TREASURE-TROVE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1629, 20 May 1903, Page 9

TREASURE-TROVE.

(By Mrs Lovett Cameron.)

The first time I saw her, she Avas sitting on a heap of stones by the roadside, crying bitterly. I Avas just coming out of my oavu. gate at Torsbury. meaning to take a little trot doAvn to the village to see Poav cue or tAvo of my old pensioners were gett ng on, Avlien my eye was caught by a little liu'ddled-up female figure clad in navy blue serge, with her head bowed down so low that it almost rested upon her hunched-up knees. The knot of back hair beneath the brim of her black sailor hat avus fair and soft, but there Avas next to nothing to be seen of her face, because it Avas hidden in her un_ gloved hands. There were no rings on her hands, but they were Avhite and wellshaped—Avith slender, tapering fingers, and oval, pink nails —the hands of a lady. And she Avas crying. Not loudly or \ulgarly, but just quietly and hearfcbrokenly, with little soft-breached sibs that shook her body tremulously, a 3 the leaves of a tree are shaken by the summer breeze.

I suppose I am a very soft-hearted old woman, for I never can endure to see a. young creature cry. It goes to my heart straight; tears, I always-say, are the portion of the old—they are our solace and relief in our sorrows; but the young should have no sorrows. I stopped, of course, in front of her—she did not move; then I spoke to her. "Is anything the matter?” She lifted two bewilderingly beautiful blue eyes, and looked at me solemnly. "Everything is the matter,” she said. She was very pretty, and very young —about twenty or twenty-one, I suppose. “You seem in great trouble. Can I not help yon?” I asked, pityingly.

She shook her head. I noticed that her pretty face was not in the least disfigured by her tears —red nose and swollen, eyelids were not to her apparently the consequence of heart-broken sobs. "I "don’t suppose anybody can help me,” she answered gloomily, after a little silence. "I—l—have lost my all!” “My poor child!” My sympathetic thoughts flew to a family holocaust—father, mother, brothers, sisters —had death bereft her of them all? Yet she •was not in mourning. Before I could! question her further, she explained. have lost my purse, my railway ticket, my box —■ —” "Oh, is that all I” I cried, and the sense of relief was so great that I actually laughed merrily. “Come, cheer up l That is not so bad.” "Not so bad!” she repeated. "I don’t know what you call ‘not so bad.’ It’s about as 4 bad as anything can be —considering that I have not another penny in the whole world.” I was sobered at once, but I becamef practical at the same time. , "Come, get up, at any rate; to go on sitting by the roadside crying won’t make things any better, my dear. Tell me your story and your name, -and I will see if I can-help you.” She rose- to her feet, and I noticed tl at she had with her a good-sized handbag. Her figure was slender and graceful, and her clothes were well made, and fitted her nicely. She was. a pretty girl altogether. She soon .told) me her story—a poor, sordid little story of poverty and toil. She was quite alone in the world, she said, and had worked for her living for some years past first as a typewriter in an office and latterly as a companion to an old lady. The old lady had lately gone to live vith a married daughter and had dismissed her. Then she had answered an advertisement from an old gentleman! who

rr.ju:never moved out of an invalid chair, and Who -wanted; a resident ladv &s reader and secretary. He lived in Yorkshire, and would engage nobody without seeing them first. He ©ent her money for a third-class ticket from London, and told her to firing her luggage with her in case he liked her, and to come off and see him —she was to go on approval, in fact. She spent almost the last few shillings she possessed in getting lierself a suitable oiitfit and started with three-and-six in her pocket, and a fixed determination to please or perish. When she got to x ark, where she was-to change on to a branch line she was met fiy a messenger with a letter to tell her not to-come any further, as the invalid gentleman,, had died suddenly in the night and, so she was not -wanted. Money for a return ticket, was given to her, and as there :was nothing else to fie done she, gor tne first train going back to town. //-Halfway just as the train wag slowing into this* station, she put her hand into the outside pocket of her jacket, and found that her purse wag gone. Some xoughr looking people had got out at the last station, and die supposed that one of them must have stolen it. Penniless and ticketless, she was afraid to go on so she got out at our little country station. She did not even know what had become of her box, for in her dismay and) confusion at Yopk she had forgotten it altogether. She had absolutely nothing with her but the handbag she carried', which contained, she said, a -few toilet necessaries.

