CHAPTER XXV

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THE NEWS THAT CAME AT LAST.

Mrs. Bray’s end did not prove so imminent as her faithful Rachel had feared. She lingered on, though still unable to leave Bath for return to her desolated home. So Florence Brand came back to London, but she and Jem still often took “a week’s end” to run westward and visit the old lady. They never offered to take Lucy with them, and if “Jem” could not go Florence went alone. As for Lucy, she often yearned for those associations with her old easy girlish life which she would have found in Mrs. Bray’s presence. Such associations help to uphold our sense of identity, and often comfort us by revealing our own growth. They keep us tender, too, and tolerant, reviving the consciousness of what we were ourselves before we learned bitter lessons which may not yet have come to others. Also they strengthen us by revealing that not even to regain our old careless joys could we willingly be again our old careless selves. It is the “look backward” which best spurs us to go forward.

But Lucy could not afford any “unnecessaries” of leisure or railway travel. She turned at once to her life of steady labour, knowing that she must be henceforth a working woman, not for any temporary exigency, but as part of the natural and persistent order of things.

Even thus she had problems to solve. Her earned income, more or less uncertain, was not adequate for the reliable upkeep of the home of her married life. Nor could the demands upon it grow less, since Hugh’s education and start in life had to be taken into account.

Lucy could not yet give up all hope of her husband’s return. But her sweet, sane nature speedily realised that whatever hopes she might secretly cherish, she must nevertheless act as though Charlie had indeed “sailed for that other shore” whence he “could not come back to her.”

Yet these secret hopes made it very hard to contemplate the surrender of the home Charlie and she had made together—the sale of the leasehold, the dispersion and shrinkage of the household gods. These seemed almost sacred now when they might be all that remained of the old life.

The Brands warmly advocated giving up the house and selling off the furniture.

“It may not bring in much,” Florence said airily, “but what it does Jem will get well invested in some paying concern. Then you and the boy can board with somebody. You may do that moderately enough, for people who are glad to take boarders can often be screwed down to low terms. Then apart from that definite outlay, you’ll have whatever you can earn for yourself, and you’ll have no more worry with housekeeping. Many would envy such a lot. You see there are compensations in all things.”

Then it struck Florence that Lucy’s hesitancy might arise from reluctance to give up all hope of Charlie’s return, so she added hastily—

“And if what we all hope for should really happen, why, you would still have your capital, and you could buy another leasehold and get new furniture; it would just make a lovely new beginning!”

Lucy shook her head.

“I don’t want to do this if I can find some other way,” she said. “No other house could be to us what this one is, nor any new furniture that which Charlie and I bought bit by bit in our courting days. Practically speaking, too, breakings-up and sales, and buyings again, all mean loss in cash as well as in feelings.”

“Then, too, if you and the boy were boarding,” Florence went on hurriedly, “your wants would be drawn within narrow and defined limits, so that if there was any sort of misfortune, it would not be difficult for us to help you. We are not really rich, Lucy. We live as we do and spend as we do only that we may go on getting more. That is the way with one-half of the people in society. It’s trying. It tells upon Jem, it’s that which makes him take so much wine,” she whispered. “I should not like my family to heap any burdens on Jem.”

“I shall not do that, Florence,” replied Lucy, cool and quiet now, where once she would have been indignant and stung. “I shall certainly not allow myself to get into debt. I will look well ahead. If we have to go to the workhouse, I will make our own arrangements for going there!”

Other people took counsel with Lucy in a far different spirit. Miss Latimer said Lucy might rely on her remaining with her as long as they could possibly share a common home. That added her little income to the household funds. “Little indeed,” she said, but Lucy answered—

“Every little helps. And the greatest help is in the knowledge that one does not bear one’s burden alone.”

“Ay, two are better than one,” rejoined the old governess, “and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.”

“I’d like to be the third cord, but I’m only a bit of twine,” said Tom.

Another and stouter strand was soon to be woven into the household coil for that “long pull and strong pull” which Lucy was determined to make. The death of his old landlord had broken up the house where Mr. Somerset had hitherto lived. Diffidently, as if he were asking a great favour, he inquired if Lucy could entertain the idea of allowing him to rent her first floor, for which he was willing to pay a rent which at once made a substantial addition to the household finance.

