Chapter 17

Although he had looked so benevolent in the train, I had already begun to fear this urbane old man far more than I had previously feared the tramp at Broughton. With an uncomfortable feeling that he had got me in his power, I could see no way of quickly getting out of it. To refuse to hand over my money was out of the question, although, with an appearance of kindness, he gave me back the particular half-crown which I had changed for him in the train.

The next few hours went by wretchedly enough. Mr. Parsons (for that I learned was his name) did not leave me for a moment alone, and there was nothing to divert my thoughts from the extremely disagreeable situation. I could see no sign of any kind of book; and, indeed, the only form of print in the house seemed to be half of an old newspaper. At about half-past eight, Mrs. Loveridge began to prepare for something resembling a meal by placing on the table, without a cloth, a piece of bacon, and some bread and cheese. When it was supposed to be ready I made the acquaintance of Mr. Loveridge, a small, pale-faced, dark-haired man, with one leg shorter than the other. He wore a boot with a very thick cork sole, and walked with crutches. Mr. Loveridge scarcely opened his lips, but greeted me with a long, keen stare. Although I did not feel the least appetite, I made a pretence of eating.

After supper, we all sat round the table, just as it was, while the men smoked, and talked in a jargon which it was impossible to understand.

'Better put the kid to bed,' said Loveridge, presently; and, indeed, I was beginning to feel exceedingly curious as to my sleeping quarters.

Rising from her chair, Mrs. Loveridge led the way upstairs to the top of the house, where she opened a door and said that was to be my room.

'Can I have a candle?' I asked.

'No, you can't,' she answered. 'And you needn't be afraid. We always lock the front door and take out the key, and sleep with one eye open in this house.'

With that she went downstairs and I shut the door. The window had neither blind nor curtains, and the room was almost dark. I could, however, distinguish a bed on the floor, and suddenly I remembered the last and only other time I had slept in a bedroom without a bed--at Mrs. Riddles', at Polehampton--and sincerely wished myself back in that cupboard, despite its nearness to Castlemore. I prayed earnestly to God to watch over me, for I knew instinctively that I was in some great danger. I felt that I had fallen among thieves--if these people were not thieves, what could they be?

I reproached myself for having been so easily deceived by Parsons, and determined to make my escape at the earliest opportunity. The hint in Mrs. Loveridge's parting words had not been necessary to convince me of the uselessness of trying to get away during the night, so I lay down on the mattress and the blankets (there were no sheets) and tried to make up my mind how to act. I could not believe that the object of Parsons in bringing me to his house had been merely to obtain the small sum of money I possessed. Yet he appeared eager to detain me, and he had persuaded his daughter of the need for such detention. It seemed to follow that he meant to make use of me in some way--some undesirable way, no doubt. In vain I racked my brains, before I fell asleep that miserable night, to see through his design. But I realised that my situation had become worse than ever, and it seemed difficult to imagine that only yesterday I had been the companion of Jacintha and her brother. I determined to do my utmost to disguise my suspicions, to exercise patience and--for once--judgment, and to await a favourable opportunity with all the courage I could muster.

(_Continued on page 146._)

WONDERFUL CAVERNS.

V.--THE ROCK TEMPLES OF INDIA.

Perhaps next to their own country, English folk know more about India than of any other part of the world. So many of us have either been there ourselves, or have relations who have spent long years there, that in a way it seems rather like a home-land than a foreign country. The great difficulty is to realise what a huge piece of the world it is, with its population of over two hundred and seventy millions of people. We have to remember that this population is made up of many different races which have from time to time conquered and settled in various parts. India is above all things an _old_ country. Its sacred books, its temples, indeed, the way of life of the people date back to very ancient times, and it is believed that considerable intercourse took place between Hindustan and ancient Egypt, which may account for the likeness between the rock tombs and temples of the two kingdoms. New races have from time to time supplanted the former owners of the land, but except the Mohammedan invaders of the tenth century, the conquerors seem more or less to have fallen in with the faith and traditions of their new subjects.

