The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Quiver, 11/1899This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Quiver, 11/1899Author: AnonymousRelease date: September 15, 2013 [eBook #43738]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Julia Neufeld and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE QUIVER, 11/1899 ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Quiver, 11/1899Author: AnonymousRelease date: September 15, 2013 [eBook #43738]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Julia Neufeld and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: The Quiver, 11/1899
Author: Anonymous
Author: Anonymous
Release date: September 15, 2013 [eBook #43738]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Delphine Lettau, Julia Neufeld and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE QUIVER, 11/1899 ***
motherhoodMOTHERHOOD.After the Picture byMiss Ida Lovering.]
MOTHERHOOD.After the Picture byMiss Ida Lovering.]
MOTHERHOOD.
After the Picture byMiss Ida Lovering.]
lady
By the Author of "The Child Wives and Widows of India," Etc.
AA garrison of snow-capped mountains; a valley smiling in Oriental luxuriance; the gorgeous, romantic loveliness described in "Lalla Rookh"—such are the general impressions of the land of Kashmir. Dirt, disease, and degradation summed up its prevailing characteristics in the eyes of an Englishman, who, in October, 1872, toiled wearily over the Pir Panjal, 11,900 feet above the level of the sea.
A garrison of snow-capped mountains; a valley smiling in Oriental luxuriance; the gorgeous, romantic loveliness described in "Lalla Rookh"—such are the general impressions of the land of Kashmir. Dirt, disease, and degradation summed up its prevailing characteristics in the eyes of an Englishman, who, in October, 1872, toiled wearily over the Pir Panjal, 11,900 feet above the level of the sea.
This was Dr. Elmslie's last journey. He hardly realised, as he dragged his weary limbs over rough but familiar paths, that one object for which he had struggled for years was practically accomplished. He sank from exhaustion on the way, and the day after his death Government granted permission for missionaries to spend the winter in the Valley of Kashmir. Still farther was he from knowing of another result of his labours. He had appealed to Englishwomen to bring the gifts of healing to suffering and secluded inmates of zenanas. Dr. Elmslie had found a direct way to the hearts of prejudiced heathen men. The sick came to him for healing, and learnt the meaning of his self-denying life.
Doctor(Photo: Elliott and Fry.)THE LATE DR. FANNY BUTLER.(At the time she went to India.)
(Photo: Elliott and Fry.)THE LATE DR. FANNY BUTLER.(At the time she went to India.)
(Photo: Elliott and Fry.)
THE LATE DR. FANNY BUTLER.
(At the time she went to India.)
"Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life," are ancient words of wisdom; but this rule has exceptions. To Hindu women, at least, caste is dearer than life. It would be as easy to restore the down to a bruised butterfly's wing as to give back self-respect, and with it all that makes life worth living, to a zenana lady who has been exposed to the gaze or touch of a man other than a near relation. Custom of the country debars a respectable woman from receiving ministry to body, soul, or mind, unless it comes from one of her own sex. Dr. Elmslie's appeal resulted in Miss Fanny Butler's offer of service to the Indian Female Normal School and Instruction Society. She was the first enrolled student of the London School of Medicine, which had just beentransferred from Edinburgh, and passed second out of one hundred and twenty-three candidates, one hundred and nineteen of whom were men, in the Preliminary Arts Examination. She went to India in October, 1880, the first fully qualified medical missionary to women.
Seventeen years after Dr. Elmslie's death Dr. Fanny Butler obtained another concession for Kashmir, the permission for missionaries to live within the city of Srinagar. She saw the foundations of a new hospital for women begun within the city, and fourteen days after she also laid down what, an hour before her death, she described as a "good long life," in the service of Kashmiri people. The age of thirty-nine, she said to the friends who surrounded her, and who felt that she of all others could not be spared, was "not so very young to die," and she sent an earnest plea to the Church of England Zenana Society, the division of the old society to which she belonged, to send someone quickly to take her place. The new hospital was the gift of Mrs. Bishop (Miss Isabella Bird) in memory of her husband. She had seen the dirty crowd of suffering women at the dispensary door overpower two men, and the earliest arrivals precipitated head foremost by the rush from behind, whilst numbers were turned away in misery and disappointment.
Hospitals and dispensaries have rapidly increased since the day of pioneers. Absolute necessity has forced medical work on many missionaries in the field. The most elementary knowledge of nursing and hygiene appears miraculous to women sunk in utter ignorance. A white woman too modest to give them remedies for every ailment is usually regarded as unkind. A neglected missionary dispensary is practically unknown.
verandah(Photo supplied by the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society.)OUTSIDE THE VERANDAH OF THE WOMEN'S HOSPITAL AT TARN TARAN.(Showing some of the patients placed out to spend the hot night in the open.)
(Photo supplied by the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society.)OUTSIDE THE VERANDAH OF THE WOMEN'S HOSPITAL AT TARN TARAN.(Showing some of the patients placed out to spend the hot night in the open.)
(Photo supplied by the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society.)
OUTSIDE THE VERANDAH OF THE WOMEN'S HOSPITAL AT TARN TARAN.
(Showing some of the patients placed out to spend the hot night in the open.)
At the time when the Countess Dufferin started her admirable scheme for providing medical aid for Indian women awell-known Anglo-Indian surgeon stated publicly that, whatever other qualification was required in a candidate, two were absolutely necessary: she must be a lady in the highest sense of the word, and she must be a Christian, and he proceeded to give good reasons for what he said. The experience of every woman who has taken up this work would bear out his sentiments. Without courtesy and ready intuition of the feelings of others it would be hard to get an entrance into zenanas, and nothing but love and devotion to her Master would enable a woman to persevere in spending her life amongst sick heathen women, in spite of sights, scenes, and vexations beyond conception in England.
