THE GIRL'S OWN PAPER

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

A BRIDAL SONG. “OUR HERO.” A RAMBLE ABOUT CHILDHOOD. ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE. LINNÆA; THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH: AUNT OF THE QUEEN. VARIETIES. MISCHIEVOUS JACK. NEW DRIED FRUITS. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

A BRIDAL SONG.

“GOD SPEED THEE!”

All rights reserved.]

{290}

“OUR HERO.”

A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.

By AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the Dower House,” etc.

CHAPTER XIX.

ORDERED TO BITCHE.

Roy forgot everything except the affair on hand. He dashed upstairs and into the salon at a headlong pace, knocking over a chair as he entered. It fell with a crash, and Roy stopped short. Denham was on the sofa, no one else being present except Lucille, who, with her bonnet on, as if she were going out, had just taken an empty cup from his hand.

“Roy, you unkind boy,” she said, turning with a look of positive anger. “How you can do it!”

“O I’m sorry. I didn’t remember. Isn’t Den better?”

“Not remember! But you ought to remember. So without thought. It is selfishness.”

For Lucille to be seriously displeased with Roy was an event so new in his experience, that Roy gazed with astonished eyes.

“No matter,” interposed Denham. “Had a good time, Roy?”

“I’ve seen lots of people. Den, I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean——”

“No, of course not. It’s all right.”

“Where is my father?” Roy asked in a subdued voice.

“Gone out—but ten minutes since,” said Lucille. “General Cunningham sent to see him on business. And Colonel Baron has to go with him somewhere, and cannot return soon. So dinner is put off till six.”

“And mamma?”

“Mrs. Baron had a call to pay in the same direction. Captain Ivor thought he might get half-an-hour’s sleep. Roy, be good, I entreat. Do not fidget, and knock over chairs, and talk, talk, talk, without ending.”

Roy nodded, and Lucille moved towards the door, adding, as she went, “I also have to see someone, but I shall be back soon.”

Roy sat down in a favourite attitude, facing the back of a chair, and wondering what to do next. Would it be right to tell Denham what had happened? Would it be wrong to put off telling? Curtis had enjoined him to speak at once; but Curtis had not known the posture of affairs. The matter might be of consequence, or it might not. Roy was disquieted, but not seriously uneasy; and he hesitated to worry Denham without cause.

“Seen anybody?” asked Ivor.

“Yes; numbers.”

Then a break.

“Found Curtis?”

“Yes. And Carey too. Would you like to hear all about it?”

“By-and-by, I think. It will keep.”

Silence again, and Roy debated afresh. What if his action should mean bringing Curtis into trouble? That thought had considerable weight.

Three times he formed with his lips the preliminary “I say, Den!” and three times he refrained. The third time some slight sound escaped him, for Denham asked drowsily, “Anything you want?”

“Lucille told me not to talk. Does it matter?”

Ivor did not protest, as Roy had half hoped. He was evidently dropping off, and Roy decided that a short delay was unavoidable. He took up a volume that lay near; and, being no longer a book-hater, he became absorbed in its contents. General Wirion, chips of wood, the Imperial nose, and irate landladies, faded out of his mind. The matter was no doubt a pity, but after all it meant only—so Roy supposed—a pull upon his father’s purse. Boys are apt to look upon parental purses as unlimited in depth.

Denham was sound asleep, and Roy kept as motionless as any girl; not that girls are always quiet. An hour passed; another half-hour; and he began to grow restless. Might it be possible to slip away?

Gruff voices and heavy trampling feet, in the hall below, broke into the stillness, and Denham woke up. “This is lazy work,” he said wearily. “Roy—here yet! What time is it?”

“Nearly five. Dinner isn’t till six. Head any better?”

“Yes. I’m wretched company for you to-day. Different to-morrow, I hope.”

“You can’t help it. You’ve just got to get rested—that’s all. I say, what a noise they are making downstairs. Frenchmen do kick up such a rumpus about everything.”

The door opened hurriedly, and Lucille came in, wearing still her bonnet, as if just returned from a walk.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I do not know what it means, but I must tell. I have no choice. O it surely must be a mistake, it cannot be truly——”

Lucille startled herself no less than her listeners by a sharp sob. She caught Roy’s arm with both hands, holding him fast. “Roy—Roy—what is it that you have done? O what have you done?” she cried.

