think—it is Hatless.’ He smile and he tell me, ‘The English peoples they goes without umbrellas, but without hats—oh, no, nevare!’”It has been a work of great difficulty to establish and keep going a Home in the very centre of London on liberal housekeeping lines which yet should be self-supporting. Perhaps it has been even more difficult to keep in close personal relationship with girls and women who need society, friends, sympathy, amusement, yet whose freedom must in no sense be interfered with.Without asursum cordaI believe both would be impossible. With it we have surmounted many difficulties and lived through many dark days. And as morning after morning we gather together as a household to give the first freshness of our thoughts to God, there may be many denominations amongst us, but there is one Christ, and there is a sacred unity underlying every variety of dogma or ritual—the unity of His spirit in His bond of peace.
A Short Sketch of “Kent House,” the Y. W. C. A. Home for Students and Others at 91, Great Portland Street, London.
By the Hon. SUPERINTENDENT.
Theirnumber is so great now that the most old-fashioned and conservative of us are bound to recognise women workers as a separate factor in our national life.
There has been a gradual, though very evident, upheaval in our social system during the last few years; new occupations are opening to women on every side, and girls flock to London and other large centres to fit themselves for these. They are the women of the future, keen, eager for the fray, with fresh interests, hopes and ambitions—a motley crowd gathered from every section of middle-class society.
It is both a happiness and an education to come into close personal touch with fresh young lives whose work will so greatly affect the well-being of England in the near future. For in each life there lie elements of the eternal and the divine, capacities for good or evil. It is a time for building. Character, tastes, habits, faith, may either be unformed or in a transition state. When the floods rise and storm winds blow, strong foundations laid at the outset of a girl’s independent career will help her to resist and stand firm.
We are a large community of women at Kent House, most of us young and untried, though among the older ones we are glad to number a few lecturers, teachers, and writers, besides nurses from one or other of the great nursing associations of London. Friends in need these last, especially in the winter-time, when chills and other small ailments attack our ranks like foes to be fought and conquered.
“Such a lot of women living together, and so little bickering and snarling!” a visitor exclaimed the other day. But I think most of us are too busy to be cantankerous, and our common womanhood, lived out in homelike surroundings, links us too closely together for petty word-wars.
Happy, well-filled student life forms the principal element of the household, though I was amused one day to find that even students may be unlearned in the etymology of words. One of our candidates for admission emulated the immortal M. Jourdain, who talked prose without knowing it, by remarking doubtfully, “I am not a student. I only go to Bedford College for classes.”
Most of the girls sleep in cubicles separated by thin wood partitions, the rooms being reserved for the older ladies, except two or three double rooms apportioned to girls who chum together.
Conversation is carried on freely “over the cubicle wall,” and listeners may sometimes overhear scraps illustrating the good comradeship andbonhomieof student life.
“Oh, Molly,” cries one girl to her mate next door, “when you leave the Slade and set up a studio, and Harold and I are earning enough to marry on, won’t we have many a jaw about jolly old Kent House left behind!”
Kent House prices are framed to meet slender resources. For twelve shillings weekly a girl can provide herself with a snug little cubicle and good breakfast and supper. The dining-hallmenuis of a varied order, always tea, coffee, and cocoa without stint, a roast joint, and two or three made dishes, fish or soup, bread and butter, and jam or marmalade.
Dinner and afternoon tea are not included in the fixed board tariff, but paid for at table, restaurant fashion—uniform charge 9d. and 4d., respectively.
Anyone who orders “five o’clock tea” is served with a pot freshly made for each person, bread and butter, muffins, or tea-cake. We are glad to welcome non-residents to both these meals.
“But how can you make the concern pay at such prices?” asks some cynical political economist.
I answer, illogically of course, as I am a woman, “Wedomake it pay.”
Conversation at meals is by no means confined to the English tongue, for visitors of all nationalities throw themselves on the hospitality of Kent House. English “as she is spoke” by French and Germans makes many a quaint piece of word-painting.
A Dutch lady, describing her struggles with the letter “h,” raised a merry laugh at one of the supper-tables.
“I go to the Wood Saint John,” she remarked, “and I say to the gend’arme, ‘Which bus, if you please, sare, take I?’ He say to me quite short ‘Hatless’; but I find it not. Then I ask one other. He say to me, ‘You would mean Atlas—no?’ But I say, ‘No, I do not think—it is Hatless.’ He smile and he tell me, ‘The English peoples they goes without umbrellas, but without hats—oh, no, nevare!’”
It has been a work of great difficulty to establish and keep going a Home in the very centre of London on liberal housekeeping lines which yet should be self-supporting. Perhaps it has been even more difficult to keep in close personal relationship with girls and women who need society, friends, sympathy, amusement, yet whose freedom must in no sense be interfered with.
Without asursum cordaI believe both would be impossible. With it we have surmounted many difficulties and lived through many dark days. And as morning after morning we gather together as a household to give the first freshness of our thoughts to God, there may be many denominations amongst us, but there is one Christ, and there is a sacred unity underlying every variety of dogma or ritual—the unity of His spirit in His bond of peace.
OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES;OR,VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES.PART VI.Wenow have to consider cottages erected of different materials and constructed in a totally different manner to those which we have hitherto described, and this variety in methods of building naturally leads to a distinct treatment of details and decoration.AT HUNDRED ELMS, NEAR HARROW.We find all along the Kentish sea-coast houses and cottages, the chief materials entering into the construction of which are flint, sometimes cut so as to form the surface of their walls, and sometimes left irregular in shape, and the wall surfaces chiefly formed by the mortar in which the stones are embedded. This is called flint rubble. Where the flint is cut to a surface the angles, doorways, and window openings are constructed of stone or brick, and these are the portions of the building which receive ornamentation and give the character to the design, but where the flint is uncut and used as rubble, not unfrequently the whole surface is covered with a coating of plaster which is adorned in various ways, sometimes by simply drawing over it a toothed implement like a saw, sometimes by stamping or “pargeting,” and occasionally by mixing the plaster with coloured materials of several shades and arranging them in patterns.This last method is somewhat akin to what the Italians call “sgraffito.” I do not think that genuine sgraffito was ever executed in England, but that in some parts of this country they obtained a very similar effect by other means. In genuine sgraffito a layer of dark coloured plaster is placed over the wall, and when that is dry a layer of white or lighter coloured plaster is spread over it while wet: this second coating is scraped away in places so as to form a pattern or design over the darker material.The ornamentation of which we give a sketch from Calais-Court, near Dover, appears to have been done by coloured plasters placed side by side, not one over the other. We are not, however, quite sure about this, as the lower portions of the work have either been destroyed or never executed, so that it is difficult to examine it closely. The two wheel patterns are very curious and are probably inspired by the wheel windows of ancient churches. One of them is not unlike the east window of Barfreston church a few miles away. This kind of imitation of wheel windows is not uncommon in old decoration. The church of Chastleton in Oxfordshire has a floor of encaustic tiling entirely composed of this ornamentation. It is difficult to ascribe any exact date to this work at Calais-Court; it is probably not earlier than the sixteenth century. The house or cottage has been so much pulled about and altered, at later periods, that it is impossible to say whether it forms a portion of a larger structure or was always of its present humble proportions.The first example we give is from a farm called “Hundred Elms,” between Harrow and Sudbury. It is now used as a stable with a loft over it. I think it was originally a dwelling-house, though as the whole of the interior has been dismantled and altered, its purpose cannot be distinctly traced; its great peculiarity is that everything is constructed of brick, the window-mullions and tracery being very neatly cut out of that material and put together with no little skill. It is thought that the Archbishops of Canterbury, in early times, had a residence at Hundred Elms (in the fourteenth century), and that afterwards they removed to Headstone, where there still exists a moated grange, now a farm-house.AT CALAIS-COURT, KENT.The Rev. W. Done Bushell in the “Harrow Octocentenary Tracts” has entered into all the arguments connected with the question, and they are very interesting, but too long to quote here, nor would they help us in ascertaining the history or purpose of this interesting little building, as the Archbishops must have left Hundred Elms farm some two centuries before it was built, as it is evidently a sixteenth century work.Brickwork in England, it should be observed, is rarely found in houses before the commencement of the sixteenth century. Although brick-making was never quite abandoned, yet it was very little used during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. The only important brick church erected during this period is Holy Trinity at Hull, which is of fine red brick. The thirteenth century walls of Yarmouth show dressings of white brick, used like stone, and brick vaulting constructed exactly after the manner of stone is to be seen in the ground floor of the Bishop’s Palace and the Chapter House of the Blackfriars monastery at Norwich. At the commencement of the sixteenth century brick was probably regarded as a luxury and was more expensive than stone. This explains the fact that the palaces and great mansions of the nobles are erected of this material in all districts where it could be procured. In the second quarter of the century, it became the practice to build all the better class of houses of brick in the eastern and home counties of England, though not so in the north or west where fine building stone was much more easily procurable. It is, however, very remarkable that even in the eastern counties, where beautiful brick was to hand, we scarcely ever find this material used for churches. There was evidently an idea prevalent in the minds of our forefathers that churches should be built of stone, and houses of brick, and this prejudice, to a great extent, prevails to the present day, and is very curious because it does not pertain in any other country in Europe. I think nearly all girls and women dislike brick churches, yet why they should do so it is difficult to understand. We should like some of our clever girls to tell us.(To be continued.)
Wenow have to consider cottages erected of different materials and constructed in a totally different manner to those which we have hitherto described, and this variety in methods of building naturally leads to a distinct treatment of details and decoration.
AT HUNDRED ELMS, NEAR HARROW.
AT HUNDRED ELMS, NEAR HARROW.
AT HUNDRED ELMS, NEAR HARROW.
We find all along the Kentish sea-coast houses and cottages, the chief materials entering into the construction of which are flint, sometimes cut so as to form the surface of their walls, and sometimes left irregular in shape, and the wall surfaces chiefly formed by the mortar in which the stones are embedded. This is called flint rubble. Where the flint is cut to a surface the angles, doorways, and window openings are constructed of stone or brick, and these are the portions of the building which receive ornamentation and give the character to the design, but where the flint is uncut and used as rubble, not unfrequently the whole surface is covered with a coating of plaster which is adorned in various ways, sometimes by simply drawing over it a toothed implement like a saw, sometimes by stamping or “pargeting,” and occasionally by mixing the plaster with coloured materials of several shades and arranging them in patterns.
This last method is somewhat akin to what the Italians call “sgraffito.” I do not think that genuine sgraffito was ever executed in England, but that in some parts of this country they obtained a very similar effect by other means. In genuine sgraffito a layer of dark coloured plaster is placed over the wall, and when that is dry a layer of white or lighter coloured plaster is spread over it while wet: this second coating is scraped away in places so as to form a pattern or design over the darker material.
The ornamentation of which we give a sketch from Calais-Court, near Dover, appears to have been done by coloured plasters placed side by side, not one over the other. We are not, however, quite sure about this, as the lower portions of the work have either been destroyed or never executed, so that it is difficult to examine it closely. The two wheel patterns are very curious and are probably inspired by the wheel windows of ancient churches. One of them is not unlike the east window of Barfreston church a few miles away. This kind of imitation of wheel windows is not uncommon in old decoration. The church of Chastleton in Oxfordshire has a floor of encaustic tiling entirely composed of this ornamentation. It is difficult to ascribe any exact date to this work at Calais-Court; it is probably not earlier than the sixteenth century. The house or cottage has been so much pulled about and altered, at later periods, that it is impossible to say whether it forms a portion of a larger structure or was always of its present humble proportions.
