A SPECK OF MARCH DUST

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1679, 4 May 1904, Page 13

A SPECK OF MARCH DUST

(By Clara Mulholland.) ' I. T cal it handsomei, Paulina; I do, :n------deed!” Mrs Garington cried, trembling with excitement. ‘‘And everything ,ve want! I—l declare the thought oi it,” she continued, her bosom heaving," her words almost, inaudible, as she gazed ?t her daughter with dim eyes), “takes' my breath away. Why—why ho At you say something child,. instead of siarnig at me like that?” Paulina laughed—a choking, spasmodic little laugh—and put her hand oh her mother’s shoulder. ■'l’m dazed 1 , de-tar, speechless with wonder and delight”—her ©yes sparkling. “Why, Undo Bogey is a prince! It will be glorious tip got awajq out of thi-s wretched lodging”—glancing round the shabby parlour—“and, go into a nice, wellappointed house, with money to buy pretty things, and nothing to do.” “Bless the child!” —-patting her hand affectionately. ‘‘You dp hate work. You’re not like Honor, my pretty pet. tine seems made for a homely,' quiec life.” “I fancy Honor wil be glad of a cnange, too, mother. She has been working hard, too hard, over those -kusri examiuauoiis." ‘‘Well, she need not worry any more about, them now. Shrill be able to do exactly as she likes. And then —oh, dear! Paulina”—with a little sigh of satisfaction —“I’ll be seeing you bo th make good marriages. That’s the splendid part oi it all. In India there are men in plenty, and girls-, they say, are scarce. As tne Colonel in command of' a .good regiment, your uncle wil Irayemur.vhers of ricn, wellconnected friends. I- or a pretty giul Juke you to be seen. is all that’s necessary. You were lost in this poor place, ,my darling. Oh, how proud I’ll be of you, dear, when you are nicely dressed. Paulina blushed and laughed, then glanced at herself in the old cracked and dusty mirror over the mantelpiece. “Tine feathers make fine birds,” she cried, gaily. ‘‘But, iriotker, it will take all the money, and more, to buy dresses enough for three of us. Things run up so. We must have lay dresses, aim evening dresses, and shoes l , and hats, and. veils and* parasols. Oh, dear, how one’sWants grow ! I wish Uncle Roger had sent three hundred, instead of two. But a man novel* thinks. I’m sure he hasn’t the faintest idea o-f what our wants are He never dreams of all three women require/ ’

‘•I think Roger has acted nobly. Twoliundred pounais, and. the passage monej of three people to Burmah, moans a large sun?, Paulina.” ‘To be sure it does. And—” laughing—“l’m- not ungrateful. . But I can t help wishing that either there were three hundred pounds for things, or only two ple wanted; thorn. Fancy, n there were — just you and in© for this money—how nice it would be!”

“Y'oa inusn’t be selfish, Paula. Honor has as much right to- a share of her uncle’s money as you or I. She’s not exactly pretty, and may not do him so much credit, or captivate people the way you will. But she’s nice, and ——’’ ‘‘lndeed'she i-a And, of course, she must get her things, and -enjoy her chance. You mustn’t think me so horrid, mother. 3 ’ "•

“My dear, no. I feel exactly as you do. Two hundred would go. much farther oil two than on three. However, we needn’t pay for all a-t once. When the trade-o-peopie (and I’m determined to make the most of everything) hear of Reger’s mag nificencd, they won’t want, their money in a hurry, tip we’ll not stint ourselves, but just get—well, anything we require or fancy.”

A light foot was heard on the stairs, the door opened, and a small, slender girl, with a pale, creamy skin, dark hair, and large, earnest, brown, eyes entered tne room, and, running up to her mother, laid her arms about heir neck.

