A LOVERS’ QUARREL.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1626, 29 April 1903, Page 4

A LOVERS’ QUARREL.

CHAPTER I. Ono summer afternoon a_conversation was taking place in the drawing room of a pretty house on the Devonshire coast, which Avas designed to considerably alter the course of life of the two persons engaged in it. Of thege, one was a tall, slight girl, about eighteen years of age, with wavy brown hair and large grey eyes, AA’liicli even then had learnt to look on sorroAV as an old acquaintance. Her companion was a mail some ten years older, good-look-ing, Avitk a heavy moustache shading a finm mouth, and a Avell-developed forehead, puckered just now into an omiuo.,s l row.i. Whatever the subject in course of discussion might be, it seemed caoable of rousing and irritating them both to an extreme degree. “Now, look here, Maude,” he Avas saying, “I consider that I have dona more than most men would already. I have given you a free hand about the house and furniture.” “Yes.” she broke in, “but you went with me to choose them, and I consulted, your taste throughout. You know very well.” she added, with teal's in her eyes, “that I wouldn’t get one single thing you didn’t like.” “That’s not the'point.” he answered. “You had your way in the matter, and I have a right to insist on my way in this. That my only sister should visit •” “Visit! But you said just now to live with us always,” she interposed, making her point with just a tinge of irritation in her voice. “T said no tiling of the kind. I said to make this her home as long as she liked. Call it a long visit; it’s the same thing.” “Jack, how can you ? Do you think if I had a brother living you would like him permanently quartered on you ?” “There is no comparison,” he returned, stiffly. “Grace may have her own wing of the house. There is no need for you to come in contact with her in any Avay unless you wish it.” “But how absurd! And, besides, where .is the necessity for Grace to live with us, Avhen she has enough •money to set up a home of her own?” “Oh! well, if you take that tone.” he answered, angrily, “I think you wcfuld do well to remember that it is my house, and that I have a right to invite whom I will.” “Noav, look here, Jack,” saM Maude, “I don’t Avant you to think me unkind or unreasonable (oh! why will be raise hi. eyebrows in that- sarcastic way), but it is much better to face matters at once. If your sister cams to live Avith us, there would be nothing but discomfort.” ‘"‘Why so?” “Oh! I can’t explain it. Men never can see these things!” “There you betray yourself, Maude. If you had a single tangible reason to offer, I hope I should be the first to listen, but the whole affair is nothing but prejudice and temper. You’ve taken a dislike to Grace, andl you re determined to fly in the face of all reason.” ’ . , “Well, Jack, if you think me so unreasonable, it’s a pity you ewer asked me to marry you.” “Perhaps I didn’t think you so unreasonable then!” “What, do you mean youte sorry now that you did ?” 'Tt’s no good your losing your bean-

per, Maude. You’d better think th© matter over quietly.” Unfortunately, in the course of the conversation Jack had made remarks contrasting Maude’s dependent position—she acted as the companion of an old lady—with the independent tone siio Avas assuming, an ungenerous taunt of which she AA'ould hardly have been guilty in a cooler moment. In truth, however, he had been irritated quite beyond his poivers of self-control. His intended marriage with a penniless girl without connections had met the bitterest opposition from his family, but ho had persevered in liis resolve, and after numerous difficulties (among Avbich ho Avas obliged to reckon her oavii very unexpected hesitation in accepting him), had succeeded in bringing matters to a satisfactory result. The engagement was formally annfouuced, bis house furnished, and the wedding day all but fixed, when this obstacle had arisen. Well, Maude would come to her senses, he thought, as he quitted the bouse that evening. She had confided to him that Mrs Laplanolie was suffering from gout, and had been very irritable all the week. Probably sue had had a bad time in consequence, which would account for her unusual obstinacy to-day. As'Jack Seymore walked home in the twilight, he reflected on the necessity of maintaining a firm front, and not yielding an inch to such unreasonable objections as his fiancee had advanced against Grace’s living with them. Ho reviewed the xvhole situation, and unconsciously fell into the mood we might imagine in King Oophetua if on th-eit monarch exalting the beautiful beggar maiden to be