The greater part of the natives of India are worshippers of Buddha, though many have been converted to Christianity. The teaching of Buddha depended greatly on meditation and freedom from the distractions of the world, and Buddhists at a very early date began to withdraw into communities of hermits living by themselves, and, partly from convenience, partly from a love of mysterious places, availed themselves largely of the many natural caverns with which the rocks of India and Thibet abound.

At first a small cave would be enlarged, and by the aid of masonry turned into a habitable cell for one or more of the hermits. Next a verandah would be added, where the good men might meditate, and at the same time enjoy light and fresh air. Later on a large cavern would be chosen, which, with some building, and the addition of pillars to support the roof, would be adapted to the form of a great central hall, with small surrounding cells for each of the brethren. To our ideas it sounds rather cold and gloomy, but those were not days of luxury, and in Southern India, where coolness means comfort, these old cave-dwellers might have been worse off.

Some of these Buddhist temples are marvels of genius as well as of industry, being richly decorated with carvings of men, women, and animals, and with pillars, roofs and galleries cut from the solid rock.

One of the most celebrated of these rock buildings is on a small island a few miles from Bombay, called by the natives, Garapur, though in the sixteenth century the Portuguese gave it the name of Elephanta, from a huge black stone elephant which they saw on landing. The great temple is reached by a paved causeway from a beach below, and is chiefly underground, though both centre and wings have handsome outside frontages. The chief hall is one hundred and thirty feet long (or about as large as a fair-sized English church), and formerly had many columns, though most of these have fallen. The roof of the cave in the east wing projects seven feet beyond the line of pillars, and is about fifty feet long. On square pedestals guarding the entrance sit stone animals, either leopards or tigers, and inside are statues, whilst over the head of an image of Buddha are flying cherubs.

The view from outside, over the Bay of Bombay, is very beautiful, and the temple is still held sacred by the Hindus, who celebrate there the festival of Shivaratri. An important religious fair is also held before the first new moon after the middle of February in each year.

HELENA HEATH.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

III.--THE SIMPLON ROAD.

In the year 1805 Napoleon accomplished a work which for many years had occupied his thoughts, namely, a good carriage road from Switzerland to Italy, over the Simplon Pass, thus associating his name with that of the great Carthaginian general, Hannibal, who had crossed that Pass with his troops many hundred years before.

This road of Napoleon's--still perhaps the best-graded mountain road in Europe--was a marvel of engineering, and was considered perfect in all respects. Every stone which marked the miles (or rather kilometres) along the route was stamped with the imperial eagle, and each bridge over the rushing torrents bore the words 'Napoleon fecit' ('Napoleon made this'), so that succeeding generations should honour his name.

How little could Napoleon have imagined that, just one hundred years later, human moles, boring an underground passage through the mountain, would render his grand road all but useless, and that the opening of the Simplon Tunnel would cause his road to be neglected and forsaken.

* * * * *

Some conversation on this topic was passing between the travellers on a diligence (or coach) not long ago; as the five horses gaily trotted along the Simplon road from Brigue to the Italian side, an English schoolboy, who had been attentively listening, broke in.

'This grand road to be left to decay? The road Napoleon made! Why is it to be given up? I never saw a better road in all my life!'

'There could certainly be no better road,' answered an elderly gentleman who sat next to the lad, 'but now that the Simplon Tunnel is almost an accomplished fact, this road will be no longer needed. People will not sit for eight or ten hours on a diligence when they can do the journey in less than an hour by rail.'

'I would choose the diligence all the same, tunnel or no tunnel!' said the lad heartily. 'Just see how jolly it is to be trotting up-hill, with a precipice on one side of you, a great slab of rock on the other, high snow mountains in front, and hundreds of butterflies dancing about in the sun. Isn't that better than being dragged through a dark tunnel, boxed up in a stuffy train?'

'I agree with you there, at any rate in summer,' said his neighbour, smiling; 'but for all that the tunnel is a grand thing for this country, and it will benefit English folk too, for it will considerably shorten the distance between the Straits of Dover and the Adriatic, and so our Indian mails will go through the Simplon tunnel to Brindisi. The tunnel is twelve miles long--the longest railway tunnel in the world.'