“Well! child. So you've .heard- the good news?” Mrs Carrington said, looking with soiiiis astonishment -into her younger daughter’s bright, happy face. “ i r es, at last.” the girl answered, in glad; tones'. “And the appointment is a really good one. Just fancy”—glancing from heir another to her sister—“here l m. Honor Carrington, aged twenty-one, qualified dispenser to tlie Ophtnalimu Hospital, with a bed-room • and sittingroom all to myself, hie and light, Keep, and a good forty pounds a year. Congratulate nre, mother—Paulina. I feel a millionaire). TouT|l both have many things you want badly now.” . -Her mother and sister laughed. ‘•The appointment has com© too late, Honor/’ Paulina, said, quietly. ‘‘Two months ago it would have been a blessing, and given us considerable satisfaction. But now ”

“Too late?” Honor’s eyes opened very wide. “What can you mean?" “Don’t look so h orroawstricken,” laughed Paulina, slipping hen arm round her sister’s siimi waist. “The end of the world basn’t com© j r et. Eli! mother?”

“Par from i'.t, for, as far as we are concerned, the world is only now becoming worth living in. Since your father’s death, and oar terrible collapse into poverty, I haive never so smiling and so pleasant. Honor Uncle Huger has sent for us. He’s in command of his regi. ment now, ait a good station in Burinah and wishes me to go out to housekeep for him. There will be balls and picnics, and every kind of entertainment. Like a good uncle, ha wishes you and Paulina to enjoy life —to see and be seem In. a short time, he .feels with me, you will both make excellent marriages.” “But, mother” —Honor sank upon the •sofa, literally gasping for breath—"we eannotelgo to Burmah witliout a great deial of money. The journey is expensive. Fancy- Colonel Edgecombe’s nieces m things”—glancing scornfully at her wellworn serge—“like this. Oh! it would be disgraceful/’ f Hai'k to the child!” laughed Mirs Garrington, with an amused loot at Paulina. . roll her all, mother. She’ll soon tliiuk nothing of this appointment she’s bo proud of, when sh© hears of Uncle

generosity. Although”—sighing—‘‘l’m buu sue li agree with me in wishing that he’d made it three hundred instead of two. A hundred pounds a, piece for things' would have been none too much when all is said and done.” “A hundred apiece!” gasped Honor. “Panina, are you mad? 3 ’ “My dear child,” Mrs Carrington smiled, “Paulina’s ideas have grown and expanded by leaps and bounds. U ncle Roger has sent us two hundred ior clothes, and 1 will send us our passage nionejr oy next mail. Half an hoar ago Paulina thought two hundred quite a fortune. Now sh© thinks it a pa my sum. Says,” laughing, 'that, like the' Scotsman’s goose, it’s too much for one, but not enough for three.” “And that two would do well on it, 1 see.” Honor’s brow contracted, her eyes were full of thought. “But I tell her we need not pay all our bills at once,” Mrs Carrington said cheerily. “Uncle Roger is generous, and will soon give us more money, I’m sure. Bu' why do you look so grave, child ? Aren t you pleased at the idea of going u. India. ?” “Yes—in a way.” “But not -enthusiastic ” laughed Paulina. “But just think of the dances ■.n j fun, Honor!” Honor’s eyes sparkled, and her colour deepened. . Her rosy lips were wreathed in smiles. “'Glorious! And Uncl-o Ro-ger is a dear; I’d love to ride and walk with him, I used to do long ago.” ‘•Yes,” Paulina said slowly. “But I confess I’m somewhat past the age when one enjoys walks with an uncle. I think someone younger and not quite such a near relative would be more congenial. Still, he is a dear. And now, Honor, you will give up this appointment at oncer It-will take us all our time to gett our things, for we must cut our coats according to citr cloth, and get them as economically as posable.” “ Yes”—Honor clasped and unclasped her hands—“you must get everything very nice, Paulina; and mother, too. You must do uncle credit- —in every- way.”