h;is queen, she in return had begun to stipulate for the rights and immunities sbe was to enjoy in that capacity. “If she really cared for me”—such Avas xiie conclusion of his reflectioiis- —■ •‘she Avould newer stand out about such a trifle.” As i!i-iu to AA r ould have it, Maude Avas arguing in much the same way. “If Jack really loved me, he AA’ould never visii that a third person should step in between us; above all, his sister, avlio, I know, has never liked me.” Unfortunately, it never occurred to either of the lo\ r ers to consider the matter from the point of A r ieAV of the ether 1 . CHAPTER 11. One cold AA’inter morning about five years ago, I, Winifred Stanley, Avas 'walking doAvn Oxford street, when I chanced to meet a friend Avhom I had known as Maude Gray in the days ATihen AA r e were school companions together. Of late years our correspondence, once so regular, had slackened; and we had gradually lost sight cf one another. I supposed her prosperously married to Jack Seymore, our playfellow in childish days, and now and again I had amused myself Avith picturing their home. It was somewhat of a shock to me to meet her so unexpectedly, looking pale and! tliinj, and ’xvijtli none of that indefinable change in manner that marriage produces in a woman. On the whole, while only avondering, I thought it best to hold my peaco on that subject. She seemed delighted to . see me again, and as I AA’as on my way t-o keep, an appointment, I asked her bow best we could arrange to meet later. “Are you living in London ?” I asked. I myself was a mere bird of passage. Maude hesitated, and coloured painfully. “I have lodgings,” she stammered, “but I’m afraid—that is, I—any landlady •” “Oh! I see,” I laughed. “It’s a repetition of Mrs Grump. Why, I should never have thought it of you, Maude. Well, I’ll tjel 1 you Aviipb. I’m staying at the Charing Cross Hotel. I’m off abroad to-morrow, and it suits mo for the trains. I’ve no- sitting room, hut we’ll dine together, and get a nice .little talk afterwards. It will be my only chance of seeing you.” “Oh! thank you, thank you,” Maude said, nervously, and I saw the tears start into eyes that Avere far too bright, and had dark circles round them. “It’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid it would be quite impossible. No, thank you. I couldn’t, really.” I am afraid that the .life of bustle and rush that I habitually lead lias made me less observant of others than I could wish to be, but there was something so constrained and unnatural about my old schoolfellow's manner (and I had reason to remember her with gratitude in past days) that I felt irresistibly impelled to find out the ■cause. “Look here, Maude,” I said, detaining her, 'Tre got a most important engagement in half an hour, ana I’ve barely time to got there, hut I vow and declare that I won’t part, with you until you’ve made some arrange* ment with -me. Wiry, what’s the mat

ter with you that you aren t pieased to seo me?” , ~ . ‘•Oh! it isn’t that, it isn’t tnat, she exclaimed, piteously. ‘'l’nx more pleased to see you than you can. ever understand. But—l’ve got no dress to come in.” Tho words were ludicrously ccmmorplace, but the tones in which they were uttered told volumes. More surprised than ever. I made an attempt to he facetious. “Why, what have you got on then ? It looks uncommonly like one.” “Oh! I couldn’t dine' in this,” she said, looking down at her dress; a plain •blue serge one. *‘Couldn’t you?” I returned. “Well, perhaps not. and as I mean to keep on my travelling dress, I'll propose an. amendment. We’ll have supper in my room, and havo a cosy chat over tho lire. It trill be quite like old times.” As I would take no refusal, she agreed to this, and we parted. To avoid the throng of passers-by, we had been standing inside a pastrycook's shop, and just, as I held out my hand to .say good-bye, a lad pushed past with a tray of hot pies on his head. A sudden look leaped into Maude’s eyes u> sho turned hastily away. That look haunted mo as I hurried along to my appointment. I had seen it before in the eyes of the ragged little urchins who help to people the London streets Was it possible?—but, no, such an. idea was absurd. My imagination was '’nulling away with me. My business was lengthy and somewhat, troublesome, being, in fact, neither more nor less than arranging +c pioneer a highly respectable British mamma and her numerous progeny on a. ■tour round tho principal Continental cities. It was towards evening before all our plans were completed,** trains chosen, and the hundred and one little trifles supplied that unaccustomed travellers are sure to require. As I walked back to my hotel through the gathering gloom, and watched the faces of the busy crowds jostling to and fro. a dim sense of the infinite sadness ot buman life began to stir and ache, in my heart. As a genera, lrule, a sound digestion and a busy life are effectual antidotes against morbid thoughts, but there come moments in everyone’s existence when the hidden springs are stirred and melancholy will have its course

