THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1019.]

[Price One Penny.

JULY 8, 1899.

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

SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE. VARIETIES. THE HOME OF THE EARLS POULETT. LESSONS FROM NATURE. THE COURTSHIP OF CATHERINE WEST. THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING. THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

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SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE.

A STORY FOR GIRLS.

By EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen Sisters,” etc.

“‘A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU.’” (See page 643.)

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER XIV.

CHRISTMAS TIME.

merry Christmas, Miss Cossart! Why, you don’t mean to say you are not coming to church! I thought you’d be sure to make a fresh start on Christmas Day!”

“Oh, I’m a regular heathen! I haven’t been to church twice the whole year! I can’t stand stuffy places, and I expect the scent of the flowers will make it twice as bad as usual to-day.”

“Well, you’re coming anyway, Miss Cholmondeley? Shall we start? It’ll be hot walking, and I hate that omnibus, and the carros are so slow. Come along. Miss Cossart will tell them that we’ve started.”

Sheila hung back a moment; she had an instinct that her aunt would be vexed, but she never knew how to refuse Ronald’s suggestions, made in a half masterful, half-pleading way. He took her prayer-book and walked off beside her, whilst Effie looked after them with a rather stormy light in her eyes.

“Does she really never come to church?” asked Ronald, as they took their way along the sunny road together.

“She has only been once or twice since I have known her,” answered Sheila. “She thinks the air might bring on asthma.”

Ronald was silent for a few minutes, swinging his stick. His face was rather graver than its wont.

“Somehow I don’t like to see people staying away from church like that. I know it isn’t fashionable to say such things, but I have a feeling that church is the place to help us to get the better of our infirmities, bodily and spiritual. My brother Guy will struggle out to church when he goes nowhere else, and I’m sure he is never the worse for it. I don’t like to hear a girl call herself a heathen in that flippant way. She must remember she won’t be judged by the standard of the heathens!”

It was so unusual for Ronald to speak seriously that Sheila was quite surprised, yet somehow it seemed to draw them closer together. That was how Oscar sometimes talked, and upon this Christmas morning her thoughts were very much with Oscar. It was the first Christmas they had ever spent apart, and Sheila was a little bit homesick in consequence.

“I should hate not to go to church on Christmas morning,” she said. “It seems to bring us near to everybody all round the world. It is so hard to realise that it is Christmas here. A few days ago when it rained so, and the snow came on the mountains, one could fancy, perhaps, that it might be winter somewhere; but with this glorious sunshine! It seems almost ridiculous!”

“Do you like Christmas out here, Miss Sheila?” asked Ronald, who often called her that, and sometimes “Miss Baby,” “or would you rather be at home?”

Sudden tears came quite unexpectedly into Sheila’s eyes. She looked down that Ronald might not see them.

“I don’t think I have a home exactly—now,” she said.

He looked at her quickly, a flash in his eyes.

“But surely your home is with your uncle and aunt?”

“Yes,” answered Sheila a little unsteadily, “in a way it is, but sometimes it doesn’t seem quite a real home.”

A tear plashed down, but Sheila turned her head away, and then looked back with a brave smile.

“I oughtn’t to say that, perhaps. It sounds ungrateful, but, of course, it can’t be the same as one’s own house, and last Christmas we were so happy, and I never thought of things changing like this!”

Ronald, of course, knew all Sheila’s story by this time. He looked the sympathy he felt.

“I know, I know. It must have been very hard! But you are happy with your relations, are you not?”

“Y—yes,” answered Sheila a little doubtfully, adding after a brief pause; “only sometimes I think my aunt doesn’t much like me now.”

“Oh, don’t think that! Everybody has ups and downs, you know. We all of us have our cross days.”

“You don’t,” answered Sheila, “nor Miss Adene, nor any of you! But Aunt Cossart is sometimes very glum and cross with me.”