Well, I am an old' woman and a widow* and if I choose to play the good Samaritan there is nobody to prevent my* doing so; so I took Monica Smith—that was her name—home with me. We telegraphed all over the country for her box, but although the railway officials kept on assuring u® that it was bound to be found in time, it never turned up, nor have we ever set eyes on it from that day to this. Monica meanwhile pored over the advertisement columns of the papers _ used by employers of poor ladies, and. she Wrote a great many letters, but . nothing came of them; either she received no answers or else the replies were unsatisfactory. Then, at my advice, she inserted an advertisement herself, out nothing came of that either. Two or three days went by in this fashion, and during the course of them, somehow, I grew fond of Monica Smith. She was so sweet and gentle and pretty, it gladdened my eves to see her come into the room. My house used -to be so cheerful and full' of life-long ago—and iiow it is so- ail©Ht .and. empty, and tlie sight of her slight figure moving about the big rooms or the sound of her footsteps flying up and; down the wide oak staircase, made my heart quicken and beat in a queer, unexpected fashion. 1 found out all about her first I was very sly I considered, and very clever. Her father had been a clergyman—he had been vicar of Marfing, in Somersetshire, ten years ago. I looked up an old clergy list and tried to find the place and the name, but’there were so many clergymen named Smith; and then she said 1 had mistaken hen—he was not the vicar, only the curate so, of course, his name wouldn't be down. However, that was a mere trifle. What seemed so sad about Monica wa® that she had not only apparently no relations, but also no friends. She was very well educated; she had been at a high school in Gloucester, and her aunt, now dead, had paid? for her schooling. ,

‘ "Her name was Smith, too?" "Yes, Miss Mary Smith." "A sister of your father s, I suppose r I wrote to that school in Gloucester. It was there all right. But the lady superintendent was a new one; the one who had taught Monica was dead. This lady wrote most civilly and said she had looked through the old l books of th© establishment, but there were at least 45 girls of the name of Smith who had been educated at the school during the past ten years, and three Monicas amongst them. This Beemed conclusive, for she must be on© of the three, and, besides. I was ashamed to ask for further information, so I let the matter drop. Moreover. I felt I had don© enough for

prudence sake.- It was time to let my inclinations have their way. Pull of excitement, I came quite with a bounce into the library, where Monica was wont to spend her mornings answering advertisements. I found her. not at the writing-table, but standing in front of a large three-quarter „ portrait that rests upon an easel of Jack, my Jack, my only son, who was out in South Africa in command / of the Middleshire Yeomanry. Monica gave a jump as I came in and turned 1 crimson. I blamed myself for my impetuosity; it is really quite unseemly in an old woman. "Oh!" she gasped. "I —I beg your par_ don. Mrs Somerville/'’

"My dear. I startled you. Why should you beg my pardon. What have you been doing ?" •.:/ She looked almost guilty for a moment —I really fear, Monica's nerves are all to pieces with her troubles:—then she answered—■—•