The first example we give is from a farm called “Hundred Elms,” between Harrow and Sudbury. It is now used as a stable with a loft over it. I think it was originally a dwelling-house, though as the whole of the interior has been dismantled and altered, its purpose cannot be distinctly traced; its great peculiarity is that everything is constructed of brick, the window-mullions and tracery being very neatly cut out of that material and put together with no little skill. It is thought that the Archbishops of Canterbury, in early times, had a residence at Hundred Elms (in the fourteenth century), and that afterwards they removed to Headstone, where there still exists a moated grange, now a farm-house.
AT CALAIS-COURT, KENT.
AT CALAIS-COURT, KENT.
AT CALAIS-COURT, KENT.
The Rev. W. Done Bushell in the “Harrow Octocentenary Tracts” has entered into all the arguments connected with the question, and they are very interesting, but too long to quote here, nor would they help us in ascertaining the history or purpose of this interesting little building, as the Archbishops must have left Hundred Elms farm some two centuries before it was built, as it is evidently a sixteenth century work.
Brickwork in England, it should be observed, is rarely found in houses before the commencement of the sixteenth century. Although brick-making was never quite abandoned, yet it was very little used during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. The only important brick church erected during this period is Holy Trinity at Hull, which is of fine red brick. The thirteenth century walls of Yarmouth show dressings of white brick, used like stone, and brick vaulting constructed exactly after the manner of stone is to be seen in the ground floor of the Bishop’s Palace and the Chapter House of the Blackfriars monastery at Norwich. At the commencement of the sixteenth century brick was probably regarded as a luxury and was more expensive than stone. This explains the fact that the palaces and great mansions of the nobles are erected of this material in all districts where it could be procured. In the second quarter of the century, it became the practice to build all the better class of houses of brick in the eastern and home counties of England, though not so in the north or west where fine building stone was much more easily procurable. It is, however, very remarkable that even in the eastern counties, where beautiful brick was to hand, we scarcely ever find this material used for churches. There was evidently an idea prevalent in the minds of our forefathers that churches should be built of stone, and houses of brick, and this prejudice, to a great extent, prevails to the present day, and is very curious because it does not pertain in any other country in Europe. I think nearly all girls and women dislike brick churches, yet why they should do so it is difficult to understand. We should like some of our clever girls to tell us.
(To be continued.)
HIS GREAT REWARD.CHAPTER III.Itwas Tuesday afternoon in the week following Easter week, and Mrs. Heritage and her daughter were together in the tiny drawing-room of their house in York Road, when a knock at the street door made them turn and look at each other in surprise.“Whoever can it be, mumsie darling?” exclaimed Marielle, pausing in her occupation of arranging bunches of yellow daffodils in brown jars on the mantelpiece. Fresh and fair and sweet as the Lent lilies, some of which she had pinned in the bosom of her dress, looked the girl herself, as she stood there in her simple black gown, which only served to set off her delicate complexion to greater advantage.“I’m sure I don’t know, dearie. It is not very likely to be a visitor for us any way, since very few of our old friends seem to care to trouble themselves about calling nowadays. It was different when your father was alive.” And Mrs. Heritage’s lips quivered a little as the recollection of social triumphs, long gone by, flashed through her mind.How true it is that “a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things!”Marielle had only time to cast a loving glance at her mother in answer, for the opening of the door and a slight rustle outside warned her that a visitor was approaching.“Mrs. Duncan!” was announced by the little maid who, with faithful old Mysie the cook, constituted the whole of the domestic establishment at No. 27.With stately courtesy Marielle’s mother rose to receive the doctor’s wife, her manner insensibly thawing however, under the influence of her visitor’s winning smile.“I am so glad to find you at home,” began Mrs. Duncan as soon as she was seated. Then, noticing that Marielle dropped the rest of the flowers she was holding on to a newspaper which she had spread upon a chair near, “Please do not let me interrupt you, Miss Heritage. Will you not go on arranging your flowers?”“I shall do so with pleasure if you do not mind,” replied Marielle brightly, “only I fear I shall have to turn my back upon you now and again during the performance.”“Oh, never mind that, it will be reward enough to see the effects of your handiwork when finished. I am so fond of daffodils. They are my favourite flowers.”“And mine also,” returned Marielle, pleased at the mutual taste. Then—smiling and holding a big bunch towards Mrs. Duncan—“Aren’t these beauties too? I saw them as I was coming back from Forman’s this morning, and I could not resist the temptation of bringing some home with me. They look so bright they are quite cheering. I always think yellow flowers are like sunlight in a room.”“They are indeed,” assented Mrs. Duncan, lifting her gaze from the flowers in order to contemplate the face bending over her.“How pure and true it looks!” she mused. Those large clear hazel eyes, with their black lashes, and delicately-pencilled dark eyebrows, the refined features, and rose-leaf skin, crowned by the rebellious fair hair which, in spite of all Marielle’s efforts, persisted in standing out round her shapely head, like a veritable golden halo—all these made up a picture which, once seen, was not likely to pass out of mind.And the girl herself, with her tall, dainty figure, was as good and true as her face indicated.Little wonder then that Mrs. Heritage thanked God every day on her knees for the precious gift of her daughter. Her flowers all disposed of into the various vases, Marielle slipped away to wash her hands, and to give a few directions concerning afternoon tea. Ann was to be sure to put the pretty new cloth worked by Marielle’s busy fingers on the table, and Mysie must not forget to send up some of her delicious hot scones, and the shortbread which she was famous for making.Mysie, who nearly worshipped the young girl she had known from a baby, promised to do her best, and Marielle ran upstairs to remove the flower-stains from her fingers, humming as she went the air of a favourite song.In the meantime the elder ladies, left alone, found themselves rapidly progressing towards intimacy. They had many tastes in common as they soon discovered, and each had known a great sorrow in the loss of one very dear to them. We know that in the one case, viz., that of Mrs. Heritage, it was the husband who had been taken away, while in that of Mrs. Duncan, it was the daughter.It was not long before the conversation turned upon Marielle’s singing, and her mother’s face flushed with pleasure at the warm tribute of praise bestowed upon the girl by her new acquaintance.Mrs. Duncan was proceeding to enlarge upon the pleasure it had given them all to hear her, when she was interrupted by the girl herself, and shortly after, the tea made its appearance.The hot scones and shortbread were duly discussed by the three ladies in a manner that made old Mysie beam again when told of it by Marielle.After extracting a promise from Mrs. Heritage and her daughter to the effect that they would soon come and see her, Mrs. Duncan took her departure. But all the way home she seemed to be haunted by the fair face, clear hazel eyes, and ringing laugh of Marielle Heritage.