CHAPTER lit Greatly to my relief, I found Maude Gray waiting for me at the hotel. I had begun to fear lest die niischt break her engagement with me after all. We had a pleasant little meal together, and the disagreeable memory of that look in lier eyes began to die away. Afterwards we sat over the fire cliatting. There is some subtle influence about night-time that invites confidences. Things that no one would dream of telling in the glare of the working day slip out naturally, and, as it were, unawares then. So it, proved on the present occasion. Little by little tnc whole history of those years since our last (meeting was revealed. I say the whole history, “but there was one point on which Maude’s lips were sealed, and that was the breach of her engagement with Mr Seymore. Later on I heard a version of the affair, but not from her. Without touching on this topic, though, we had enough to occupy our attention. I almost shrink from repeating mv poor friend’s story, knowing full well that it must lose both pathos and interest when dissociated from the pale lips that told it. “When you last heard front me,” she began, shading the firelight front her eyes with a thin, almost transparent hand, “I was living as companion to Mrs Laplanche, and I was about to be married.” She hesitated and coloured slightly. “I was not married, and I continued to act ais Mrs Laplanche’s companion until she died. I nnrsed her through a long illness, and I believe she was much attached to nte. I’m sure I had grown very fond of her.” If the poor girl could have grown fond of Mrs Laplanche, she must have possessed a vast amount of unappropriated affection, for of all the querulous, selfish, unamiable old ladies that it has been my ill-fortune to encounter, I verily believe that Mrs Laplanche was the worst. “On her deathbed,” she resumed, “Mrs Laplanche told me that she had made provision for me after she was gone, and oa one occasion she kissed one, and said I had been like a daughter to her, and then, she drew off her finger an antique emerald ring, and asked me always to wear it in memory of her.” I glanced at Maude’s hand, but no ring was there. Perhaps her fingers had grown too thin to wear one. “I tell you these things,” she continued, “to show you that I am sure she was not to blame for what happened. She had no near relatives, and when the will was read, it was found that her entire property was left to different charities, with the exception of certain legacies to the domestics, who wore mentioned by name. I have often tried to reconcile this with what she said about providing for me, font X can only suppose that she intended to do bo and had postponed the matter until too late. Anyhow, that was the abate

of things on her death. I had no friends to turn to, and no money, or only a few shillings, for my salary liad barely sufficed to buy my clothes ; I was always obliged to dress well. I believe the lawyer who managed affairs was very sorry for me, but what could ho do,? As a matter o-f fact, lie did get mo an appointment with a salary of £3O a year, but as I had to leave before tho end of the first quarter, I was not much better for that.” “But why had you to leave?” I asked. “Well, if you must know,” Maude said, smiling, “the -son of the house thought he was in love with me, and there was a family quarrel. Even now I smile when I remember his aggressive mamma. She had a wonderful flow of language, chiefly of the abusive kind, and sho treated me to a sample of her eloquence. She would have kept mo if I would havo promised never to speak to her son again.” “And what did you say to that?” “Ob!” she replied, “I told her that it was no pleasure to me to‘ talk to a young man who was absolutely destitute of brains, but I declined to pledge myself as she required. She did not apX>reciato 1113" plainness of speech, and so wo parted. I have thought at times that perhaps I was wrong, but there are some things harder to bear than hunger and cold, and that woman’s tongue was one.” Maude shivered as she crept closer t-oi the fire. I rose and threw a fur cloak round her, and as I did so, she buried her face in her hands. “I never meant to tell an3 r one of these things,” she