THAT GIRL.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIX, Issue 70, 21 March 1908, Page 11

THAT GIRL.

By ETHEL TURNER aathw of "Betty and Co.", - Three little Maids," " Seven Little " Tie Family at Misrule," etc

CHAPTER Xni. THE VIST TO EOASOKE.

Jiter a little time of very difficult intercourse between hosts and guests, }ds. Curtis slipped away and dragged ier husband with her. "•TVe must simply give them a chance to get acquainted," she said; "as long as we are there they are all like autojngtona."

Xhe Captain retired a little sulkily, je -was =o eager to be kind to Blandford's children and to get to know them tnat-he could not realise that to them je was nothing yet but a somewhat stout, jed-faced man, cut off from them by the insuperable barrier oi authority.

' "A fast in Lent, my dear; a fast id lg£" miinnured Mrs. Curtis. This tjsuslation. by Claude in his early days o£ "Festina lente," had become a stock quotation at Roanoke, when anyone was anions to advise anyone else to hurry ■My.

The young people. !eft to themselves, intiont a doubt breathed more freely. Amelie looked expectantly at Joan, irho blnshed and moved a little closer to Harie.

Engene turned his bored 'ook upon Claude; he was privately hoping that Claude did not think him a very undersized specimen of youth. "I say," said Claude, "'like to see our stage? We've had one fised up down l^ere" —he pointed to the playroom.

But Eugene looked restlessly about the grounds.

Tin a bit fed up on stages," he said; "got anything else?"

And now Claude went as red as Joan had done; he had proposed the thing ihat tad seemed to him must be dearest to them as to him, but he was quick to realise his mistake. He searched wildly round in his mind for another subject likely to be of interest to an actor. "like to come and see the car? The governors just got a new one; rather a queer carburreter.'' He took a step in the direction of the motor-shed. "Bit fed up on cars," said Eugene. At this Rod came from the backglOCEd. "like to see my guineapigs?" he said, red in the face with eagerness and shyness. ' Eugene smiled cown at the small boy. That's the ticket,"' he said; "used to keep them myself when I was your size. But there got to be too many of them, and they wouldn't let mc cart them Brand Tfith us."

"111 start you again," cried Rod; "111 give you Pinky and Black Kose. or any « them" — he drew in his breath— " : cept limpy; he's the little lame one; I couldn't spare Limpy, I'm 'fraid."

That's all right," said Eugene, reas snringly; "I used to have a blind one. myseli, and I =iever went to a rehearsal without it. DYe remember, Bub, how it used to sit mth its nose resting on a iootlight all tie time V

Bod thrilled. "Didn't it get-burnt V he cried. They - areiit lighted for rehearsal," csphined Eagene.

. .And raw Nellie, emboldened by Bod's snecess, had a question to put" The giri-gnesFs name was a trouble to all of them, lanra Porter said you pronounced AoeJie Amyly, while Mrs. Porter mainMaed that" Madame Merriles had called Mr daughter Arcnaly, with the second V emphasised- And Mrs. Curtis spoke eiher as Armelie, with the accent noSB9Z&

Bat the question, was, what did she oil herself?

Sellifi took a step in the direction of Eagene. Eugene became almost ordinsy siace Ms avowal of a weakness for SBueapigs.

3 "What's her name?" she said, in a wszt- would be ■wiusper. "Bubble," said Eugene. "inoble!" cried the Curtises in a teafli. It seemed, really too good to be trae that a celebrity should have a nickSffle, even as themselves.

After that the ice was completely taken, and the seven went oft and inBjected the guineapigs and dove-houses, file fogs, the ponies, ana so on. In the orchard a. long halt was caUed, for jeaehes and apricots, the proms and gsjes, -were just in that doubtful state o ripeness that is even more fascinafcSBg than absolute maturity.