“I like Mrs. Duncan, mother, don’t you?” asked the girl after their visitor had gone.“Very much, darling, as far as I can tell at present,” replied Mrs. Heritage, fondly regarding her daughter as she ensconced herself upon a footstool at her feet, and prepared for a cosy talk in the firelight. “She has known trouble too, poor thing, she lost her only daughter two years ago.”“Oh, did she, mumsie? How sorry I am! Perhaps that is what makes her look so sad at times.” For Marielle had noticed the wistful look that had crept over Mrs. Duncan’s face when regarding herself.“It may be that she envies me my daughter,” rejoined Mrs. Heritage proudly. “Yet I do not think she is sad, for she told me that this Eastertide had been the happiest she had ever known.”“I wonder why?” speculated Marielle.“Perhaps we may learn the reason some day, darling. But here comes Ann with the lamp, and you must leave me in peace as I have several letters to write before post time.”“And I must try over that new work for the Chester concert,” replied Marielle, and very shortly both the ladies were absorbed in their respective occupations.Three months had come and gone, and the acquaintance begun between the Duncans and Heritages had rapidly ripened into a warm friendship. Scarcely a week now passed without, at any rate, the ladies of the two families meeting at one house or the other, and Mrs. Duncan had begun to feel that she should sorely miss either Mrs. Heritage or Marielle should anything occur to cause their removal from Manningham. True, the remark was frequently made to Marielle, “Oh, you ought to be in London!” But the girl so far had only smiled and answered very justly:“Why should I go to London when I can find plenty to do here. There I should be only one among hundreds, while here I already have a position and name in the musical world.”The force of her argument was undeniable, and the Heritages remained in Manningham.One hot afternoon in July a telegram came to No. 27, York Road, from a pupil, to ask Marielle if she could give a lesson at Forman’s at five o’clock.Marielle grumbled a little, not unnaturally, as it would necessitate her breaking a promise she had made to accompany her mother and Mrs. Duncan in a walk to the High Park at that hour. But the pupil was one whom it would not do to offend, so she wired back that she would give the lesson, and persuaded her mother not to give up the walk on that account, but to go notwithstanding her own absence.“You will get your walk just the same, mother darling, won’t you? For I know Mrs. Duncan would be greatly disappointed if you did not go. It would seem as if you only cared to go when I was with you, and that would never do!”Mrs. Heritage gave the required promise, and duly set forth at the time appointed.The lesson over, Marielle glanced at her watch. It wanted five-and-twenty minutes to six.“I know what I will do,” she said to herself as she closed the piano and drew on her gloves. “I’ll take a Roxton Road tram, and get out at the park gates. I am sure to find mother and Mrs. Duncan in the Rose-walk, they always gravitate in that direction”—smiling, as she pictured their surprise at her unexpected appearance. “I wonder I did not think of it before. I shall be in time to walk home with them in any case, if only I do not have to wait long for my tram!”Good fortune awaited her in this respect, and the hands of the clock in the park tower were pointing to six as she sped along towards the Rose-walk. Presently she descried the two ladies she sought sitting together on a bench, but they were evidently far too much occupied with one another to take any heed of Marielle’s approach, if, indeed, they heard her footsteps on the grass. No one else was in sight, and the girl drew nearer until when within a few yards, her mother looked up and saw her.“Why, Marielle darling, what a pleasure!” Mrs. Heritage exclaimed, but her voice sounded tremulous, and Marielle, coming closer still, scrutinised the faces of the two friends. The eyes of both were full of tears, which, as the girl gazed, overflowed. Not a little alarmed, she hurriedly asked what was the matter.“Come and sit here between us, dear, and you shall know,” answered Mrs. Duncan for them both, smiling and making room on the bench beside her.Puzzled, and it must be confessed, extremely curious, Marielle did as she was requested, and Mrs. Duncan began:“I have just been telling your dear mother, Marielle, what it has often before been my wish to make known to her; but one naturally feels a little shy about speaking of such matters until sufficiently intimate with anyone to warrant doing so. What I had to tell was simply this, that under God, to you, dear girl, I owe the greatest happiness of my life. Your singing at St. Jude’s on the last Sunday in Lent, of ‘There is a green hill,’ was the means of opening my dear husband’s eyes to his need of a Saviour, and he has been a changed man ever since. Not that he was ever anything but good, kind, and true, but his belief was not a living faith, and his soul might be said to have been almost dead within him. Now all is different, and John and I, who had been at one upon every other point except religion, are now at one upon that too. I repeat that I have to thank you, dear girl, for the greatest happiness of my life, under God,” and taking Marielle’s hand in hers, Margaret Duncan pressed it affectionately.For a few moments not a word was spoken, for Marielle could not control her voice sufficiently. She was moved beyond expression, and realised more fully than ever she had done what a gift had been entrusted to her by God, in that glorious voice and high musical talent. Presently however she turned to Mrs. Duncan with glistening eyes, and remarked simply:“I shall always consider what you have told me, as my greatest reward, since no amount of money could ever be worth to me what the knowledge of the good I was the instrument, in God’s hands, of doing, will ever be.”(To be concluded.)decorative
Itwas Tuesday afternoon in the week following Easter week, and Mrs. Heritage and her daughter were together in the tiny drawing-room of their house in York Road, when a knock at the street door made them turn and look at each other in surprise.