"Oh, I was going out to post my letters/*

“Don’t post them; put them in the fire," I said. She opened her blue eyes at me in amazement. I laughed. "My dear child, I have something very important to say to you. . Leave the letters, put on your hat, and come out into the garden. But when we were in the garden it was some minutes before I could speak. When I began I dicl not say it at all as I had meant to say it. "Monica," I began, falteringly, "I saw you were looking at my son’s portrait." She turned on me a startled glance. "Oh," I continued, "T am not going to scold you for that. Jack is worth looking at, even in a photograph. Monica, he is my only child, and there he is out in that terrible war, and at any moment I may hear that he has been killed/’ I suppose I speak my thoughts too plainly and brusquely, for that poor child shuddered as if I had cut her with a whip. I passed my arm_ affectionately through hers. "My dear child, I only say that so that you may see what a lonely old woman I am. Once I had them all — a loving husband, two sweet girls, a younger son. All now have been taken from me, all are dead. Only Jack is left, and he has been a constant sorrow to me ever since he came to man's estate." "Oh. Mt 9 Somerville!" "Ah, you can't understand my saying that. But I -am going to tell you about him. My dearest son has caused me grievous misery. He married without my knowledge or consent in a way that I would rather have died- than that he should have married-—” "Why?" she just breathed. "Because she was of that class of woman who make false wives and bad mothers—she was an actress."

A little silence. I suppose I frightened the poor girl, I spoke so sternly; but that is a subject on which I feel very hand and bitter. . "She might have been a good girl,” she murmured.

"My dean, you are - sweet and charitable, and you are also a little lady to your finger tips, and so you don't know what these women are. I am older. I know. I am not speaking of {.reat actresses like our Ellen Terry or our Mrs Kendal. She was nothing like that. She was just one of the scum—a member of a third-rate country company, pi ay ing in little parts—horribly badly, 1 daresay —jand of course her origin must nave been of the lowest. I never inquired. I never saw her. I am thankful to say, but for torn years jmy son was a stranger to me on account of her, for I would not receive her; I preferred to quarrel with him. Then h© had to go to Africa. He came to say good-bye to me, but he was angry and cold, and we parted m estrangement still —*—" Then after a moment’s gloomy retrospection I resumed more brightly—" But better rimes are dawning for me. Thank Heaven that creature, his wife, is dead! You are shocked *at me. Monica? It's dreadful to you, I daresay, to hear an old woman rejoicing over the death of a fellowcreature; but I was glad., and I am glad. What i® the use of pretendig that I am sorry ? I may be a wicked woman, but I am not a hypocrite. There was a fire. It was at a country town theatre, at Carlisle. Several of these wretched women perished in the flames, and Miss Dale—that I believe, was> her stage name —was mentioned in the paper'amongst the' victims of the catastrophe. I sent the paper out to my son." "Was he sorry?"

“Oh, yes. I suppose he was at the time. The woman had been his wife, you see; hut he must have pretty well have got over the shock of it by now, and, after all. it was a very mistaken marriage,' and he has had'plenty to do. This war does not leave a man much time for fretting* over private griefs; besides it is a year ago now, and his letters have been quite like his old self lately. His heart, which that creature had stolen, has come back to his mother now.” There was a little silence while we paced the terrace from end l to end together. It was a lovely spring morning. The woods were all bursting into tender greenery, and the distant glimpse of the sea between the shoulders; of the hills was like a silver shield glittering far away in the April sun.

As Monica said nothing I began again. “And I have told you all this, my dear child, because I want you to do a great kindness to a very lonely, and not /ery happy, old woman. I want you to I’ve with me altogether—-—" “Oh, Mrs s .Somerville! As—as 3 our secretary, your companion?” she faltered. “Not at all. ~ As my daughter, my child, my consolation. I have fallen in love 'with you,' Monica., and I can't live without you: 'Bo you refuse my request ?" How could-she refuse it? She was poor and desolate, and I was her only friend. The tears streamed down, her face as she kissed my hand. and she murmured, a little brokenly: “Oh how good God is! I drew hen to my breast and kissed, her tears away. So Monica Smith lived with me, and I grew to love her very dearly. We led a very quiet life, she and I together; but she seemed perfectly happy. She was not one of those girls who want excitement and dissipation. The indulgences I was

able to afford her I gave her freely. Sh© had a horse to ride, and my coachman gave her lessons. I gave her a bicycle, too; and as she was fond of animals, she had her dogs and her-cage birds; and as the summer advanced she grew to take as deep an interest in the garden as I did myself. Had I searched all England over I could not have found a more delightful companion. She was always the same —sweet, docile, and bright. I wrote to Jack and told him about her—a little, not too much. I just said I had found a nice girl, a Miss Smith, to come and jive with me. I did not want to expatiate too much on her charms, because I had other plans for my son. One day I was led to talk of these plans to Monica.