Tifa a nice orchard," said Bubble, her aouth Ml of apricot, "but the other Wβ I Tras in—this isn't the first IVe wen in, mind, Joan—was nicer. The offer wasn't so tidy." Her thoughts : strayed from this highly cultivated spot to a tangled place in the South of fiance, where as a baby of five she had <s» brief moment gathered fruit from a tee herself. The memory lay like a slat of sunshine across her life. If yon like untidy gardens," said *»n, "mother's is just lovely. Come ttd look/ 3 They moved off to the bad little gar*sa below the orchard. 'Aren't you coming?" said Bubble, Wen Marie hung -ack. "Ko," said Marie; "I'd rather go and •ea fos," and she went off to busy uerWf among the unripe grapes while the others raa down to the spot that Mrs. Curtis Wed.

She hates flowers!" whispered little aeQie in Bubble's ear; the child never got over her open-mouthed attitude tojjards ilarie for this unaccountable dis-

Jiho is she?' asked Bubble, looking "tnonsly after the purple frock; "not we of you, I'm sure. A cousin?" ■Nicer than a cousin," said Joan. great friend." "°&> she live here?" jy\ no; quite near to you, at Dioat the Hendersons. ■n^5 at & Tl '' cried the hare-brained rabble; "why, they told us she was a Wrtoi charity girl Mrs. Henderson kept." ™« gazed back across the orchard rataer' eisfemraliy at the purple frock. £ot at all," said Claude hotly; "her ™wer died nursing the Henderson's JWingster, and it was an agreement bettat they should bring her up. ft* J , "* , ** beastly, the way they do *» ttd she gets a rough time" of it. •And now Bubble's good-natured little **£ ww full of syrnpathv. fanrf. v P , S l could S"* her some of m 7 «*V she said; -she looks as if sue «s some, doesn't she' She shall have and my blue, with the rosettes.

Cknn-" <.-t W them at >' ou >" CTied of fv better not try that sort Ofl with Marie." " tongue, Bib." said Eugene, young host was really hot in •well ll . ytm! " cried beamingly; ru give a benefit for her. Tickets,

5/, 3/, 2/, and 1/; we'll get a bumper house together and give her every penny." .« "^ old ? onT tongue, Bub," said Eugene, ' can't you see no one wants your help ?" "Well," said Bubble, flying easily off on another tack, "let's go and see "your playroom, and this stage you were talking about." At sis o'clock Mrs. Curtis came to call her young people in to tea. "Mrs. Henderson knows you are staying, dear?' 5 she asked Marie, a matter oi duty. It never grew easier to either the Captain or herself in ask such questions, indeed, to bring themselves to mention Mrs. Henderson's name; but Fate seemed so bent on weaving the thread of this poor little child's life into their own that they dare not make a fetish of their pride. Not that they had any idea the girl was actually ill-treated and unhappy, they imagined the Hendersons as doing what they considered tneir duty by her. but as having no understanding of childnature. Mrs. Curus longed to give ~>retty frocks, books and presents of al! -inds. but Marie nerself had coldly <*ls-.-ouraged the earliest attempt at this, being inde?d cruelly beset by tbe diili:u'ty of hiding such gifts at Miranda. "Mrs. Henderson knows you are staying, dear?" asked the genue lady. "Oh, yes, thank you, she wiil have much pleasure in allowing mc to stay tor tea if you ask me,"' said Marie, with extreme .slibnes3.

The little procession left the playground, and wound up to the house, where twinkling lights were beginning to appear, kind'y eyes bidding hospitable welcome to the well-spread table. At the door. Claude grasped Marie by the arm and drew her back. ' "I want you," he. said gruffl-, "come back to the play-room a minute. , ' Marie followed him wonderingly. Inside the room he faced her with angry eyes. "Look here," he said, Tm banged if you shall tell stuffers to my mater, Marie." '"How can I help it, Stupid?" said Marie, irap-itiently. '"Well, you've got to. I won't have it, I tell you,' , said the hoy. "There's . no earthly reason we shouldn't tell her everything, and these lies simply make mc sick."

'"I don't like them myself," said Murie. "but I can't see they hurt anyone, and it's the best way out of the difficulty." "A rotten way can't he the best." persisted the boy. "it's cowardly, that's what it is, Marie, and I thought you'd hate cowardly things." "Cowardly," repeated Marie, and looked at him strangely. She revolved the word in her mind; she rolled it about, as it were, on her congrue and tasted it.