“Whoever can it be, mumsie darling?” exclaimed Marielle, pausing in her occupation of arranging bunches of yellow daffodils in brown jars on the mantelpiece. Fresh and fair and sweet as the Lent lilies, some of which she had pinned in the bosom of her dress, looked the girl herself, as she stood there in her simple black gown, which only served to set off her delicate complexion to greater advantage.
“I’m sure I don’t know, dearie. It is not very likely to be a visitor for us any way, since very few of our old friends seem to care to trouble themselves about calling nowadays. It was different when your father was alive.” And Mrs. Heritage’s lips quivered a little as the recollection of social triumphs, long gone by, flashed through her mind.
How true it is that “a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things!”
Marielle had only time to cast a loving glance at her mother in answer, for the opening of the door and a slight rustle outside warned her that a visitor was approaching.
“Mrs. Duncan!” was announced by the little maid who, with faithful old Mysie the cook, constituted the whole of the domestic establishment at No. 27.
With stately courtesy Marielle’s mother rose to receive the doctor’s wife, her manner insensibly thawing however, under the influence of her visitor’s winning smile.
“I am so glad to find you at home,” began Mrs. Duncan as soon as she was seated. Then, noticing that Marielle dropped the rest of the flowers she was holding on to a newspaper which she had spread upon a chair near, “Please do not let me interrupt you, Miss Heritage. Will you not go on arranging your flowers?”
“I shall do so with pleasure if you do not mind,” replied Marielle brightly, “only I fear I shall have to turn my back upon you now and again during the performance.”
“Oh, never mind that, it will be reward enough to see the effects of your handiwork when finished. I am so fond of daffodils. They are my favourite flowers.”
“And mine also,” returned Marielle, pleased at the mutual taste. Then—smiling and holding a big bunch towards Mrs. Duncan—“Aren’t these beauties too? I saw them as I was coming back from Forman’s this morning, and I could not resist the temptation of bringing some home with me. They look so bright they are quite cheering. I always think yellow flowers are like sunlight in a room.”
“They are indeed,” assented Mrs. Duncan, lifting her gaze from the flowers in order to contemplate the face bending over her.
“How pure and true it looks!” she mused. Those large clear hazel eyes, with their black lashes, and delicately-pencilled dark eyebrows, the refined features, and rose-leaf skin, crowned by the rebellious fair hair which, in spite of all Marielle’s efforts, persisted in standing out round her shapely head, like a veritable golden halo—all these made up a picture which, once seen, was not likely to pass out of mind.
And the girl herself, with her tall, dainty figure, was as good and true as her face indicated.
Little wonder then that Mrs. Heritage thanked God every day on her knees for the precious gift of her daughter. Her flowers all disposed of into the various vases, Marielle slipped away to wash her hands, and to give a few directions concerning afternoon tea. Ann was to be sure to put the pretty new cloth worked by Marielle’s busy fingers on the table, and Mysie must not forget to send up some of her delicious hot scones, and the shortbread which she was famous for making.
Mysie, who nearly worshipped the young girl she had known from a baby, promised to do her best, and Marielle ran upstairs to remove the flower-stains from her fingers, humming as she went the air of a favourite song.
In the meantime the elder ladies, left alone, found themselves rapidly progressing towards intimacy. They had many tastes in common as they soon discovered, and each had known a great sorrow in the loss of one very dear to them. We know that in the one case, viz., that of Mrs. Heritage, it was the husband who had been taken away, while in that of Mrs. Duncan, it was the daughter.
It was not long before the conversation turned upon Marielle’s singing, and her mother’s face flushed with pleasure at the warm tribute of praise bestowed upon the girl by her new acquaintance.
Mrs. Duncan was proceeding to enlarge upon the pleasure it had given them all to hear her, when she was interrupted by the girl herself, and shortly after, the tea made its appearance.
The hot scones and shortbread were duly discussed by the three ladies in a manner that made old Mysie beam again when told of it by Marielle.
After extracting a promise from Mrs. Heritage and her daughter to the effect that they would soon come and see her, Mrs. Duncan took her departure. But all the way home she seemed to be haunted by the fair face, clear hazel eyes, and ringing laugh of Marielle Heritage.
“I like Mrs. Duncan, mother, don’t you?” asked the girl after their visitor had gone.
“Very much, darling, as far as I can tell at present,” replied Mrs. Heritage, fondly regarding her daughter as she ensconced herself upon a footstool at her feet, and prepared for a cosy talk in the firelight. “She has known trouble too, poor thing, she lost her only daughter two years ago.”
“Oh, did she, mumsie? How sorry I am! Perhaps that is what makes her look so sad at times.” For Marielle had noticed the wistful look that had crept over Mrs. Duncan’s face when regarding herself.
“It may be that she envies me my daughter,” rejoined Mrs. Heritage proudly. “Yet I do not think she is sad, for she told me that this Eastertide had been the happiest she had ever known.”
“I wonder why?” speculated Marielle.
“Perhaps we may learn the reason some day, darling. But here comes Ann with the lamp, and you must leave me in peace as I have several letters to write before post time.”
“And I must try over that new work for the Chester concert,” replied Marielle, and very shortly both the ladies were absorbed in their respective occupations.