Duchess(From a Photograph.)THE DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT'S HOSPITAL, PESHAWUR.
(From a Photograph.)THE DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT'S HOSPITAL, PESHAWUR.
(From a Photograph.)
THE DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT'S HOSPITAL, PESHAWUR.
The greatest difficulties are probably met in high-caste zenanas. There, in the midst of unhealthy surroundings, the friends and neighbours have grand opportunities of undoing any good that may have been accomplished. It is grievous to a medical missionary to find her fever patient dying from a douche of cold water, because the white woman has defiled her high caste by feeling her pulse. It is enough to make her give up a case in despair if, after she has explained that quiet is absolutely necessary, the friends and neighbours decide that the evil spirit supposed to be in possession must be driven out by the music of tom-toms. A Hindu man is said to "sin religiously," and a Hindu woman excels him in devotion to her creed. A fever patient in the Punjab refused to drink milk—the one thing of all others that her medical woman ordered her—because she said, if it were the last thing she swallowed, her soul would pass into the body of a cobra. One medical missionary found a woman, who was in a critical state, lying on a mat, whilst an old woman, supposed to be learned in sickness, stood on her body, or patrolled up and down like a sentinel, as far as the length would admit. This was kindly meant. Another found one suffering seriously from the effect of a linseed poultice. She had carefully explained the mysteries of making and applying it, but in her absence the patient's friends had spread dry linseed over her chest and poured boiling water over it.
waiting(Photo: Baness Bros.)WAITING THEIR TURN.(Patients outside the Tarn Taran Hospital Dispensary.)
(Photo: Baness Bros.)WAITING THEIR TURN.(Patients outside the Tarn Taran Hospital Dispensary.)
(Photo: Baness Bros.)
WAITING THEIR TURN.
(Patients outside the Tarn Taran Hospital Dispensary.)
Happily, all the women in India arenot secluded in zenanas. By far the largest proportion live in the villages, but their notions of propriety are very strict. The hard-working field-women will hide themselves on the suspicion of asahibbeing within reach. When once they are satisfied that the visitor belongs to their own sex and is harmless, crowds beset the missionary encampments. Many tales of suffering are poured into sympathising ears.
"I am blind from crying for my only son" is not an infrequent complaint. Nothing can be done in this case.
"There is no god or goddess to love a Hindu woman. Whatever offerings we make her, the goddess of small-pox smites us, and then the men say the women have not offered enough, and are angry." This was the reply of a Punjabi woman, who spoke for her friends and neighbours.
One Bengali woman told a missionary of the death of a precious baby boy. There did not seem much the matter, but thehakim(a native quack) first gave him something burning to swallow, and then applied a red-hot iron to each side in turn; and the child only drew one or two breaths after this treatment. This also, one hopes, was kindly meant. The Hindus are by no means wanting in humanity, but ignorance is often as fatal as cruelty.
Many patients find an excuse for coming again and again to the dispensaries. There they hear of blessings in this world and the next which they say seem too good to be true. They see love shining in the earnest faces, and feel it in the touch of hands that will not shrink from dressing repulsive sores.
The majority of cases in dispensaries are ordinary fevers or skin diseases resulting from dirt, and other scourges that follow defiance of elementary rules of health.
Patients discharged as cured often return. "Tell me again that Name that I can say when I pray," one of them asked, to explain the reappearance of her shrivelled old face; "I forget so soon." And she went on her way repeating the Name that even some of the heathen realise must be exalted above all others.
"I know that your Jesus must reign over our land," a Punjabi woman said to a lady who had opened a dispensary at Tarn Taran, a sacred city of the Sikhs; "I know it, because your religion is full of love and ours has none at all."
The mission hospital at this city, with the name which literally means "The Place of Salvation," and the dispensary seen in the illustration, came mainly into being through the determination of the inhabitants. A suffering baby might claim a share in its existence. This infant's mother brought it to a missionary whose training as a nurse had made her a friend in sickness. The child's sight was hopelessly gone. The mother said that thehakimhad told her alum was good for sore eyes, so she had put it under the lids.
"You have used it in such a way as to blind your baby," the missionary said; "and I could have told you what to do."
"How should I know?" the woman replied, using a common phrase to express helplessness or lethargy; but she told the story to her friends, and other mothers, whose babies' eyes were suffering, soon proved that the white woman had made no empty boast. Ophthalmia is terribly common in India, and its marvellous cures began to be famous.
One day a family party carried an invalid into the verandah of the Tarn Taran mission house. The missionary looked inside thedoolie; she was not a doctor, and declined to undertake such a serious case, and told the men to take their invalid to the Amritsar Hospital. They were determined to take no such trouble. To show that she was equally determined to make them, she went inside the house and shut the doors and blinds. Who would hold out the longest? The result was a foregone conclusion. The Punjabis, armed with a greater disregard for a woman's life, gained the victory by the simple method of beating a retreat, leaving the helpless woman behind them. In common humanity she could not be left to die. In a few days her family returned to inquire, and were gratified to find her progressing towards recovery. The white woman's celebrity was now secured, and to her consternation and embarrassment she found her verandah full of patients, and, from overwork, was soon herself added to the number. The people of Tarn Taran afterwards gave the building for a Women's Mission Hospital, and a new one is now in the charge of a fully qualified lady doctor.
