Chapter II.

Bruce Herald, Volume XIX, Issue 1994, 7 September 1888, Page 6

Chapter 11.

— {Continued.)

' You are right, indeed. I shall bo surprised if she does not pay the penalty of what sh« has gone through with brain fever. I cmnot tell yet, of course ; but I shall wonder if she oscapea it. We shall not hear her story yet, Mrs. Gresham. 1 _ ' Whether itjis a week or a dozen, the poor girl shall stay here until she is fit to go,' deolarod the old lady ; ' and, Doctor ' — laying one mittened hand on his arm — • whatever her history may be, it is not the common tule, of shame aud misery, I am certain.' 'So am I,' returned Doctor Leicester buttoning his overcoat. 'I must be off now, Mrs. Gresham ; it is close on twelve o'clock. If any change takes place, you will send for me ! ' ' To be sure — the square is just round the corner.' • And you will not tire yourself with sitting up ? I wish you would allow me to stay.' ' Certainly not. You look tired to death already. I shall let Jane . sit up ; she is a capital nurse. Good night.' ' Good night. It is of no use frying to say what I think of your goodness to-night, Mrs. Gresham ; I fancy you know without telling. Q-ood night once more.' ' What a vast difference there is between women — between good women! ' thought the Doctor as he pulled his own door-bell. ' Elizabeth is a good woman, I suppose. But what would she have done in Mrs. Gresham's place, to-night, I wonder ? Hardly the same, I think. Is Miss Leicester up still P ' he, asked fcha servant, as the door opened ' Yea ? H'm ! Now for a sisterly lecture, I suppose !' With that he pushed open the drawingroom door and went ia. Miss Elizabeth sat, stiffly upright behind her sowing, stitching away with a grim perseverance better befitting mid-day than midnight, and looking as chilly and uncomfortable as the snowflsikes which whitened the Doctor's overcoat. • I am sorry you sat up for me, Elizabolh ; there was no necessity for that.' ' You know that [ always make a prncfc'oe of doing so, Richard, whenever you chooso to be out late,' reurned Miss Elizabeth frostily. ' Your hour has been a long ore. Did all the inhabitants of Parirtise Lane see fit to rail 3on in, may I ask ? ' • No, no, of course not, 1 rejoined her brother, pulling off his coat. ' Ifc was another kind of patient.' And he told her shortly the history of the night's strange f bueinefs. Miss Elizabeth likened with a perfectly unmoved free, folding up her work the while. 1 1 really don't know what Mrs. Gresham can ue thinking of,' she observed coldly, as he finished, ' to take ia a person out of the street in that manner ! The girl should have been taken to the hospital or the work-bouse; that is the proper place for her.' • I have said that she is a lady,' said the Doctor, putting on his slippers. ' A lady ? Nonsense. Ladies do not go wandering i>bout and fainting at street-corners. But there — these'highfiown Quixotic'- notions ere quite what I should expect of you by this time. It is just like you, Richard— just ; ' and Miss El'zabeih lighted her candle, and took herself and her displeasure to bed. ' Just like me ! ' Richard soliloquised, as he stretched him?elf before the fire. < Elizabeth said ifc, aud Mrs. Gresham said it ; they both meant if, and I dare say they are both right ; and yet I suppose that the poles are not farther asunder than their opinions on tho Hut-joct. Well, I should not j have slept easily to-night if I had not known that that poor child was safely sheltered — I know that.' A bright fire blazed in Mrs. Gresbam's cosy drawing-room ; the red curtains were drawn, and the daintily-spread t r a table wa9 placed near the fire. The lady herself, with hrr soft gray curls and sweet old face, was carefully measuring the little silver scoopfuls of tea into the squat Wedgewood tea-pot, chatting cheerfully meanwhile to the second occupant of the room, who sat in a large cushioned chair in the warmest corner. It was six wreks since the snowy December night on which Richard Leicester had brougnt the insensible girl to the house of his old friend and confided her to her kind care. During that time she hnd lain very near death. A violent attack of fever, brought on by cold and exhaustion, had seized upon her delicate frame, and, but for the unremitting care find attenion she had rrceived, (.ho girl mist have sunk under it. But danger was over now, and to-day Mrs. Gresbam had, with the Doctor's permission, brought her patiout down-3 f airs for the first time. Not a word as yet did this good Samaritan know of the girl's history ; she hod asked her but one single question. One day, when the great dark eyes had turned gratefully to her own, she had said softly — 'Cau I send for any one, my dear child ? ' There had come no answer but a shake of the head and a low moan, while the great hollo v eyes closed woarilv. Mrs. Greaham determined to put oil further questioning ; she whispered to the Dcc'or on his next vHt that it evidently pained the poor child, and that it would be kinder to wait until ghe was stronger. 1 1 think so too,' was the Doctor's decisive answer. ' But try to find out ber name.' When the old lady went back to the bedside, the dark eyes opened. ' You want to know my name,' the weak voice said — it was tl*e first time she had spoken, except to utter feeble thanks. • I hear^ what the Doctor said. My name is Edith Aduir.' And, beyond that scanty piece of knowledge, the girl's hiefcory wjis a mjstery still to the two who had Bayed her life. She was leaning bnck in the cushioned chair now, the firelight shining on her beautiful face, beauti f ul despite tho ravages of illness. The big velvety dark eyes wou'd have made a plain face lovely. Ma Grpsham's pet cat l»y on her lap ; she wns smoothing his gloFsy bbek coat with her weak little fingers, and watching the process of fe^-makiDg at the table. 'There,' said the old lady, as fhe poured the boiling Whfcer from the shining copper kettle; 'we shall have on'y five minutes to wait before our tea is in a state of perfection. I hope you are hungry, my dear,' Edith smiled, and shook her head. ' I don't think I am ; but the pleasure of bring down here will make me eat, I know.' ' As long as you eat, my doar, I don't think it matters wbat makes you do it. How do you feel ? I want to be able to give the Doctor a capital ecrount of ycu bv-and-by.' ' Is —is he romirg this evening ? ' asked the girl nervously. ITo be sure. He wan' a to see how you bore the fatigue of coming down-stairs. He will give us a peep in after ho has dined.' Mrs. Gresham was now pouring out the tea. ' Let me see ; you take cream and sugar, don't you ? Yes ? Of course you do, though ; none but barbarians would ruin it by drinking ifc without.' With that, she gave the girl ber cup ; and then, having poured out her own tea, she chatted pleasantly through the meal. The girl opposite to her did not speak much ; but a dozen times the dark eyes filled with tears