Three months had come and gone, and the acquaintance begun between the Duncans and Heritages had rapidly ripened into a warm friendship. Scarcely a week now passed without, at any rate, the ladies of the two families meeting at one house or the other, and Mrs. Duncan had begun to feel that she should sorely miss either Mrs. Heritage or Marielle should anything occur to cause their removal from Manningham. True, the remark was frequently made to Marielle, “Oh, you ought to be in London!” But the girl so far had only smiled and answered very justly:
“Why should I go to London when I can find plenty to do here. There I should be only one among hundreds, while here I already have a position and name in the musical world.”
The force of her argument was undeniable, and the Heritages remained in Manningham.
One hot afternoon in July a telegram came to No. 27, York Road, from a pupil, to ask Marielle if she could give a lesson at Forman’s at five o’clock.
Marielle grumbled a little, not unnaturally, as it would necessitate her breaking a promise she had made to accompany her mother and Mrs. Duncan in a walk to the High Park at that hour. But the pupil was one whom it would not do to offend, so she wired back that she would give the lesson, and persuaded her mother not to give up the walk on that account, but to go notwithstanding her own absence.
“You will get your walk just the same, mother darling, won’t you? For I know Mrs. Duncan would be greatly disappointed if you did not go. It would seem as if you only cared to go when I was with you, and that would never do!”
Mrs. Heritage gave the required promise, and duly set forth at the time appointed.
The lesson over, Marielle glanced at her watch. It wanted five-and-twenty minutes to six.
“I know what I will do,” she said to herself as she closed the piano and drew on her gloves. “I’ll take a Roxton Road tram, and get out at the park gates. I am sure to find mother and Mrs. Duncan in the Rose-walk, they always gravitate in that direction”—smiling, as she pictured their surprise at her unexpected appearance. “I wonder I did not think of it before. I shall be in time to walk home with them in any case, if only I do not have to wait long for my tram!”
Good fortune awaited her in this respect, and the hands of the clock in the park tower were pointing to six as she sped along towards the Rose-walk. Presently she descried the two ladies she sought sitting together on a bench, but they were evidently far too much occupied with one another to take any heed of Marielle’s approach, if, indeed, they heard her footsteps on the grass. No one else was in sight, and the girl drew nearer until when within a few yards, her mother looked up and saw her.
“Why, Marielle darling, what a pleasure!” Mrs. Heritage exclaimed, but her voice sounded tremulous, and Marielle, coming closer still, scrutinised the faces of the two friends. The eyes of both were full of tears, which, as the girl gazed, overflowed. Not a little alarmed, she hurriedly asked what was the matter.
“Come and sit here between us, dear, and you shall know,” answered Mrs. Duncan for them both, smiling and making room on the bench beside her.
Puzzled, and it must be confessed, extremely curious, Marielle did as she was requested, and Mrs. Duncan began:
“I have just been telling your dear mother, Marielle, what it has often before been my wish to make known to her; but one naturally feels a little shy about speaking of such matters until sufficiently intimate with anyone to warrant doing so. What I had to tell was simply this, that under God, to you, dear girl, I owe the greatest happiness of my life. Your singing at St. Jude’s on the last Sunday in Lent, of ‘There is a green hill,’ was the means of opening my dear husband’s eyes to his need of a Saviour, and he has been a changed man ever since. Not that he was ever anything but good, kind, and true, but his belief was not a living faith, and his soul might be said to have been almost dead within him. Now all is different, and John and I, who had been at one upon every other point except religion, are now at one upon that too. I repeat that I have to thank you, dear girl, for the greatest happiness of my life, under God,” and taking Marielle’s hand in hers, Margaret Duncan pressed it affectionately.
For a few moments not a word was spoken, for Marielle could not control her voice sufficiently. She was moved beyond expression, and realised more fully than ever she had done what a gift had been entrusted to her by God, in that glorious voice and high musical talent. Presently however she turned to Mrs. Duncan with glistening eyes, and remarked simply:
“I shall always consider what you have told me, as my greatest reward, since no amount of money could ever be worth to me what the knowledge of the good I was the instrument, in God’s hands, of doing, will ever be.”
(To be concluded.)
decorative
A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.ByC. A. MACIRONE.CHAPTER III.THE POOR ITALIAN PEASANT, ROSA GOVONA.I waslost in thought, and dreaming of the incidents I had been permitted to see, when the vast hall and its dark recesses recurred to my mind, and the radiant angels, the recorders of noble actions, were again before me, lofty figures of light holding back the cloudy draperies, and bringing before me now an Italian countryside, hilly, rocky, its distant town, and campanile, the angelus sounding in the air; up the mountains and rugged hillsides a few peasants’ huts, and in woods and valleys, brooks and waterfalls making a music of their own, through which the angelus seemed to breathe the peace and rest of religion.The evening sunshine threw a golden glow over woods and mountain, valleys and chestnut woods, and in one of those huts I saw a woman—a working woman past the first bloom of youth—alone, noted for her skill in needlework, one of dignified, calm, and modest demeanour. She was troubled at the distress of a friend, a young orphan girl who was forsaken and helpless, and, unfortunately, too young to live in that country without some responsible protector. She had come to Rosa in her trouble. “Come to me,” Rosa said. Her name was Rosa Govona. “Here shalt thou abide with me. Thou shalt sleep in my bed, thou shalt drink of my cup, and thou shalt live by the labours of thine own hands.”I saw the young guest docile and industrious, a success and a comfort. Her safety and happiness became evident, and I saw inmate after inmate, young, helpless, and orphaned, gathered into Rosa’s home in the hills, working and learning, adding one industry after another amidst calumny and persecution. Ignorance and Vice lost no time in attacking them, and only their silence and patience, loyalty to their Head, and blameless lives, could, and did at last, quiet their enemies.I saw, after a while, the authorities of the town (Mondovi) offer Rosa, whose community had grown too large for the little village where they first lived, a large house in the flowery plains of Carcassonne, but the foundress of the home still could not receive all who flocked to her. Lonely and poor girls, exposed to so many temptations of want and evil, pleaded for admission to the shelter and order of her home, and a still larger house at Brao rose, with its serene religion, its peaceful order, its intelligent work, its ceaseless industry.Years went by, and lo! another scene arose before me—Turin, the bright capital of Piedmont, girt with its snow mountains, Monte Viso and the lesser heights around it—Turin, its stately palaces and white streets; and into this city came a poor working peasant, Rosa Govona, on whose wisdom and goodness a large household now depended, her suite two or three of the poor friendless orphan girls whom she had saved and befriended.