Chapter XI (1)

The first thing that struck Colonel Woodruffe on entering the room of Madame De Vigne was the extreme pallor of her face. She looked like a woman newly restored to the world after a long and dangerous illness. Although the window was wide open, the venetians were lowered, while Mora herself was dressed in black, and in the semi-obscurity of the room, her white, set face, with its sorrow-laden eyes, had an effect that was almost ghostlike to one coming suddenly out of the glaring sunlight. At least so it seemed to Colonel Woodruffe. He felt that at such a time all commonplace questions would seem trivial and out of place, so he went forward without a word, and lifting her hand, pressed it gently to his lips.

‘Read this, please,’ she said as she handed him her husband’s letter. Then they both sat down.

He read the note through slowly and carefully. As he handed it back to her, he said: ‘What do you mean to do?’

‘I shall see him at the hour he specifies, and shall tell him that I have already commissioned you to seek out Sir William Ridsdale and tell him everything.’

‘Everything?’ he asked.

‘Everything,’ she answered in the same hard, dry voice; a slight trembling of her long, thin fingers was the only sign that betrayed the emotion pent up within. ‘Dear friend,’ she went on, ‘I want you at once to find Sir William and tell him everything as I told it to you on Wednesday. It will then be for him to decide whether he can accept the sister of an ex-convict’s wife for his daughter-in-law. If he cannot, then God help my poor Clarice! But nothing must be kept back from him, whatever the result may be.’ Then after a little pause, she said, looking earnestly into his face: ‘Do you not agree with me?’

‘I do,’ he answered. ‘The right thing is always the best thing to do, whatever consequences may follow. Depend upon it, you will lose nothing in the eyes of Sir William by throwing yourself on his generosity in the way you propose doing.—But I have had news. Sir William will be here—at the _Palatine_—in the course of a few hours.’

‘Ah! So much the better. So will the climax come all the more quickly. But, my poor Clari! Oh, my poor, darling Clari!’ Her lips quivered, a stifled sob broke from her heart, but her eyes were as dry and tearless as before.

The colonel waited a moment, and then he said: ‘What you purpose telling a certain person at your interview this evening will enable you to set him at defiance—will it not?’

‘It will—thoroughly and completely. I shall have taken the initiative out of his hands, and he will be powerless to harm me.’

‘Your fortune?’ he said.

‘Is settled strictly on myself. He cannot touch a penny of it.’ Then, after a pause, she added: ‘Not that I want him to starve; not that I would refuse him a certain share of my money—if I could only feel sure it would keep him from evil courses. But it would never do that—never! In such as he, there is no possibility of change.’

‘I will make a point of seeing Sir William as soon as he arrives,’ said the colonel as he rose and pushed back his chair. ‘I suppose that is what you would like me to do?’

‘The sooner the better,’ answered Mora, also rising. ‘You will come to me the moment you have any news?’

‘I will not fail to do so. For the present, I presume you will say nothing to your sister?’

‘Why trouble her till the time comes? Let her linger in her love-dream while she may. The waking will be a cruel one when it comes.’

‘With all my heart, I hope not!’ answered the colonel fervently. Then, as he took her hand, he added: ‘We shall meet again in a few hours.’

‘How good you are!’ she murmured, with a little break in her voice.

He shook his head, but would not trust himself to speak. He was more moved than he would have cared to own. Once more he lifted her fingers to his lips. Next moment she was alone.

* * * * *

Mr Dulcimer and Miss Wynter went gaily on their way to the lake. To hear them talking and laughing, no one would have thought that they had a care beyond the enjoyment of the passing hour, yet each was secretly conscious that for them that day might perchance prove one of the most momentous in their lives. They found a boat with fishing-tackle awaiting them. Bella shook a little as she bade farewell to _terra firma_. She felt as an ancient Greek might have felt—that the Fates were against her—that destiny was stronger than she, and urged her forward whether she wished it or not. She who had heretofore been so wilful seemed to have no power of will left in her.

Before long they found themselves at a point near the head of the lake where Dick had been told that he might possibly find some fish. For a quarter of an hour or so he plied his rod industriously, but not even a nibble rewarded his perseverance. ‘Ah,’ said he at last, ‘the fish are evidently off their feed this morning.’

He did not seem in the least put about by his ill-luck, but laying his rod across the thwarts, he proceeded leisurely to light his pipe. Bella watched him nervously. As soon as his pipe was fairly under way, he looked straight into Bella’s eyes and said: ‘I did not so much come out here this morning to fish as to secure an opportunity for a little quiet talk with you.’

‘I can quite believe it. There is something underhand about most things that you do,’ she answered as she dipped one of her hands carelessly into the water.

Dick smiled amiably. He delighted in a skirmish.

‘Am I to go back to London to-morrow morning, or am I not? That’s the question.’

‘Really, Mr Dulcimer, or Mr Golightly, or whatever your name may be, I am at a loss to know why you should put such a question to me.’

Dick burst into a guffaw.

‘May I ask, sir, what you are laughing at?’

‘At you, of course.’

‘Oh!’ It came out with a sort of snap.

‘You look so comical when you put on that mock-dignified air, that it always sets me off. Of course I know you can’t help it.’

‘Wretch!’ she retorted, half-starting to her feet. Next moment she sat down again in mortal terror. The boat was swaying ominously, or so it seemed to her.