murmured. “I’ll tell .you what, Maude,” I said, angrily, for there was an annoying lump in my throat, “if you don’t tell me the whole truth straight away before you leave this room, why, I don’t think there’s a word in the English language bad enough to describe you by”j and then I indulged in a little abuse as an example of what I could uo. Maude smiled faintly and stroked my hand. “Dear old Trix!” she said, softly. “Your bark was always Averse than your bite. After all, I don’t know why I shouldn't tell you, only I’m afraid it will make you so sorry.” She was quiet for a little while, looking into the fire, and then she resumed her tale. “After I left.that place I spent some time in advertising and going to different agencies, in tiie hope of getting a good appointment, but I liad no friends and no one to recommend me. ' The agents took my money and did nothing for me. I can never forget the dreadful feeling of despairing hope' avith Avfoich I used to mount the steps to Smith’s Agency, and the sickening sense of disappointment as I returned, sometimes after having waited for Hours in vain. There was one poor girl aa’lio was ea r en worse off than myself. She took her luck hardly, and used to make scenes at the office. I met her twice afterwards. Once she had been charged avith ordering goods under false pretences. They were the silliest tilings. She 'got off Avith a light sentence,’ as they said; but i& was the worse for her, for when she came out she had noAvhere to go to. The last time.. I saw her she had been dragged out of the river. She Avas dead.” There AA'as silence in tho room for a feAV minutes, and then Maude roused herself Avith a sort of fury. “I tell you,” she exclaimed, “the miseries of mill hands and shop girls have been exposed and Avritteu about and pitied times out of number, but the misery of the friendless governess has yet to be known. .Known ? It never can be. Ob! if I could but make people understand avhat it means to girls gently barn and brought up to be cast on the world avithout a friend, to meet life as best they may ! There have been times when I have watched the Avorkmen at •the coffee-stalls, and sickened with hunger at the sight of the food they would often throw anvay. The street urchins could take it, but 1 might not. I was a lady.” She gave a laugh of bitter mockery. “I have often AVished I Avere tho veriest peasant woman, if so I might understand better how to earn a living.” “But your music, Maude?” I said, for she had been a finished pianist. “Ah! there it is,” she returned, bitterly. “If I could have played at cheap entertainments I could have earned a living, probably an honest one, but quo volez vous? We are as we are made. I couldn’t do it, and I had no chance in respectable concerts. I did get one engagement, but I had to buy a new dress, and when all expenses were paid, I was exactly 18s 6d to the good. I lived on that for ten days, I remember. [Fortunately, I Avas not in London. Then I tried music pupils. I got six, and considered myself quite fortunate. I had made my way down to a little Surrey village, where the clergyman’s wife took rather a fancy to me, and interested herself in the pupil question. I played the organ in tihe church, too; but I got nothing for that, only when I left (X had an offer to make myself generally useful in a family) they got up a little subscription that just paid my travelling expenses. Well, it’s no use wearying you with this long list of woes'. Some months ago I came up to London again—somehow, London always attracts me. X had Ibeen answer-

ing an .advertisement at a house in \ Bloomsbury, and had to Avait until [ evening for a reply. It A\ r, as a bitterly cold day, and 1 I was tired, and did not, know liow to get back to my lodgings, so I turned into the British Museum, i Some time before, AA'hen living with a family in town, I had got a leading order which I had put away in my pocicefc. book and forgotten. it came in useful then. Oh! the delicious sense of comfort in sinking into those' leather chairs, J and in being in a Avarm, AA r ell lighted' room. And then, instead of being harassed by contemptuous clerks and agents, and. worst of all, the footmen and maidservants in employers’ houses, one is Ai T ait©d on by civil attendants, anxious to get whatever books one wants. You see, I put the books last ; so would you, perhaps, in my place; and yet-, after all, they avere my great delight. From that time I have spent i every spare hour in tihe museum. j “I AA r as sitting there reading one day, I when an old lady came up to me; such, a dear, gentle old lady, but very frail ; and shabbily dressed. She