“I saw the Fathers of the Oratory of St. Philip moved for the love of God to give her a few rooms, and the soldiers at the barracks, roused to enthusiasm by the reports ringing through the town of the good work she had done, ransacked the place for straw mattresses and tables.“Blessing and praising God, the little army of working women and girls march into Turin, and in a short time large buildings which belonged to a suppressed monastery are given over to Rosa and her people. The buildings are large, but they are soon filled with forsaken orphan girls, and the King (Charles Emanuel III.) considers and approves the judicious rules laid down by Rosa, and orders the factories of the establishment to be organised and registered by the magistrates who regulate commercial matters.“I see this vast organisation under the special patronage of the Sardinian Government.”Two great factories under the Rosinas (so called in honour of their foundress) have risen into public usefulness, the one of cloth for the army, the other of the best silks and ribands.Thanks to this single-handed, poor working woman, Rosa Govona, I see three hundred women, without dowry, without any resource save their own labour and their conscientious discipline, earning an honest and comfortable livelihood, and able to provide in youth for the comfort and independence of old age.I see houses depending on that at Turin established at Novara, Fossano, Savigliano, Saluzzo, Chieri, and St. Damian of Asti.I see over every house which she founded, engraved over the entrance, the words she addressed to her first guest, “Tu mangerai col lavoro delle tue mani”—“Thou shalt live by the labour of thine own hands.”I see twenty-one years spent in going over the provinces of Piedmont, and founding asylums for the unprotected and industrious poor of her own sex, until, exhausted by her labours, she died at Turin.I see her remains deposited in the chapel of the establishment, and there, on the simple monument which covers them, may still be read the following epitaph:—“Here lies Rosa Govona of Mondovi. From her youth she consecrated herself to God. For His glory she founded in her native place and in other towns, retreats, opened for forsaken young girls, so that they might serve God. She gave them excellent regulations, which attach them to piety and labour. During an administration of thirty years she gave constant proofs of admirable charity and of unshaken firmness. She entered on eternal life on the 28th day of February in the year 1776, the sixtieth year of her age. Grateful daughters have raised this monument to their mother and benefactress.”I saw this noble and dignified life come to a close amidst those she had saved and blessed. “They say of her that she was ever doing, ever thoughtful and silent. In aspect she was grave, earnest, and resolute. I beheld her as they describe her, a serious and beneficent apparition. A plain cap, a white kerchief across her bosom, and a brown robe constituted the attire of the foundress of the Rosinas. She imposed no tie upon her people. They can leave their abode and marry if they wish, but they rarely do so.“I saw, in a later vision of the Rosinas, they are still prosperous and happy. They are admitted from thirteen to twenty. They must be wholly destitute, healthy, active, and both able and willing to work. The old and infirm are supported by their younger companions.[2]To preserve the spirit of the modest and retired life which Rosa wished her daughters to lead, no commercial matters are transacted save at the establishment in Turin, which governs the other houses.“The labours of the Rosinas are varied and complete. Whatever they manufacture they do with their own hands from beginning to end. They buy the cocoons in spring, and perform every one of the delicate operations which silk undergoes before it is finally woven into gros de Naples, levantines, and ribands. Their silks are of the best quality, but plain, in order to avoid the expense and inconvenience of changing their looms with every caprice of fashion. They also fabricate linen, but only a limited number of Rosinas can undergo the fatigue of weaving. In order not to interfere with the silk establishment at Turin, the manufacture of woollen stuffs is now carried on at Chieri. Government buys all the cloth of the army from the Rosinas. They even manufacture all the necessary ornaments, and make up the uniforms, with one cut out for them by tailors. Gold lace and the rich vestments of priests are likewise produced by these industrious women ... who are renowned for their skill in embroidery.“There is a large magazine at Turin where the produce of their labours is gathered and sold by trustworthy persons, and is patronised by Government and by the population, for their goods are excellent in quality and fair in price, and there is a general preference for the work of these pure and innocent women. The house in Turin alone spends eighty thousand francs a year. It holds three hundred women, and is governed by six mistresses and one director, a woman, and an ecclesiastic administers and directs it; and it is frequently visited by the Queen, who grants it a special protection and interest.”And this was the work of one poor and obscure workwoman, inspired by love of her orphan and helpless sisters, and in her devotion to her God.(To be concluded.)
ByC. A. MACIRONE.
THE POOR ITALIAN PEASANT, ROSA GOVONA.
I waslost in thought, and dreaming of the incidents I had been permitted to see, when the vast hall and its dark recesses recurred to my mind, and the radiant angels, the recorders of noble actions, were again before me, lofty figures of light holding back the cloudy draperies, and bringing before me now an Italian countryside, hilly, rocky, its distant town, and campanile, the angelus sounding in the air; up the mountains and rugged hillsides a few peasants’ huts, and in woods and valleys, brooks and waterfalls making a music of their own, through which the angelus seemed to breathe the peace and rest of religion.
The evening sunshine threw a golden glow over woods and mountain, valleys and chestnut woods, and in one of those huts I saw a woman—a working woman past the first bloom of youth—alone, noted for her skill in needlework, one of dignified, calm, and modest demeanour. She was troubled at the distress of a friend, a young orphan girl who was forsaken and helpless, and, unfortunately, too young to live in that country without some responsible protector. She had come to Rosa in her trouble. “Come to me,” Rosa said. Her name was Rosa Govona. “Here shalt thou abide with me. Thou shalt sleep in my bed, thou shalt drink of my cup, and thou shalt live by the labours of thine own hands.”
