THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1027.]

[Price One Penny.

SEPTEMBER 2, 1899.

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

“UPS AND DOWNS.” MRS. EWING AND HER BOOKS. LETTERS FROM A LAWYER. GIRLS AS I HAVE KNOWN THEM. SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE. MY MOTHER. FROM LONDON TO DAMASCUS. VARIETIES. THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH. USEFUL CANTATAS AND OPERETTAS FOR GIRLS. THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

“UPS AND DOWNS.”

A TRUE STORY OF NEW YORK LIFE.

By N. O. LORIMER.

ADA.

All rights reserved.]

CHAPTER I.

Ada Nicoli was just eighteen when my story opens. She was the daughter of a wealthy New York stock-broker, who took little thought of the welfare of his wife and children. Indeed, he had little time to devote to anything outside the interests of Wall Street. He went to business early in the morning before his family were down, and returned in the evening just in time for dinner, so weary and exhausted that very often he dined alone in his study to save the necessity of changing his business suit for evening dress.

Ada was a beautiful girl who had been indulged in a way which would seem almost impossible in the eyes of an English child. Before she was twelve years old she had as many jewels in her jewel-case as a wealthy English girl might hope to have at her wedding. She had a little pony phaeton of her own, drawn by a pair of perfectly-trained ponies, and guarded by a small nigger page in buttons. Ada Nicoli was the envy of all the other children of her acquaintance. She had been brought up by her doting mother to think of little else but her own pleasure and beauty. She had two sisters, a good many years younger than herself, who did not share the devotion of her mother. Marjory and Sadie were entirely superfluous commodities in Mrs. Nicoli’s eyes. “She had no use of them,” in her poor shallow life, for her lovely Ada was a sufficient companion and amusement. Ada Nicoli, compared with other American girls of her position, had received a very poor education. She had been well trained, it is true, in all the social etiquette necessary for the daughter of an American{770}

millionaire. In her mother’s eyes she was destined to be the wife of some Englishman of scant income but ancient pedigree, and her father had little time to interfere with his child’s up-bringing. His wife had had but a meagre education herself, and yet she managed to hold her own amongst the society hostesses of New York. It was pure selfishness on the part of Mrs. Nicoli that her child was thus deprived of the most valuable possession a woman can have, a highly-cultivated mind, for Ada was a bright intelligent girl, but her mother could not bear the sorrow of parting with her by sending her to a boarding-school, and her lessons at the day-school where she attended were so constantly interrupted by Mrs. Nicoli’s calling to take her daughter out with her in her carriage that the exasperated mistress soon learned that Ada’s education was a matter of little account in her parent’s eyes, and treated her accordingly.

Poor pretty Ada little knew, in these luxurious days of fine carriages and finer dresses, how bitterly she would one day regret her willingness to leave her lessons and the strict discipline of the schoolroom for the bright sunshine and pleasing admiration of the fashionable world in Central Park. It was so pleasant to sit by her pretty, delicate mother in the softly-cushioned carriage and drive through the beautiful green park, where the wisteria arbours were purple with long-tasselled flowers that scented the soft spring day. How she pitied the other girls in the schoolroom, who spent their cents as she spent dollars. What a dull life they had, and how badly their mothers chose their dresses! She was glad her mother liked her always to be dressed in white, it was so much prettier than anything else.

And so the pretty doll-child grew up into womanhood, conscious only of the rich luxurious world in which she was sheltered by her foolishly-indulgent mother. If you looked into Ada’s rose-tinted face there was no expression there to indicate the girl’s true character. Ada Nicoli’s soul lay dormant. At the age of eighteen she was merely a pretty human machine that seldom went wrong, for she had excellent health and a sweet temper.

