HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Herald, 1911-12-01, Page 7T
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EVE
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OR, TI -1I MEMORY Ot A BOY WITH
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CHAPTER I.
drawing -room in a somber house in a'
oomy London street• --unmistakably the
awing -room of a lodging -house. A girl
ting before a piano -an Erard, hired
the month -looking at the music an the
sk before her and yawning undisguised-
, it being nobreach of politeness to
mai when there is nobody but one's nelf
the room. The ,drawing -room is the.
awing -room of the house No. 33 Carle -
• Street, and the girl is myself.
y name is Allie Somers Scott, and I
vet' Berne-uP to London for the purpose
'having singing lessons. I had a lea-
n this morning, and I havo gone over
again and again till I am tired to
ath of words and music both. But I
ve setit up before me now with the
udable intention of going over it once
re before it. grows too dark to nee. To
t end I play the prelude- through con-
ntiously, and then I lift up my voice
sing -
"Ile thinks I do not love him!
Ile believed each word I said;
'And be sailed away in sorrow
Ere the sun had left its bed.
I'd have told the truth this morning,
But the ship was out of sight.
Oh, I wish these waves would bring him
Where we parted yesternight!
Oh. I wish-"
knock at 'the street -door, and a knock
erein the knocker gives no uncertain
ud. I hear it through the melancholy
11 of • my own high pitched voice,
ough the pianoforte accompaniment. I
ve the instrument and rash to the win-
Olive Deane promised to make her
ther set her down hero, instead of go -
Alt c to the Roliestons' "At home" in Berke -
eons Street. I hope it may be Olive, though
emp lad given her, up half au hour ago. I
taloa e spent such a stupid afternoon cooped
n L in this dingy room that more than
e I have been tempted to break my
mise to 1J clo Tod and sally forth in -
the street, Why Uncle Tod thinks it
to permissible to go out in the morn -
Vile" for my music -lesson, yet out of the
Coro stion that I should put my head out
doors alone in the afternoon, passes
comprehension. I suppose he knows,.
thinks he knows, more about London
U I"do. Poor dear Uncle Tod!
hat, is not the Deanes' carriage, that
'sopa ' drawn up before the door.Nor is
B, s Olive Deane running up the stops. 1
d Ii. w back from the window infinitely die-
ts 'w ointed. It is horribly unkind of Olive
me to come; she does not know how lone -
will I am in these stupid old lodgings, how
Ont. g the afternoons and the evenings are.
cannot comprehend a feeling of lone-
ess, with that great houseful of bro.
re and sisters in Dexter Square. Bat
a might keep a promise when she makes
I shall scold her when I meet her at
singing class to -morrow, and tell her
wits does' not embody my idea of a friend.
Toro ut, if it is not .Olive, who is it? The
sons has driven away, but the door has
JDY ' i+et been opened; and I Rattan, my
mei./ c agaiust the glass to see the door -
ill 'waif are 7iarti brace o
w eh, 0 1 y a al d by the
1941.•, ,. xrotiaPeik of the -bit1'cany. A• young
¢ is standingbelow waiting, ,patiently
ininatiently-'the top of his round felt
gives no clue to his mood -until such
o as Mrs. Wauchope"s maid -of -all -work
11 see fit to ascend, from the basement -
y to open ,the street -door.
o is coming to stay, evidently, for he
rigs in ono hand a blank leather valise,
the other what looks like a large pie -
in a kind of rough wooden ease. Of
self X can see nothing but a dark over•
1 t and the round hat already mention -
STA
0la
with
write
Lica!
IRL
ki
Incas
;e to-
ss d
L▪ EA
E N.
ed, except the gloved hand which holds his
Valise, his figure, as visible from any
stand -point, being so foreshortened that
it presents very little beyond the, felt hat
ancl-the toes of his boots. I wonder who
he isl Ssearcoly a tradesman, though .at
first I had fancied ho must be a glazier,
with his tools in the black bag and his
pane of glass in the wooden ease: And
certainly not Mrs, Wauchope's son, for
he is a small boy of eleven and to my
certain knowledge does not wear a round
hat!