"Of course," I said, "my greatest wish is that Colonel Somerville should marry again when he comes home, and marry well this time. I don't mind telling you, Monica, that .1 hav© already settled in my own mind who his wife is to be." ''‘lndeed!’ she cried, rather sharply.

Monica had a little trick of appearing to be startled sometimes about things which ought not to startle her in the least. She turned on me too widelyopened eyes of liquid azure. She certainly did take a real and vivid interest, dear girl, in all that concerned me. 17 Who is she," she! added, quite eagerly. "Her name is Mary Naira. She is the daughter of old friends of mine. Her parent® are wealthy, and she is their only child. It.would be a very good match for Jack." "And Miss Nairn herself? Is she——" "Oh she is a very nice girl—handsome and clever. A little cold and reserved, in her manner, perhaps, but that is no drawback, and I believe her to have been secretly attached to my son for years." "He knows her, then?" "O’h, very well. He has known her all his life. They were children together. I think the match would have come about of itself in time, had not the actress creature come into his life." "Do you mean that —that Colonel Somerville was in love with Miss Naim before he met—the the unhappy actress?” Now I am a very truthful woman, and if I answered that question, at all I . was bound to answer it truly. "Honestly," I replied, "I cannot say that he was. All the love was on Mary's side but it will be different now. He has had his fling and paid for it. He will have sobered down and will be anxious to settle suitably, and he is quite as well aware of the advantages of this marriage as I am."

One day a little later) on I said to Monica —“I -thinV I will ask Mary Naim to come and! stay here. I should like you to knew her." Monica became most unaccountably agitated. , “Oh, please don’t, Mrs Somerville! Please don't! Or else if you must, then allow me to go away. I don't want to see her.” “My dear, how silly of you! Why should you not see her? You will like her very much indeed." . “I shan’t—l shan't! I am afraid I will hate her!" she cried, vehemently, and the bine eyes filled with tears. For so sweet-tempered a girl this angry agitation was really bewildering. I suppose I looked my astonishment, for blushing deeply Monica, hastened to make her little confession. “Dearest Mrs Somerville, forgive me. It is wicked, I know, but my nature is such a dreadfully jealous one— *— “And you would he jealous 01 Mary Naim?” , , „ , ... “I could not bear to see her first wrtn you—to know that you loved her pes She threw herself impetuously into my arms. I kissed the bright nair and smoothed it with caressing lingers. I was profoundly touched. ■ ~ . “Mv dear little girl," I said soothingly, “my love for you is quite another matter to hiy appreciaiton of Mary; because I be. lieve her to be a suitable wife for rny son, that belief does not touch my affection for you, not in the least. “Still you won't ask her, will you ? she pleaded; “not now—not whilst you and I are so happy alone? “Little flatterer!" I murmured, not illpleased." And I suppose it spoilt her, for I promised 11 ot to invite Mary here till Jack came home. “Then you know, I must," I said. ' , ~ She smiled a little to herself. Y shau t mind her coming then, she replied, one was a queer girl, and sometimes she puzzled me a little. . . I sent no invitation to Mary Nairn, and the quiet weeks flew by with astonishing rapidity—time goes so fast- when one is happy, and Monica and I were as happy as the days were long. She seemed to want-no other companion but myself, and I learned to bless the day that I picked her up by the roadside as destitute as any beggar outside my own lodge gates. I used to call her mry