Cowardly to stand what she had stood that time foT Joan's sake! She had once or twice, when the pain and misery were at their greatest, questioned whether she were not a fool for undergoing it all, but in very truth she had never thought the word "cowardly , '' could be applied to her conduct. "Cowardly. Claude?" she repeated agfljn. ""Yes." said the boy desperately, "can't you see it is? Put it out and out to yourself. Chip. Why do you tell these frightful lies? Because you like coming here, and I like you to come, and we're both in a funk for fear the woman will stop it if she gets to knew. Oh. I take half —I'm not blaming you more than I blame myself. But everytime you tell one—and especially to her— a. stuffer's worse to your mother than to anyone —I feel as sick as anything." TheTe, it was off his chest, this yeast that had worked there for these last few weeks —ever since he bad given his promise in the shed at Miranda. "I—l didn't think of it like that. Claude," Marie gasped. "Do \oi I never ought to tell them, not even to her?"

If Claude could have seen more clearly through the growing shadows, he would have found the girl's eyes had gone round with terror, with sheer physical fear at the thought of having to do battle with Mrs. Henderson without the well-tried shield and buckler of a lie.

But he was full of impatience to have done with the unpleasant subject. "Oh, a lie's a lie, and beastly low anytime, oM girl," he said. 'TTou gave mc a solemn promis*. Claude, and you can't go back on it, can you?" she asked. "Not unless you give mc leave, as I want you to." "'Well, I really can't do that. Mind. I hold you to it. But I won't tell any more lies, strike mc dead if I do.'" There was a note of frightful solemnity in her voice. "Well, that's alright." cried Claude, trying to get back into a more cheerful vein, "and now let's stow this stod- i gy sort of talk and cut up for tea— the bell will go in a minute." Marie shook her head; she put her baad in the falling light to her throat, and tried to press out the gulps in it. "1 won't come to tea to-night,' , she said, steadily. "What rot," said Claude, "come along at once, and no more of this. That 3 simple sulkiness, and you know it." " 'Tisn't,' , she said. "I want to go home." "What on earth for. you little idiot?' She could not tell him it wa* to rush madly up to her attic and burr her head "into her pillows, and. holding bard with clenched hands to the iron bed rail, sob those hard. Jry strangling sobs that attic knew so well. "Just a lrark," she said nonchalantly, •'had enough of you—bit fed up on you —prefer to be at home. Good-night." ■She brushed past him, and stepped outside, only to run right into Mrs. Curtis, -who was coming down again to seek tor the two dilatory members of her Dartv. "You bad children," began the gentle '.•oice. Then she saw that Marie was facing her with white cheeks and wild eye-s. "It was a lie." said the girl, loudly. "'I can't stop for tea." Then she turned, and with winged feet flew through the garden and into the lane. And though they followed her, palling, entreating, "she was deaf to themTand tore, blindly into the fastness of Miranda, where there was indeed no following her. CHAFTEB. XTV. MARIE'S DAY IS. The Hendersons' house, Miranda, as mentioned before, was the first house in the Terrace. Tie only other one that could stick an elbow out into the free

air was Hamlet—which JU-rs. Henderson invariably referred to as 'Amlet. This ■was occupied by two sisters, the Misses Macintosh, who had established an excellent private school, which many of the surrounding children, Joan and Nellie Curtis among the number, attended. It need hardly be said that Marie was not a pupil at this happy place. Still, her educational path, had undoubtedly grown less thorny of late, for Mrs. Henderson had "wearied of tutelage—a fad for rib-bon-work engrossing her at present—and since the ankle was now strong again, the girl was allowed to return to the State school of Rockwell. Freedom from the constant nagging and punishment and the friendship of the Curtis children were making a new creature of Marie. The sullen brooding expression of her lace was giving way to one of extreme animation; a very fever of living seemed to burn in her veins, so eager was she to wrest all the enjoyment possible out of of each hour. Lessons became a joy and delight; while even into the dull tasks that still were given to her at Miranda she managed to infuse happiness.

For instance, it fell to her to strip all the beds of the household before she left for school. For long this had been hated work to her, but now she turned it into a game that sounded so magnificent, Joan had been fired to ask might she strip the Roanoke beds.

