AN OLD WIFE'S TALE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2130, 20 December 1894, Page 27

AN OLD WIFE'S TALE.

By E. de L. GRAHAM.

*- {Socially writtr.i for Hie Witness Chrstoias

Nnmber of 1894 )

ELL you a story 1 Why, child, I have t old yon co rrnry already I v»o» dei jtti csn ask f« r more But hfve I cot oilers to lei 1 Of coarse. I have seen many, many strange things In my life. Everybody has, if they've lived to be aa old as I am. Did you i. ever wonder how you got your »ame— Madelina ? It. is not a common name for a girl like you to hare. But thore wa» •lwayi something about you that put m* in mind of someone elie who bore that name and you were called io to pleaae me. She wa« one of & family I was with years ago as a eort of confidential maid, or lady'shelp they call it now. There were six of them, Mrs Nugent and her five daughters— Ro*a and Frances and Emmeline and Alison and Madelina. And of all the overbearing people I ever me*, they were the worst.. Att except Madeline, who was as gentle ftp a chid, just as different to them in that a» ehe was " in everything else. All the others were great belle*, and beautiful, too. in a dark, showy way. She was not pretty one bit, but wai jnat a little, plain, pale tiring. All the came there was a something abou' her that I thought worth far more than anything the others had with all their bouncing ways and trains of lovers. I used to think that if I were a man I would know where to take my love to, but none of them teemed to think with me. That's jast the way with men, child. They talk and talk about their fnture wives, and all they are going to be, and how impossible it will be for them to be taken in as some other man has beeD, and then they just go and throw themselves away on the first girl who gets round them with a pretty face and a smooth tongne, and have to pay for it all the rest of their live*. It isn't the pretty women that are the good one?, as a mle. Madelina was good, and very patient. I am snre she bad need to be, poor gir), with the life sbe led. They were all hard on her every one of them, and Bhe was treated more like a- servant than a Bister. My blood has boiled many a time at the things I have seen and heard, and I used to pray that a day would come when she would be able to turn round on her persecutors. But she never oompialned, though she bad made a sort of confidante of me, and used to tell me everything, for 1 was a middle-aged woman even then. Ooe day ebe came to me in high spirits, her cheeks flashing and her eyes gleaming like stars. " Margaret," Bhe cried, " oh ! Margaret, Mr B&y&eU's picnic is to be to-morrow, and mamma says I may go." "I am very glad, dear," I said. " Are you going alone 1 " "Oh 1 no." She sat down beside me and clasped her poor little red hands on my lap. The other glrla' bands were white enough ; they never had to do the thi&g* she did. il lam going with Emmel'ne and Rosa. Mr Qarlsbrook is goiDg to call for us, and we Am all *n\no tocather. Don't yon think Mr

Oarisbrook seems to lov« Emmeline very much 1 "

" Yes, dear, very likely. What are you to wear?"

" Oh, Emmeline says she will give me her pretty grey frock. It is not a bit shabby, but she has not worn it for a good while, so no one at all will recognise it. Mamma aaya if it cannot be made to do I cannot go at all. You will fix it up a bit for me, won't you, Margie.Jilear 1 " "Of course I will, Madelina," said I. (I always called her Madelina, for she was just a child, only 18.) "Do you think you shall enjoy yourself?" "I don't think at all," she cried gaily, spriaging up, " I know it. Don't leok doubtful, Margie, because I mean to. Now I must go and see about lunch." She tripped away aa happy as she could be, and I did not Uke to say a word to spoil her pleasure. But I did not feel so sure about it as she did, because I felt sure her Bistera would not like her going, and would do all they could to make things unpleasant for her.

I don't think I ever saw her look so well as she did the next day. Even Rosa looked at her, and muttered something about not thinking that old dress of Emmie's would have looked so decent. She made some laughing answer, and the next moment there was a rat-tat at the door, which showed Mr Oarisbrook had arrived. And so, with a farewell wave of her hand to me, sbe went off.

