THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

PRESENTED WITH THE 1000th NUMBER OF THE “GIRL’S OWN PAPER.”

Orford Smith, Ltd., St. Albans.

A SACRIFICE OF VANITIES.

From the Painting in the Royal Academy by Margaret Dicksee.

“The next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill.”

Portrait Gallery OF CONTRIBUTORS TO THE Girl’s Own Paper.

PRESENTED TO OUR READERS WITH THE ISSUE OF THE 1000TH NUMBER.

GIRL’S OWN PAPER, LONDON.

H.R.H. The Princess Beatrice.

Photo by Hughes & Mullins, Isle of Wight.

The Countess of Aberdeen.

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

Sir Robert Ball, F.R.S.

Photo by Mayall & Co., Piccadilly.

The Rev. C. P. Banks, M.A.

Margaret Bateson.

Anne Beale.

Adeline, Duchess of Bedford.

Frank Bramley.

Photo by G. Allen Robinson, Hawick, N.B.

Emma Brewer.

H. W. Brewer.

Eliza Brightwen.

Gordon Browne.

The Countess of Buckinghamshire.

Helen Marion Burnside.

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

The Hon Mrs. Robert Butler.

Rosa Nouchette Carey.

S. F. A. Caulfeild.

Mary Clifford.

Lina Orman Cooper.

May Crommelin.

W. H. Cummings.

Photo by Russell & Sons, Baker Street.

Frank Dadd.

Mary Davies.

Photo by W. & D. Downey.

Elizabeth A. S. Dawes, M.A., D.Lit.

Dora de Blaquière.

Eleonora d’Esterre-Keeling.

Photo by Russell & Sons.

Elsa d’Esterre-Keeling.

Photo by Russell & Co.

Frank Dicksee.

Photo by H. S. Mendelssohn.

Margaret Dicksee.

Sarah Doudney.

The Lady Dunboyne.

M. Ellen Edwards.

Melton Fisher.

The Rev. Canon Fleming, B.D.

Birket Foster.

Photo by C. E. Fry & Sons.

Myles Birket Foster.

Agnes Giberne.

Photo by Russell & Co.

Arnold Green.

Kate Greenaway.

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

Edvard Grieg.

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

Sydney C. Grier.

Rev. E. J. Hardy, M.A., Author of “How to be Happy though Married.”

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

Beatrice Harraden.

Photo by Midgley Asquith, Harrogate.

Engelbert Humperdinck.

Natalie Janotha.

Photo by Stereoscopic Co.

The Countess of Jersey.

The Rev. Augustus Jessopp, D.D.

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

Mrs. Jopling.

Photo by W. Dane, Harrogate.

Davidson Knowles.

Ruth Lamb.

The Rev. Fred. Langbridge, M.A.

“La Petite.”

Liza Lehmann.

Photo by Alice Hughes.

Ida Lemon.

The Lady William Lennox.

Lawrence Liston, M.D.

Norma Lorimer.

Photo by Bassano.

The Marquess of Lorne.

Photo by H. S. Mendelssohn.

James Macaulay, M.D.

Hamish MacCunn.

Marguerite Macintyre.

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

Clara Angela Macirone.

Sir Alexander Mackenzie, Mus. D.

Mrs. Henry Mansergh.

Clotilda Marson.

Sir George Martin, Mus. Doc.

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

James Mason.

Isabella Fyvie Mayo.

The Countess of Meath.

W. A. Menzies.

Fred Miller.

Mrs. Molesworth.

E. Nesbit.

Jean A. Owen.

Edward Oxenford.

Photo by Hailey, St. John’s Wood.

Gertrude Page.

Esther Palliser.

Photo by Walery.

Sir C. Hubert H. Parry.

Photo by Elliott & Fry, Baker St., W.

Annie Patterson, B.A., Mus. Doc.

Alfred Pearse.

Photo by Porter Brothers, Hampstead.

Charles Peters.

Editor.

The Queen of Roumania.

Henry Ryland.

Mary Augusta Salmond.

Florence A. Saltmer.

James Sant, R.A.

Photo by Window & Grove.

The Rev. W. T. Saward, B.A.

A. T. Schofield, M.D.

Gordon Stables, M.D.

Sir John Stainer, Mus. D.

Photo by Hill & Saunder, Oxford.

Professor Villiers Stanford, Mus. Doc.

Photo by W. & D. Downey.

Antoinette Stirling.

Photo by Walery, Baker Street.

John Thomas, Harpist to the Queen.

Photo by Elliott & Fry.

Eglanton Thorne.

Sarah Tytler.

The Lady Georgina Vernon.

Mrs. L. B. Walford.

Marcella Walker.

Lily Watson.

F. E. Weatherly.

Maud Valérie White.

Photo by Alice Hughes.