“Is it that bosh about the cast? O I know. They want to be paid, I suppose. Lucille, Den has been asleep, and I’ve been as quiet as anything—and then for you to come in like this! Den, you just keep still, and I’ll go and speak to them. I’ll settle it all. I know my father will pay.”

“No, no, no—stay—you must not go,” panted Lucille. “Stay—it is the gendarmes! And they come to arrest you—to take you away!”

The word “gendarmes” acted as an electric shock, bringing Denham to his feet in a moment.

“What is it all about? I do not understand.” He touched Roy on the shoulder, with an imperative—“Tell me.”

“It was only—I’d have told you before, only I didn’t like to bother you. It was at Curtis’. There was a bust of Boney on the mantelshelf, and I just shied bits of wood at it, in fun. And I said ‘À bas Napoléon,’ or something of that sort; and then I threw a ball, and the idiotic thing tumbled down and broke into pieces. And the landlady—she’s a regular out-and-out virago—happened that very moment to come in, and she saw and heard. And she vowed she would tell of it. Curtis tried to explain things away, and I offered to pay, but she wouldn’t listen. She went on shrieking at us, and said it was an insult to the Emperor, and Wirion should know of it. She’s a Bonapartist—worse luck! Curtis made me hurry off, and said I was to tell my father at once. But he was out, and you—you know——” with a glance at Lucille, who wrung her hands, while Ivor said,

“Roy, were you utterly mad?”

“I—don’t know. Was it very stupid? Will it matter, do you think? I’m sorry about you—most. I thought they would wait till to-morrow; but I suppose they want me to go and pay directly. Is that it?” looking towards Lucille.

“No, no, no,” she answered, again wringing her hands. “It is to take—to take Roy—to the citadel!”

“To the citadel!” Roy opened his eyes. “O I say, what a farce! For knocking down a wretched little image, not worth fifty sous!”

“For breaking a bust of the Emperor, and for shouting—‘À bas——’” Lucille could not finish.

“You mean—that they will keep him there to-night?” Denham said.

She looked at him with eyes that were almost wild with fear. “Oui—oui—the citadel to-night! And to-morrow—they say—to Bitche.”

“To—Bitche!” whispered Roy. He grew white, for that word was a sound of terror in the ears of English prisoners, and his glance went in appeal to Ivor.

“Stay here, Roy. I will speak to them.”

Ivor crossed the room with his rapid resolute stride, and went out, meeting the gendarmes half-way downstairs. Lucille clutched Roy’s arm again, half in reproach, half in protection. “Ah, my poor boy! mon pauvre garçon! how could you? Ah, such folly! As if there were not already trouble enough! Ah, my unhappy Roy!”

“Shut up, Lucille! You needn’t jaw a fellow like that! It can’t mean anything really, you know. Wirion just thinks he can screw a lot of money out of my father. And that’s the worst of it,” declared Roy, in an undertone. “I hate to have done such a stupid thing—and{291} I hate the worry of it for Den, just now when he’s like this. But you know they couldn’t really send me to Bitche only for smashing a paltry image. It would be ridiculous.”

“Ah, Roy! even you little know—you—what it means to be under a despot, such as—but one may not dare to speak.”

Lucille’s tears came fast. They stood listening. From the staircase rose loud rough voices, alternating with Ivor’s not loud but masterful tones. That he was prisoner, and that they had power to arrest him too, if they chose, made not a grain of difference in his bearing. It was not defiant or excited, but undoubtedly it was haughty; and Lucille, just able to see him from where she stood, found herself wondering—did he wish to go to prison with Roy? She could almost have believed it.

“Eh bien, messieurs. Since l’Empéreur sees fit to war with schoolboys, so be it,” she heard him say sternly in his polished French. “To me, as an Englishman, it appears that his Majesty might find a foe more worthy of his prowess.”

“But, ah, why make them angry?” murmured Lucille.

A few more words, and Denham came back. One look at his face made questions almost needless.

“Then I am to go, Den?”

“I fear—no help for it. The men have authority. You will have to spend to-night in the citadel. But I am coming with you, and I shall insist upon seeing Wirion himself.”

“But you—you cannot! You are ill!” remonstrated Lucille. “Will not Colonel Baron go? Not you.”

He put aside the objection as unimportant.

“Roy must take a few things with him—not more than he can carry himself. I hope it may be only for the one night. They allow us twenty minutes—not longer. That is a concession.”

“I will put his things together for him,” Lucille said quickly.

“One moment. May I beg a kindness?”

“Anything in the world.”