Hospitals are by far the most satisfactorypart of medical missions. In zenanas and dispensaries it is one thing to prescribe and give advice, and another for orders to be obeyed, especially if they are contrary to rules of caste or custom. It is well known that a Hindu soldier, who will follow his British officer into the fiercestmêlée, and, if necessary, die for him, if true to his own creed, will not receive a cup of water at his hands. When wounded his parched lips will close tightly, lest his caste should suffer. The same principle debars his womenfolk from accepting physic in a liquid form from Englishwomen. They may, however, take powders. Written directions are generally useless, and verbal ones often misunderstood. It is little wonder if dispensary patients make slow progress.
"Are you sure you took the medicine I gave you?" inquired a medical missionary of one who made no advance at all.
"Quite sure, Miss Sahiba."
"How did you take it?"
"I ate the paper and threw away the dust."
This mistake was not astonishing under the circumstances. One Mohammedan specific is to swallow a paper pellet with the name of God written in Arabic; another, for themullahto write an Arabic inscription on a plate, and for the water that washes it off to be the dose.
workersA GROUP OF WORKERS AT THE DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT'S HOSPITAL.(Dr. Wheeler stands at the left-hand side of group.)
A GROUP OF WORKERS AT THE DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT'S HOSPITAL.(Dr. Wheeler stands at the left-hand side of group.)
A GROUP OF WORKERS AT THE DUCHESS OF CONNAUGHT'S HOSPITAL.
(Dr. Wheeler stands at the left-hand side of group.)
It is well when superstition and misconception stop short at swallowing paper and inky water. A woman, seriously injured from an accident, was carried into the Duchess of Connaught Hospital, Peshawur. Her husband accompanied her, and saw the medical missionary in charge carefully attend to fractures and bruises. Rest and sleep and quiet were doing their work, and the man was left to watch. A sudden crash startled the ward. The husband had turned the bedstead over on its side, and flung his wife down. He fancied she was dying, and said it would imperil her soul if it departed whilst she lay on anything but the floor. He had the satisfaction of knowing that she died where he placed her. This was a case ofa Hindu "sinning religiously." It would be harder to forgive the frequent sacrifice of life to superstition, if there were no ennobling element underlying it of honest desire for some vague spiritual good.
The Duchess of Connaught Hospital is a permanent memorial of her Royal Highness's kind interest in the women of India. Whilst on the North-Western Frontier she went through the Dispensary and Nursing Home which represented the first effort to bring medical aid to the Afghan women, and allowed it to be called after her name. A new and much larger building, of which a drawing has been reproduced, has taken the place of the native quarters, where Mohammedan bigotry was by slow degrees overcome. For years the ladies of the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society, who had charge of this hospital, were the only Europeans living within the walls of Peshawur. Every night the great city gates closed them in, and separated them from other missionaries and from Government servants. They chose to be in the midst of their work, and though outbreaks of Mohammedan fanaticism repeatedly checked teaching in schools and zenanas, ministry to the sick continued, and never lost the friendly confidence of Peshawuris.
staff(Photo supplied by the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society.)STAFF AND PATIENTS OF ST. CATHERINE'S HOSPITAL, AMRITSAR.
(Photo supplied by the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society.)STAFF AND PATIENTS OF ST. CATHERINE'S HOSPITAL, AMRITSAR.
(Photo supplied by the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society.)
STAFF AND PATIENTS OF ST. CATHERINE'S HOSPITAL, AMRITSAR.
In its early and humbler days, the fame of this hospital reached far-away Khorassan. A lady of that country who was suffering terribly, caused herself to be carried the fifteen days' journey to Peshawur. Miss Mitcheson, who opened the first dispensary, and is now the head of the hospital, saw that her case was critical and required an operation of a far more serious kind than she had ever attempted, and begged her to allow the civil surgeon to see her.
"I would rather die," the patient answered. The combined forces of suffering, fear of death, and persuasion, were powerless to move her. The Englishwoman, of whose powers she had heard in her own country, might do what she liked with her, but no man should come near her. Happily Miss Mitcheson successfully accomplished what was necessary, and the Khorassan lady made a good recovery. When the time came for parting from her new friends, she promised to use in herown country the knowledge she had gained in Peshawur. She kept her word, as more visitors from Khorassan testified, and they said she had not forgotten the benefits she had received in the mission hospital.
back(Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society.)BACK VIEW OF NEW WOMEN'S HOSPITAL, HANGCHOW.
(Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society.)BACK VIEW OF NEW WOMEN'S HOSPITAL, HANGCHOW.
(Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society.)
BACK VIEW OF NEW WOMEN'S HOSPITAL, HANGCHOW.
During Miss Mitcheson's absence in England Dr. Charlotte Wheeler, who with her fellow-workers, in the illustration on p. 102, stands in the verandah of the old building, superintended the medical work. On Miss Mitcheson's return, Miss Wheeler opened a medical mission amongst the women in Quetta. This work extended rapidly on and beyond the frontier, so that in November, 1896, when it was a year old, eight different languages were spoken on the same day in the dispensary waiting room.
Institutions for training Christian girls of India as doctors or nurses have come into existence as the number of candidates has increased and the necessity has arisen. The North India School of Medicine has been established at Ludhiana with this object. Many of the mission hospitals also have training classes. St. Catherine's Hospital, Amritsar, under the superintendence of Miss Hewlett, who has had nineteen years' experience, has provided very valuable assistant medical missionaries for stations in the Punjab and Bengal. At the last census a hundred Christian women—counting missionaries, assistants, patients, nurses and students—were within its walls. An illustration shows the inmates mustering before going to church.