On the afternoon when my story opens, Ada had been driving as usual with her mother in Central Park. It was a brilliant early summer day, and the whole world in Ada’s eyes was more than usually beautiful, but for once her gentle and affectionate mother was in an irritable humour. It seemed to Ada as if she were suffering from some suppressed excitement, and as though some cruel blow had suddenly shattered her nerves and blighted the beauty of her pretty soulless face. That drive was the only unhappy hour Ada could ever remember having spent with her mother. When they got home Mrs. Nicoli retired to her room, and then a message was brought to Ada that her mother was too unwell to come down to dinner. It was a silent, miserable dinner that night, for Mr. Nicoli was in one of his most self-absorbed humours, and Ada knew her father too well to try and break the silence with forced conversation. She noticed too that his tired face was even paler than usual, and that his dark, quickly-moving eyes were more restless than before. This was the first little shadow of a

cloud in Ada’s gay young life. She spent that evening with the children in the schoolroom, longing for bedtime. Before retiring to bed she knocked at her mother’s bedroom door. Her father came out and motioned to her to be quiet. “Your mother has a nervous headache,” he said, “and you must not ask to see her.” And with an abrupt good-night he turned and left his daughter.

The next day Ada was astonished to see two trained nurses coming and going from her mother’s room. She was not told what was the matter with her mother, and there was a horrible air of mystery about the house. Ada resented being treated like a child, and forbidden to enter her mother’s room. And in the afternoon of that dreadful day she waylaid a nurse coming out of the sick-room and demanded an answer to her question—

“What is the matter with mumma?” she said, with such a look of misery on her young face that the nurse could not put her aside. “If her illness is not infectious, why may I not see her?”

“Your poor mumma has had some shock,” replied the nurse, “which has upset her nerves.”

“What shock?” Ada asked. “She did not tell me, and mumma tells me everything.”

“That’s what the doctor can’t find out, but there now, I must go back. Nurse Hatch can’t manage her alone.”

“Can’t manage her alone,” Ada repeated. “Oh, do let me go to her. I know I could soothe her. When mumma has a headache she likes me to be with her.”

But the bedroom door was shut on Ada’s last words, and she heard the lock turned from inside. She was listening to her mother’s excited voice when her father came along the corridor. He stopped beside Ada, and spoke abruptly to her.

“I want you to take the children for a drive in Central Park this afternoon, and on your way tell the coachman to drive up and down Fourth Avenue. Put on your own and the children’s smartest dresses, and stop and speak to anyone you know. Say that your mother has got a bad headache, and don’t go showing the world that miserable face.”

Ada looked at him in surprise.

“But I am miserable,” she said, “because mumma is ill; two trained nurses are not necessary for a nervous headache. What is the matter with my mother? What shock has she had? I have a right to know.”

It was her father’s turn to look at his daughter in surprise. Was this his mild, gentle Ada, whose very beauty suggested a weakness of character which her strong little chin contradicted.

“Who said she had had a shock?” he said nervously. “It is your duty to do what I tell you, and not to ask questions.”

“I have always asked questions, poppa, and have always had them answered. One of the nurses told me mother had had a shock.”

“Then I will tell her to hold her tongue. Now, do what I tell you; go to any ‘at home’ you have been asked to; get some friend to chaperone you, and laugh, and talk, and look your prettiest. You can do this for your father’s sake, surely.”

He looked at her angrily. Ada had never done anything because she loved her father. She had always feared and avoided him, and so the first bitter lesson of life this poor indulged girl had to learn was one of the cruellest of all and one which it takes an older and more expert hand to play—to wear a smiling face to hide an aching heart.

Marjorie and Sadie were so delighted to go for a drive with their pretty elegant sister in mumma’s big carriage that their tongues rattled on unceasingly.

“When I’m a big lady like mumma,” little Sadie said, “I’ll have four horses in my carriage, like that one over there, Ada,” and Sadie pointed to a fine four-in-hand coach driven by a well-known leader of New York fashionable world; “and I’ll buy lots of little babies of my very own, that I can wash and dress three or four times a day, but I won’t buy them a horrid cross poppa like our poppa, I’ll buy them a nice kind one, that plays with them, like Sissie Brown’s poppa. Why doesn’t mumma buy a new poppa, Ada?”

“Hush, dear,” Ada said; “you can’t buy poppas.”

“Then where do they come from?” Sadie asked, with a look of wonder in her eyes.

“God gave you yours,” Ada answered absently, for her thoughts were with her mother, who was lying sick in her big luxurious room, watched over by two strange women. The fight Ada was making to appear cheerful was, I am afraid, a very pitiful affair, and more than one pair of eyes were turned curiously upon her.