“And so must you, Honor. You are petite, and won’t want things quite as rich a.s we shall. But', oh dear! 'Why”—• looking hard at her uncle’s cheque — l “didn’t he make that first little figure a three? Everything would have been easy th <=n

Honor rose up and walked over to the window. The London sky was dull and) leaden. The air was close. T n the mean little street into which she gazed, poor, weary-looking men and women tramped slowly to and fro. Dirty children played together in the gutter; lazy boys nung round the doorsteps and area railings. Seen through panes of glass thick with dust and grim,©, the prospect was not a lively one, and Honoris heart felt low. “The Fulham Road will be little better,” she thought, sighing. “To get away to sunny lands; to see new places, how glorious it wouldd be! And yet No; I won’t give up my appointment. Uncle Roger is good, kind, generous. But two people are enough. Ana the money •" Sue turned suddenly, and of the struggle that had been .going on in her mind there was not the smallest sign in her earnest little face, as she bent and kissed her mother’s cheek.

“I’m delighted that Uncle Roger has sent for you. dear,” she said, gently. “And I hope you and Paulina will have a good time.”

“Honor! And why should we only have a good timet? Surely you ” “Surely I will have a good time, too—but at home, mother. Two arc better than three, in every way”—she breathed unusuialy hard. “The money will go farther. And I can’t at present anyway, give up my appointment. So——” “It does seems a pity. But sltill, I’d like you to get married, Honor. And what chance has a dispenser?” Honor laughed aud patted her mother e cheek.

“I’m no beauty. And—well, there’s an old saying—‘Shut a girl up in a bandbox, shrill meet with her fate.’ So who knows what may happen, even at the hospital. So”—gaily—“don’t fret. My fata, at present, is splendid. It’ll tie independent and self-supporting.” “Iris not fair. Undo Roger won’t be pleased l ,”

* “Yes he will. And I tell yo-u wliat, mother, I”—with a sudden, sweet smile—“will go out for Paulina’s wedding, and stay on with you then. Now,”—(turning to her sister —“isn’t that a good arrangement.” i, “Yes” Paulina thought Honor foolish and quixotic, but the recollection that T the girl stayed at home she would have a full hundred to spend on the adornment of her own pretty person mad© her keep her ideas to herself. “And if you really don’t mind, dear, it •” “Mind! Wo need not discuss that,” cried Honor, and after' a lew use-liess and faltering objections from her mother,, the whole thing was settled. Mrs Carrington and Paulina were to -sail for India as soon as possible. Honor was to take ip her appointment ait the Omlhalmic Hospital. in the Fulham Road. 11. “A wild wind and a bright sun. Clouds of dust flyiu-fT round the street corners. Thank yen. Max, the house is the place for me to-day. You must go out done/’ “ ‘A bushel of March dust is worth a King’s ransom,’ Ellinor, and the sun is warm and ■” “ ‘A speck of March dust maketli the -eye’— No, that is not a proverb,” laughed Elinor. “But I’m immovable. In the house I stay.” “You’ll be bored to extinction, alone. “Tbat” —with a plaintive little sigh, and the sudden rising of her delicatelypencilled brows —“is my normal condition.” “Y r ou want something to do, Elinor. An interest of some kind.” “Where anx I to get it? I’ve everything I want in one way now. And yet” —a deep blush overspread her fair face—“if. seems to me . But run off, Max. You love the sun, and have no veil and tiiinas to suffer from the wind. So go. ‘Stand not upon the order of your going,’ as the immortal Shakespeare says, ‘but go.’ ” “It’s time, when you throw sayings from Macbeth at my head. I’m gone.” And. laughing, Maxwell Leonard left the handsome house in Sloane Gardens, which

and walked quickly down the street. I “Poor Elinor!” he sighed presently, j “Will her affairs never come right, I 1 wonder? Will that fellow ever turn up i again? Till he does, I fear sue’ll never jbe happy. We’re rich, and have all ve want now. But so long as Fairfax is missing Elinor will bei miserable. What a strange thing love is, to be mre. I’« ople talk of it as bliss. Well” —ia ughf 11 g —“it has often the appearance of something. very diffefbnt. However, i can't