One student in St. Catherine's Hospital, who had gained a scholarship, gave promise of a brilliant career. Before the time of study in which she delighted was over, the lady superintendent became suspicious of what this young girl described as broken chilblains on her fingers. A doctor was called in, and confirmed her impression that it was leprosy. An Eastern girl knows, what in Europe is only faintly imagined, of the horrors of this loathsome disease. One cry of anguish only escaped her when she was told the verdict. Then she rose above the trial, and resigned herself cheerfully to the will of God. She was prepared to start the next day for the Leper Settlement near Calcutta without meeting her friends or fellow-students for a word of farewell.
"What comforts me," she said to the Clerical Secretary of the Church of England Zenana Missionary Society, who was in Amritsar at the time, "is that I may go as a missionary rather than as a patient."
She went to that place of death and banishment, to live out the rest of her days in ministry for others. In her case the days lingered into years, and the disease took a severe form, but her devotion and courage never failed. When death came to her as a friend, and her work was done, the memory of the "superior girl," who had lived among the afflicted people as a missionary rather than a patient, remained. Perhaps her fellowship in suffering gave her the final qualification to be a missionary to lepers.
India is the land which above all others cries out for lady medical missionaries; but other Eastern countries have also a claim. Wherever Islam has planted its iron heel, women are jealously guarded in harems, and it is very unusual for a man to be allowed entrance on any pretext. In China, also, women of superior class are hidden within the high walls thatsurround their houses. Those free to go out gain little but suffering from the barbarous attentions of native surgeons. In the East the knowledge which brings relief from pain is a power to overcome obstacles to Christianity that resist every other force.
The Church of England Zenana Missionary Society has sent out a qualified lady doctor to Foochow, and in 1894 the Church Missionary Society opened a hospital for women in Hangchow with one large and six smaller wards. One patient who was brought into this building—of which two views are given—suffering from diseased bones, has gone out to devote her recovered health and new knowledge to the service of God and her own countrywomen.
interior(Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society.)INTERIOR OF NEW WOMEN'S HOSPITAL, HANGCHOW
(Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society.)INTERIOR OF NEW WOMEN'S HOSPITAL, HANGCHOW
(Photo supplied by the Church Missionary Society.)
INTERIOR OF NEW WOMEN'S HOSPITAL, HANGCHOW
There is scarcely a mission hospital or dispensary that cannot tell of similar results of the double ministry to body and soul. Each year justifies the increased number of women with medical qualifications sent into the mission field. Some, like Mrs. Russell Watson, of the Baptist Mission at Chefu, are the wives of missionaries, others have been sent out by various missions, such as the Zenana Bible and Medical Mission, or by the women's branches (added during the close of the present century), to the more venerable societies.
Dr. Henry Martyn Clark, of Amritsar, once asked a friendly Hindu what department of foreign missions his people considered most dangerous.
"Why should I reveal our secrets to the enemy?" the Hindu responded. But he yielded to persuasion. "We do not very much fear your preaching," he said, "for we need not listen; nor your schools, for we need not send our children; nor your books, for we need not read them. But we do fear your women, for they are gaining our homes; and we very much fear your medical missions, for they are gaining our hearts. Hearts and homes gone, what shall we have left?"
What may be expected when medical and women's missions are combined? According to the friendly Hindu, the very citadels of idolatry and superstition might tremble at the advance of this double force to rescue the captives.
D. L. Woolmer.
rollOUR ROLL OF HEROIC DEEDSThis month we devote our space to a pictorial representation of an heroic act by James Williamson, a fisherman of Whalsay, Shetland. During a heavy storm he waded out to the succour of two companions, who had been pinned on the rocks by their capsized boat and were in imminent danger of drowning. Williamson was at first carried away by a heavy sea, but was returned by the next. Then with an extraordinary effort he lifted the side of the boat, seized the men, and, with one under each arm, fought his way through the boiling surf to dry land. For this conspicuous act of bravery Williamson was awarded the Silver Medal ofThe QuiverHeroes Fund.
OUR ROLL OF HEROIC DEEDSThis month we devote our space to a pictorial representation of an heroic act by James Williamson, a fisherman of Whalsay, Shetland. During a heavy storm he waded out to the succour of two companions, who had been pinned on the rocks by their capsized boat and were in imminent danger of drowning. Williamson was at first carried away by a heavy sea, but was returned by the next. Then with an extraordinary effort he lifted the side of the boat, seized the men, and, with one under each arm, fought his way through the boiling surf to dry land. For this conspicuous act of bravery Williamson was awarded the Silver Medal ofThe QuiverHeroes Fund.
OUR ROLL OF HEROIC DEEDS
This month we devote our space to a pictorial representation of an heroic act by James Williamson, a fisherman of Whalsay, Shetland. During a heavy storm he waded out to the succour of two companions, who had been pinned on the rocks by their capsized boat and were in imminent danger of drowning. Williamson was at first carried away by a heavy sea, but was returned by the next. Then with an extraordinary effort he lifted the side of the boat, seized the men, and, with one under each arm, fought his way through the boiling surf to dry land. For this conspicuous act of bravery Williamson was awarded the Silver Medal ofThe QuiverHeroes Fund.
pleged
By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.