As for poor Tom Black, he was distressed to think how small his payments were. “If he went away,” he said, “somebody more profitable might occupy his place.” Lucy had to reassure him by her own words and by the sight of Hugh’s tears at the bare thought of “Tom’s going away.”

Three months later Tom got a rise in his salary, and then he insisted on raising his monthly board fee. Lucy was slightly reluctant and almost aggrieved, but when she saw the lad’s face beaming with the power of his new prosperity, she let him have his own way in the matter.

So life settled down. Florence resented that her sister had chosen “to turn into a lodging-house keeper.” Lucy marvelled to note how strangely it “comes natural” to some women to belittle and contemn those ways of honest industry which lie nearest to woman’s true nature—housekeeping, house-serving, the care of the aged, and the young, and the solitary. And, oh, the pity of it! if such belittlement and contempt tend to relegate these high womanly functions only to unworthy “eye-servants”!

Months passed, yet the silence of the seas remained unbroken. Now and then Lucy and the captain’s wife wrote and asked how each fared. There came no day when either drew a line across life and forbade that hope should cross it. They did not put on widow’s mourning, yet when Lucy had to buy a new dress or ribbon, Miss Latimer noticed that she bought it of black or of soberest grey.

Months of such waiting had gone by ere Lucy wonderingly observed that there came to her no more her old nightmare vision of herself struggling lonely between a wild heath and a dead wall against a midnight storm. There was a sense in which the allegory of that vision was converted into fact—the silence as of death on one hand, the great rough world on the other, the storm of sorrow beating on herself. Yet now she realised that God Himself was with her on the dark wild way—she was not alone—and that made all the difference. God does not promise to uphold us in our fears and forebodings. These ought not to be. He has promised to be with us and to comfort us when the dark days shall really come.

Lucy never gave voice to many of her deepest experiences at that time—that secret speech which the Father keeps for each of His children. Sometimes it seemed to her as if shafts of light penetrated her very being, revealing or illuminating the most solemn mysteries of life. Sometimes she thought of Paul’s allusion to being “caught up into the third heaven” and “hearing unspeakable words which it is not lawful for a man to utter.”

This fleeting glory would fade out of Lucy’s soul even as sunshine fades off the earth. Yet Lucy felt that those “hours of insight” left her seeing “all things new.”

Lucy began to understand how martyrs can smile and speak cheerfully at their stake, because from that standpoint their developed spiritual stature lifts them to wider horizons than others know. What a message the blue sky must have had for the white depths of the Colosseum! Yet these things can never be told or written. Whoever would know them must learn them for themselves, though it be but “in part.” But it is because of these things that faith and hope and love have never died out of the world, since all the forces of unfaith and despair and cruelty end only in producing them afresh, because they are of the eternal life of God.

Lucy’s picture-dealer felt kindly towards the quiet client who gave so little trouble, showed so little self-conceit, and, while steadily business-like, was never exacting or suspicious. He thought “it would do Mrs. Challoner no harm” if he told her that one or two purchasers had said, “There is something in that lady’s sketches which we miss in many greater artists,” one old lady adding that “when she looked at Lucy’s pictures, she felt as if there was a soft voice beside her whispering something pleasant.”

That brought the tears to Lucy’s eyes and made her feel very humble, possibly because she could not deny to herself that there was truth in the gracious words. Oh, to have Charlie again, and yet to be all that she had grown into since he had gone away—since this awful silence! And an inner voice bade her take cheer, for was not this what was sure to happen here or there—sooner or later?

“What a pitiful bliss we should make for ourselves if we were left to do it without God!” Lucy cried, thinking even of the sweetest dreams of courting days, the best aspirations of married life. For after one taste of “the peace which passeth understanding,” one vision of the joy which has absorbed the strength of sorrow into it, mere “happiness” looks but a poor thing, even as a child’s cheap, pretty toy shows beside a masterpiece of genius.