‘Please not to flop about so much,’ he said drily, ‘unless you wish to find yourself in the water. I’m a tolerable swimmer, and I might, perhaps, be able to lug you ashore, but I wouldn’t like to guarantee it.’

Her temper vanished like a flash of summer lightning. ‘Oh, do please take me back!’ she said, looking at him with a pitiful appeal in her eyes. Like many town-bred girls, she had an unconquerable dread of water.

‘You are just as safe here as on shore, so long as you sit still,’ he answered re-assuringly. And with that he changed his seat and went and sat down close in front of her.

The colour began to return to her cheeks. He looked so strong and brave and handsome as he sat there, that she felt ashamed of her fears. What harm could happen to her while he was there to protect her!

‘Look here, Bella,’ he presently began; ‘where’s the use of you and I beating any longer about the bush? I must have a distinct answer from you to-day, Yes or No, whether you will promise to become my wife or whether you won’t. You know that I love you, just as well as if I told you so a thousand times. You know that my love is the genuine article, that there’s nothing sham or pinchbeck about it. Your own heart has told you that before to-day. There’s something else, too, that it has told you.’ He paused.

‘Indeed!’ she said, thrusting out her saucy chin a little way. ‘And what may that be, if you please?’ Her spirit was coming back. She was not inclined to strike her colours without a struggle.

‘It has told you that you love me,’ he answered slowly and deliberately, still looking straight into her eyes.

She was silent for a moment. A little spot of deepest red flashed into each of her cheeks. ‘Indeed, sir, you are mistaken,’ she answered with a sort of supercilious politeness. ‘I am not aware that my heart has told me anything of the kind.’

‘Then it’s high time it did tell you,’ was the cool rejoinder. ‘You love me, Bella, whether you know it or not, and the best of it is that you can’t help yourself.’

‘Oh! this is too much,’ she cried, and again she half-started to her feet. The boat rocked a little.

‘You seem to have made up your mind for a ducking,’ said Dick, although in reality there was not the slightest danger. Next moment she was as still as a mouse.

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe. ‘Yes, _ma petite_, I’ve got your heart in my safe keeping; and what’s more, I don’t mean to let you have it back at any price. The pretty toy is not for sale.’

His audacity took her breath away, yet it may be that she did not like him less on that account. Certainly Dick’s love-making was of a kind of which she had had no previous experience.

‘You have got me here by a mean and shabby subterfuge,’ she cried. ‘You have made a prisoner of me, and now you think you can say what you like to me.’

‘That’s so,’ he answered equably. ‘Now that I’ve got you here, I mean to say my say. Idiot if I didn’t!’

Bella had never felt so helpless in her life. This man seemed to turn all her weapons against herself. And she was afraid even to stamp her foot!

Richard proceeded to fill his pipe. ‘Don’t you think, _carissima_, that we have had enough of fencing, you and I?’ he asked as he struck a match. ‘Don’t you think we had better put the foils aside for the present and talk a little quiet common-sense?’ His voice had softened strangely. All his flippancy seemed to have vanished in a moment.

She did not answer. Her eyes were gazing straight over his shoulder at the great solemn hills in the background—not that she saw them in reality. He let his match burn itself out, and laid down his unlighted pipe. Then he leaned forward and took one of her hands in his strong brown palms. His touch thrilled her. All power of resistance seemed taken from her. Her bosom rose and fell more quickly, a tender radiance suffused her eyes, the roses in her cheeks grew larger, and their tints deepened. Love’s sorcery was upon her. She had drunk of the potion, and was lost. Never again could she be quite the same as she had been.

What was the ‘quiet common-sense’ he was going to talk? she wondered. She had her doubts already as to the accuracy of his definition.

‘There comes a time in the lives of most of us,’ he began with unwonted seriousness and still holding one of her hands, ‘when we are confronted by two diverging paths, and are called upon to make our choice between them. At such a crisis you, my dearest, have now arrived. Before you lie two widely diverging paths, one only of which you can take, and from which there can be no return. With one of these paths you are already familiar; you have trodden it for two years; you know whither it leads, or fancy that you know. If you believe that you will find your happiness at the end of it, for heaven’s sake, keep to it still! But if you don’t so believe—why, then, the other path is open to you.’

He paused. She withdrew her hand. He at once began to feel for his match-box. She regretted that she had not allowed him to retain her fingers.

‘And that other path leads—whither?’ she asked softly, and with her eyes still fixed vaguely on the hills behind him.

‘To love in a cottage—or, say, in a semi-detached villa at Camden Town or Peckham Rye, with one small servant, not overclean.’ Evidently he had not forgotten what she had said to him on Wednesday. Their eyes met, and they both broke into a laugh. He put the match-box back in his pocket and took possession of her hand again.

‘You know that all I can offer you is a warm heart and a slender purse,’ he said. ‘Not much, I grant, from a worldly point of view; still, I believe cases have been known where two people have been venturesome enough to start in life together on a capital as ridiculously insignificant as that just named, and have not been unhappy afterwards. On the other hand, you know the brilliant future which your aunt predicts for you, if you will only be an obedient girl and do as she wants you to do; that is to say, if you will only marry the first rich man who proposes to you, whether you care for him or whether you don’t. Well, there are many young ladies nowadays who seem to find their happiness in that direction. Why shouldn’t you? As you said yourself the other day, you are a piece of human bric-à-brac to be knocked down to the highest bidder.’