A"And then, old fellow," went on Sir Anthony's letter to Jack Leslie, of the Blues, his particular chum, "I stood staring, with my eyes watering and a little scratch on my nose bleeding where the old rooster—for a rooster it was—struck me with his spurs as he flew. He might have knocked out my eye, the brute! The second missile (an invention they call a sun-bonnet, I believe, made of pink calico and horribly stiffened) lay crumpled at my feet. And there in front of me stood the culprit herself, looking half-ashamed and half-inclined to follow the example of the other sun-bonnet which had buried itself in a big chair at the end of the room, and made scarcely a pretence of stifling its peals of laughter. I felt no end of a ninny I can tell you, especially as the owner of the first sun-bonnet was by long chalks the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen.
"And then, old fellow," went on Sir Anthony's letter to Jack Leslie, of the Blues, his particular chum, "I stood staring, with my eyes watering and a little scratch on my nose bleeding where the old rooster—for a rooster it was—struck me with his spurs as he flew. He might have knocked out my eye, the brute! The second missile (an invention they call a sun-bonnet, I believe, made of pink calico and horribly stiffened) lay crumpled at my feet. And there in front of me stood the culprit herself, looking half-ashamed and half-inclined to follow the example of the other sun-bonnet which had buried itself in a big chair at the end of the room, and made scarcely a pretence of stifling its peals of laughter. I felt no end of a ninny I can tell you, especially as the owner of the first sun-bonnet was by long chalks the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen.
"I'm no good at describing a girl's charms, but even at the first glance her beautiful violet eyes struck me. Blue eyes and black lashes and eyebrows—it is a thing happens over here sometimes, they tell me. Then, though she'd been rushing about after the ancient barnyard fowl who was to have graced the table in my honour, she had no more colour than a white rose; and yet she looked the picture of health and life—so different from fine ladies. This was Miss Pamela—Pam for short—as I discovered later. To finish her description, her charming head is covered with a mass of short black curls. She had a very shabby frock on, which didn't take a bit from her loveliness. I couldn't help wondering what the mater would have thought if she could have seen her. She would surely have called her 'a young woman,' with that superb contempt of hers.
"However, the breeding tells. Nothing could have been finer than the little air with which she pulled herself together, and said, as if it were an every-day thing to blind and maim your visitors:
"'You must be Sir Anthony Trevithick. I am so sorry. That wretched fowl flew in through the open window, and we've been three-quarters of an hour chasing him round. It was so unfortunate his flying out just at that moment, and still more unfortunate that I should have flung my bonnet after him. But you've no idea how he had aggravated us.'
"I assure you the mater couldn't have done it better, if one could conceivably imagine the mater under such circumstances.
"I could think of nothing to do but to pick up the bonnet and hand it to her, muttering some idiocy about it not mattering a bit. While this was going on the laughter in the chair was dying off in sobs of enjoyment.
"But before we could get any further Mr. Graydon himself made his appearance. I suppose something about my looks struck him—for a cucumber wasn't in it for coolness with Miss Pam—because he said, 'Why, bless me, Sir Anthony! what's the matter? What's the matter, Pam? Why, Sir Anthony, your nose is bleeding!'
rooster"The old rooster struck me with his spurs."—p.107.
"The old rooster struck me with his spurs."—p.107.
"The old rooster struck me with his spurs."—p.107.
"'Why, so it is!' said Miss Pam, calmly. 'Sir Anthony was trying to catch the red cock, papa, with a view to his dinner, but he's escaped, I'm sorry to say, and the dinner with him. It will be days before he comes home after the alarm we've given him. I'm so sorry you're wounded, Sir Anthony. Can I get you a little sticking-plaster?'
"'I never know where I shall find the fowls in this house,' said Mr. Graydon, a little irascibly, I thought; 'but the drawing-room at least ought to be kept free from them. Why, Sylvia, what are you doing there, child? Come here, and speak to Sir Anthony.'
"I expected a small child to come out of the big chair in answer to the summons; but, lo and behold! out of the sun-bonnet there looked another satin-cheeked damsel, almost as beautiful as the first. She made her bow demurely, and, I assure you, there wasn't a feather out of her after her fits of laughter at my expense. She had rather an ecstatic look, and her eyes were a bit moist—that was all. I can tell you I never felt so small in my life as when I stood up before those impudent girls, for I could see that the pair of them were hugely delighted at the whole affair.
"'Get some tea for Sir Anthony, girls,' said the father, 'and see that he has hot water taken to his room; he's had a long journey. Sit down, my lad—that is, if there's a chair in the room without a dog on it. Here, Mark Antony, you lazy animal, come off that sofa.' This to the fattest bulldog I ever saw—with such a jowl. He's Miss Sylvia's, and an amiable dog, despite his looks.
"Then the eldest daughter came in—not a patch on the others for beauty, but a Madonna of a creature, with a beautiful voice and a rather sad expression. She was greatly concerned about my scratched nose. But all the time she was talking I noticed that she looked at her father steadily reproachful. At last he noticed it too, for he suddenly blurted out:
"'Why, bless my soul! Molly, I forgot all about it,' and then he stopped and laughed. Miss Pamela has told me since that they had instructed their father to keep me on the way as long as possible.
"You'll gather that it is a rather rummy place. It is. The windows in my bedroom are mended with brown paper, and there are holes in the floor you could put your foot through. Not that my father's son need mind little hardships. But I am amused to think of what the mater would say, with her notions of things.