'I know the tunnel is very wonderful,' went on the lad, 'and I dare say it is necessary, but why, because there happens to be a tunnel inside the mountain, should this beautiful road be allowed to go to rack and ruin? That beats me!' and the boy looked round as if to request an explanation from some one.

A Swiss gentleman--speaking, however, most excellent English--enlightened the lad.

'You only see the road in summer, when every yard of it has been carefully inspected, and if necessary renewed. The winter storms and avalanches do great damage here every year: bridges are swept away, and the roads blocked with immense rocks brought down by the avalanches, so that the cost of keeping this road in repair comes every year to over a million of francs. When the tunnel is open, the Government will be able to save this money, as the road will be no longer needed.'

'Poor old road,' said the lad. 'Then will no one ever come up it in future?'

'Oh, yes,' answered the gentleman, 'it will always be used by the peasants--they cannot afford to pay railway fares, and I hope for their sakes the monks at the Hospice yonder will still continue their good offices, and not forsake the home and the refuges, as there is some talk of their doing, now that the number of travellers on the road will be so greatly diminished.'

'Of course,' said the boy eagerly, 'I have heard of the St. Bernard monks, and their hospital and their dogs, and how they dig travellers out of the snow, and so on; but what are refuges, please? I never heard of them.'

'They are also shelters for travellers, a sort of off-shoot from the parent-house at the top of the Pass. It is fifteen miles from the valley to the Hospice, and in winter-time the road is often blocked by snow, and if it were not for these refuge houses, where food and warmth is freely given to all comers, many a poor traveller would perish in the snow.'

* * * * *

Napoleon's fame will have to live without the help of the great road which he built to keep it alive. Though many obstacles have been met with, including a break-down caused by an underground spring, when there were only a few yards between the borings from each end, the tunnel is at last practically finished, and it is hoped that in 1905, a hundred years after Napoleon made his road, it will be open for railway traffic.

S. C.

THE BAT AND THE BALL.

'I'm quite knocked up!' exclaimed the Ball, While mounting to the skies; 'I know I shall have such a fall After this dreadful rise. I speak no ill of any one, However they provoke, But many things the Bat has done Are something past a joke.'

'Just watch that Ball, how high he goes,' The Bat exclaimed with glee, 'But yet he never says he owes His rise in life to me. No, no, that's not his way at all; And though I do my best, His graceless growls at every fall Are something past a jest.'

JOHN LEA.

WITHOUT A HEN TO BUY STAMPS.

A native from the shores of Lake Nyasa, in Central Africa, lately enlisted in the King's 2nd African Regiment, and went off to the war in Somaliland.

He had had some education in the Mission School in his own village, and by-and-by sent home a very good letter describing his work, and how he learnt signalling, and so on; and then he ended up with this pathetic little reproach to his 'brothers' in Nyasa-land for leaving him without a letter.

'And what? all the people who knew us, have they finished to die' (that is, are they all dead?), 'or are they alive and laugh? Brethren of Mbamba, how are ye without a hen to buy stamps?'

A fowl in Central Africa, it may be explained, costs about a penny, and is the usual means of barter, so that stamps are bought with hens. But let no one think an African fowl is as plump as its English sister; on the contrary, it is such a poor, skinny thing, that three of them form the usual breakfast for a European, who after all often gets up hungry.

X.

MAY DAY.

The village children were making great preparations for May Day, and none were more excited than Alice and May Risdon, for it would be little May's birthday, and she had been looking forward to it for a long time.

Early in the morning, before some people were out of their beds, the children would start maying, carrying garlands and bunches of flowers tied on poles, and calling at each house to sing the May greeting. Some would give them pennies, and others only smiles, but the fun and the frolic were what the children loved, and they would be certain to have plenty if the sun shone and the skies were blue overhead.

On the last day of April, Alice and May hurried home from school, for they meant to start off directly after tea to pick the flowers they would want.