Ile may be relates
i
ladies whom theo
"the parlors," as I
"the drawing -room"`•
knows Of my affairs
can distinguish the '
ed in white on the
the spur of the
Baby." The name is
appreciable result.
convinced. on this
stranger, without u
and certainly with
to the two maiden
maid -of -till -work calls
suppose she calls me
when relating all she
tto everybody else, I
nitiais "G. B." paint'
black bag. "G. B."
stands for nothing that I can think of on
moment but "Giux'e
not satisfactory, nor
are my surmises likely to lead to any
X leave the window
point, just as Mary
Anne opens the door and admits the
question apparently,
but little delay in
closing the door behind
him.
I glance at the open ]piano, but I can-
not bring myself to sit down and fin-
ish that song. I had been longing to learn
it; the Deanes raved about it, but I have
had enough of it. It was unkind of Olive
not to come -we could have had a plea-
sant chat and drunk tea -together-Mary
Anne has carried up the tea -things, the
tea pot stands under the hideous dark
blue knitted cozy on the little square
table near the fire. I do not care to drink
tea all alone.
I wander away from the wiudow and
round the room aimlessly, my hands
clasped behind me, my long blue gown
trailing over the carpet -the ugly old-
fashioned room which is "my doleful pri-
son this sixth. of May," as poor Ann
Boleyn wrote in the Tower three hun-
dred and fifty years ago. Not that this
is the sixth of May. This is the sixth of
March, and dear old Unala Tod's birth-
day. Ile is seventy-two too --day.
Not that 1 am, in prison here either.
Nobody wanted e to come here -I came
of my own free will. Indeed a great
many people wanted me to come, Aunt
Rosa among them, who thinks it very
outre for a young girl like me to live
in lodgings in London all by myself, and
site objected very much to my coming up
to town, even for the laudable purpose of
improving myself.
I know these furnished lodgings to be
eminently respectable -was not Mrs.
Wauehope bousekeeper at Woodhay Ma-
nor when I was a child? -and I have
promised Uncle Tod to be very steady,
and not to go anywhere without the
Deanes.
"Why, Allio, you look exactly, like Mr,
Millais's picture of 'Yes or Na.' "
I turn my head. Olive Deane is stand-
ing in the doorway, with ler gold•rimmed
glasses on her saucy nose, laughing .at
me.
You: wretch!"' is ma salutation. "Where
have you'been ,all, the aftei 'ogn?"
-At"'tn•I
ti"'olltletans' amnia, wolf( 'no't
let me, off. But I got ber to put, me down
en her way home, and elle has :promised
to send. Fred for me at half-pasfive.'
t
An hour and a half! It is an eternity
of enjoyment to look forward to. I put
Olive into my own hammock -chair, and
take off her. fur 'tippet.
"I intended to give you a great scold-
ing," I confess, laughingly. "But, now
that I have got von, I can't find it in my
heart to say anything."
"But it wasn't my fault, Alice; mamma
Mont
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We offer and recommend
P ICE yp�{�y�j .", K OS. g •••�(�((;����,��,,,
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iarlk of Montreal :ald6; COY, Queet\ e,Vor18E ata TororvFO,
R M•WHITE MAN r. :,
oari11'at tI.OhGOih CNGL.AND.
would have me go; and, on, I'vo got an
invitation for you --you've to come with
us to the Itoliestons' dance on Friday.
Won't that bo fun?"
"But T have no evening -drosses here,
Olive!" ,
"Then you must send down for ono, un-
less you choose to buy a new 000."
"Oh, I can send down for • the dress 1
wore at the Hatcheils'! We don't go out
much at the vicarage, 00 don't be shocked
when I tell you that I have only one ball-
dress in the world."
'That's why I want you to come on Fri-
day, You haven't been at a dance since
you came up to town."
"I' don't know what Aunt Rosa will say.
I came up to town for singing-lased/pa"
"She can't say a word when mamma le,
chaperoning you. It is not t0 be a grand
affair, you know -only a nice little car.
pet -dance. We'll call for you in the car-
riage at nine."