Edward Whymper.

Miss Anna Williams.

Photo by G. Hadley & Son, Lincoln.

W. L. Wyllie, A.R.A.

Mark Zangwill.

{337}

Vol. XX.—No. 1000.]

[Price One Penny.

FEBRUARY 25, 1899.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE. LOOKING BACK: A RETROSPECT, WITH SOME SURPRISING FIGURES AND A PRESENTATION TO THE EDITOR. VARIETIES. “OUR HERO.” SUCCESS AND LONG LIFE TO THE “G. O. P.” OUR 1000th NUMBER. IN THE TWILIGHT SIDE BY SIDE. GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM. THE RULES OF SOCIETY. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. “MY FAVOURITE CONTRIBUTORS” COMPETITION. OUR SUPPLEMENT STORY COMPETITION.

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.

By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.

“‘BUT OH, HAVE YOU GOT ANY BOOT POLISH?’”

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XXI.

Dinner was served unusually early that evening, and was an embarrassing ordeal from which Peggy was thankful to escape. On her way upstairs, however, Rosalind called her back with an eager petition.

“Oh, Peggy! would you mind awwanging some flowers? A big hamper has just awwived from town, and the servants are all so dweadfully busy. I must get dwessed in time to help mother to weceive, but it wouldn’t matter if you were a few minutes late. Thanks so much! Awfully obliged.”

She gave her thanks before an assent had been spoken, and tripped smilingly away, while Peggy went back to the big room to find a great tray full of hothouse treasures waiting to be arranged, and no availing vases in which to place them. The flowers, however, were so beautiful, and the fronds of maidenhair so green and graceful, that the work was a pleasure; she enjoyed discovering unlikely places in which to group them, and lingered so long over her arrangements that the sudden striking of the clock sent her flying upstairs in a panic of consternation. Another quarter of an hour and the Vicarage party would arrive, for they had been{338} bidden a little in advance of the rest, so that Robert might help his mother and sister in receiving their guests. Peggy tore off dress and apron, and made all the speed she could, but she was still standing in dressing-jacket and frilled white petticoat, brushing out her long waves of hair when the door opened and Esther and Mellicent entered. They had begged to be shown to Miss Saville’s room and came rustling

in, smiling and beaming, with woollen caps over their heads, snow shoes on their feet, and big fleecy shawls swathed round and round their figures, fastened with a hairpin on the left shoulder, in secure and elegant fashion. Peggy stood brush in hand, staring at them and shaking with laughter.

“Ho! ho! ho! I hope you are warm enough! Esther looks like a sausage, and Mellicent looks like a dumpling. Come here, and I’ll unwind you. You look as if you could not move an inch, hand or foot.”

“It was mother,” Mellicent explained. “She was so afraid we would catch cold. Oh, Peggy, you are not half dressed. You will be late! Whatever have you been doing? Have you had a nice day? Did you enjoy it? What did you have for dinner?”

Peggy waved her brush towards the door in dramatic warning.

“Rosalind’s room!” she whispered. “Don’t yell, my love, unless you wish every word to be overheard. This is her dressing-room which she lent to me for the occasion, so there’s only a door between us.—There, now, you are free. Oh, dear me, how you have squashed your sash! You really must remember to lift it up when you sit down. You had better stand with your back to the fire to take out the creases.”

Mellicent’s face clouded for a moment but brightened again as she caught sight of her reflection in the swing glass. Crumples or no crumples, there was no denying that blue was a becoming colour. The plump, rosy cheeks dimpled with satisfaction, and the flaxen head was twisted to and fro to survey herself in every possible position.

“Is my hair right at the back? How does the bow look? I haven’t burst, have I? I thought I heard something crack in the cab. Do you think I will do?”

“Put on your slippers and I’ll tell you. Anyone would look a fright in evening dress and snow shoes.”

Peggy’s answer was given with a severity which sent Mellicent waddling across the room to turn out the contents of the bag which lay on the couch, but the next moment came a squeal of consternation, and there she stood in the attitude of a tragedy queen, with staring eyes, parted lips, and two shabby black slippers grasped in either hand.

“M—m—m—my old ones!” she gasped in horror-stricken accents. “B—b—b—brought them by mistake!” It was some moments before her companions fully grasped the situation, for the new slippers had been black too, and of much the same make as those now exhibited. Mrs. Asplin had had many yearnings over white shoes and stockings, all silk and satin, and tinkling diamond buckles like those which had been displayed in Peggy’s dress-box. Why should not her darlings have dainty possessions like other girls? It went to her heart to think what an improvement these two articles would make in the simple costumes, then she remembered her husband’s delicate health, his exhaustion at the end of the day, and the painful effort with which he nerved himself to fresh exertions, and felt a bigger pang at the thought of wasting money so hardly earned. As her custom was on such occasions she put the whole matter before the girls, talking to them as friends, and asking their help in her decision.