I saw the young guest docile and industrious, a success and a comfort. Her safety and happiness became evident, and I saw inmate after inmate, young, helpless, and orphaned, gathered into Rosa’s home in the hills, working and learning, adding one industry after another amidst calumny and persecution. Ignorance and Vice lost no time in attacking them, and only their silence and patience, loyalty to their Head, and blameless lives, could, and did at last, quiet their enemies.
I saw, after a while, the authorities of the town (Mondovi) offer Rosa, whose community had grown too large for the little village where they first lived, a large house in the flowery plains of Carcassonne, but the foundress of the home still could not receive all who flocked to her. Lonely and poor girls, exposed to so many temptations of want and evil, pleaded for admission to the shelter and order of her home, and a still larger house at Brao rose, with its serene religion, its peaceful order, its intelligent work, its ceaseless industry.
Years went by, and lo! another scene arose before me—Turin, the bright capital of Piedmont, girt with its snow mountains, Monte Viso and the lesser heights around it—Turin, its stately palaces and white streets; and into this city came a poor working peasant, Rosa Govona, on whose wisdom and goodness a large household now depended, her suite two or three of the poor friendless orphan girls whom she had saved and befriended.
“I saw the Fathers of the Oratory of St. Philip moved for the love of God to give her a few rooms, and the soldiers at the barracks, roused to enthusiasm by the reports ringing through the town of the good work she had done, ransacked the place for straw mattresses and tables.
“Blessing and praising God, the little army of working women and girls march into Turin, and in a short time large buildings which belonged to a suppressed monastery are given over to Rosa and her people. The buildings are large, but they are soon filled with forsaken orphan girls, and the King (Charles Emanuel III.) considers and approves the judicious rules laid down by Rosa, and orders the factories of the establishment to be organised and registered by the magistrates who regulate commercial matters.
“I see this vast organisation under the special patronage of the Sardinian Government.”
Two great factories under the Rosinas (so called in honour of their foundress) have risen into public usefulness, the one of cloth for the army, the other of the best silks and ribands.
Thanks to this single-handed, poor working woman, Rosa Govona, I see three hundred women, without dowry, without any resource save their own labour and their conscientious discipline, earning an honest and comfortable livelihood, and able to provide in youth for the comfort and independence of old age.
I see houses depending on that at Turin established at Novara, Fossano, Savigliano, Saluzzo, Chieri, and St. Damian of Asti.
I see over every house which she founded, engraved over the entrance, the words she addressed to her first guest, “Tu mangerai col lavoro delle tue mani”—“Thou shalt live by the labour of thine own hands.”
I see twenty-one years spent in going over the provinces of Piedmont, and founding asylums for the unprotected and industrious poor of her own sex, until, exhausted by her labours, she died at Turin.
I see her remains deposited in the chapel of the establishment, and there, on the simple monument which covers them, may still be read the following epitaph:—
“Here lies Rosa Govona of Mondovi. From her youth she consecrated herself to God. For His glory she founded in her native place and in other towns, retreats, opened for forsaken young girls, so that they might serve God. She gave them excellent regulations, which attach them to piety and labour. During an administration of thirty years she gave constant proofs of admirable charity and of unshaken firmness. She entered on eternal life on the 28th day of February in the year 1776, the sixtieth year of her age. Grateful daughters have raised this monument to their mother and benefactress.”
I saw this noble and dignified life come to a close amidst those she had saved and blessed. “They say of her that she was ever doing, ever thoughtful and silent. In aspect she was grave, earnest, and resolute. I beheld her as they describe her, a serious and beneficent apparition. A plain cap, a white kerchief across her bosom, and a brown robe constituted the attire of the foundress of the Rosinas. She imposed no tie upon her people. They can leave their abode and marry if they wish, but they rarely do so.
“I saw, in a later vision of the Rosinas, they are still prosperous and happy. They are admitted from thirteen to twenty. They must be wholly destitute, healthy, active, and both able and willing to work. The old and infirm are supported by their younger companions.[2]To preserve the spirit of the modest and retired life which Rosa wished her daughters to lead, no commercial matters are transacted save at the establishment in Turin, which governs the other houses.
“The labours of the Rosinas are varied and complete. Whatever they manufacture they do with their own hands from beginning to end. They buy the cocoons in spring, and perform every one of the delicate operations which silk undergoes before it is finally woven into gros de Naples, levantines, and ribands. Their silks are of the best quality, but plain, in order to avoid the expense and inconvenience of changing their looms with every caprice of fashion. They also fabricate linen, but only a limited number of Rosinas can undergo the fatigue of weaving. In order not to interfere with the silk establishment at Turin, the manufacture of woollen stuffs is now carried on at Chieri. Government buys all the cloth of the army from the Rosinas. They even manufacture all the necessary ornaments, and make up the uniforms, with one cut out for them by tailors. Gold lace and the rich vestments of priests are likewise produced by these industrious women ... who are renowned for their skill in embroidery.
“There is a large magazine at Turin where the produce of their labours is gathered and sold by trustworthy persons, and is patronised by Government and by the population, for their goods are excellent in quality and fair in price, and there is a general preference for the work of these pure and innocent women. The house in Turin alone spends eighty thousand francs a year. It holds three hundred women, and is governed by six mistresses and one director, a woman, and an ecclesiastic administers and directs it; and it is frequently visited by the Queen, who grants it a special protection and interest.”
And this was the work of one poor and obscure workwoman, inspired by love of her orphan and helpless sisters, and in her devotion to her God.
(To be concluded.)