‘Don’t, don’t!’ she cried with quivering lips.

‘Be mine, then!’ exclaimed Dick passionately. ‘Become the wife of the man who loves you, and save yourself from further degradation. At present you are a slave—a chattel. Break your fetters, cast them behind you for ever, and come to my arms: there is your proper home!’

‘O Dick, what would my aunt say—what would she do?’ she asked in an uncertain, tremulous voice.

‘There! now you’ve done it!’ he exclaimed with a laugh, that yet sounded as if there were a tear in it.

‘Done—what?’ she asked in amaze.

‘Told me all that I want to know!’ he cried in triumph. ‘If your aunt is the only obstacle—I don’t care for ten thousand aunts! You are mine—my own—and all the she-dragons in the world shall not tear you from me!’

Bella saw the uselessness of further resistance, and, like a sensible girl, she capitulated without another word.

* * * * *

When Friday morning broke clear and sunny, Lady Renshaw’s good temper, which seemed somehow to have evaporated in the rain and fog of the previous day, came back to her in a lump as it were. She spent an extra half-hour over the mysteries of her toilet, donned one of her most becoming costumes, and descended to the breakfast-room, on conquest bent. But, alas, when she reached the room she found no one there to conquer; the enemy was nowhere to be seen. She had the _salle_ almost to herself. Then it began to dawn upon her that there was just a possibility that both Dr Mac and the vicar might have ‘made tracks’ thus early in the day on purpose to escape her. And yet such an idea was almost too preposterous for belief. Had they not both been unmistakably infatuated on Wednesday, each in his own peculiar way? Had they not both been palpably jealous of each other? Why, then, should they try to shun her on Friday? Why should forty-eight hours make such a vast difference in their feelings? But, perhaps, there was something in the background of which she knew nothing. Perhaps some one had been prejudicing the two gentlemen against her. If such were the case, she could only set it down as the handiwork of that obnoxious Miss Gaisford. She had felt from the first that she could never like the vicar’s sister; and besides, was it not just possible that Miss Gaisford herself might be setting her cap at the doctor? If so, poor thing, it evidently would be labour in vain.

This thought put her ladyship into a somewhat better humour. Matters should be altered on the morrow. She would make an heroic effort, and rise with the lark, or at least early enough to breakfast at the same time that the gentlemen partook of that meal. It would be her own fault, then, if she allowed them to slip through her fingers. The poor dear vicar might go as soon as he had served her purpose in keeping alive the doctor’s jealousy; but the latter individual she meant to bring, metaphorically, to his knees before he was many days older, and she never for a moment doubted her ability to do so. Miss Gaisford, indeed! Ah ha! let those laugh who win.

She found herself in the sitting-room by the time she arrived at this triumphant peroration. It was empty. Lady Renshaw, in accordance with her usual tactics when no one was about, began to pry and peer here and there, opening such drawers in the writing-table as did not happen to be locked, turning over the paper and envelopes, and even submitting the blotting-pad to a careful examination; she had heard that strange secrets had sometimes been revealed by the agency of a sheet of blotting-paper. Nothing, however, rewarded her perquisition. She next crossed to the chimney-piece. Careless people occasionally left envelopes, and even letters, on that convenient shelf. Here, too, her search was without success. She felt somewhat aggrieved.

Suddenly her eye was caught by a gleam of something white just inside the scroll-work of the fender. She had pounced upon it in an instant. It proved to be merely a scrap of half-charred paper; but when she had opened it, which she did very carefully, she found it to be covered with writing. It was, in fact, a fragment of the letter given by Madame De Vigne to Colonel Woodruffe. The colonel had watched the flames devour the letter, till it was all gone except the small portion held between his thumb and finger. This he had dropped without thought into the fender, where it had till now remained, untouched by the housemaid’s brush. Lady Renshaw went to the window, and having first satisfied herself that no one was watching her, she put on her glasses, and tenderly straightening out the paper on the palm of one hand, she proceeded to decipher it. The fire had left nothing save a few brief sentences, which lacked both beginning and end. Such as they were, however, they seemed pregnant with a sinister significance. Her ladyship’s colour changed as she read. She was nearly certain that the writing was that of Madame De Vigne; but in order to make herself certain on the point, she turned to an album belonging to Clarice which lay on the table, in which were some verses written by her sister and signed with her name. Yes—the writing was indisputably that of Madame De Vigne!

Once more she turned to the scrap of paper and read the words. She wanted to fix them in her memory. They ran as follows:

‘My husband ... five years ago ... sentenced to penal servitude.... You now know all.’

‘The key of the mystery, as I live!’ cried Lady Renshaw triumphantly. ‘The widow of a convict! Well might she not care to speak about her past life. Ah ha! my fine madam, your reign is nearly at an end. I wonder what Mr Etheridge will say to this. He may be back by now. I will go in search of him at once. But for whom can the letter have been intended? In any case, she seems to have repented writing it, and to have burnt it rather than send it.’

She took a book off the table and placed the fragment carefully between the leaves, so as to preserve it intact. She then went in search of Mr Etheridge. That gentleman and Clarice had just returned from their excursion. Their first care was to examine the letter-rack in the hall. There they each found a telegram. Clarice tore hers open with a fluttering heart. This is what it said:

‘Nothing seen here of governor. Telegram from him to Blatchett. Am to return to Windermere by first train. Hurrah! Governor will meet me at _Palatine_ to night. Queer, very. No matter. Shall see you as well.’