"By the way, if you're in Brook Street any time, don't repeat what I've told you. The mater hated my coming here. She has some extraordinary prejudice against Graydon, though he scarcely seems to remember her. But as I've given up my desire for soldiering to please her, it's my turn now to please myself by reading for this Foreign Office grind with my father's old friend.
"A word more and I am done. You'll think me as long-winded as some of those old women at the clubs. But their ways here are too delicious. The establishment is managed by one old woman—Bridget, who seems mistress, maid, and man rolled, in one. Well, the morning after I came, when I rang for my shaving water there was no response. At last I heard a foot go by my door, and I looked out cautiously. It was Bridget, and to her I made my request. 'Why, bless the boy!' she said, staring at me, 'You haven't been pullin' that old bell that's never rung in the memory of man?' I assured her I had. 'Well, then,' she said, 'goodness help your little wit! An' so ye want shavin' water, do ye? Sure, I thought ye wor a bit of a boy, that never wanted shavin' at all, at all!' However, she brought me the water obligingly, in an extraordinary piece of kitchen crockery. 'I suppose you're used to valetin',' she said. ''Twas Misther Mick spoiled me entirely for other young gentlemen. He'd dart down for his shavin' water—aye, many a time before I had the kitchen fire lit.' Mr. Mick was apparently a former pupil; I often hear of him.
"There's any amount of sport here, but I won't tantalise you. I like Graydon better every day; he's a dear old boy, and though he's in the clouds half the time when he's supposed to be coaching me, I can see that he knows more than half the tutors in London put together. He's a delightful companion out of doors, a good sportsman, and as young as the youngest.
"It's a mystery his being buried here. But I've no time to try to unriddle it now, and you'll never get as far as this, I expect. Good-bye, old fellow—I'm extremely well satisfied with my present quarters, and pity you in Knightsbridge. I suppose town is getting empty."
When this enormous epistle was finished and sealed, the young gentleman put it in his pocket and went downstairs. His pace was hastened by the fact that he could hear the joyful yelping of dogs in the hall, from which he gathered that someone besides himself was bent on outdoor exercise. Indeed, as he reached the hall and caught his hat from one of the dusty antlers, he saw the two younger Miss Graydons setting out amid their leaping and yelping escorts. He hurried after and overtook them.
"May I come with you?" he asked eagerly. "I've a very important letter to post, and if you're going to the village you might perhaps point out the post-office. I'm such a duffer at finding out things for myself."
"But we're turning our backs on the village," said Miss Sylvia, "going in exactly the opposite direction."
"Oh, well, then, it doesn't matter; the letter can wait till another time."
"Though it is so important. Oh, but you must post it. We'll put you on the way for the village. You turn to the right and we to the left when we reach the gate; then you'll walk straight into the arms of the post-office."
Pamela, who had not yet spoken, turned her heavenly-coloured eyes on her sister, but without speaking. Something in the look made the young fellow's heart throb suddenly.
"Ah, Miss Sylvia," he said imploringly, "don't put difficulties in my way. I want to come for a walk, if you will have me, and the letter can wait. I'm not contemplative enough to enjoy a country walk alone; and it will be a pleasure to walk with you and your sister."
"And the dogs?"
"And the dogs. The joys of a country walk are doubled in the society of dogs."
"I hope you'll think so when you have the felicity of fishing them out of a bog-hole. They will chase every beast they see; and our neighbour, Jack Malone's black cow, Polly, always leads them such a dance, ending up deservedly in a bog-hole."
"I'll try to endure even that, Miss Sylvia."
"Then if Mark Antony gets a thorn in his paw, as he almost invariably does, you'll have to carry him home."
"He must weigh three stone, Miss Sylvia."
"About that, Sir Anthony."
"Then it is better I should carry him than you."
"Oh, if you're bent on it, Sir Anthony."
"If you're not bent against it, Miss Sylvia."
"Well, come along then, for this is the parting of the ways."
They had arrived at the gate by this time.
"Sylvia should have told you, Sir Anthony, that though we turn our backs on the village, yet we pass a wall letter-box, which the postman empties on his way to Lettergort."
It was Pamela speaking for the first time, and in this less hoydenish mood of hers she had a likeness to her gentle elder sister.
"I'm not surprised to hear it, Miss Pamela. I guessed Miss Sylvia was only piling up the difficulties to tease me. But I was not to be put off."
"You are really a most persistent person, Sir Anthony."
"I know when I want a thing and mean to get it, Miss Sylvia."
"Did you ever see anything more beautiful than the rose-light on that mountain, Sir Anthony?"
"I have seen more beautiful things, Miss Pamela."
He spoke with the utmost simplicity, but the girl blushed nevertheless, and was furious with herself for blushing.
"See how rosy the peak is," she went on in some confusion, "but the woods are purple at the base. If we were over there where the road winds round the hill-foot, we should hear nothing but the singing of little streams. They are chattering through the bracken everywhere, and spilling into the road, where they make little channels for themselves, clear as amber."
"They make your boots very wet and your skirt draggle-tailed," remarked Sylvia.
"I see chimneys rising above the wood," said Sir Anthony. "Is there a house there, then?"
"There is, but it is empty at present. It belongs to Lord Glengall, who is away just now. It has a queer story attached to it."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Lord Glengall went to Australia as a boy, and was unheard of for years. His mother lived there, with one old servant, in the bitterest poverty. She was so proud no one dared to interfere, until, it having been noticed that the chimneys were smokeless for days, the house was entered by force, and mistress and maid were found dying of starvation side by side. The house was full of valuables—lace and plate, and all kinds of lovely things—but they were heirlooms, and the old lady would rather starve than sell them, and the old servant was quite of the same mind."