“You see, darlings,” she said, “I want to do my very best for you, and if it would be a real disappointment not to have these things, I’ll manage it somehow, for once in a way. But it’s a question whether you would have another chance of wearing them, and it seems a great deal of money to spend for just one evening, when poor dear father——”

“Oh, mother, no, don’t think of it! Black ones will do perfectly well. What can it matter what sort of shoes and stockings we wear? It won’t make the least difference in our enjoyment,” said Esther the sensible, but Mellicent was by no means of this opinion.

“I don’t know about that! I love white legs!” she sighed dolefully. “All my life long it has been my ambition to have white legs. Silk ones with little bits of lace let in down the front, like Peggy’s. They’re so beautiful! It doesn’t seem a bit like a party to wear black stockings, only of course I know I must, for I’d hate to waste father’s money. When I grow up I shall marry a rich man and have everything I want. It’s disgusting to be poor. Will they be nice black slippers, mother, with buckles on them?”

“Yes, dearie. Beauties! Great big buckles!” said Mrs. Asplin lovingly, and a few days later a box had come down from London, and the slippers had been chosen out of a selection of “leading novelties”; worn with care and reverence the previous evening “to take off the stiffness,” and then after all—oh, the awfulness of it!—had been replaced by an old pair in the bustle of departure.

The three girls stared at one another in consternation. Here was a catastrophe to happen just at the last moment, when everyone was so happy and well satisfied! The dismay on the chubby face was so pitiful that neither of Mellicent’s companions could find it in her heart to speak a word of reproof. They rather set to work to propose different ways out of the difficulty.

“Get hold of Max, and coax him to go back for them!”

“He wouldn’t, it’s no use. It’s raining like anything, and it would take him an hour to go there and come back.”

“Ask Lady Darcy to send one of the servants——”

“No use, my dear. They are scampering up and down like mice, and haven’t a moment to spare from their own work.”

“See if Rosalind would lend me a pair!”

“Silly goose! Look at your foot. It is three times the size of hers. You will just have to wear them, I’m afraid. Give them to me and let me see what can be done.” Peggy took the slippers in her hands and studied them critically. They were certainly not new, but then they were by no means old; just respectable, middle-aged creatures, slightly rubbed on the heel and white at the toes, but with many a day of good hard wear still before them.

“Oh, come,” she said reassuringly, “they are not so bad, Mellicent! With a little polish they would look quite presentable. I’ll tap at the door and ask Rosalind if she has some that she can lend us. She is sure to have it. There are about fifty thousand bottles on her table.”

Peggy crossed the room as she spoke, tapped on the panel and received an immediate answer in a high complacent treble.

“Coming! Coming! I’m weady.” Then the door flew open; a tiny pink silk shoe stepped daintily over the mat, and Rosalind stood before them in all the glory of a new Parisian dress. Three separate gasps of admiration greeted her appearance, and she stood smiling and dimpling while the girls took in the fascinating details—the satin frock of palest imaginable pink, the white chiffon over dress which fell from shoulder to hem in graceful freedom, sprinkled over with exquisite rose-leaves—it was all wonderful—fantastic—as far removed from Peggy’s muslin as from the homely crepon of the Vicar’s daughters.

“Rosalind! what a perfect angel you look!” gasped Mellicent, her own dilemma forgotten in her whole-hearted admiration, but the next moment memory came back and her expression changed to one of pitiful appeal. “But oh, have you got any boot polish? The most awful thing has happened. I’ve brought my old shoes by mistake! Look! I don’t know what on earth I shall do if you can’t give me something to black the toes.” She held out the shoes as she spoke, and Rosalind gave a shrill scream of laughter.

“Oh! oh! Those things! How fwightfully funny; what a fwightful joke! You will look like Cinderwella, when she wan away and the glass slippers changed back to her dweadful old clogs. It is too scweamingly funny, I do declare!”

“Oh, never mind what you declare! Can you lend us some boot polish, that’s the question!” cried Peggy sharply. She knew Mellicent’s horror of ridicule, and felt indignant with the girl who could stand by secure in her own beauty and elegance, and have no sympathy for the misfortune of a friend. “If you have a bottle of Peerless Gloss or any of those shiny things with a sponge fastened on the cork, I can make them look quite respectable, and no one will have any cause to laugh.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” trilled Rosalind once more, “Peggy is cwoss! I never knew{339} such a girl for flying into tantwums at a moment’s notice! Yes, of course, I’ll lend you the polish. There is some in this little cupboard—there! I won’t touch it in case it soils my gloves. Shall I call Marie to put it on for you?”

“Thank you; there’s no need—I can do it! I would rather do it myself!”