'I do wish Mother would give me a ribbon for my garland,' little May said, as she ran along, trying to keep pace with her elder sister.

'I don't think she will,' Alice replied. 'Mother says pennies are none too plentiful, and she cannot waste them on finery for us, so I am sure she will not buy ribbon just to decorate our flowers.'

'Annie Mock had hers tied with a lovely bow of white satin last year,' May said, with a sigh. 'I don't want to go maying if I have no ribbon for my flowers.'

May was just a little bit spoilt because she was much younger than Alice, and her elder sister was so devoted to her that she always thought of her first, and gave way to her in everything.

'We will find the very prettiest flowers we can, dear, and then nobody will miss the ribbon.'

'Do coax Mother to buy me a bit,' May begged, but Alice knew that this would be quite useless.

How she wished, though, that she could satisfy her little sister! If only she tried hard enough, perhaps she would be able to think of some plan.

However, when they reached home she was afraid that May might be disappointed, not only of her ribbon, but of her flowers and garland as well, for she found Mrs. Stevens, the Squire's wife, had called and asked Mrs. Risdon to send Alice to the Lodge to help with some weeding.

'Oh, Mother, need I go? I must get the flowers for the maying,' Alice said.

'Nonsense, my dear; I cannot disoblige Mrs. Stevens when she is always so kind to us.'

So Alice had to go to the Park Lodge, leaving May in tears, because she knew she could not get nearly as many flowers without her sister to help her.

'Never mind, dear! Pick some primroses and ferns, and I will get up early to-morrow to gather may-blossom and make the garland,' Alice promised, as she kissed her good-bye.

It was growing dark when the weeding was finished, but Mrs. Stevens was very much pleased with the neat look of the borders.

'You have been a good, industrious girl,' she said to Alice. 'Now you must come in and have some cake and milk, and I have a few little scraps of finery your mother may like for her patchwork.'

She brought a bundle of pieces of bright-coloured silk, and among them Alice saw, with delight, a length of lovely green ribbon.

Her eyes shone with excitement as she thanked Mrs. Stevens.

'Do you think, ma'am, we might use that beautiful ribbon for our garland? It would still do for Mother's patchwork if we ironed it afterwards.'

Then Mrs. Stevens had to hear all the story of May's wish and her sister's fears for her disappointment. She gave Alice leave to go through their orchard on her way home, and to pick as many of the wild jonquils--'White Sundays,' the children called them--as she liked. So Alice was a happy girl, and, although she saw by the tears on little May's cheeks that the child had cried herself to sleep, she knew how glad her waking would be.

Alice was awake at daylight to weave the garland and arrange the bunch of flowers on the pole. When all her preparations were finished, she roused May and told her that it was May Day and she had a delightful surprise for her. She brushed the little girl's golden hair till it shone, and put on her best white frock, and then, looking from the window, saw some other children coming to meet them.

'Run off, dear,' she said; 'I will follow with your garland.'

She just had time to slip on a clean pinafore, and then hurried after her down the hill.

'Oh, how lovely!' cried May, when she saw the green ribbon; and she was so excited she could hardly stand still while she held the garland and Alice tied it on.

The other children were full of admiration, and May's happy little face, with the hug she gave her kind sister, quite repaid Alice for her hard work the evening before, and for getting up with the sun to prepare for a joyful maying.

M. H.

NOT THE SAME THING.

At a college in Cambridge there was once a master who was extremely fond of figs. He watched his fig-tree very closely and tenderly, for he held that in the existence of a fig there was but one fit and proper moment at which the ripe fruit should be eaten. To eat a fig either before or after that supreme moment was, said the master, a neglect of an opportunity and a sad mistake.

One year, for some reason, the tree produced only one good fig; and one day the master's examination of this solitary fruit led him to the conclusion that it would be at its best on the day following. Then he did an exceedingly foolish thing--considering that there were undergraduates about! He wrapped his precious fig in a piece of silver paper and labelled it 'The Master's Fig!'