took a va- 1 cant chair next to me. “My she said, 'you must excuse me, as a f perfect stranger, addressing you, but i I have seen you here day after day, j and I should so much like to have a j chat with you. I am going to take my lunch hoav. Will you coni© with i me to the Ladies’ Room ?” “About that time the Ladies’ Room was always empty. I had no lunch to eat, but she made me share hers; and then Ave talked. I found that she copied manuscripts and made extracts for authors. It was a poor living, but sometimes she managed to doi a little writing on her own account. Learn- , ing that I’was a fair German scholar, i she said she Avas sure she could coca- j si or ally throw a little Avork iu my Avay. ; “Not enough to live on, but, then, it . can he done in spare hours, as long, that is, as you are in London,” she said; “hut I should advise you to get a country engagement.” I suppose I smiled, for she apologised for offering advice, and. indeed, neither then nor after has she asked me any questions about myself. From her I secured several good pieces of work, and as I got a daily engagement ais governess in the neighbourhood, I did very well last summer. With the autumn, liow-' ever, the family went away ,and T could find nothing else to do for a long while. I got into debt, and when my next turn of luck came, it took all my extra money to make up for the past. . As •winter came on, I had a very bad time, j and was ill once or twice, and! had to go j into the hospital for a week. When j X dame out, any landlady had let my j room, and I had to get'another at increased rent. “And Avhat are you doing now?” I asked. “Oh! I’m Still plodding on, copying and translating and so j>n. The spirit of the place has got hold of me, and X would rather live on short commons there than vegetate in some little country village as domestic help, which I have come to think is the only situation X am likely to get through agents and advertisements. Besides, I have begun 'to do a little avriting an my awn account, and X hope I shall flourish now.” There was a sort of reckless energy about her as she spoke that showed me plainly that the beginning had been of long duration. “How much, did you earn last week?” I asked, abruptly. i “I/ast week? Oh! 16s 9d. That j was worse than usual. I call those ' non-dinner weeks*” •

“Non-dinner weeks?” I repeated, surprised. “Yes, When things are very bad. X have to go without proper dinners. Every penny tells, you know.” “I should have thought it more like you to go without fire,” I remarked. “Oh! I never have a fire. As a matter of fact, there is no fireplace La my room. That’s where the British Museum comes in, don’t yon see?” “But you can’t always he there. What do you do Avhen you are indoors ?”- “Well, if my landlady is in a good temper, she sometimes asks me into her kitchen; if sho is not, I stay in. bed. X saAV you looking at my lace,” she went 011, “and I know you were ttuntemg what horrid taste it was to wear lace on a walking dress. Well, perhaps you understand now?” “To save laundresses’ hills?” X inquired, my perceptions sharpened. “Yes, and no. Of course, Ido my own washing—in my band-basin. Hot water when my landlady is in a good temper, cold avhen she isn't. »Soap when I can afford, simple friction when I can’t. But cuffs and collars need starch and ironing. That is quite beyond my means at present. Now, lace —old lace —looks all the better when it’s rather yellow, so it takes kindly to the eold-Avater treatament. That’s the whole explanation.” She spoke lightly, but underneath these sordid details what a tale of natient. silent suffering was to he read i “The Sundays are the worst.” she went on. “You see, there’s oiowbere to spend the between hours.’ and it’s 110-t altogether pleasant freezing in one’s own room.” The hours had 1 passed avithout our marking them, and before Mu. id a had ended it was already too late for her to return to her lodgings. I therefore rang and ordered hei a bed next to mine, and ave passed the night together. The next morning, before parting, I forced on her a cheque on my banking, account. It was small., but as much as I could then afford. I knew I might be absent from England for some time, and I could not leave her in a destitute condition. She avas very unwilling to accept it, saying that she should never be able to repay me. But finally she consented, and promised to use it in. purchasing the luxury of a nightly fire and warmer clothing for the winter. We parted on the pavement, and I loaifc sight of her as she mingled with the busy throng of passers-by, wending her way towards her beloved museum. (To be Continued.)