But Aunt Rosa will object to it," I
say; shaking my head.
"As if you really minded your Aunt
1tosa!a You know its a khamo yott haven't
regularly 'colpo out,' Allies -mamma says
so, and everybody."
"Uncle Tod doesn't care for London so-
ciety."
But you must take a season or two
when you Como of age."
"If you moan a season or two of bane
and garden -parties, I certainly shall do
no such thing."
"But why, Allie? You don't mind their
old-fashioned notions at the vicarage?"
"My clear Olive, I don't Dare a pin about
bails • and garden -parties."
"That's because you know nothing
about them."
"Oh, is it? I've been to balls and gar-
'clen+parties ` at the Towers and at Dun-
sandle. They were enough for me."
• "But you ought to be introduced into
Society, Alfie.
Yes, if X were a beauty, perhaps, and
likely to make a sensation. But I'm not a
beauty -quite the contrary; and, besides,
it would be a joke to 'come out' at one -
and -twenty.",-
Eilinor is to come out next season, and
then mamma will have three of uo on
her hands," Olive says meditatively. `
"But Poppy is engaged."
"Oh, yes, Poppy is engaged! And I'm
gains- to retire into private life and take
up aestheticism or women's rights!" Olive
laughs, taking her cin of tea out of my
hands. "I can't compliment yon on the
beauty of your tea -service, Allie.You
won't find it very lard to 'live up to' that
tea-pot!"
"Or the cozy!" I say, holding it up for
her inspection. "Isn't it 'utter,' Olive?"
"Utterly hideous!" Oiive answers, look-
ing at, it through her glasses. "Why don't
you throw it behind the grate andwork
a new one for yourself in crewels on pea-
cock velveteen, like what I am making
for );Hiner?"
I don't do crewel work; and, besides,
I don't want to insult Mrs. Wauchope.
She made that cozy herself."
"So I should have supposed. You must
find it lonely here in the evening, Allie"
looking round the room.
"Lonely!" I echo. "You may say so, my
dear! I never felt so lonely before In mY
life."
"Then why do you stay here; you ridi-
culous girl?"
"Oh, because I wouldn't give Aunt Rosa
the satisfaction 01 going home before the
end of the month! She would only tell
me for the hundredth time that it was a
pity I didn't know my own mind."
"Then why don't you come to us?"
"Anel practice scares half the day for
your delectation and that of your visitors!
No, thank you, my dear. I came up `n
get singing -lessons, not to amuse myself;
and, having, • Put pato bands ;d to,„,tlte . se*"
as-,vonse £ ra b ,syr. -sot • While. -Arid' it.,
snit so -bad here, after all`, only 'A little
lonely -and• the music -lessens are greety.
fun:"
How do you like the new song?"
"I have murdered it till it threatens to
(taunt me for the rest of my l;fe," I laugh
glancing at the piano, Then, struck by'a
sudden recollection -"Oh, Olive, I've .•a
piece of news for you! We've got a gen.
tleman-lodger at Number Thirty-three." ;
"A gentleman lodger?"
"Yes. He arrived about twenty minutes
ago, with a black valise and a huge
wooden ease."
'Who is he?"
"I don't knew. Mrs. Wauchope never
told us a word about him. She said there
Vons nobody in the house but those two
old maiden ladies down -stairs."
"Well, he wasn't in the house then, I
suppose!" Olive says, laughing. "What is
be like, Allie? Young or old, dark or
fair?"
"I can't tell you that either. Young, I
think, and dark; but I'm not surd."
"Why don't you ask Mary Anne?'
"She has not been up here since he
came into the house."
"'Then ring for her now, and we'll cross-
question her," Olive suggests, with ani-
mation.
Olive is up to more mischief than I am,
notwithstanding her spectacles. I ring
the bell.
"We need not expect her for ten minutes
or s0," 1 saY; and, pending her arrival,
we drift into talk about our einging-les.
sons, of the concert we are to take part
in with the rest of the pupils on the
twenty-first, Poppy's bridesmaids' dresses,
and e hundred other things. When. at
last Mary Anne does make her appear-
ance, we stare at her with a vague sur-
prise in both our .faces.