At what he judged the exactly right moment of the next day the master went to the tree, anticipating a brief but exquisite pleasure. Alas! the fruit had vanished, and the empty branch bore a label with these words; 'A Fig for the Master!'

H. J. H.

INVITATIONS.

The daffodils are nodding; There's a swaying of the trees; The playroom window rattles To the fragrant summer breeze. There is sunshine in the garden, And the bees are all a-hum. Oh, hark, the invitation: 'You must come, come, come!'

The butterfly is glancing On his wings of golden hue; Ah! see where now he loiters O'er that bed of pansies blue; A moment since he hovered At this very window-pane, To see if we were coming To the garden and the lane.

Hats! hats! for those who want them; Boots! boots!--oh, lace them, _do_! Fling open doors and windows, To let the sunshine through! When birds and bees and blossoms Invite us out to play, Oh, who could well refuse them Upon so bright a day?

JOHN LEA.

JAPANESE PLUMS.

Plums, especially if pickled, are a favourite ration of the Japanese soldiers. These plums are said to be such marvellous thirst-quenchers that if you have once tasted them the mere recalling of their name is sufficient to allay the severest thirst.

There is a saying in the Japanese army that when a regiment shows signs of being overcome from want of water, the officer in command has only to say, 'Two miles from here, my men, there is a forest of plum-trees.'

At once, says a Japanese writer, the men's mouths begin to water, and the danger is past.

X.

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 139._)

I fell asleep at last, and, on opening my eyes the next morning, saw the sunlight shining into the squalid room. Evidently it had been empty on my arrival at the house, and Mrs. Loveridge had flung these things on the floor, and placed a basin and what looked like a duster on a broken-backed chair, and considered the room furnished. Not aware of the time, but believing it to be quite early, I got up and said my prayers and began my toilet, with the intention of going downstairs to explore the house. Having lain down in my clothes, I now washed as well as I could without soap, opened my door, went out to the landing, and listened. All that I could hear was snoring; so, taking courage, I tried to walk downstairs without noise--a task in which I only partially succeeded.

Passing the first floor, I went on to the rooms which I had entered yesterday, and then to the front door. I saw that it was locked, and that the key, as Mrs. Loveridge had hinted, had been taken away. At the back of the passage was a flight of stairs, and, in the wild hope of finding some kind of back door, I went down.

In this basement were two rooms, that in front being an ordinary kind of kitchen--the door of the back room being locked. I was in the act of stooping to look through the keyhole, when I felt a hand on my collar.

'Now, get away from that,' cried Mrs. Loveridge, flinging me heavily against the wall. 'None of your prying down here, or it'll be the worse for you.'

I returned upstairs without speaking, and there I hung about the room, where the supper things still remained on the table, until I smelt an odour of frying bacon. Both the men came to breakfast, and nobody spoke during the meal. When it ended, Mr. Loveridge left the room, and I heard him downstairs, opening and shutting the door of the room where I had been caught trying to peep. I strained my ears for any fresh sound, fancying that some one must be blowing a pair of bellows, such as may be seen in any blacksmith's shop, until my attention was suddenly diverted.

'I never expect gratitude,' said Mr. Parsons, 'so I am not disappointed if I don't get it. There are private goings on in every house, come to that, and visitors have got to behave themselves.'

'Of course,' I answered, remembering the caution I had administered to myself last night.

'People tell me I am what you may call a good-natured man,' he continued. I noticed how thin his lips had become, and what an unpleasant expression had come into his eyes. 'But if you rouse me,' he exclaimed, 'I'm a Tartar--a Tartar I am! So you had better be careful.'

I was rapidly growing convinced that there was a mystery connected with the house, and that the clue was to be found downstairs in what ought to have been the back kitchen. But I had no time to think of this at present, because Mr. Parsons said he intended to take me out. He accompanied me into the passage, where he carefully brushed his tall hat with his sleeve, and opened the street door, whilst I determined to lose no opportunity of making my escape before we returned. The next minute we were walking away from the house, and, to my surprise, Mr. Parsons put his hand through my arm, holding it with what seemed to be a grip of iron.