"What happened then?"
"They were taken off to the Rectory by old Mr. Rogers, who died last year. And in the nick of time Lord Glengall, whom everyone said was dead, turned up safe and sound to nurse his old mother. 'I kept the things together for you, my boy,' she said as soon as she recognised him.
"And the next thing she said," went on Sylvia, taking up the tale, "was, 'Where's that cat?' The faithfulness of animals, Sir Anthony! Old Tib, with whom they had shared all their short-commons, had, it seems, stolen the very last drop of milk that stood between them and starvation, and had then escaped through a window into the woods. 'I should like to give him a good hiding before I die.' That was the second speech of the indomitable old lady."
"What a chance for the novelist this country of yours presents!" said Sir Anthony.
"But that fortunately he never comes our way," replied Pamela.
"Your father promised me you would take me fishing one day." He spoke to Sylvia, but his eyes turned from her to Pamela.
"So we shall," said Sylvia readily.
"The river runs quite close to the house?"
"Yes, but if you want the pleasantest fishing, you must climb for it. Up there in the hills are little golden-brown trout-streams running through the valleys under the shadow of woods, and they are full of trout spoiling to be caught."
"You know the best places, Miss Sylvia."
"Don't let her guide you, Sir Anthony. I'll tell you a story about her. She was always tantalising Mick St. Leger, an old pupil of papa's, who is in India now, with stories of a wonderful pike which inhabited one of the big holes in the Moyle. Well, poor Mick used to sit and fish for hours, now and then catching a little fish by accident, for his heart wasn't in it for thinking of Sylvia's big pike. And Sylvia used to sit by watching him, apparently full of sympathy. One day he was fishing the big hole as usual, when he gave a long whistle. 'What is it, Mick?' Sylvia cried, running to him. 'It feels like a twenty-pounder,' said poor Mick, very red in the face. 'Oh, Mick, do let mehelp!' cried Sylvia. And then, with an immense deal of carefulness, and poor Mick holding on like grim death, they reeled up an old tin can full of stones, in the handle of which Mick's line was caught."
"Mick would never have known," said Sylvia dispassionately, "if little Patsy Murray hadn't come running after me a week later, calling out, 'Where's that apple ye promised me for sinkin' me mother's ould can in the river?' Mick never believed in me as an honest angler afterwards."
"No wonder! But to think your father should have suggested you as my guide, Miss Sylvia!"
"Pam's just as bad, Sir Anthony. I generally do the things, but Pam encourages me."
Pamela again turned those eyes of heaven's own colour in mute reproach upon her sister.
"I'll have faith in you, Miss Pam," said Sir Anthony impulsively, "no matter what your sister says to the contrary."
And he meant his rash promise.
letter"The letter can wait till another time."—p.109.
"The letter can wait till another time."—p.109.
"The letter can wait till another time."—p.109.
"My friends generally call me Tony," said a voice, the youthful growl of which was subdued to all possible softness.
"We have known each other such a little while," replied Pamela, looking down at theground, which had begun to cover itself in the flying gold of the autumn woods.
"As the calendar counts; but we—'we count time by heart-throbs'—doesn't somebody say that?"
A colour, like a pink rose-leaf, warmed in Pamela's clear cheek.
"We have become very good friends," she said, "seeing that it is only six—or is it seven?—weeks ago since we met."
"It is eight," said the youth. "I came in mid-July, and now it is mid-September. But it sometimes seems to me that I have always been here, and that my life elsewhere was but a dream."
wishes"Tell me what you wished for?"
"Tell me what you wished for?"
"Tell me what you wished for?"
"If that were so," she said demurely—and for a moment the violet eyes looked up at him under their shadow of night—"if that were so, then I might really call you by your name, Sir Anthony. But it is too soon."
"Then you will one day, Miss Pamela? How many days must go by first? You called that other man—St. Leger—by his name. It is 'Mick' with all of you."
"Ah," said Pamela, again with the bewildering glance; "but Mick was Mick, you see."
A sudden irrational anger kindled in the young man's eye, and his expression stiffened.
"Oh, I see," he said. "This paragon had special privileges which no one else may hope to share."
"He certainly had," said Pamela. "For no one else would endure them, poor dear!"
"Now, what do you mean by that?" he said doubtfully. "Do you mean the privilege of being called by his name?"
"No, but the privilege of my society and Sylvia's."
"He must have been jolly hard to please."
"He wasn't, then. He was as easily pleased as a child. I should like to have seen you in some of the situations in which Mick distinguished himself."
"I daresay I'd be very undistinguished. I make no pretence of being a paragon."
"It would be useless to, Sir Anthony."
"I don't dispute it, Miss Pamela. I suppose we'd better be making for home?"
He turned and walked sulkily along the forest path with the girl by his side. For a second there was silence; then Pamela broke it by saying softly:
"I often have thought that one reason why Molly fell in love with Mick was because she pitied him so much. He came to the wall in all our escapades. Of course, he was always in love with Molly, but I believe it was in protectinghim from us that she became so fond of him."
"He is your sister's lover, then?" incredulously.
"Why,of coursehe is. Whose did you suppose he was?"
"Yours, Miss Pamela."
"Mine! why, he'd never look at me when Molly was by. Besides, you don't know how horribly we ill-used the poor dear fellow."
"Miss Pam, I wish you'd ill-use me."