Lucy’s slumbers now were deep and calm. Almost every morning she awoke with a sense of refreshment, as when one returns to labour after being among kind hearts in lovely places. Sometimes she knew she had dreamed, and such dream memories as lingered, elusive, for a few waking moments, were always bright and cheering. Visions of Charlie had come during the first nights after the great blow. He never seemed to speak, but he was always smiling, always confident that all was well and would be well. His dream form always appeared in positions and in scenes which Lucy could recall as having figured in peculiarly happy times. And yet these scenes had been at the time so slight and evanescent that Lucy had quite forgotten them till the dream revived the remembrance. It was as if, in her sleep, her soul was drawn so near the light and warmth of love that even the invisible records of memory started into view.

After those first few occasions Charlie came no more into any dream which she could recall even at the instant of waking. But the soothing spirit of hope and reassurance remained. If she dreamed of Florence, Florence wore the simple frocks of her girlhood and spoke as she used to do. Jem Brand, too, appeared only on his kind and helpful side. Once she had a curious dream of seeing two Jem Brands exactly alike, save that one was fresh and smiling and friendly, and inclined to nudge his strange dissipated-looking twin, and to ask why he was so grumpy and heavy. In her sleep, too, she saw Mrs. Morison, and Jane Smith, and Clementina, and each was back in her old place and doing well. Lucy could never remember what passed between them and her in the land of sleep, but somehow she knew it was something that explained things, something which made them feel that the past could not have ended otherwise than it had, but which also made her feel that it was quite natural that they should begin again and do better.

She thought to herself once as she awoke—

“I feel as if wherever Charlie is I am in his every thought, and that his every thought is a prayer always ascending on every way by which it can bring back blessing.”

It was about this time that it struck Lucy that strangers very often spoke to her. She scarcely ever entered an omnibus or a railway carriage without somebody appealing to her for some trifling assistance, or confiding to her some little difficulty which they seemed to think might grow clearer if it were talked over. Once or twice she noticed that old folks or little children let ever so many people pass them by and then asked her to ring a stiff bell for them or to decipher an address.

Sometimes she caught herself softly repeating Adelaide Proctor’s lines—

“Who is the angel that cometh? Pain! Let us arise and go forth to greet him. Not in vain Is the summons gone for us to meet him; He will stay and darken our sun; He will stay A desolate night, a weary day. Since in that shadow our work is done, And in that shadow our crowns are won, Let us say still, while his bitter chalice Slowly into our heart is poured— ‘Blessed is he that cometh In the name of the Lord!’”

Of course beneath all this high experience ran the undercurrent of simple daily living. Lucy was in no danger of losing hold of the practical. She had her regular duties at the Institute, and many little opportunities for the exercise of tact and common sense at home. The little household had a real organic unity in its common service of true friendship, but that did not rub off all the little human angles. Sometimes Pollie would say that “Mrs. May was more particular than a real mistress.” Sometimes Miss Latimer found a trial in the romps of Hugh and Tom Black. Mr. Somerset adopted vegetarianism and puzzled Mrs. May by desiring her to concoct dishes which seemed to her unsatisfactory and uncanny. But each trusted the other. Everybody knew that everybody meant well. If a sharp word were spoken unwarily, a kind word followed hard upon it. Each understood that all joys and trials were common property; shares therein might differ, but everybody had a share.

So the weeks grew into months, and the months completed a year. One evening Lucy was sitting in the dining-room glancing over her completed balance sheet with its tiny “surplus,” when suddenly it seemed to her that there was a new sound in the very rumble of the cab which was depositing Mr. Somerset as usual at the door, after his day’s study at the British Museum. She looked up, her pen in her hand listening.

Mr. Somerset generally went straight to his own apartments. Occasionally, however, when he had any news to tell or any request to make, he looked in upon the little party in the dining-room.

He did so now.

He sat down on the sofa and said abruptly—

“Mrs. Challoner, do you think joy ever hurts anybody?”

“Surely not,” she said, looking up with wide eyes. “The Bible says that hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but that when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.”

“Do you feel sure, dear friend, that you could bear——”

She had risen from her seat with clasped hands.