'Where are we going?' I asked, as we left the street.

'I want to make a deal with a friend of mine,' was the answer. 'Appearances are very important in this world, my lad. I like to see a boy nicely dressed. I'm always very particular myself what I wear.'

'My clothes are all right,' I muttered.

'Ah, you think so, do you? Now, I'm very fond of a short black jacket and a tall hat--a tall hat is most important.'

'You mean Etons?' I suggested.

'You will see what I mean before you're much older,' he answered, still keeping his grip of my arm.

In a wider street in the neighbourhood of Edgware Road we stopped before a good-sized second-hand clothes-shop, which was kept by a man, who appeared to be a friend of Parsons. Telling me to enter first, he stood blocking the doorway while he carried on a whispered conversation with the shopkeeper.

'Take off your jacket,' he said, a few minutes later, as the shopman began to show some folded suits of clothes.

Although I did not in the least like the notion of exchanging my own clothes, shabby as they were, for a suit which had already been worn by somebody else, it was a part of my plan to offer no unnecessary objection. Besides, it must be confessed that, in his quiet way, Mr. Parsons had succeeded in filling me with something very like terror. In a manner, he seemed like a volcano, looking perfectly harmless, and even pleasant, but yet capable of a terribly dangerous eruption.

The shopman brought out an armful of clothes, and the second jacket I tried was only a trifle too small. In less than a quarter of an hour I had taken off my own suit and put on in its place an ordinary suit of Etons, such as we all wore on Sundays at Castlemore. Although obviously far from new, it was not in very bad condition; but the hat, which had a soiled lining, required to be filled in with paper to prevent it from coming down over my eyes. Mr. Parsons sold my old suit (it could scarcely have fetched a very high price), and paid the difference to the shopman, who, I observed, examined the money, coin by coin, with close attention.

'Now,' said Parsons, as we walked in the direction of Edgware Road, 'you look a little more genteel.'

We entered a cheap hosier's shop next, and there he bought me a white shirt, two wide Eton collars, and a dark tie, all of which I carried home in a brown-paper parcel.

So far the morning had been passed harmlessly, if unpleasantly, for I continued to resent the second-hand suit, and especially the hat, and now we walked direct back to the house. After a meal, of which the less said the better, Mr. Parsons took me into his own bedroom, telling me to change my shirt and look sharp about it. When I had put on the white shirt, a wide collar, and the new necktie, I returned to the front room, but was sent into the passage to fetch the tall hat.

In the front room I found Mr. and Mrs. Loveridge, as well as a rough-looking man whom I had not seen before. Mr. Parsons placed his hand on my shoulders, and turned me round and round as if he were proud to show the change he had affected in my appearance.

'Won't he do beautiful?' he cried, excitedly. 'Did ever you set eyes on a nicer, genteeler-looking lad? Don't he take the cake?'

They all began to laugh, evidently with approval, while I bit my lips and tried to look as if I also liked it, although I think it was one of the worst minutes of my life.

'Well,' said Loveridge, 'we shall see what we get for our money.'

Mrs. Loveridge muttered something which I could not understand, and Mr. Parsons shook his head with a significant frown.

'Trust me for that,' he answered. 'Come along, Jacky! Handsome is that handsome does, you know.'

A few minutes later we were again out in the street, and while any casual passer-by would have imagined that I was accompanied by an affectionate old gentleman who held my arm, I knew very well what was his real motive. It was a hot afternoon, and presently we took an omnibus to Oxford Circus, where we at once turned down a side street.

'I dare say you are thirsty, my lad,' he exclaimed, suddenly. 'Now, two or three doors from here there's a nice shop where they sell delicious ginger-beer--a penny the bottle. Go and get yourself a bottle, Jacky.'

'I--I don't want any,' I answered, as he took a coin from his pocket.

'Jacky,' he said, looking full into my face, 'you will find it always best to do as you're told. Go and get yourself a bottle of ginger-beer, my lad.'