and the sad little mouth trembled. 'The poor child will tell me all she has to tell by-arjd : by,' thought good Mrs. Gresham, watching he"r. Half an hour later, when the tea-table was cleared, and Mrs. Gresham. had establish ed herself and her pink knitting by Edith's chair, she felt a little cold hand laid upon her busy mittens, and turned to meet the implor- : ing gaze of the .big brown eyes. : ' What is it, my ohild ? ' 1 1 want to sppak to you — I want to thank 1 you, if I can. What can I cay to tell you my gratitude ? But for you I should be | dead. I did not know, I could not have believed that there was such angel-goodness and tenderness in the world. I did not care about my life much ; I had no one in the world whom I loved or who loved me on that dreadful night. I had not a friend in the 1 world; but you saved me, and with all my heart I am grateful I ' 'Yes, yes, my dear, T know ' — Mrs. Gresham patted the rich dark hair, for the girl's head had sunk down upon her knees, and she was cobbing passionately. ' There, don't cry. What will the Doctor say ? You will make jourself ill again.' Edith controlled her sobs and raised her head. ' Mrs. Graham, may I tell you my story — how it is that I have no one in the world who cares for me? You must wonder how it is Any one less delicately generous would have doubted and distrusted me, perhaps despised me. May I tell you ? ' 'My dear,' said the old lady, genfly touch ing the wan young face, ' I wish to know nothing that you do not care to tell me. I have wondered how ifc was that you were alone and friendless, of course; but lam sure of one thing ' — the girl looked at her eagerly — ' that you have done nothing wrong.' ' No, no ! I have not ! Believe me, I have not! ' — a shudder ran through her frame as she uttered the eager disclaimer. I have done nothing wicked — nothing. It was not my fault, it was not my fault ! Oh, father, father ! ' Her face dropped upon her hands as sbe uttered that cry in a tone which brought tears to the old lady's bright eyes. Some minutes passed before she ventured to lny her hand on the bent head and to ask quietly — ' la your father living, Edith ? ' ' No, no ! ' she spoke in a tone of desolate misery. 'He died two years ago.' ' And yourfmother ? ' ' I do not remember her ; she died when I was born. There were only my dearest father and I ; I had no brothers or sisters, or any living relatives that I know of. My mother's family were rich — I have beard,' she went on, spfaking m a quiet rven tone — ' rich and proud. They quarrelled with her for marrying my father, for he was an orphan, <md poor and struggling ; and, after her marriage, they refused to see her. They might have forgiven her. She died a year afterwards, of a broken heart as much as anything, I have heard my father say.' She paused a moment, and looked at the kind attentive face beside her ; it wore an encouraging smile. With an effort the girl continued. 'We were very poor, my father and I, always. He was a musician, and used to give lessons on the piano and organ ; he wrote articles and stories for papers and magazines too. I don't think he was clever, for very often his manuscript would come back to him rejected, and he had nob many pupils. But I think he was too quiet and retiring to get on much. He often used to say he was only fit to sit down and let the world go by; he was not strong enough to cope with it. We lived alone, he and I, in some gloomy old rooms in the City Road. He would not go away from London, partly because of his pupils and partly because of my education — he was so anxious to give me the best in hiß power ; and «o I stayed at a good school until I was seventeen. I have often wondered where the money came from to pay the bills. He taught me che piano and organ himself, and I think I played better than most girls ; at any rate, when I left echod, I soon managed to get a good number of pupils. Things were a little easier for my father then.' Edith paused again. Mrs. Gresham stroked her hair. ' What followed, my dear ? ' ' We went on like this until I was twenty, and then' my father fell ill. Ho caught inflammaticn of the lungs, through bfirg out in the wet", and