speak, since I’ve never experienced the feeling. I’m a hardened old sinner, I suppose, for airs and graces and sweet, preitty faces don’t move me one bit. By Jove! What a blast!” And he clutched wildly at his hat as, on turning into the Fulham Road, a sudden gust of wind nearly carried it off. “And such dust! If ‘a bushel’s worth a' King’s ransom, what’s all this worth? th!” iJ 1 gave a little cry of pain, and s' ood gti l ! fumbling blindly for his pocket handkerchief.

“A speck of dust in your eye? Painful thing,”' said a young man, sympathetically, at his elbow. “Let me take you to the Ophthalmic Hospital; there a doctor’ll whip it out in a jiffy.” “You’re a real Good Samaritan. Take me where you will,” laughed Max, Lis face screwed up. “This March dust is a scourge, if you like.’ 3 “Yet it’s worth a King’s ransom, they say.” “A bushel—mot a speck. Ah! is this the place? Not up to much a®, far as looks go. In spite of this treasure in my eye, I can. see that.” “I wouldn’t judge by appearances,” laughed the stranger. “You’ll be blessing it, shabby as it is before long. Doctor in ?” he asked the porter who opened the door in answer to his ring at .he bell. “This gentleman lias got a nasty price© of diust in big eye.”

"Very sorry, sir,” the man replied; “every doctor’s gone. But I have it. The dispenser'll do all you want. Come in, gentlemen.”

Thank you. I’ll leave him to you now,” the stranger said;, and 1 , bowing he went away.