Clarice turned first red and then white. The terrible Sir William coming to the _Palatine_—and to-night! It was enough to flutter any girl’s nerves. She turned to Mr Etheridge and put the message into his hands. ‘Read it,’ was all she could say.

He had just finished reading his own message, which seemed to be a very brief one.

‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked nervously, as he returned the paper to her with a smile.

‘I think it’s about the wisest thing Sir William could do. He ought to come and see with his own eyes, instead of sending other people. Of course, the fact of his summoning Mr Archie to London, and then declining to see him, can only be put down to the score of eccentricity—though I have no doubt the boy has enjoyed his little trip to town.’

Clarice looked at him a little reproachfully. As if Archie could enjoy being anywhere where she was not!

‘I must go and tell Mora the news,’ she said. ‘But oh! Mr Etheridge, do you think Sir William will want to see me?’

‘I think it very likely indeed.’

‘I was never so frightened in my life. I wish I could hide myself somewhere till to-morrow.’

‘Pooh, pooh, my dear young lady; Sir William is not an ogre. He is only a man, like the rest of us.’

‘But he is Archie’s papa.’

‘Is that any reason why you should be frightened at him?’

She nodded her head with considerable emphasis. But at this juncture Lady Renshaw was seen approaching, and Clarice fled.

‘Can you favour me with a few minutes’ private conversation, Mr Etheridge?’ said her ladyship.

‘Willingly, madam. Shall we take a stroll on the lawn, as we did before? There seems to be no one about.’

‘That will do very nicely. I will just fetch my sunshade and then join you.’ Which she accordingly did. ‘You may recollect, Mr Etheridge, that one portion of our conversation this morning had reference to Madame De Vigne?’ began her ladyship in her most confidential manner.

‘I have not forgotten, madam.’

‘Since that time I have made a most surprising discovery—a discovery I feel bound to say which only tends to confirm the opinion I then ventured to express. Will you be good enough, my dear sir, to look at this, and then tell me what you think?’

She opened the book at the page where she had inserted the scrap of paper, and placed it in his hands.

He stopped in his walk while he read it; but his face was inscrutable, and Lady Renshaw could gather nothing from it. Presently he lifted his eyes from the paper and stared at her for a moment or two, his bushy eyebrows meeting across the deep furrow in his forehead.

‘Where did you obtain this from, may I ask? And what is the meaning of it?’

‘As you will have observed, it is evidently a fragment of a burnt letter. I picked it up quite by accident on the floor of the sitting-room. The writing I know for a fact to be that of Madame De Vigne. As for the meaning of it—your penetration, my dear sir, is surely not at fault as regards that?’

‘It is a curious document, certainly—a very curious document,’ remarked the old man drily.

‘It is more than that, Mr Etheridge,’ remarked her ladyship in her most tragic tones—‘it is a revelation! Who is this husband of whom mention is made? Who is this convict who is so openly alluded to? Are they, or are they not, one and the same man, and if so, is he alive or dead? Those are points, I should imagine, on which Sir William will require to be fully enlightened; for, of course, Mr Etheridge, you will see how imperative it is that the paper should at once be laid before him. What a very, very fortunate thing that I happened to find it in the way I did!’

‘Yes, madam, Sir William shall see the paper, undoubtedly. A very fortunate thing, as you say, that your ladyship happened to find it, and not any one else, for you, madam, I am quite sure, are discretion itself.’

‘Just so—just so,’ responded her ladyship uneasily.—‘What a strange old man!’ she said to herself. ‘I don’t know what to make of him this morning.’

‘Permit me to whisper a secret in your ladyship’s ear,’ resumed Mr Etheridge with his odd little smile. ‘I have had a message. Sir William will be here—here at the _Palatine_—in the course of a few hours.’

Her ladyship could not repress a start. Here was news indeed!

‘But not a word to any one at present, I beg,’ continued the old gentleman. ‘I want Sir William’s arrival to be a surprise.’

‘Ah, just so,’ answered her ladyship with a complacent nod.—‘It will be like a bombshell thrown into their midst,’ she added to herself. Then aloud: ‘Not a word shall pass my lips, Mr Etheridge. By-the-bye, do you think it at all likely that Sir William will require to see me—I mean with regard to the scrap of paper?’

‘I think it very likely indeed, madam.’

‘In that case, I will hold myself in readiness. I have long desired the pleasure of Sir William’s acquaintance. We could scarcely meet under more agreeable auspices.’ Then suddenly grasping Mr Etheridge by the sleeve, she said in her deepest tones: ‘I felt sure from the first moment I set eyes on her that this Madame De Vigne was an impostor!’

‘Dear me!’ ejaculated the old gentleman with uplifted hands. ‘What acumen—what acumen!’

Her ladyship smiled a superior smile. ‘For the present I will say Ta-ta. You will not forget that I shall be in readiness to see Sir William at any moment?’

‘I will be sure not to forget. _Au revoir_, madam—_au revoir_.’