There was a little gleam in Ronald’s eyes. It is a known fact that lookers on sometimes see most of the game, and it had not been unnoticed by the Dumaresq party that Sheila was rather out of favour with her aunt. They could see the reason plain enough. The hotel was filling up now, and still Sheila held her place as the favourite, and small notice comparatively was bestowed upon Effie. There was no blinking the matter that Effie bored people. Her sprightliness was not of an engaging kind, it had a contradictious defiance about it that was irritating, and her shallow theories and self-centred way of looking at life made her conversation monotonous and tiresome. When she allowed herself to forget herself, she could be much more agreeable; but generally she could not get away from herself, and the result was disastrous for herself.

Some other young girls had come, and Sheila would romp up and down the house with them, leading them into fun and frolic, teaching them the Washington Post up and down corridors or verandah, throwing herself into games of which she was the life and soul, and in which Ronald was always an able assistant, and in a hundred little ways making life merry for herself and others, whilst Effie never seemed able to amalgamate in the merry crowd.

Health might be one cause; but another was a certain quality in herself. She was so used to being the first thought and consideration with those about her, that if she was not that, she did not know how to take any place at all. Her mother would look on anxious and dissatisfied, utterly perplexed to find the answer to the question always forcing itself upon her. At last she reached the conclusion that Sheila was somehow in fault. If Sheila were different and made Effie welcome, things would go differently. Effie ought not to be sitting with a book in the drawing-room whilst the young folks were frolicking outside. It was not right or proper; only if Effie did go out to them, she speedily returned, not finding any fun in what amused them.

So Sheila got into disgrace with her aunt by imperceptible degrees, and upon this Christmas morning her heart was rather heavy within her, though she scarcely knew why.

The service, however, did her good, though she could not always keep back her tears. The building recalled no associations; it was but an ugly little place, something between a round and a square, the authorities refusing to permit a cruciform church to be built. The flowers, too, did not look at all Christmas-like in spite of a few bits of holly here and there; arum lilies were the great feature with roses and poinsettias. But the familiar hymns brought home back, and Sheila choked once or twice, thinking of Oscar, the father who had left them so suddenly, and the dear old home she never expected to see again.

She walked home with Miss Adene, who talked kindly and comfortingly to her. She had seen that the child was in danger of getting in trouble, and had warned Ronald to be careful; for she half-suspected Mrs. Cossart’s ambitions for her daughter. Ronald would never think of such a thing himself, nor would Sheila, who had the mind of a child in all such matters; but Miss Adene had seen a good deal of the world, and her kindly eyes were very keen and quick.

“Don’t be downhearted, little girl,” she said, “life is never all sunshine for any of us. We should not be good for much if it were. We want our east winds and rainy days, as well as the plants and flowers, to make us thrive. We should be dry and arid like a desert if we had nothing but our own way{643} all our lives, and no little crosses to bear.”

“Yes, I suppose so; only it seems hard when people are unjust. Aunt is vexed with me, and she won’t say why. She calls me rude and forward; but I don’t think I am, do you? I like fun, and they all play. Why should I be left out?”

Christmas was a gay day at the New Hotel, and nobody was left out in the general fun. The whole place was decorated with greenery—trailers of giant smilax twenty feet long, making the task of decoration easy. They were wreathed round the balusters of the staircase and festooned overhead in the dining-room, the waiters and maids got “tips,” and were more smiling than ever, whilst guests exchanged greetings and little gifts, and the table reproduced the typical fare of England—turkey, roast beef, and plum puddings all aflame!

There was tennis in the afternoon, and dancing for the young people in the evening; and Effie for the first time went down to the billiard-room, and Miss Adene kindly interested herself in getting partners for her amongst some of the visitors from the houses on the island, who had come to join the fun.