"treasure-trove." One day I drove over to lunch with some neighbours who lived about seven miles off. Monica was not invited, and I did not take her with me. At that lunch-party I met Mary Nairn. Somehow, she annoyed me that day. I think she was badly dressed, for she did not look her best. I thought her aged; and I suppose when a woman has turned twenty-eight and is still unmarried and possibly is fretting "still over a "disappointmtent," it is scarcely to, be wondered at if her years begin to tell. She was a littl© more brusque in ber r •aimer than I had quite realised, ami she said one or too rather sharp things about other people that I thought ill-natured. She seemed to have grown hard and censorious. When someone inquired after Jack, Mary did not seem to lake th® faintest interest in my answer; I fancied* indeed, that I saw a sneer upon her lips at the mention of his name., .It looked as if she had not forgiven his marriage, poor boy. Altogether 1 did not think I liked her as well as I used to do. I drova away from the house feeling very crossi, and I asked myself a few straight questions. Was I mistaken after all? . Was Mary Naim not. ae I had believed, th© best wife in the world for Jack? That she had loved him once, I knew; but if her love had turned to bitterness of what use was it? After all Jack had not been to blame—he had never made love to her, he had always treated her exactly lik© a sister; the mistake had been all her®. Of course, her money would be a nic® thing for my son; but. then, is it not possible to pay too dearly for money sometimes? And I must admit - that 1 reached home in a very bad temper. Monica was standing in the porch as I drove up; she seemed delighted to se® me back. Then, because I was in a bad temper, a® I have said, something tempted me to say—"l have met Mary Nairn—the girl I told yon about —who is rich, and whom I hope Jack will marry." Her smile faded a little. <r Were you very pleased to meet her?” she asked simply. "Not a bit/' I.snapped, and Monica, perceiving doubtless my unrighteous frame of mind, forebore to betray the satisfaction she must have experienced at my reply. * That evening—shall I ever forget it? —we were sitting together after dinner, she on a'low stool at my feet with her head against my knee. All my ill-temper had vanished. Monica had been singing to me. She had a lovely voice. I told her. however, that in my opinion her singing was very- much too theatrical, and that made her laugh. "How you hat© anything that reminds you of a theatre?" “Have I not good reason to do so?” I asked.

“Will you never forgive that poor thing ?" “Never, till I see my son happily married again!” “To Mary Nairn?” she inquired. And then all at once the scales fell from my eyes, and the truth burst from mv lips. “No—no —not to Mary Nairn ! Oh child, if only he knew you and learned to care for you, how much rather would I have you for my daughter-in-law than any other woman on earth!" A foolish, imprudent, impulsive speech ! —and I can't think how I came to mat® it —but Monica's reply to it was by far the most astonishing part of that memorable conversation.

“Thank Heaven!” she cried, fervently, as if she spoke from th e very depths of her soul. “Oh, thank Heaven! Thank Heaven that you have said that!" Now. why on earth she should thus thank Heaven three times in succession, was a puzzle which I might, perhaps, have been able to unravel had not something occurred at that very moment which put everything else out of my head. A loud rapping at the front door! It was nine o'clock at night, and nothing comes like that to one’s, front door a.fc that hour in the country save newsgood or evil. It was a telegram. I knew before my trembling fingers tore open the envelope that it was about my boy. It was from the War Office.

“Regret to inform you LieutenantColonel J. D. Somerville severely wounded in action last Monday.” That was the blow which fell upon us! I say “us,” because Monica's sympathy with me was so deep and true that she seemed to feel it as much as' I. did. The next few weeks were a nightmare. The hurried journey together up to London, the daily visits to that wretched War Office— out of which to wring information was like trying to get blood put of a stone—the alternations of hope and fear, the wild schemes of starting for South Africa at once; then—at last—the truth, and a calmer frame of mind! ; fr Left fore-arm shattered —amputated above the elbow. Progressing favourably. Leave for Home on Castle*.”