“Mr. Somerset, Mr. Somerset!” she gasped.

He rose too.

“Trust me,” he said, gently leading her mind to its new attitude. “I would not stir expectation ever so lightly for nothing. To-day I have received a message from the shipping office to deliver to you. Listen! The long looked-for word has come at last. Charlie lives! Charlie is quite well! Charlie is coming home! He is on his way!”

Lucy did not faint. She did not cry out. She sat quite quiet for a moment, and then broke into a peal of low happy laughter, which died away in a flood of soft healing tears, from which she looked up and said—

“Is it all true? Is it quite true? I can scarcely believe it!”

(_To be continued._)

THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.

BY F. W. L. SLADEN.

## PART V.

August is the month we most associate with all the active interests of the height of summer, but the bees in the hive are already quieting down and making preparations for their long winter sleep. The duty of the bee-keeper will be to make sure that these preparations are properly carried out by assisting them if necessary. One reason for their diminished activity is the disappearance of several honey-producing flowers on which the bees depend for their main crop. Breeding is not kept up so largely—the brood nest growing smaller; and many cells that contained brood last month will now be filled up with honey and pollen. Most of the bees now in the hive are to survive the coming winter, and they must preserve their energies as much as possible, because the colony will stand in great need of their services in the following spring. The drones, who gather no honey, and are of no further use in the hive are now attacked and killed, or turned out of the hive to perish from exposure. The ejection of the drones is rather a gruesome proceeding, but it is one that should give satisfaction to the bee-keeper, because it shows that the colony possesses a healthy and vigorous queen, and this, of course, is an essential condition for its well-being.

All through this month robbing will have to be guarded against, as, now that honey is scarce, it is easily induced, especially where there are a number of hives. To prevent robbing, the hives should not be opened too often, and then only late in the afternoon, and the work done as speedily as possible. No drops of honey or syrup should be left about, and if feeding is going on, care should be taken to prevent any bees from outside getting to the feeder.

When robbing and fighting are found to be in progress, the best means of checking the trouble will be to reduce the entrance of the hive with perforated zinc, so as to allow only one bee to pass in or out at a time. A rag soaked in a weak solution of Calvert’s No. 5 carbolic acid, wrung out nearly dry, and spread out on the alighting board will also help to keep the robbers off.

These measures need not be taken unless there is considerable excitement around the hive entrance. At this time of year there will often be a few strangers on the alighting board, which get pulled about rather roughly by little groups of over-zealous sentinels, but no notice need be taken of this.

The middle or end of August will be time enough to think about getting the bees into condition for the winter. A careful inspection of all the hives should now be made, and the following points carefully noted:

(1.) Every colony should have a good laying queen. The appearance of worker brood in all stages will be sufficient evidence of her presence without our taking the trouble to hunt her up.

(2.) The colony must be strong, the bees crowding on at least six standard frames.

(3.) The combs must contain not less than twenty pounds of good honey for food during the winter.

These three conditions being fulfilled, we may be satisfied that the colony is in good condition to withstand the rigours of winter without further attention, and only requires to be wrapped up warmly later on before the advent of cold weather.

If, however, the colony should happen to be queenless, or weak (that is, covering less than six standard frames), it will have to be _united_ to another colony. Thus, two colonies, neither of which, alone, would be strong enough to stand the winter, can be united together to form one strong colony, which, if properly looked after, will almost certainly turn out strong in the spring and do well the following year.

The colonies which are to be united should stand near to one another; by this I mean within a yard or two of one another. If they are further apart or have several other hives standing between them, they will have to be brought together, the moving being done by degrees, a yard or two at a time, and only on fine days during which the bees fly freely, otherwise many bees will be lost.

For the operation of uniting a flour-dredger will be required, containing about half-a-pint of flour. Also a goose-wing for brushing the bees off the combs. The dome queen-cage is an appliance that may come in useful. It is made of tinned wire-cloth, and shaped like the strainer that is sometimes hung from the spout of a tea-pot to retain the leaves. Such tea-strainers make very good queen-cages. To use the queen-cage it is pressed into the comb with the queen inside.