Maxwell folowed the porter into a email room, the back-parlour of the house. It wab dingy and black-looking, and fitted up with several rows of dark wooden benches. “Not much luxury here,” though -as. well, and lie dropped on to a seat, pressing handkerchief .a-cross his burning e-yes. “I hope this fellow will soon come, and that his hands may be clean. Dispensers are ” A light step, a firm, cool hand upon uig brow, a .sweet, soft voice asking him to turn a little -towards the windo-w, gave Maxwell a su-dd-en tlirili of pleasure and surprise; .and as his handkerchief was removed, and the lid ot has inflamed eye gently raised, he saw a young girl m & fresh, blue blouse, a big hoilamd apron en veloping her slender .form, her brown hair curling low on her broad, white lorehead, bending over him. In a few seconds the obnoxious particle of dust was -extracted, bis eye® bathed, and Maxwell stood up, graretul and deu lighted. He thanked the girl profusely; then looked at her with a start oi recognition, and lie-let out ius hand. “Miss Carrington i” he exclaimed quickly. “Surely you have net ±oi gotten me? 1 met you quite three years ago. But still ” Honor’s face lit up with pleasure. “I have not forgot ten you, Mir Leonard. And I am glad to have been of use to you.” “You have given me marvellous - Hef. But why—bow are you here, Hi? Srring’ton ?” A _ shadow rested for an instant on the girl's bright face. Then, she looked up, and smiled. “Because I passed the examination successfully. You see” —quickly— *‘tamer died, anil—and left u,s very poor. Mocker and Paulina went to Unoie Roger, in India, and are having fine times/’ “And you? Why didn't you go?” “ Well, you see, there were rather too many. And I had my appointment. But”—gaily—“l am to go out to Paulina’® wedding.” “And when will that be?” Honor rubbed her eyes suddenly, and a faint tinge of pink stole into her pale cheeks. There was something just a l:t------tle embarrassing in Maxwell Leonard’s -earnest glance. “I can't say. Not for some time-, however. Paulina’s immensely admired, for she’s very pretty. Burt she's not engaged ydt.” He smiled, looking as though the news both pleased and relieved his mind. “So we shan’t lose you, .7 List ais we’ve found you? I’m glad of that,” he said; then laughed as he saw an expression of surprise in the girl’s frank eyes. “1 say we, meaning my sister and myself. You remember. Elinor, Miss Carrington?” “'Well. Is she as pretty as-ever?” “I think so. But she is pale and weary•looking. \Y e, unlike you”—ne reddened—“have grown rich, and the change does not quite agree with Elinor, tine lacks interest, ana things that money can buy are not enough for her. .* ui you come and sec her? The sight of your busy, useful life may dio her good. We live quit,© near, in 'Sloane Gardens.” “How very pleasant,” Honor cried. I’ll go to see Elinor with pleasure. I have plenty of spare time. Ibis”—-throw-ing open the door of a small room that smelt like a cheuniSc’s shop—“ig my dispensing den 1 make up the doctors’ prescriptions here, and hand no tiles to outpatients through that little hole” —-pointing to an opening in the wail. “That generally takes the afternoon. But in the morning and the evening after seven. I am free—-except on Fridays, when I am kept going till nine or ten at night. When would Elinor like to see me?” “Any time. But”—eagerly— “come to dinner to-morrow. Elinor shall write to you or call and se-e you.” , “You are very kind. It will be a pleasure to meet her again.” With a buoyant step and a light heart Max made his way home, and hurried to the drawing-room to look for Elinor. _ “She must go alt once. Thus girl is just the companion she wants,” he told himself. “I am glad I had the gooa luck to meet her. tio even a speck of March dust in the eye”—laughing—“is worth something.” The sound of voices in the drawing* room olias-ed the -smile from his lips. “Visitors. "What a nuisance! Well, perhaps they won’t stay long.” And, opening the door, he went in. At the window stood Elinor, a tail, dark man at her side, and 1 , with a start of astonishment, Maxwell recognised tin good .-amaritan of the Fulham Road. “How on earth did he get here?” be asked himself, wondering. ' “Max!” Elinor turned —a radiant happy Elinor now —and with outstretched hands ran forward to meat him. “Oh! I’m so- glad you have come in. Here is Gerald Fairfax. He has been abroad—but has got on. And”—a wave of crimson- sweeping over ner face, her voice falling to a shy whisper—“he loves me, an d—and we are engaged. You do not know him, except by name, but you'll soon like him, I feel sure. Congratulate me, dear.” “My dear Elinor!” —Max threw his anus around her—“l wish you all joy and happiness. But”—looking toward her lover —“I do know Fairfax. I”—■ holding out his hand “made his acquaintance to-day.” Gerald shook his hand warmly. In a funny way,” he cried. “I hadn’t the faintest idea who you were.. I trust The dispenser was equal to the occasion.” ‘‘Rather! Whipped the diust out, as you said, ‘in a jiffy.”’ Fairfax laughed'. “I’m glad he was so expert.” “He? My dear fellow, ifc was not he, but a lady. One of the— Elinor, you must go' off at once and ©all upon her.” “Max!” Elinor took a backward step and gazed at her brother with an alarmed, expression. • f: “No,” Max laughed, "I’m not insane, Elly. It’s dear little Honor Carrington.” “Honor Carrington a dispenser of medicine ?” “Yes. Isn’t it wonderful ? She seemed only a child three years ago. How she learnt Latin, etc., and passed such stiff exams. beats me.”