“If Colonel Baron does not return before we start—and he will not—would you, if possible, find him, and beg him to come at once to the citadel? Then, Mrs. Baron——”

Ivor’s set features yielded slightly; for the thought of Roy’s mother without her boy was hard to face. Lucille watched him with grieved eyes.

“I will tell her, but not everything—not yet as to Bitche, for that may be averted. I will stay with her—comfort her—do all that I am able. Is this what you would ask?”

“God bless you!” he said huskily, and she hurried away.

“Den, must I go with those fellows really?” asked Roy, beginning to understand what he had brought upon himself. “I never thought of that. Can’t you manage to get me off? Won’t they let me wait—till my father comes back?”

“They will consent to no delay. He will follow us soon. And, Roy, I must urge you to be careful what you say. Any word that you may let slip without thinking will be used against you. I hoped that you had learnt that lesson.”

A listener, overhearing Denham with the gendarmes, might have questioned whether he had learnt it himself; but Roy was in no condition of mind to be critical. Dismay grew in his face.

“And if you can’t get me off—— If I am sent to Bitche——” with widening gaze.

“If you are”—with much more of an effort than Roy could imagine—“then you will meet it like a man. Whatever comes, you must be brave and true through all. Keep up heart, and remember that it is only for a time. And, my boy, never let yourself say or do what you would be ashamed to tell your father.”

“Or—you”—with a catch of his breath.

“Or me!”—steadily. “Remember always that you are an Englishman—that you are your father’s son—that you are my friend—and that your duty to God comes first. For your mother’s sake, bear patiently. Don’t make matters worse by useless anger. And—think how she will be praying for you!”

Denham could hardly say the words. Roy’s lips quivered.

“Yes, I will! Only, if you could get me off!”

“My dear boy, if they would take me in your stead——”

“Den, I’m so sorry! I’m not frightened, you know—only it’s horrid to have to go! Just when you’ve come and all! And it would have been so jolly! And it’s such a bother for you, too! I do wish I hadn’t done it!”

Ten minutes later the two started—Roy under the gendarme-escort, Ivor keeping pace with them.

Lucille then hastened away on her sorrowful mission, leaving a message with old M. Courant, in case either Colonel or Mrs. Baron should return during her absence—not the same message for Mrs. Baron as for the Colonel.

Half-an-hour’s search brought her into contact with the latter, and she poured forth a breathless tale. Heavier and heavier grew the cloud upon his face. He knew too well the uses that might be made of Roy’s boyish escapade. At the sound of that dread word—“Bitche”—a grey shadow came.

“Captain Ivor went with Roy to the citadel. He ought not—he has been so suffering all day—but he would not let Roy go alone. And he asked, would you follow them as soon as possible? For me, I will find Mrs. Baron, and will stay with her.”

The Colonel muttered words of thanks, and went off at his best speed.

Would he and Captain Ivor be able to do anything? Would they even be admitted to the presence of the autocratic commandant? Denham might talk of insisting; but prisoners had no power to insist. If he did, he might only be thrown into prison himself! Was that what he wanted—to go with the boy?

“Ah, j’espère que non!” Lucille muttered fervently.

And if they were admitted, what then? Would money purchase Roy’s immunity from punishment? General Wirion’s known cupidity gave some ground for hope. Yet, would he neglect such an opportunity for displaying Imperialist zeal?

Lucille put these questions to herself as she flew homeward. On the way she met little Mrs. Curtis, and for one moment stopped in response to the other’s gesture.

“Is it true?” Mrs. Curtis asked, with a scared look. “They tell me Roy has been arrested. Is it so? My husband could do nothing. The landlady was off before he could speak to her again. He thought that Roy and the Colonel would be coming round directly, and so he waited in. But they did not come. And now two gendarmes are quartered in our lodgings, and Hugh may not stir without their leave. It is horrid! But—Roy?”

“I cannot wait! Roy is taken to the citadel! I have to see to his mother! Do not keep me, Madame.” And again Lucille sped homeward.

As she had half hoped, half dreaded, she found Mrs. Baron indoors before herself, alone in the salon, and uneasy at Captain Ivor’s absence.

“He ought not to have gone out,” she said. “He will be seriously ill if he does not let himself rest. It is Roy’s doing, I suppose—so thoughtless of Roy! I must tell Denham that I will not have him spoil my boy in this way. It is not good for Roy, and Denham will suffer for it. You do not know where he is gone?”

“Oui!” faltered Lucille, and Mrs. Baron looked at her.