“Oh—oh, isn’t she cwoss! You will bweak the cork if you scwew it about like that, and then you’ll never be able to get it out. Why don’t you pull it pwoperly?”

“I know how to pull out a cork, thank you; I’ve done it before!”

Peggy shot an angry glance at her hostess, and set to work again with doubled energy. Now that Rosalind had laughed at her inability, it would be misery to fail; but the bottle had evidently lain aside for some time, and a stiff black crust had formed round the cork which made it difficult to move. Peggy pulled and tugged, while Rosalind stood watching, laughing her aggravating, patronising little laugh, and dropping a word of instruction from time to time. And then, quite suddenly, a dreadful thing happened. In the flash of an eye—so quickly and unexpectedly, that, looking back upon it, it seemed like a nightmare which could not possibly have taken place in real life—the cork jerked out in Peggy’s hand, in response to a savage tug, and with it out flew an inky jet, which rose straight up in the air, separated into a multitude of tiny drops and descended in a flood—oh, the horror of that moment!—over Rosalind’s face, neck and dress.

One moment a fairy princess, a goddess of summer, the next a figure of fun with black spots scattered thickly over cheeks and nose, a big splash on the white shoulder, and inky daubs dotted here and there between the rose leaves. What a transformation! What a spectacle of horror! Peggy stood transfixed; Mellicent screamed in terror, and Esther ran forward, handkerchief in hand, only to be waved aside with angry vehemence. Rosalind’s face was convulsed with anger; she stamped her foot and spoke at the pitch of her voice, as if she had no control over her feelings.

“Oh, oh, oh! You wicked girl; you hateful, detestable girl! You did it on purpose because you were in a temper! You have been in a temper all the afternoon! You have spoiled my dress! I was ready to go downstairs. It is eight o’clock. In a few minutes everyone will all be here, and oh, what shall I do—what shall I do! Whatever will mother say when she sees me?”

As if to give a practical answer to this inquiry, there came a sound of hasty footsteps in the corridor, the door flew open, and Lady Darcy rushed in, followed by the French maid.

“My darling, what is it? I heard your voice. Has something happened? Oh-h!” She stopped short, paralysed with consternation, while the maid wrung her hands in despair. “Rosalind, what have you done to yourself?”

“Nothing, nothing! It was Peggy Saville; she splashed me with her horrid boot-polish—I gave it to her for her shoes. It is on my face, my neck, in my mouth——”

“I was pulling the cork. It came out with a jerk. I didn’t know; I didn’t see!”

Lady Darcy’s face stiffened with an expression of icy displeasure.

“It is too annoying! Your dress spoiled at the last moment! Inexcusable carelessness! What is to be done, Marie? I am in despair!”

The Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders with an indignant glance in Peggy’s direction.

“There is nothing to do. Put on another dress, that is all. Mademoiselle must change as quick as she can. If I sponge the spots, I spoil the whole thing at once.”

“But you could cut them out, couldn’t you?” cried Peggy, the picture of woe, yet miserably eager to make what amends she could. “You could cut out the spots with sharp scissors, and the holes would not show, for the chiffon is so full and loose. I—I think I could do it, if you would let me try!”

Mistress and maid exchanged a sharp, mutual glance, and the Frenchwoman nodded slowly.

“Yes, it is true; I could rearrange the folds. It will take some time, but still, it can be done. It is the best plan.”

“Go then, Rosalind, go with Marie; there is not a moment to spare, and for pity’s sake, don’t cry! Your eyes will be red, and at any moment now the people may begin to arrive. I wanted you to be with me to receive your guests. It will be most awkward being without you, but there is no help for it, I suppose. The whole thing is too annoying for words!”

Lady Darcy swept out of the room, and the three girls were once more left alone, but how changed were their feelings in those few short moments! There was not the shadow of a smile between them; they looked more as if they were about to attend a funeral than a scene of festivity, and for several moments no one had the heart to speak. Peggy still held the fatal cork in her hand, and went through the work of polishing Mellicent’s slippers with an air of the profoundest dejection. When they were finished she handed them over in dreary silence, and was recommencing the brushing of her hair, when something in the expression of the chubby face arrested her attention. Her eyes flashed; she faced round with a frown and a quick “Well, what is it? What are you thinking now?”

“I—I wondered,” whispered Mellicent breathlessly, “if you did it on purpose! Did you mean to spoil her dress and make her change it?”

Peggy’s hands dropped to her side, her back straightened until she stood stiff and straight as a poker. Every atom of expression seemed to die out of her face. Her voice had a deadly quiet in its intonation.

“What do you think about it yourself?”

“I—I thought perhaps you did! She teased you, and you were so cross. You seemed to be standing so very near her, and you are jealous of her—and she looked so lovely! I thought perhaps you did....”