he was dr ad in a week.' ' Poor child ! ' ' 1 found,' Edith went on, her little thin hands clerched in her lap, ' thai-, when the doctor's bill and our few trifliug debts were paid, I had not five pounds in the world. I could not live by myself, and I had not a single friend to whom I could go. 1 knew I must take a situation as governess, and I asked the advice of one of the ladies whose daughters I taught. It happened that her own sister, who lived in Kent, was in want of a goverress for her children. She was kind enough to be reference for me, and I went there. I was with her nearly two years, until the begirning of last November.' She stopped again, drawing her breath hard. ' This lady had a son, by her first marriage, of four or five and twenty ; he was the cmse of my leaving. He anDoyed me with his attentions; I could get no reice from him. He would come into the school- room, and contrive to meet me when I was out walking with the children. I threatened at last to inform his mother, and he laughed in my face. I told ber that evening, and, as I nrghthave known, she blamed me for ifc all. I was hasty and passionate too, I know. The end of it was that I left her house in lees than a week and came to London.' 'It was soon after this that you were ill ? ' 1 Nearly three weeks after. I tried to get a situation and failed; my former employer would not give me a reference. My little stock of money would not serve me for long, I knew, and I had no valuables to dispose of. That dreadful snowy day I had only fi>e shillings in my purse. I wandered about the streets all day, desperate. I passed a shop with cooked meat in the window, ard the sight reminded me that I had not eaten for a great mary hours — I forget how many. I took out my purse and went towards the shop-door. A couple of men came rushing by bo re ughly, I hat I staggered. When I recovered myself, my hands were empty — ray pursa was gone. I did not try to run after them, I was too weak. It did not eeem to ma'tf-r much, I thought ; I should on'y die a lttle sooner. Everything seems blurred and iud'Stinct afrer ibat. I know that 1 wandered about the stress all night; I had a lodging, but I seem to forget where it was. A policeman spoke to me onoi or twice, and I was terribly frightened. Then the morning came aguin — snowy like the last — and I still walked up and down — I don t know where. I knew I should not have strength to stand much longer ; my knees shook under me as I walked. Then the evening came, and the lamps were lighted. I had got into some wretched courts and alleys. I remember looking round and wondering at their pqualor and misery. I stood looking down one of tbem, wondering if any of those wretchedlooking men and women were starving as I was, when I turned giddy, and then fell down — I don't know where.' A strong shiver shook the slight figure us she concluded. Mrs. Gresham bent forward and kissed her. ' Poor dear child ! Yours is indeed a sad history. You must try to forget it, Edith,

and remember only that you have to get > well.' , A short silence followed. Edith broke it. 'Who is that pretty girl who came with i Doctor Leicester the othpr day ? I only I caught a glimpse of her. Is she his daughter?' i * His daughter ? My dear child, Doctor ' Leicester is not old enough to have a daughter of that age ; sbe is eighteen at least. Besides, he is not married. Her nome is Doiey Archer. She is a dear little thing, as merry as a cricket.' ' Who ii she ? ' Edith asked, forgetting politeness in curiosity. ' A kind of ward of his. She ia the daugV ter of an old medical friend. Both her parents are dead, and she was left in the Doctor's charge. She resides with him and hU sister, but sbe has been a good deal away un'il the last week or two, paying visits. Li'tl* Daisy is a greit favourite of mine. Ah, there is the Doctor's knock ! ' — and Mrs. Grresham rose and left the rrom. Edith Adair buried her face in her band*, with a kind of moan. ' Have I done wrong— have I ? ' she muttered to herself. Oh, surely not ! At leapt I have told no falsehoods. Ileaven bless them both for their goodness to me ; but if only I had died thnt night ? If only I could die now ! '