"You rang, miss?" she says, with a look
of stolid inquiry.
"Oh, yes!" Olive answers, in quite a
sprightly way. "You wanted coal on the
fire, Allie didn't yon?"
Mary Anne puts coal on the fire pon-
derously.
Who was the gentleman who came in
just now?" 1 ask, trying to speak with a
gravity which might excuse the ques-
tion.
"Phe attics," Mary Anne answers, put-
ting some finishing touches to the coal
with her fingers.
"What is his name?" Olive inquires,
without a change of countenance.
"1 forget his narne. We calls him
the Count,"
"Is he a count?"
"Oh, no -no more a count. than you are!
But he's so dark and foreign -looking, and
so short Like of money, we calls him the
Count. Not that he's mean or that -he's
as proud as Lucifer, and wouldn't owe
anybody a farthing."
"Then how do you know ho is poor?"
Olive inquires with interest.
"In course he wouldn't live up four
pairs of stairs if he had much money to
spare, for all he wants to be near the
skylight!" ,
"What does be want with the skylight?"
"He's an artist," Mary Aline answers,
with such an inimitable air of pity, not
to say contempt, that Olive and I aro ab-
solutely afraid to look each other in the
1 ace.
"Is he a photographer?" Olive asks in-
nocently.
"Oh, no -a painter! Anti a poor thing
be makes of it, though the mistress do
say that, if he worked at it, he'd make
a name for himself. Ile do Work hard
enough sometimes, but it's only by fits
and starts. And he has a lot of idle
young friends that come bothering him --
T don't doubt but he'd do well enough if
they bet let ham tette, "
where hashebeen for the last fort-
night?" 1 inquire, thinking -of AVM Rosa,
"On a sketching tour." Mary Anne an-
swers glibly, "ftp in Scotland or some -
whore. Jan X. take the tea things now,.
m3"PV's" '
Permitted to take the tea -things, Mary
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Ann , s With them to the lower re -
ale :`we had had 'evolved her.
1ni' door closes behind her.
nt Rosa say? Olive ex,
cla
"It, ' 'donrtknow," I answer more
soriot..ly"I only hope she won't know
anythinn about: it for the next fortnight:
I shm ou'a tell her."
"You'll never !tee him," Olive says, "un-
less you happen to meet him on the
stairs. and that's not very likely. Ansi,
as for his friends, I dare say Mrs. Wen-
ehopo will give !limo a hint not to briytg
them about the house while you are
here,"'
"X don't mind tis friends, or him either.
Only X know Aunt Rosa will think my
being here moreoutre than ever. 1 say,
Olive, wouldn't you like to s.e his
studio?
I should very much. 1 worth'r if he
takes portraits, Allie? Woulin't it be
fun if I get him to paint my pasture? You
could come with . me to play propriety,
you know; or would it be necessary to
have up Mrs, Wauchopo? I wish we knew
his mime. '
I shall soon find it out. Ginx's Bahr
I call .1xim the initials on his valise were
'G B , " vv....
"'G. B, " Olive repeats musingly.
"Fred knolls a, great many young artists.
I'll ask hies if he knowe any 'G. B.' "
"I ant a,'S*aid the 'four pair pack' is an
artist as yet, unknown to fame," I laugh
poking the fire into a bright cheery blaze.
It has gr'wn dark already in Carleton
Street; but I do not care to light the gas
yet;. it makes; the evening seem so inter -
mutably lona to light the gas at half past
Sao.,,
'X am afx-a-, .icl. so. AlIie, what color is
pour evening•dress?"
"Blue, my dear --the most delicate shade
of bird's -egg blue,"
"!Gauze or grenadine?"
"Neither, silk and crepe. Oh, it is a
very ''decant 'dress! I was extravagant
enough to get it from Madame Garoupe.