"Ob, she wag always eleven/'’ remarked Elinor. “But where are bier people?” "In India. Go and &e© her, Elly, and give ber some aanaisement.” Elinor looked closely at ber brother', andi then ber lips parted .in a sweet, wellpleased' smile. \§< ‘■‘'We’ll make bfr contodrere to-night,” sbe cried, joy on sly, "and have a nice champagne dinner fon four, to celebrate Gerald's return and our engagement. Does that please you, brother mine ?” ""Perfectly. You're an angel, Elinor.” “Not at all, only”—with a radiant glancef—"a happy woman. I'd like to .give dear little Honor a chance, too/' Max bent down suddenly and kissed her. "Write ber a note then, and I'll go back -with it to the hospital/' "No, no,” gaily. “Not so soon, Max. Geraldi and I are going Hot a walk, vv ©’ll see Honor, and make her promise to eoane.” "Hut the wind is hirElinor/' cried Max, ‘ T and the dust——” “Never mind./' laughing. "If I do get a speck in my eye, Gerald will lead me to the hospital, and the talented dispenser will quickly remove it. Sit down, you two, and have a friendly chat. Pm off to put on my things. Au revoir.” And she tripped. away. 111. The days and weeks slipped past with wonderful rapidity, and one evening, when the Indian, mail earn© in, Honor remembered, with something like a shock, that her mother's letter had ceased to oe the important tiung in her life that il • used to be. "At the beginning it was all I had to comfort me,” she said), fastening a spray of tear-roses on the bodice of her white dinner-dress. "It is not that I carei less, but” —a delicate pink creeping into her cheeks—"my days and evenings have been so full, so happy. But, aias! that will soon be over. This will, perhaps, be our last dinner party at Sloane Gardens. For Elinor’s wedding next week must end everything. Th© house will be shut up. And he will, of course, go away too. Ah! then/' sighing, “this place will be changed. I wish Paulina would 1 hurry. If she were but engaged, I'd have to go, and I'd be almost glad. But, I declare! I'd be late. I'll read mother’s letter another time." And thrusting it into her pocket, she threw on a tong cloak, gathered up her muslin skirts, and ran down to tlio cab tbat was waiting for her at the Hospital door. It was,a sultry evening, and when dinner was over Honor lef+ Elinor surrounded by her lady guests, and stepped out on ’V) the balcony. "I could see bv the street lamp,” she thought, "to read mother’s letter. This would lie a good opportunity.” Bret before she broke the seal someone came out through the big window, and stood beside her. With a bright blush and a sudden, quick throb of pleasure, the girl saw that it was Max. "A letter?” he said, quickly. “I” turning array—"am interrupting—preventing you from reading it?” "No, no —that is—it's only”—with a nervous and- rather guilty little laugn—“from mother/' and any time will do to read it, that is''—apologetically—“you see, I'm always lialf-afraid to find that Paulina’s approaching marriage will oblige me —to go—out—there.” Maxwell turned pale. "You would not wish ..to go surely non or ?” "Oh, nO'!” looking up with a start. "It would' break my neart.' "And mine to see you go—that is” — he bent towards ber, his eyes full of a great and passionate longing—"unless 1 might go also—bane you there as my wife ?” "Maxi” "Honor, my darling, I love you. Can you love me always ? Take me a a your husband, tor better for worse ?” ■"Till death dlo usi part/’ Honor whisper«a softly. "Yes, Max—yes. And oh i i hope and pray that I may make you happy.” "Of that I have not the smallest donbt, my darling,” he murmured with deep emotion, and, catching her hands, ..>& drew her into his arms. "And now/' Honor cried after a while, and moving away from him, "I must take a peep at mother's letter. “Do. Thouijh 1 what she says does not matter much. You are mine now. Nothing can separate us.” Preseutly Honor gave a little cry of pleasure. "Max, they are coming home! Paulina is not engaged, but Uncle Roger has go# his long leave. How splendid l ! And so”—with a soft little chuckle—"the email dispenser in the Fulham Road”— looking up at him with loving admiration—“has dohei better than the gay girl in Bwrmah, Max.” He slipped his arm round her waist. "There are worse places than the Fulham Road sweetheart.” Honor’s fresh laugh rang out merrily on the evening breeze. "Especially with a ■■■ gh wind and the dust flying into one's eyes ?” *“ “Exactly. Thaifc speck of dust, -title one, was worth more than the ransom of fifty kings to me, for it brought supreme joy and happiness into my life.”

he and his sister had lately furnished,