“You have been crying! What is it?”

As gently as might be, Lucille broke the news of what had happened; and Mrs. Baron seemed stunned. Roy—her Roy—in the hands of the pitiless gendarmes! Roy imprisoned in the citadel! Lucille made no mention of Bitche; but too many prisoners had been passed on thither for the idea not to occur to Mrs. Baron.

“And it was I who brought him to France! It was I who would not let him be sent home when he might have gone! O Roy, Roy!” she moaned. Lucille had hard work to bring any touch of comfort to her.

Hour after hour crept by. Once a messenger arrived with a pencil note from Colonel Baron to his wife—

“Do not sit up if we are late. We are doing what we can. I cannot persuade Denham to go back.”

Not sit up! Neither Mrs. Baron nor Lucille could dream of doing anything else. This suspense drew them together, and Lucille found herself to be one with the Barons in their trouble.

Nine o’clock, ten o’clock, and at length eleven o’clock. Soon after came a sound of footsteps. Not of bounding, boyish steps. No Roy came rushing gaily into the room. Lucille had found fault with him that afternoon for his{292} noisy impulsiveness; but now, from her very heart, she would have welcomed his merry rush. Only Colonel Baron and Ivor entered.

The Colonel’s face was heavily overclouded, while Denham’s features were rigid as iron, and entirely without colour.

“Roy?” whispered Mrs. Baron.

Deep silence answered the unspoken question. Colonel Baron stood with folded arms, gazing at his wife. Denham moved two or three paces away, and rested one arm on the back of a tall chair, as if scarcely able to keep himself upright.

“Roy!” repeated Mrs. Baron, her voice sharpened and thinned. “You have not brought—Roy!”

A single piercing laugh rang out. She stopped the sound abruptly with one quick indrawing of her breath, and waited.

Colonel Baron tried to speak, and no sound came. Denham remained motionless, not even attempting to raise his eyes.

“Oui!” Lucille said restlessly. “Il est—il est——”

The Colonel managed a few short words. There was no possibility of softening what had to be said.

“To-night—the citadel. To-morrow—to Bitche!”

“To Bitche!” echoed Lucille. “Ah-h!”

To Bitche—that terrible fortress-prison, the nightmare of Verdun prisoners! Their Roy to be sent to Bitche! Mrs. Baron swayed slightly as if on the verge of fainting. Roy, her petted and idolised darling—her boy, so tenderly cared for—to be hurried away to Bitche!

Lucille hardly could have told which of the two she was watching with the more intense attention—Mrs. Baron, stunned and wordless, or Denham, with his fixed still face of suffering.

“And nothing—nothing—can be done?” she asked.

“We have tried everything!” the Colonel answered gloomily.[1]

(To be continued.)

A RAMBLE ABOUT CHILDHOOD.

By Mrs. MOLESWORTH.

No true child-lover would maintain that all children are equally lovable, or indeed, in some—though, I think, rare instances—lovable at all.

But in this, speaking for myself, I detect no inconsistency, no falsity to one’s colours. For the qualities or deficiencies which make a child unlovable may be summed up in one word; they are such as make it unchildlike. And this, not necessarily, if at all, as regards a child’s mental qualities. It is the moral side of child-nature that attracts—the heart, the spirit. For painful as it is to meet with precocity of mind in some instances, especially the precocity of the kind forced upon the children of the poor not unfrequently, this, unchildlike as it is, is by no means incompatible with great sweetness and beauty of the moral character, great power of affection, delightful candour, even that most exquisite of childlike possessions—trustfulness.

Yes, the root of a child’s nature, the essential groundwork of it, to be lovely and lovable, must be childlike. But a literal meaning must be given to the pretty adjective. I would not even altogether eliminate from it certain qualities which might, strictly speaking, be perhaps more correctly described as childish, seeing that if we limited the word too narrowly, we should lose others of the great charms of children, their queer, delightful inconsistencies and exaggerations, their quaint originality, their grotesque imaginings, all of which, in more or less degree, a real child, even a dull or stupid one, possesses.

Take, for example, the unconscious egoism, almost amounting, logically speaking, to “arrogance,” of most children. The world, nay, the universe, is their own little life and surroundings; their house and family are the rules, the proper thing, all others exceptions. It is not, in most instances, till childhood is growing into a phase of the past, that the sense of comparison is really developed, or that the young creatures take in that other circumstances or conditions besides their own may be what should be, that they themselves do not hold a monopoly of the model existence.