'■ What I do," said Marie, one day. at Roanoke, illustrating her actions in her usual brilliant fashion, "is to pretend I"m a lion, and the bed's my prey. I crouch up in a corner first, like this, with my eyes rolling—like this."

" Oh, don't, Marie," squeaked Nellie, in delighted terror.

'"Then," continued Marie. "I make a sudden spring at it—like this —and rend and tear it to atoms."' Here followed much wild whirlins. and the air for a moment was full of the shets and blankets of Joan's wainty bed.

" Then," said Marie, "in the case of mv own bed, pity knocks at my h art, ard I gather all the fltsh and bones to grether, and reconstruct a new animal — like this.

In a twinkling she had the little bed made again, just as neatly as the housemaid had left it that morning.

The mortification of ugly, ill-fitting clothing still continued, Mrs. Henderson had a passion for new gowns for herself, and handed tiie old ones to Lizzie to be made over for Marie. And it was riot that Lizzie was particularly illnatured that the results were invariably unsuccessful. To make a krge-patt'rned. overtrinircerl garment, make it into a irock suitable for a slisht. growing girl. was a task that demanded more skill and time than Lizzie could bestow. So Marie moved among the simplest dressed children of her acquaintance, clad one month in a magenta brocaded mat'-rixl with rows of heavy hWk braid, and the uext in bright brown silk with what appeared to he a pattern of crushed gre?n ! beetles upon it. Mrs. Henderson used jto survey the handiwork with the greatest complacence; no one could say. she told herself, that she dressed the child in cheap materials. When Marie had dress-dreams — and these were not infrequent now that she was fourteen —she invariably clad herself in elincrins white muslin that had nor frill, nor ppot nor colour about it, or

in a crisp plain Holland, such as Joan often wore. Her days were now full to the brim. She rose at six. what time Lizzie's alarum went off, and th.it girl turned wearily off '■er bed and dressed with a constant stream of grumbles at the hardship of service. Marie hardly listened; the window commanded Roanok-e. and she had to make her first happy survey of the place; to see what windows were open, to -watch ihe dogs waiting with patient eagerness the appearance of the children, the man Hinging the morning papers over the gate as he galloped past.

"Oh. it's all very well to be you," Lizzie would often end up; "you haven't to go and polish floors before you get the ache of last night's dance out of your bones." •"It's ail very well to be you," Marie would answer. '"I only wish I had the chance to get the ache of last night's dance into my bones." "Well, hurry," Lizzia would say; "'l'm as late as anything, and if you haven't ■lot the tabk set in time I'll tell on you." At this Marie would withdraw her eves from the entrancing house, and slip down the first flight of stairs tip-toe and in her nightgown to the bathroom. Lizzie marvelled and mocked at the strange fad for cold baths that Marie had suddenly developed in the middle of winter. A warm one once or twice a week had before seemed quite sufficient tor her. Lizzie was not to know that the Roanoke young people had once spoken scornfully of people who "funked" their cold plunge ju=t because it was winter. Marie had said nothing at all at the time, but never since then had she missed one day, no matter how dark and bitter the outlook at so early an hour. When dressed she donned a big lilac pinafore, for she bad her own list of duties, not one of which dare she omit. She had the stairs to dust, two long (lights with a maddening number of bannister spindles that seemed expressly de-sign-ed by the architect for gathering all the dust of the neighbourhood into their crevices.