Miss Adene had several acquaintances in Madeira, and many persons had called upon Lady Dumaresq and her husband. Sheila from being much with them had received invitations to go out with them; and at first the girl had accepted, not knowing how to refuse. This had been another cause of offence; and now Miss Adene was good-naturedly seeking to induce their friends to call upon the Cossarts; and Mrs. Cossart had been made happy to-night by an invitation for New Year’s Eve to one of the biggest quintas in the island, where there would be a grand entertainment, culminating in a giant display of fireworks, which display, they heard, would be universal all over the island. For it was the custom in Madeira to welcome in the New Year by a perfect storm of fireworks. Even the poorest of the people spent their little savings in a few squibs or crackers. Every child who had a “bit” to spend laid it out in fireworks. Miss Adene said it was the most curious sight possible—the whole island, as far as the eye could see, alight and ablaze; for as the quintas and smaller houses ran right up

into the hills to a considerable height, and extended far on either side, the panorama of coloured lights was something unique.

“Isn’t it nice that we have been asked to the big party?” asked Effie that night. “Not that I care so very much about parties, but I like to see all that is characteristic of a place. I suppose you were asked too, Sheila?”

“Why, yes,” answered Sheila gleefully; but Mrs. Cossart, who was in the room, said coldly—

“I am not sure about your going, Sheila.”

“Oh, aunt! Why not?”

“I am not sure that it is suitable; a big party like that, and your father not a year dead. I don’t know if it is seemly.”

Sheila was silent; she had never thought of that, certainly. It seemed a long, long time now since her father’s death; and even in the summer, when her loss was so recent, she had gone about with her cousins to little friendly gatherings at houses where they were intimate. Now here, in this far-away country, where nobody knew them, the objection did sound a little far-fetched; but Sheila did not know how to answer it, though her face fell.

“I know you don’t think about things as other girls would,” said Mrs. Cossart with a little asperity; “you go romping and playing and dancing just as though you had never had a loss of any kind, and I haven’t checked you, because I don’t want a scene every day, and you are so self-willed. But this big party is another affair. Why, you have not even a dress fit for it. I never thought of your going out to regular parties. No, I don’t think it would do at all.”

For a moment Sheila was tempted to rebel. She had heard so much about this New Year’s Eve party and she did so want to see it, and she did like the lights and music and flowers, the little dancing there was likely to be, and the gay greetings when the New Year came in. It did seem hard to be left out! But then the remembrance came over her of the words she had heard spoken in church, of Miss Adene’s kindly talk, of the resolutions she had made for herself. So gulping down her disappointment and sense of injury, she answered meekly—

“Very well, Aunt Cossart. I suppose you know best. I will stay at home.”

For a moment Effie looked as though she would like to speak, but then the impulse passed, and she said nothing. It had flashed into Effie’s head that it would be nice to go out without Sheila. Effie had begun to think a good deal about Ronald Dumaresq. Her mother had unconsciously led her to do this, though not with intention. Effie had been interested once in Cyril, but she had had her faith in him rather shaken, and his image was waxing proportionately faint. Ronald was the leading figure in her little world now, and when the evening came at last, and she was being dressed for the great party, she was more particular than ever in her life before, and Sheila’s clever tasteful fingers were called into requisition again and again before she could be satisfied.

But at last all was done to her satisfaction. She looked as well as it was possible for her to look, and Sheila admired her cordially. She would not let herself be dull; she declared she should sit up and watch the fireworks from the verandah, where a fine view was to be obtained, and as there were many people in the hotel who would be staying, she would not be left alone.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Sheila started from her doze in a snug corner of the verandah, and behold the island was a blaze of coloured lights, whilst the noise was like that of a bombarded city. She started up and ran forward, and then gave a little startled cry, for there was Ronald putting out his hand for hers, whilst he said in merry friendly tones—

“A happy New Year to you, Sheila!”

“Oof, how you startled me! But you are over there!” she cried laughing, and pointing to the quinta up in the hills, where a splendid show of rockets marked the exact spot.

“Am I? I thought I was here, but no matter. Here or there, I meant to be the first to wish you a happy New Year!”

“How nice of you!” cried Sheila, bubbling over with delight at the beautiful sight before her, and the happy feeling of having a friend at her side, “but you did go there surely?”

“Oh, yes, I showed up and did my duty; but somehow it seemed dull and flat. Something was wanting. Then, you know, this is the place of all others for seeing the whole panorama of the illumination. Up there you are too much in the middle of it. So I just made my escape, got a fellow to run me down to the bottom of the hill, and here I am. Are you glad to see me, Sheila?”