The hive to contain the united colonies should be placed midway between the two old stands. The alighting-boards should be extended by means of the hiving-board which was used in hiving the swarm.

A bright calm afternoon will be the best time to do the uniting. We have already seen that bees belonging to different colonies when mixed will not, under ordinary circumstances, agree. If, however, they are prevented from recognising one another they will unite together quite peaceably, and this condition may be brought about by dusting them over with flour. Every comb must therefore be lifted out of both hives and the bees on them well powdered with flour from the dredger. In replacing the combs, one from one hive should be put next to another from the other hive, thus ensuring the better mixing of the bees. Combs containing brood should be placed together in the middle of the hive. The bees on the lightest of the outside combs may be shaken off on to the hiving-board, where they should receive a sprinkling of flour, the combs being then taken indoors at once.

During the operation a sharp look out should be kept for the queens on the brood combs, and if one of them should be preferred for heading the new colony she should be caged by herself on a comb in the manner described above to prevent any hostile workers from attacking her. The other queen must then be found and removed, and the bee-keeper must remember to liberate the caged queen on the following day. If left to themselves, however, the workers soon learn to recognise one of the queens as their mother, so that the trouble of finding and caging the queen is not really necessary in uniting, but it is an additional safeguard which the practised bee-keeper is glad to be able to take advantage of.

It was stated just now that the presence of _worker_-brood in the hive was sufficient evidence of the presence of a good queen. In some cases where there is a bad queen or no queen at all, _drone_-brood may be found in the hive. Usually the bees build a special comb with cells of a larger pattern for raising drone-brood in, but a bad queen will often lay drone eggs in worker-cells. In either case drone-brood may be known from worker-brood by its raised convex cappings, the capping over the worker-brood being almost flat. The best thing to do with a drone-raising colony is to unite it to another good colony without delay in the manner described above.

Having settled the question of strength, the next thing to see about will be the food supply. If each hive does not possess the minimum weight of 20 lb. of stored honey, combs containing food must be given from another hive that can spare them, or syrup must be supplied through the feeder.

Syrup for winter use must be made thicker than that used for stimulating in the summer, 10 lbs. of cane sugar being dissolved in only 5 pints of water. The syrup must be given quickly (5 or 6 lb. every day), otherwise much of it may be used for raising brood. For this purpose special rapid feeders, made to hold 6 lb. of syrup, are made.

If the stock-box contains more than 30 lb. of honey, we may take and extract the surplus from the outside combs, or one of these combs might with advantage be given to a colony that stands in need of it.

Bee-keepers who live in the heather districts of Scotland and the north of England will now be reaping the late honey harvest that this plant affords, getting their supers filled with the delicious heather-honey, which is so highly esteemed for its fine flavour. Persons keeping a few colonies a little distance from the moors find it worth their while to send their bees there while the heather is in bloom. Heather-honey has a deep colour. It is so thick that it is extremely difficult to remove it from the comb by means of the honey extractor. It should therefore be stored in sections, as these do not require extracting. Sections of heather-honey should fetch about threepence more than ordinary sections.

What to do with the honey obtained from their bees is a question, I expect, that will not trouble many of my readers. Still it will be a good thing to know some of the uses of honey. In the first place it is delicious eaten with bread and butter. It contains grape sugar, which makes it wholesome and easily digested, and particularly good for children in moderate quantities. Honey-vinegar and mead when well made are acknowledged to be excellent. As an ingredient in cakes and confectionary, honey greatly improves them. A delicious flavour is imparted to tea or coffee if sweetened with honey instead of sugar. “My son, eat thou honey, because it is good” (Proverbs xxiv. 13) is the recommendation the wise King Solomon gave honey.

Honey is also valuable as a medicine. Mixed with the juice of lemons it is universally acknowledged to be one of the best remedies for sore throat and cough. It has been proved to be beneficial in cases of rheumatism, hoarseness, and affections of the chest.

(_To be concluded._)

THREE GIRL-CHUMS, AND THEIR LIFE IN LONDON ROOMS.

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