Then she had the table to set, and Mrs. Henderson's breakfast tray to prepare — rhat lady to the great relief of both Marie and th-e maids invariably breakfasted in bed. Marie had once made both Lizzie and herself shudder and thrill by supposing Mrs. Henderson a person in robust health, able to rise at unearthly hours, and likely to be met with in any room or on any staircase at any time. The wind was surely tempered to them inasmuch as they could, with a fair degree of certainty, calculate upon her movements. Mr. llenderson breakfasted in the din-ing-room, and it was by his request that Marie breakfasted at the same time. Not that he wanted her company —the sight of her irritated him inexpressibly at times —but he had found her breakfasting in the kitchen, and he had peremptorily put a stop to it. and told Lizzie to set a place for her at his table. For with all his faults he was not an unfair man, and he did not forget that the dead woman had expressly added to her agreement the words "not to be brought up like a servant." For this consideration Marie was both grateful and ungrateful. She had her pride, scant soil though she wag granted in which to nourish it. But on th,? other hand the kitchen fare was so unquestionably superior to the dining-room. Cook and Lizzie had sausages, kidneys, eggs and bacon, chops and steak, and other hearty things that the girl's rapidly growing frame found very acceptable. But Mr. Henderson was a dyspeptic, i and br,-iakfa=ted in meagre fashion off patent wholemeal biscuits, zwiebaeh, and som« cereal preparation of coffee. It was out of the question that savoury dishes should be set on the table before Marie, to irritate his nostrils all the time; so the girl fell into the habit of s>. cold toast and butter breakfast., and a jiaputhful or two of the patent coffee that <ifce, so disliked, m

The kitchen had its principles to de fend.

"If you're too grand to eat with us," Cook said, "then yoirve got to take what the dining-room takes: 'taint likely I'm going to do special cooking for you."

So Marie sa.t above the salt 'which was soothing to her spirit but trying to her appetite. Indeed, there were times "when the healthy young hunger in her wrestled with her pride, and flung it; and, after eating her toast with brooding countenance, while Mr Henderson crunched his zwiebach the other side of the newspaper, she would slip off into the kitchen, and actually make a raid on the sausages in the pan. Sometimes the cook only laughed; sometimes, in defence of the kitchen principles, she would try to prevent the robbery, but Marie was active and determined, and the combat usually ended in the girl flying off with a hot sanaage in her fingers, the which she would eat with much relish, while grinning at the maids through the kitchen window.

After breakfast there was the bedstripping, the table clearing, the bathroom to mop up, and the back steps to clean—she had taken these unpopular duties off Lizzie's shoulders in consideration of Lizzie's blindness to her intercourse with Roanoke.

Then she had lunch to pack for herself, as the dista-nce to the State school was too great for her to manage in the mid-day hour. When time allowed, or cook was less ill-tempered than usual, she managed to saw off some meat from a cold joint and make some sort of rough sandwich of it. But sometimes her window gazing left her no time to do anything but snatch up a buttered scone or a couple of slices of toast.

She reached home again by four o'clock, not unfrequcntly quite exhausted by the long day and the two walks, but then there were the dogs to exercise. These were three snarling little pug dogs that Mrs Henderson over-fed so unfailingly that exercise was their only chance of life, and she sermed to realise it. Hence, Marie's work between four and five was to take the three to the bach and make them scamper up and down. It was a work of love, however, to the girl, for this was the hour that Joan and Xellic were on their end of the beach, and, though they might not cross the inevitable barrier, she had no scruples of the kind, and she and the Henderson pug dogs scattered the hard-ly-com? by Roanoke sand with the utmost mdi.'Terence.

She grew actually fond of the pugs. Illgrained little creature though they were, and strange]} - callous to petting for she recognised that it was to thorn she owed this free and precious hour.

At five o'clock she took them back to Miranda, fed thorn, gave them to drink, and then, if Mrs Hpnderson wvre entertaining visitors, or ill. or asleep, or </ut driving—four chances that were daily awaited with breathless eagerness—the next hour was hers also, and she spd like an arrow from a bow to the Roanoke playroom. Then came dinner. Mrs Henderson could not bring herself to have the girl at table with her, but her husband'? wishrs had to be deferred to in respect of kitchen dining, so the compromise \va= that Marie came, to the table as soon as they were finished, and hpr food was kept warm—or not kept warm —in the kitchen until such time. If you hai! asked the girl for some cookery defini tions about this period, she would havereplied, in all gocd faith, that roost mutton consisted of tepid pinky slices of meat swimming in n. sea of fat encrustpi' gravy; that fried fish was a cold, flabby product, necessarily nasty, tba+ soup was a lukewarm bevrrage, mainK to b" carefully avoided, and that the noble dish, yclept roast fowl, consisted of a drumstick, a neck, and a gizzard. (To be continued nest Saturday.)