So he was coming back maimed* for life, but alive! Well, even that was something to be thankful for when one re members the hundreds whose dear ones can never come back any more. It was aiwanged that my brother should take me down to Southampton to meet the ship, and that Monica B £°uld go back alone to Torsbury and make ever} whmg ready for our return. . .. , We reached home, my dear invalid and I. late one afternoon in October. The old servants were assembled m the ha,ll. There were cheerful fires to greet “his. A’l was ready and expectant but my adopted daughter was not to be seen. “I wonder where Mon’ca can be? 1 sa.ici uneasily. Jack, turned upon me ra .-r sharply. ... •„ . “Monica! Who is Monica? . “My adopted daughter—Miss Smith, l have told you about her.” “Oh—Miss Smith! I remember. Is her name Monica? How strange!- :^ v The last two -words were scarcely audible. I was worried because the girl did not appear. Silly child! I suppose she was shy! I rang the bell and inquired for her. M.ss Smith had gone up 'to dress for dinner. I was told. ~ “Well, I suppose wo had better go too, I said to Jack. “You wall see her hy-and-bye.” . T Jack was far less of an invalid than had feared to find him. The voyage had set him up. He was just like himself: only of course, there was the sari s-umn of that poor arm—shattered for his King and his country! It took me some time to dress. M v maid was unpacking my boxes. every thing in my room, was down. 1 was a good ten minutes late when I burried downstairs. I hea.rd voices a-s X crossed the hall; but the drawing-room was empty; the murmur of the vo : oe« came from the library. Had th°v met? Did he admire her? I stole across the hall and opened the library door softly, then strange words fell on my amazed ears! “My darling—my sweet—my own ! Oh! how could you be so cruel as to let me think you were dead!” “I would have remained dead to you for ever Jack, if by living T had continued to spoil your I’fe. When that fire came and they put my name by mistake as’having beet burnt to death in the theatre, I saw my clianco. and I swore to myself that unless I could make your mother love me and want me I would never be heard of again. Then I played my stake.” “And sii© does love you you say ? Whm can wonder, indeed! But it is wonderful! Little witch, how did you do it?” “I lied awfully, Jack! Th© lies I tol l in order to get into this house were simply appalling! When she knows hew I have lied to her do you think she will fore’ve me —ever?”

“How much have you lied to me Monica Smith?” broke in my •stern voice, as I stepped out from behind the screen. “’Confess your lies!” They sprang guiltily apart. Not, however before I had perceived that mv eon’s sound arm had been round Monica’s waist and that Monica’s l : ps were firmly pressed against his bronzed neck. My stars! That was a pretty sight for a mother.

''Confess your lies!” I repeated, severely; and she confessed tßem. every one.

Tlie story was true it appealed, in parts. She had been robbed of her purse in the train, she had been destitute and penniless but the Yorkshire story was a fiction from beginning to end and so was the lost box over which I had wasted so many, good sixpences in telegrams. She had been educated at the High School at Gloucester, but she had never typewritten in an office, or been companion to an old lady. She had just been on the stage all along with country tounng companies. until ®h© fell ill and lost her engagement and had to spend all her savings in doctor’s bills. Then she botiglit that one good gown in which she had travelled with the residue of her money, and a third class ticket to our station here, and had sec herself down to cry outside my gate. "What is your name, then, is it Smith?” I inquired, severely, though I could scarcely suppress my smiles. "No. Dale!” "Your stage name?”

"It was my real name.” “But it isn’t Dal© now. mother," broke in Jack joyously. "Allow me to present to you my wife—Mrs Jack Somerville." So the murder was out; and having been so foolish as to inform her some time ago that I had sooner have her for a daughter-in-law than anybody- else in the world, what was I to do but to knock under and forgive her? And I loved her so dearly, too. And my heart within me was just dancing for joy. "All the same," I said, as I kissed her. "you have deceived me shamefully, Monica. I couldn , t have believed that you could’ have tricked me so completely/’ “I did act the part rather well, didn’t I ?” said that naughty child complacently. "You see. I had been five years on the stage, so it came natural to me. Anyhow I have brought down the house after the last act, dearest, haven’t I?’’ • "And mother, you love her, don’t you ?’’ said my boy. -with shining eyes. “You don't wonder that I married her now you know her. do you?’’ -No'. . I didn’t wonder any more. I only told myself that I was an old fool, and that I didn’t deserve the happiness that had fallen at my feet. And then Reeves came in to say that the soup was getting cold, and we <£IT three went into dinner.