She looked frankly into his eyes, but saw there something that made her suddenly drop her own. With a new sense of shyness she dropped his arm, yet her voice had a happy ring in it as she answered—

“I am very glad to see you. I wish you a happy New Year too.”

“And I mean to get one,” said Ronald, suddenly possessing himself of her hand.

(To be continued.)

VARIETIES.

Good Manners.—To be always thinking about your manners is not the way to make them good; the very perfection of manners is not to think about yourself.

Be Always Learning.—Of all treasures, knowledge is the most precious, for it can neither be stolen, given away, nor consumed.

Selfish People.—The more self is indulged the more it demands, and therefore of all girls the selfish are the most discontented.

Insight.

Meaning in Music.—Mendelssohn felt intensely the meaning of music. Comparing music with words, he said, “Die Worte reichen nicht hinzu”—“Words do not go as far.”

Living.—To live is nothing unless to live be to know Him by Whom we live.—Ruskin.

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THE HOME OF THE EARLS POULETT.

HINTON ST. GEORGE.

It is a bright day in early spring—the ash-buds still look quite black in the front of March—as we mount slowly the steep hill that leads to the quiet village of Hinton St. George. The fresh air breathes out vigour, but still we rest near the top to look back over the lovely browns and purples of the plain below dotted with red-tiled barns and towers of churches—Lopen, Merriott, South Petherton—built of the soft Ham stone of the county.

The road we go by has a rare charm, with tall ash-hedges not yet lopped to the shabby level demanded by the new injunctions. The crescent bending ash saplings with their ebony tips look to be some guard of halberdiers ready to marshal whichever earl eventually wins the day and comes to the old home to claim his heritage.

Primrose buds look out from the hedge-rows, but there is not yet much cheerful colour in the landscape. After the ash saplings come elder-bushes, whose boughs are just breaking in a sad green tinged with purple. The only warm colour that Dame Nature has taken on her brush is the deep blue of the hills that lie beyond Seavington and Shepton Beauchamp.

Busy folk tramping through noisy London streets are much exercised just now about the law-suit that is to be fought over this far-off spot. What a contrast there is between the distant city and this still village so remote that no builder has spoiled the quiet street, the houses with latticed panes and generous bow-windows, the old stone cross with its mutilated figure, and the long low stone farm with green palings sparkling in the sunlight!

Yet it was in the London church of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields that Queen Mary Stuart’s gaoler, Sir Amyas Poulett, was buried in 1588, and this most remarkable of a long line of Pouletts was not brought to Hinton—perhaps up this very road—till 1728, when no room could be found for him in Gibbs’ new church. This transference seems to form a link between the busy city and the quiet village.

Another bend brings us to the beautiful perpendicular church with its brightly gilded weather-cock dinted by the shots of a past earl, who used to practise shooting at the vane from the adjoining gardens.

Very lovely is the old churchyard, with the great cedars in the garden beyond for a background, and the tall tower, characteristic of the county, softened into the mellowest greyish yellow and flecked with lichens. We linger over the grave-stones, of which many have some link with the Pouletts, and notice the curious Somersetshire name of Tryphena on the tomb of one old servant who had lived in “exemplary servitude” with the family for forty-four years, dying in 1801. On an altar-tomb, with date 1691, is the curious inscription—

Over the pretty turf crosses, which are a peculiarity of this churchyard, a gay peacock walks, very unconscious that he is the old emblem of that immortality which shall survive “when all that seems shall suffer shock.”

Through the deep porch we pass into the church where the pallid marble monuments of many Pouletts go far to overpower the little building, but are relieved by the warm tones of the pinkish fawn stone roof of the chancel, the tender yellow of the Ham stone columns, and the unassuming white plaster of the walls. A beautiful window by Clayton and Bell sends red and purple lights along the stone floor that rest on the heads of little Elizabethan Pouletts who kneel in prayerful line beneath their placid parents in ruff and doublet, seeking—

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