"You wouldn't like it at all, Sir Anthony."
"Yes, I should, Miss Pamela. So Mick is engaged to your sister. What an ass I have been!"
"Yes, poor dears, they are engaged, without the remotest prospect of ever being married that I can see. Mick's a subaltern in a line regiment, with just his pay—he got in through the Militia—and Molly, needless to say, hasn't a penny."
"He's a lucky fellow, all the same. And now, Miss Pamela, what have we been quarrelling about?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Sir Anthony. Have we been quarrelling?"
"Ihave."
"But I haven't. I did think you were a little cross about something. But here is the Wishing Well that I told you about."
They had come on a little glade of the forest, in the midst of which was a brier heavy with blackberries. The bush hooded a little space, and, looking underneath, one saw, as in a cup, a still depth of water over pebbles of gold and silver.
"You are to drink, Sir Anthony, without spilling a drop, and think on your wish at the same time."
"Drink from what, Miss Pamela?"
"Why, from your hands, of course."
"I couldn't; the water would all run away."
"No, it wouldn't. See how I manage it."
The girl scooped the water into her rosy palms and drank it slowly. Then she looked at him, and again the wave of rose flowed in her cheek.
"I never could manage it; I'm such a duffer at things. Miss Pamela, would you let me drink from your hands?Do!"
Without a word she stooped and lifted the water and held it to him. He drank from the rosy cup to the last drop. Then he suddenly caught the hands that had served him, and pressed them to his lips. For a moment they were yielded to him, and then the girl drew back. He thought she trembled a little, and the ardour in his gaze grew.
"I am sorry," he said, "but I couldn't help it. You are not angry, Miss Pamela?"
"I am going home, Sir Anthony," she said.
"Not till you tell me one thing——"
He barred her way, putting himself in front of her. "Tell me what you wished for."
Her eyes fell before his, and as she stood with her hands clasped, and her head bent, she was a different creature from the wild Pamela of a few short weeks ago. The sunlight through the thinned branches fell on her short curls, for her hat—which she had been swinging by a ribbon—had fallen to her feet.
"Look at me," he said; "I want to see what is in your eyes."
She lifted them obediently, and then let them fall again.
"Ah, that is enough," he said, with exultation in his voice. "You have answered me, Pam. That is enough just for the present. Some day I shall tell you what I wished for, and we shall see if our wishes come true. A double wish should have double force to induce its fulfilment. Isn't it so, Pam?"
She said nothing, and he looked at her with triumph shining in his eyes. Blent with it was the tenderness of a lover when he knows he is loved, and just a shade of shamefacedness as well.
"We must be wise, little beautiful Pamela," he said presently, in a low voice. "We must be wise and wait. I mustn't ask yet all I would ask, but I will one day—one good day, Pamela. You will trust me, won't you?"
"Yes," said Pamela, hardly knowing what she was asked.
"It will not be for long. Indeed, I could not endure it for long. Shall we be friends for a little while longer, Pamela darling?"
"Yes," said Pamela, forgetting to rebuke him.
"After to-day I will not call you darling till I have the right before all the world. After to-day. I meant to have held my tongue, but you bewildered me, Pamela. You are not angry with me?"
"No," came almost in a whisper.
"Lift up your eyes to me and say it. That is right. How beautiful your eyes are, Pamela! Say 'Tony,' now."
"Tony!"
"Dear Tony."
"Dear Tony!"
"How sweetly you say it! It is like silver in your voice. But, come now, we will go home. I have to be wise, you know. Ah, Pamela, Pamela! why did you bring me to the Wishing Well?"
"You wanted to go."
"Yes, I know; but it was an accident that we were alone, or it was Fate—yes, it was surely Fate that sent Miss Spencer's carriage for your sister at the last moment, so that we had to take our walk without her. Shallwe go now, and talk no more about love to-day?"
Pamela hesitated, and then said:
"Poor Sylvia! She has spent this lovely afternoon shut up with an old lady and a dog."
"She wouldn't mind the dog, I fancy, Pam."
"Nor the old lady. Sylvia is fond of Miss Spencer, strange as it may seem."
"Why is it strange, Pam? I can't help using the sweet little name."
He had taken her hand by this time, and they were walking like children down the aisle of golden trees.
"You haven't seen Miss Spencer. She is a little mad and a little grotesque to most people. But she is devoted to Sylvia, and Sylvia to her. She is not mad to Sylvia."
"How does it come that I haven't seen Miss Spencer?"
"She has been abroad. You'll see her one of these days, I expect. She was crossed in love in her youth, and it seems to have made her strange in ways. She's immensely wealthy, and gives a good deal in charity, but mostly among single women. She seems to think that those who have husbands and children don't need pity."
"She's quite safe for your sister to be with?"
"Oh, quite. She has all her senses, only that she's a trifle peculiar. She's a splendid business woman, everyone says."
"It is a curious friendship. I should never have supposed it of Miss Sylvia."
"No. One funny thing is that Miss Spencer's full of sentiment—wait till you hear her sing 'She wore a Wreath of Roses'—whereas Sylvia's quite without sentiment, and laughs at everything sentimental."
"I feel sorry for the poor old thing," said Sir Anthony, with a half-ashamed laugh, "because she was crossed in love. I shouldn't like to be crossed in love myself, Pamela."
"It was cruel," said Pamela simply. "The man made her love him, and then went away and never came back. She was poor then. She inherited Dovercourt quite unexpectedly."
"What a sweep he must have been!"