Lady Renshaw walked back to the hotel with the serene consciousness of having performed a meritorious action. Through her instrumentality an impostor would be unmasked, and in so far, Society would owe her a debt of gratitude. The service, too, was such a one as Sir William would not be likely to forget. Suddenly, a great, an overwhelming thought flashed across her mind. Sir William was a widower, but by no means a very old man—at least, so she had been given to understand; and in any case, he was not too old to marry again, if the whim were to take him. What if he were to—— The mere idea of such a thing made her heart go pit-a-pat. There was a mirror in the corridor. She simpered at herself in it as she passed and gave a tug at one or two of her ribbons. Undeniably, she was still a fine-looking woman. Far more unlikely things had happened than that which her thoughts had barely hinted at. What was it that the parrot in its gilded cage at the top of the stairs said to her as she passed? Did her ears deceive her, or was it a fact that it screamed after her, ‘Lady—Lady—La-dy Ridsdale?’

COOKING CLASSES FOR CHILDREN.

‘I have been reproaching myself,’ was the piteous plaint of Mrs Butler (Fanny Kemble) in her _Records of Later Life_, ‘and reproving others, and honestly regretting that, instead of Italian and music, I had not learned a little domestic economy, and how much bread, butter, flour, eggs, milk, sugar, and meat ought to be consumed per week by a family of eight persons.’ This is the lesson that great part of the world of women has still to learn. We have allowed mere accomplishments, the fringe and lace of life, to draw our attention from those solid and necessary things which a woman must know if her home is to be comfortable, and which a man knows nothing about except that in their results they make him contentedly happy or utterly miserable. A woman can obtain a more sensible, more thorough, in every way a better education in book-knowledge now than at almost any previous period of our national life; but the gain has been made at a price. Reaction is required, and indeed has set in already. We may see its fruits in the schools of Cookery for Ladies established in all our great towns; in the classes for dressmaking, clear-starching, and ironing; in the newly awakened interest in domestic economy as a science, in the countless books on that subject and on cookery published during the last few years.

The work is by no means done yet. That there are many to be taught and much to be learned, we may gather from a glance at the questions asked on such subjects in our principal ladies’ papers; where but the other day we find a newly married lady wishing to know if, on an income of five hundred pounds a year, without house-rent, she can keep a butler, a cook-housekeeper, a housemaid, a carriage and pair of horses, and a pony and cart!

But we wish to turn now to the wants of another class, and see what has been done and what can be done for our poorer sisters, who sorely need our help in this matter.

If it be true that education is the work of drawing out the mental powers of children so as to fit them thoroughly for their work in life, then we certainly for a time overshot our mark in elementary schools, so far as the girls were concerned. We taught them many things which they did not need to know, and could not learn thoroughly for want of time—much which almost unfitted them for their probable places in life as working-men’s wives; and we left untaught altogether all the womanly and useful arts of life except sewing. Good management has become rarer and rarer in the homes of town working-men; the thrifty, careful housewives seem as units among scores of careless, bad—because ignorant—mismanagers. The early age at which girls go to work in factories increases the evil; and, till lately, nothing which was taught at school helped to remedy it. Here, too, however, the change has begun, and now, in the Board Schools of London, Liverpool, Birmingham, Glasgow, and other large towns, the practical teaching of cookery holds almost as important a place in the education of girls as the teaching of sewing. But the question remains for the managers of voluntary schools: Is cooking worth teaching? Can it be successfully taught in our schools? Will it pay?

These are important questions; but they may all—even the last, which comes very near to the hearts of all managers—be answered, we believe, with a simple ‘Yes.’ Within the writer’s own knowledge, since the establishment of cookery classes in elementary schools, case after case has occurred where a girl of ten, eleven, or twelve has been able to cook food well for a whole family; or in sickness, has been the only person able to make beef-tea or gruel or to beat an egg. No one who has not seen could guess or would believe what the cooking in working-men’s homes too often is, or what waste and extravagance arise out of utter ignorance; and even where the mother has not been laid aside, it has been found that the girl’s knowledge, brought fresh from school, has worked a reformation in the family management. Nor is this all. The influence of the classes upon the girls attending them is very good, especially when the children are drawn from the very lowest ranks. The girls brighten up. Perhaps for the first time they are learning something that really interests them, and seems a link between home-life and school; they learn to weigh, to measure, to calculate quantities, and they see the use of these things. Let no one imagine that a cookery class is not educational. In the hands of a competent teacher, it is an object lesson, an arithmetic lesson, a general-knowledge lesson, and a lesson in common-sense. Even the personal appearance of the children often improves; cleanliness, neatness, orderliness are all encouraged; and in some schools, the effect upon the scholars has been most curiously marked.

If this be so, surely we may admit that cookery is worth teaching. Can it be taught successfully? We believe it can. But before attempting to prove this, we must give a quotation from the Code of March 1882: ‘In schools in which the inspector reports that special and appropriate provision is made for the practical teaching of cookery, a grant of four shillings is made on account of any girl over twelve years of age who has attended not less than forty hours during the school-year at the cooking class, and is presented for examination in the elementary subjects in any standard.’