“If God sends poppas I suppose we must just be contented with His choice, but I wish He’d asked me what kind I liked,” Sadie said softly. Meanwhile Ada was throwing a watery little smile on some friend who was eagerly bowing to her, a partner at some dance a few nights ago. Responding to a bow first on this side, and then on that, a good many of the mothers in New York who knew Mrs. Nicoli thought she had brought up her daughter in a very foolish way, but one and all of them agreed that it was evident that the girl’s natural disposition was too simple and good to spoil. She had such gentle, engaging manners, and such sweet blue eyes, no one could help loving her.

The next day passed in a very similar manner. Mrs. Nicoli’s condition did not mend. And Ada was still kept in ignorance as to the real character of her complaint. On the afternoon of the third day, when she returned from her drive with the children, she found her mother’s room was empty. The patient and the nurses had both disappeared. When her father came in from business, Ada ran to him and asked for an explanation. Something had prevented her questioning the servants as to where her mother had been taken.

“Your mother has gone to a private asylum,” her father answered, with a break in his voice. “You need not tell the children. For the present it was necessary to put her under supervision. Don’t ask me any more questions,” he said impatiently, as Ada, trembling with fear, held on to his coat-sleeve to detain him. “Women like your mother are no use at all at a crisis,” he continued. “The one moment of her married life when I wished for her help she has failed me. You are so like her you would do the same, I suppose.” Mr. Nicoli saw the carnation colour fade out of Ada’s lips and cheeks, but her blue eyes never shrank from his piercing scrutiny of her face.

“I have some of your blood in me, too,” she said haughtily. “It may be for my good, or for my evil, time will prove, but at least it has given me a stronger constitution than my poor mother’s. Can you not trust me a little?”

“There is nothing to confide,” he said, with the lie choking his throat as he spoke. “Your mother has nervous prostration,” he said.

“You are in trouble yourself,” the girl said timidly. “Could I not take my mother’s place and help you.”

“What makes you think I am in trouble?” he replied impatiently. “Yes, you can easily fill your mother’s place by looking pretty and spending money.” He took out his pocket-book and drew from it a thick bundle of notes. “Take these and spend them on chiffons and candies, and don’t talk nonsense.”

Ada pushed away the money. “Women care for something dollars can’t buy, poppa. I’m tired of money and all it is worth.”

Her father laughed harshly. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “Fate may humour your new craze sooner than you think.”

Ada pondered over his words. What did they mean?

(To be continued.)

{771}

MRS. EWING AND HER BOOKS.

ery few persons will now be inclined to question that Mrs. Ewing is the premier story-teller for children of this generation. No library for young people can be considered complete without most of her books. A few of her writings may appeal more fully to older readers; but the majority afford immense delight when placed in the hands of boys and girls. Happily all can now be obtained at low prices.

Though Mrs. Ewing wrote no book of great length, the number and variety of her output are considerable. Her stories range from fairy tales with a purpose to books of adventure and domestic incident of all kinds. We get such sketches as The Brownies, where two little lads act on the happy suggestion to serve as elfish helpers of their widowed and burdened father, and set to work to brighten the house, not without soon learning that “there is no such cure for untidiness as clearing up after other people; one sees so clearly where the fault lies.” We have such tales as Timothy’s Shoes, with the magic shoes which make every step like a galvanic shock when the feet are turned into wrong paths. We have books specifically for older boys and girls: We and the World is full of thrilling adventure; Six to Sixteen embodies a good deal of Mrs. Ewing’s views on education; it traces the quiet development of a girl’s life and thought, and though perhaps the interest flags a little in parts, it will always be popular on account of its description of military life during a

cholera epidemic and its charming pictures of Yorkshire hospitality. A girl cannot fail to be the better for reading it. Indeed, there is not one of Mrs. Ewing’s numerous books that does not impart the consciousness of a tenderly sympathetic heart; with her we feel that

Even when she describes spoiled children and domestic discord, as in A Very Ill-Tempered Family, we get an attractive portrait of Isobel, who becomes the peace-maker and is herself helped in her time of struggle by passages from Thomas à Kempis and the petitions of the “Te Deum,” and who is enabled to conciliate and save her hot-tempered brother. This sketch and the companion one of A Great Emergency are full of quaint wit and wisdom, though with fewer verbal quips than the earlier tales. Mrs. Ewing has the art of wrapping up her advice in a fascinating story, and does not make her pills with eight corners. The felicitously chosen titles, often reminding us of John Bunyan, by no means disappoint the reader.