'Then it is sure to be all right," Olive
says, with a Leigh of as complete satisfac-
tion an if L113' crepe and silk "confection"
were absolutelybefore her eyes. "I wish
I could order my' dresses from Madame
Garoupe."
I can afford it; 1. get so few of them."
"Afford it!" Olive laughs, shrugging her
shoulders.
Oh, well, yen know Uncle Tod doesn't
allow mo much for dross 1"
"Then why don't you make bim give
you Shore?"
1 don't want it. Ile lets me have my
horse and my dogs;and nobody dresses
much at 3:attandeu.'x
So "Gin's Baby" drops out of the con-
versation. And no completely have we for-
gotten his existence that, when 'Fred
Deane comes` in, we never think of ask•
ing him if be knows of any artist whose
initials aro "G. B." Fred wants to en-
gage me for the first waltz on Friday ev-
ening, and, Is he dances very badly, I
want to reserve myself for his brother
Gus, 'who is •811re to ask me, and who
danoas very- well.
What's to be the color of your dress,
Miss Scott?"' a"red Inquires, thinking no
doubt of Covent Garden.
"Blue -cerulein blue,"
Tokino eele+r from th" skies, earl
heaven's truth be wanting?' " ho quotes
sontimentally.' leaking' into the oyes which
were certainly not "made for earnest
granting." byte' ea they nxayy be.
'Colne home. ') led; we shall be late for
dinner. Send hint away. skillet you'll have
lots of time to flirt on friday evoning
Good-bye, my dear, .and mind you write
down to Yattendcu for your dress. 111
coo you at Msd,aSme Cronhelm's tomorrow.
latewc]l, till we•tn. e. 13 ainl"
Alt n.ev later,w!ulle f axe1 engart'<'d 11'
den't?ol sh1li' xfl eraitnary ehiclten, I hoer
voices overheard ---high overhead Mrs.
Wnuol,nee's noire; and another, and flier
a careless boyish laugh. I glance at Int
closed door, of the Brost empty sit013
rne+"1;
et the chair by +,a 'lira, r-t,s»n 1
alien presently; r'"te, while away the rest
of the evening 1111 the aid of a dish of
mends and raisins and Octave Feuillet.
How lonely it looks! Bow wearieoree it
will be 'without a voice to break the 'si•
'acute!, 1'e rt'' peeple.whcr.•huve other^peo-
ple to talk ti* --I envy Mrs. Wauchope-1
even envy ?Mary Anne. That boy's laugh
is an offense to me -I, who have nothing
to make me laugh.
Yet he meet be as lonely as I am, up
there at the top of the house. The even-
ings must seem just as dreary and long
to him as they do to tee. Not a bit of it!
Before 1 have finished my dinner, 1 hear
him run down -stairs, cross the hall, and
go out at the front door. On the doorstep
he pauses a moment to light a match, and
then he walks away dawn the: street quip•]>. -
11, as though he knew where he was going
and is glad to go.
It is good to be a man, I think, a little
bitterly, as I lean back in my hammock -
chair and stretch out by hand lazily for
an almond. How pleasant it would be if
I could put on my Newmarket now and
sally out into the gayly-iIluminntod
streets -to the theatres perhaps, or to meet
and carat with a friend! But, instead of
that, I must it here over the fire, reading
a book I know by heart and munching
almonds and raisins.
"Who went out?" I ask Mary Anne, as
she folds up the tablecloth.
"The Ceuta," Mary Anne answers laconi-
cally.
"Does he go out every evening?"
"Mostly -to the opera or something."
"Where was he going this evening?" I
ask carelessly.
"To a dance," Mary Anne answers vague-
ly. "And he do look well when he's dress-
ed for the evening," she adds, with some
lighting up of her stolid countenance.
"The mistress told him so •just now on
the stairs."
(To be continued.)
Government
Municipal
and
Corporatio
Bonds
Correspondence Invited.
CANADA
CORPORATION, Whoa
SECURITIES
Hon. C. J. Doherty, K.C., M.P.,
President.
Rodolphe Forgot, M.P.,
Vioe-President.
Goo. H. Goodorbam, M.P.P.,
Vice -President.