The forty hours allowed by government are divided into twenty lessons of two hours each, which, taken once a week, can be finished in half a year. The lessons given are found to succeed best if they are alternately demonstration and practice—that is, at one lesson the children watch the teacher, who shows them how to cook any given dishes, carefully explaining the processes and the nature of the food; and at the next lesson the children put what they have learned in practice, and cook the same dishes themselves under the superintendence of the teacher. Fifteen children are sufficient for a practice class, though of course more can attend a demonstration. A very moderate-sized classroom is large enough; and tables can be formed of boards on tressels or on the backs of desks. Many classrooms already contain a range large enough for all purposes; but if not, one can be fitted up at a cost of three pounds, or a portable stove can be had for thirty shillings. The utensils are few and simple; but of course the first cost of them is considerable—about five pounds.[1] A teacher is supplied by any of the principal training Schools of Cookery for a fee of five pounds for twenty lessons and her travelling expenses. If several schools in the same neighbourhood take lessons during the same period, this last item can be much reduced.

The children work in five sets of three each. They are taught all the simple processes of cooking, and the reason in any given case for using one in preference to another. They are furnished with printed recipes for each dish they cook; they are taught—and this is most important—to clean properly and to put away all the utensils they use. They are questioned as they proceed, to see that they understand what they are doing; and at the end of the course, they go through both a verbal and a practical examination; and certificates are awarded by the School of Cookery, independent of examinations by Her Majesty’s inspector.

Here are a few sample recipes; and it must be remembered that special pains are taken to suit the dishes taught to the requirements of the district, many ways of cooking fish being taught in seaports, for instance; while in country places, vegetables, bacon, and eggs are more used.

_Brown Lentil Soup._—Half-pound brown lentils, 1½d.; one carrot, four cloves, an ounce and a half of dripping, 1½d.; two quarts of water; small bunch sweet herbs, three onions, pepper and salt, 1d. Wash the lentils well in several waters; leave to soak in two quarts of water for twenty-four hours. Slice and fry the onions in the dripping; let them take a nice brown, but not burn. Cut up the carrot into small pieces; fry it lightly also. Now put in the lentils and the two quarts of water in which they were steeped; add the herbs and the cloves, but not the pepper and salt. Boil all for three hours, adding more water, to make up the waste from boiling. Add pepper and salt to taste. If possible, put the soup through a coarse wire-sieve.

_Savoury Rice._—Rice, half-pound, 2d.; dripping, half-ounce, 1½d.; two onions, one carrot, pepper and salt, 1d.; cloves, parsley, and thyme, ½d. Wash the rice, throw it into a saucepan full of boiling water and a little salt. Add an onion stuck with four cloves and the carrot cut up. Let it boil fast for fifteen or twenty minutes. Take care there is plenty of water. To try the rice, take a grain and rub it between the thumb and finger. When it will rub quite away, drain off all the water, and let the rice dry before the fire. While the rice is boiling, put half an ounce of dripping in a saucepan on the fire, and when quite hot, fry in it a sliced onion. Take a tablespoonful of flour, sprinkle it over the fried onion in the pan, stirring it with a spoon. When the flour is brown, add half a pint of water, the parsley and thyme well chopped, with salt and pepper. Boil it up; stir in the rice, and serve.

_Exeter Stew._—Meat, 9d.; flour, 1½d.; suet, 1d.; dripping, 1d.; herbs and onion, 1½d. Put into a pan two ounces of dripping; set it on the fire; and when it is quite hot and a faint blue smoke arises from it, put in an onion, cut small. Let it brown well; then add a tablespoonful of flour, and when that is browned also, one pint of cold water, pepper, salt, four cloves, and a little mace. Cut one pound of beef into small pieces; put them in, and let it simmer, not boil, for two hours. Put in a bowl a quarter-pound of flour; a little salt, pepper, chopped parsley, thyme, and marjoram; two ounces of finely chopped suet, and half a teaspoonful of baking-powder. Make into a paste with cold water; form into small balls, and drop them into the stew half an hour before it is wanted.

_Christmas Pudding._—Flour, one pound, 2d.; baking-powder, a teaspoonful and a half, ¼d.; ginger, half a teaspoonful, ¼d.; suet, quarter-pound, 2d.; treacle, half-pound, 1d.; raisins, two ounces, ½d.; currants, two ounces, ½d.; milk (skim), ½d. Chop the suet finely; stir all the dry ingredients well together; add the treacle, warmed, and about a teacupful of skim-milk. Stir well; put it into a greased tin or basin; cover with paper; steam it in a pan of boiling water for an hour and a half or two hours.

No one who has seen how well these and many other dishes are cooked by the children entirely without assistance at their practical examination—no one who has heard how well and intelligently they answer questions on the subject, can doubt that cooking can be taught successfully in our schools. The one question remains, Does it pay? The outlay is of two kinds—the primary outlay, which will not recur, for stove and utensils; and the recurring expenses of teacher’s salary, food, and fuel. In many places, friends of education, learning the need, have fitted up classrooms with all that was required at a cost of about seven to eight pounds. In Liverpool, the Education Council offered to fit up six classrooms in voluntary schools as centres at which several neighbouring schools could attend; but as many poor schools are without such benevolent friends, the Northern Union of Schools of Cookery has petitioned the Science and Art Department to give grants for this purpose.

The teacher’s salary, as already mentioned, is about five pounds, with a varying sum in addition for travelling expenses. The average cost of the food to be cooked is about thirty-seven shillings for the whole course. The additional amount of fuel used is very trifling; therefore, the expenses stand: Teacher’s salary, £5; food, £1, 17s.; travelling expenses, say 10s.—Total, seven guineas. To meet these expenses, there are the following sources of income: The government grant of four shillings a head for fifteen girls, £3; extra pence paid by the children for their cooking lessons, twopence each for twenty lessons, £2, 10s. This payment cannot be enforced; but it is found that in most cases, even among the poorest, it is willingly paid, as the parents value the lessons. Sale of food cooked, at cost price, £1, 17s.—Total, seven guineas.