Many may think that Lob Lie by the Fire is her completest work of art; and certainly it is a skilfully constructed composition, with a fragrance as of Cranford in its earlier scenes. But it is in the trilogy of her last years that her powers culminated. Between 1879 and 1882 Mrs. Ewing produced the three works most widely popular—Jackanapes, Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot, and The Story of a Short Life. These constitute an imperishable memorial to her genius, and have sold in enormous numbers, reaching to one hundred and fifty thousand in the case of Jackanapes. In these books every sentence is carefully chosen; no superfluous word is to be found; we get pen pictures of rarest excellence.

In Jackanapes we have the high ideal of soldierly self-sacrifice, and in The Story of a Short Life the application of military habits and endurance to a crippled and stunted life. In Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot we have a sweet idyll of village life. The lad, John March, on emerging from the workhouse school, has the double ambition to be a choir-boy and to take care of doves. We delight to trace his fidelity and diligence; his master soon sees and says that “he’s no vagrant.” “He’s fettling up all along. Jack’s the sort that if he finds a key he’ll look for the lock; if ye give him a knife-blade, he’ll fashion a heft.” And in the peaceful close of the story we listen to the master, with his last strength, saying to his adopted son, “’Twas that sweet voice o’ thine took me back again to public worship, and it’s not the least of all I owe thee, Jack March. A poor reason, lad, for taking up with a neglected duty—a poor reason—but the Lord is a God of mercy, or there’d be small chance for most of us.” As the old man died

“his lips were trembling with the smile of acutest joy.”

In most of her books Mrs. Ewing traces the progress of children from youth to manhood and gives us an insight into the development of their character. Thus in Lob Lie by the Fire, for example, we have the foundling christened John Broom; we see him adopted by Miss Betty and Miss Kitty in spite of the warnings of the cautious lawyer, but under the guidance of the good clergyman who, while feeling he may be encouraging them in grave indiscretion, feels impelled to say, “I do know that he has a Father Whose image is also to be found in His children—not quite effaced in any of them—and Whose care of this one will last when yours may seem to have been in vain.” We journey with him in all his difficult training; we are with him in his chivalrous devotion to McAlister, the Highlander, whose honour he saves and whose last hour he comforts. We watch him, as the beneficent “brownie” in his village home, as he brings luck to Lingborough, and works for others. In this tale, as in so many others, we feel that sustained personal interest which belongs to a biography.

But it is in connection with The Story of a Short Life that interest has recently been rekindled in Mrs. Ewing in many quarters, on account of the remarkable development of the “Guild of the Brave Poor Things,” which has sprung into existence as the direct outcome of this tale. As Sir Walter Besant built the “People’s Palace” by the picture painted in his novel, so Mrs. Ewing has done an equally important work, though not herself permitted to live to see the results of her suggestions.

In the work of this guild gatherings of afflicted people—blind, deaf, paralysed, or otherwise incapacitated for the full activity of ordinary life and work—are held at regular intervals in London and other centres. Classes suitable to their varied needs are conducted; companies of the brave who suffer, often with infinite heroism, are inspirited by being assembled for bright meetings, in which all that the suggestion of the atmosphere and colour of military habit can impart, is used to make prominent the fact that the members are as truly soldiers as the veterans of the “tented field,” that the “courage to bear and the courage to dare are really one and the same.” Thus the schoolrooms are decked with banners, while the roll-call of members and the singing of the tug-of-war hymn (Bishop Heber’s “The Son of God goes forth to war”) are looked forward to eagerly by the sufferers, young and old, who are banded together in this comradeship of affliction. It is almost startling to find walls emblazoned with the motto “Lætus sorte meâ,” and to