HEAD OFFICE:
179 ST. JAMES STREET
MOIoiTREAL.
eveeeeeeeekeeeveeeeeeeteaveewieWee
FEEDING THE DAIRY CALIF.._
Young calves need wltple . milk"'
for the first few days. The Cali:
should always have the first or '
colorstruzn milk of 'the cow and be
allowed to nurse the cow until the
eighth or ninth "milking, when the
milk is suitable for human footle'
Feed often with small amounts to
avoid overfeeding. Teach the calf
to drink and feed whole milk for :at
least three weeks, changing to a
skim milk diet gradually.
The amount of milk feed should
be easefully regulated. A good
Plan. with the normal calf is to give
four pounds (two quarts) of whole
milk three tames per day, fed sweet
and at blood temperature. In the
state of nature the calf gets milk
containing about three per cent.'
fat. Our domesticated cows have
been bread in some instances to give
nearly twice this amount. Milk
that is too rich may canoe serious
trouble from scours, and in feed-
ing such milk care should be exer-
cised to give limited amounts at the
proper temperature. The feeding
of whole milk should be continued
for about three or four weeks,
when the number of meals may be
reduced to two per day. From one-
half to a pint of skim milk may now
be substituted for an equal quan-
tity of whole milk. The amount of
skim milk may be gradually in-
creased and the amount of whole
milk correspondingly decreased un-
til, at the end of a week or ten
days, milk -
the calf is getting all skim
Skim milk is a cheap feed for
calves, but should be fed carefully
in limited quantities and only while
it is warm and sweet. Skim milk
may form the principal diet of the
calf for eight months or a year.
Factory skim milk should alw!t,,s
be pasturized to avoid the spree('
of tuberculosis. The best skim
milk is that which is fresh from the
separator and still warm. Experi-
ments show that it is only one
fourth as expensive to raise a calf
on skim milk as whole milk. Two
pounds of grain with the proper
amount of skim milk equals one
-pound-of butter. fat.. Buttermilk..-
or whey may profitably be fed to
calves.
Grain for calves should.:%be fed
first while the calf is quite small,
with a little bran to aid the calf
ill learning to eat- High-priced
concentrates are unnecessary, and
give no better results than corn-
meal, oats and bran, ground bar-
ley, etc., when fed in proper com-
binations. At four to six weeks a
calf has good teeth and can grind
his own feed. A variety of feeds
is advantage"rus and best results
will usually be secured from mix-
tu res.
Thefollowing list may serve as a
guide to the calf feeder in making
steIccti'.ms or combinations to suit
rrsnditioils
1. C'urnnleal gradually charmed in
four to tux weeks to shelled turn
with or without bran.
i. Whole oats and brat!.
3. Whole oats and corer chop, the
letter gradually replaced by shelled
Cern in four to six weeks.
el. Ground barley with bran or
shelled corn.
5. Shelled corn and ground Kat -
fir corn ur shorghum.
C. Whole oats, ground barley and
bran.
7. A mixture of twenty pounds of
cornmeal, twenty pound;, of oat-
meal, twenty pounds of oilmeal, ten
pounds of blt,odlneal and five
hounds of bonelneal, changed to
corn, oats and brae when calves
are three months old.
S. A mixture of five pounds whole
oats, three pounds bran, one
pound cornmeal and one pound
linseed ureal.
The calf may be taught to eat
grain by rubbing alittle on its
mouth when it is through drinking
milk. From this it will soon learn
to eat from the feed box -
The roughage for calves should
iit'st be fed at ',wo or three weeks
of age when the calf begins to eat
grain. Good clean hay, either
timothy, blue grass, clover or al-
falfa may be used. Corn silage is
an excellent calf feed when, fed in
moderate amounts. Good pasture„ti
is an essential after four tee.site,
months of age, and if the calf is
turned out for only a few hours
each day at first, scours will be
avoided.
d--�
In thirty years the production of
petroleum has increasednineteen
times,
The fact that a mule didn't know
any better than to kick you doesn't
add to the enjoyment of your stags'
in the hospital.