It may be mentioned that the food sells more readily among the very poor children than among those who are better off. There is little or no difficulty in disposing of it without loss.

It will be seen that this calculation allows of no margin whatever. If all goes well, there is neither profit nor loss. But it cannot be expected that everything will be perfectly successful; the children will miss a lesson now and then, or some dish will be spoiled. We would wish, therefore, to remind managers that there is another source of income open to them. It is both easier and better to teach cookery and domestic economy together than separately; and every girl who in the cooking class is earning a grant of four shillings, may also earn another four shillings if she passes in domestic economy, without any additional outlay or cost. Only, we would urge all managers to be careful always to secure a properly qualified teacher, holding a diploma from some good School of Cookery, and trained to teach children. Lastly, the experience of the manager of a large Roman Catholic school in a very poor district may be quoted. ‘I would hardly hesitate to say’—we give his own words—‘that not only will a class of cookery in elementary schools pay itself, but will even become a pecuniary advantage; and for this reason, parents look with much favour upon the teaching of cookery; and whereas it is too often the case that they withdraw their children from school the moment they are free to do so, and so prevent a school from receiving a grant for them by their passing an examination, I can say from experience that my class of cookery has been the means of retaining at school several children who would otherwise have left, and for each of them I expect a substantial grant. I have also observed that since the introduction of this subject, the children who attend this class attend much more regularly.’

With this testimony we may conclude, hoping that some at least of those who glance at this paper may agree with the words of an old working-woman, a grandmother, and herself a model of thrift, care, and good management, who, when the cookery classes at the Board Schools were mentioned before her, exclaimed: ‘Deed, and that’s the sensiblest thing I ever heard of them Boards doing!’ and may therefore be willing to do a little, either by giving time, money, or influence, to help forward this good and greatly needed work.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _List of Utensils for an Artisan Practice Class._—Three tin saucepans, two quarts, 6s.; three do., three pints, 4s. 6d.; three do., one pint, 1s. 6d.; one fish-kettle, 3s.; three small frying-pans, 1s. 9d.; one colander, 1s.; three strainers, 1s. 6d.; one set measures, 1s. 6d.; one scale and weights, quarter-ounce to one pound, 8s. 6d.; three dripping-tins, 2s. 6d.; two small wire-sieves, 3s.; three graters, 1s. 6d.; six wooden spoons, 1s.; six iron tablespoons, 1s.; six do. teaspoons, 3d.; six round tin moulds, 3s.; twelve knives, 7s. 6d.; six vegetable knives, 2s.; three forks, 1s. 6d.; six chopping-boards, 9s.; three rolling-pins, 2s.; one spice-box, 6d.; one handbowl, 1s. 3d.; one knifeboard, 9d.; two galvanised tubs, 4s.; one galvanised bucket, 1s. 3d.; one water-can, 3s.; three scrubbing-brushes, 2s.; three sink-brushes, 1s.; one set blacklead brushes, 2s.

_Crockery._—Three large bowls, 3s. 6d.; three smaller do., 2s. 6d.; six small basins, 1s.; twelve handless cups, 6d.; twelve plates, 1s. 6d.; three round baker’s, 9d.; three larger do., 1s. 3d.; three jugs, 1s. 6d.; three pie-dishes, 9d.

_Linen._—Six kitchen cloths, 3s.; one roller towel, 1s. 3d.; one hand do., 4d.; three dishcloths, 6d.

_Sundries._—Kitchen paper, house flannel, soap, soda, blacklead, bath-brick, oil, 5s.—Total, £5, 2s. 7d.

AN AMATEUR ‘CABBY.’

In ‘my salad days’ I was a striking example of that class of young men who are unfortunately weighted with an extra crop of wild-oats to dispose of ere they are transformed into conventional, steady-going, tax-paying members of the community. My personal allowance being considerable, I was able to indulge in all the follies of a man about town. Fortunately or unfortunately, I soon probed to the bottom of things, and speedily tasted the ashes in the cup of pleasure, so that one folly after another was discarded and relegated to the limbo of the past, until, like Heliogabalus, I sighed for a new delight, and would have paid liberally for a fresh sensation. The turf and its wretched gambling associations palled upon me; I was weary of the theatre, both before and behind the curtain. The senseless chatter of my young associates in the club smoking-room roused a feeling of boredom almost intolerable. At this period, the great Cab question was the topic of the hour. The character and remuneration of the London cabman were discussed at every dinner-table in the metropolis. There were two parties in this discussion, which advocated views totally opposed to each other. On the one hand, the earnings of Cabby were described as wealth; on the other, as poverty. He was portrayed as drunken, extravagant, uncivil, and in fact as only fit to be the associate of the most vile. The reverse side of the medal was that of a man sober, frugal, civil, and so courteous in his intercourse with his fares, that the late Lord Chesterfield might have taken lessons of him in politeness.

A sudden determination possessed me. I would be a cabman for the nonce. At all events, for twelve hours I would don the badge and learn for myself the truth of the matter. I frequently employed the same cabman on the rank in Piccadilly. He drove a thoroughbred mare, and his hansom was a model of neatness and elegance. So I took an early opportunity of interviewing the man, whose name was Smith; although in those days ‘interview’ was not classed as an active verb. I told him I wished to hire his cab for a night. At first, Mr Smith was hazy as to my meaning. I asked him how much he paid for the hire of his vehicle. He replied: ‘Seventeen shillings per night.’

‘Very well,’ I said; ‘I will give you that sum for the use of your cab for twelve hours, and hand you over besides, the amount in fares I may chance to receive during that period.’

I could see that my friend entertained doubts for a moment as to my sanity; but I speedily explained matters to him.

Mr Smith shook his head, and said he might lose his license if the fact became known to the police that he had lent his badge, and so on, and that an intimate knowledge of London streets was indispensable.

I pooh-poohed both these objections, especially the last, asserting that I was capable of making a map of Western London, if circumstances required it.

Eventually, Mr Smith agreed to my proposal, giving me several hints as to my conduct; I remember one of these being, that I must on no account ply for hire, as it is termed, while driving through the streets, but wait till I was hailed.

The eventful hour arrived in due course, and at nine o’clock I met Mr Smith by appointment in a quiet street in the parish of St James. It was October; and the night being chilly, I wore an overcoat, somewhat the worse for wear, and a wide-awake, which I could slouch over my eyes, if occasion required; for my chief fear was, that I might, by an unlucky chance, be recognised by some of my numerous acquaintances. I mounted the box, and nodding gaily to Mr Smith, left that individual transfixed with wonder that a gentleman of means and position should voluntarily undergo the pains and penalties of a cabman’s life, even for so brief a period as twelve hours.

I have stated that the mare was a thoroughbred, and in doing so I am only recording a literal fact. In the famous days when Andrew Ducrow reigned supreme at Astley’s Theatre, there was a very popular drama which depicted the life of a racehorse through all its vicissitudes, till it found itself in the shafts of a sand-cart. There is an undoubted instance of a horse (Black Tommy, 1857) which only lost the Derby by a short head, figuring subsequently in the shafts of a cab in Camden Town.

For a time I imagined that I was the centre of observation, especially by the cabmen on the ranks. Suddenly I was hailed by a short thick-set man with a very red face, who in an imperious tone shouted ‘Orme Square,’ and plunged into the recesses of my cab. I was floored completely! My boasted knowledge of the topography of the metropolis was at fault. I had never heard of Orme Square. I ventured to ask my fare if he could direct me to the place. His surprise and indignation were so excessive that I feared for a moment he would succumb to a fit of apoplexy. But he relieved himself by a burst of strong language such as I had rarely listened to in my life before. My first impulse was an angry reply, but I fortunately nipped that impulse in the bud. The line of Jerrold the dramatist occurred to me: ‘A rich man feels through his glove, and thinks all things are soft.’ For the first time I realised what a cabman has occasionally to submit to, and what a Janus-headed thing Society was in its intercourse with the rich and the poor. But it is a remarkable fact that although Orme Square is situated in the Bayswater Road, immediately opposite Kensington Gardens, not one Londoner in ten can define its locality. It is a small unpretending square, with three sides only, the fourth side being the great thoroughfare I have mentioned. I excused my ignorance by saying that I was new to the neighbourhood. As I drove along, I placed my present experience to the credit of the much-abused cabby. I received my exact fare, for which I politely thanked my irritable friend, for I was resolved I would do nothing to increase the prejudice existing in so many quarters, against my brother-cabmen, but practise civility under all temptations to the contrary.

I suppose it was about one o’clock, and I was proceeding leisurely along Oxford Street, the ‘stony-hearted step-mother,’ as De Quincey styles it in his immortal work, admiring the effect of the long vista of gas lamps in the deserted street, when I heard a woman’s voice: ‘Are you going Pimlico-way?’ I turned, and beheld two young girls, in gaudy finery and painted cheeks. I replied that my services were at their disposal. I suppose there was something in the words and manner of my answer which created surprise in their minds, for they stared curiously in my face before jumping into the cab.

In a few seconds I was careering along at the rate of ten miles an hour. What a situation for the son of the much-esteemed rector of Cawley-cum-Mortlock! My fares sang snatches of the popular melodies of the day, sometimes as a solo, sometimes as a duet. When we arrived at our destination, they sprang out of the cab and inquired my fare. I replied: ‘Two shillings.’ The countenance of the younger assumed a plaintive expression as she whispered: ‘Give the poor cabby an extra tanner, Loo; I daresay he has a wife and children at home.’

As I did not wish to obtain money under false pretences, I modestly disclaimed the honour of paternity, at the same time pocketing my fare. As I did so, two gentlemen approached, and my feelings of dismay may be imagined when I recognised in one of them Mr Spalland, my father’s curate! There was a gas-lamp close at hand, so that my features must have been plainly discernible. The girls had just bidden me good-night. Observing the look of wonder and horror on Mr Spalland’s features, I boldly took the bull by the horns, and exclaimed: ‘Cab, sir?’

‘The very voice!’ cried the curate. ‘What a marvellous resemblance!’ Then he whispered a few words to his companion, who was a stranger to me.

‘Nonsense!’ came from his lips. ‘The thing is impossible.—What is your name, cabby?’

‘Here is my ticket, sir,’ I promptly replied. ‘John Smith, Lisson Grove.’