I did not see her again that day, but the next Taoinisg Jrjion? Janch sue oame up to j»y room. She sat down beside me as usual, with her hands clasped on her knee. " Margia," she said, •• is everything in this world a failure 1 " " Most things are, I think. Why ? " "Everything I have to do with is," she said. " ¥ou know how glad I was to go to that picnic, Margie. I wish I had stayed at home."

" It was a change for yon," I said. «y es _ a change from being insulted in private to being insulted — so much that I bate to think of it— in public. Margie, at first I did enjoy myself so much, but a f ter Margie, dear, tell me if it was very wrong to take a walk with a gentleman." "Who was it?" " Mr BAysell," she said, with a faint flush going right up over her forehead. " It was very unwise," I said. "But many other girls were doing just the same and worse. He asked me to go, and I did not like to refuse. I did not me*n to stay long," she said wistfully, " but the time went so fast, and then "

" Yes, dear." "Ob, Margie, Rosa said such dreadful things. She said I was— waa Bcheming to catch Mr Baysell, and that I was poaching on other people's preserves." •' Well, what then 1 " 11 And then "— her head drooped lower and lower, and I felt a tear on my band— "«he s«.W that he was more than half eut *ged to her. ' "It is not true," I crifd. I felt so indignant I could have said anything. " Don't you put any faith in that wicked girl, Ma'Jeiina, or in what ahe saya. There is (wly one woman in this world that Paul B-iysell cares for, and it isn't her." " That cannot raaka any difference, Margie," she paid, s*ill in the same chokfcd sort ot voice, with her head kept down. " Madelina," I whispered, " do you love him?"

She raised her head and looked at me. Then she put both arm 3 round me, and laid her poor little head on my ahou'der. I hold her tight, without Bpeaking. " Margie," she whimpered presently, " I did not know— l really did not. It I had I would never have *een him or gone near him. Oh 1 I would rather have suffered anything But I did not know. Oil} yesterday, when Rosa told me he was hers, I se«med to feel a sadden snap at my heart, and then not to care for anything. It seemea as if I could not tak« any interest in life any more " ••Poor little girlie 1" 11 And then I wanted to go away and hide Boraewbere. I felt as if I couldn't bear to meet him just then. I thought everyone was looking at me »nd reading ray secret, and jeering at me over it. So I ran away right into the thioktmt basha* and lay down there— and, oh, Margie, how I did wi*h I could die! And then a long, long while went by, and I heard footsteps, and voices calling for me. ABd then Koss. and bn came almost up beside me, till I could hear what they were saying. ' She really Is a most sallen child,' said Rosa. • I had occasion to reprove her for some though tleifl indiscretion, and the consrqaence is she has gone and stowed herself away like this, to annoy me. I—'1 — ' I only hope,' he said, ' that she is nowhere among this damp bush, or she will catch her death of cold.'— 1 It would serve her well right,' said Rosa. ' Coma, let us rfjoin the others If she is left behind it is her own fault.' So they went off together, and I got up and went another way, and joined the rest before they got back. They were a long time coming. This morning I got another lecture from Rosa, and one from mamma, and frowns from all 'he rest, of course. Life is very hard sometimes, Margie, dear."

" Yes," I said, "it is. But it isn't going to be hard for you much longer. Do yon know why Rosa waa so vexed yesterday 1 " "Yea— didn't Rosa tell me 1 He loves her."

"He does not. But he does love you, and she knows it."

Tbe blood waved over her face and neck, and she snatched away her handi and put them over her eyes. " Margie," she cried, " I did not think you would laugh at me. Oh I how could yon 1 " Then, with a stifled sob, she ran out of tbe room. Five minutes later I saw her run down the back steps into the garden. My heart ached for her, but I would not follow her then. I knew that as soon as she thought of it she would know I was not likely to make fun of her, and would come and ask for an explanation of her own tree will.

All that day she went about without a word— only her face was so white I could have oried. The girls jeered and insulted, and her mother scolded, but she did not aay a word. Now and then her Una would auirer

a little, pitiful to see, but that was all. After dinner she went into the garden again, and stayed there. I went to bed that night with an aching heart. As a rule she used to come into my room and talk to me before we went to bed, Her room was next to mine. That night ahe did not come. But I could hear her moving about late into the night, and two or three times she moaned. I never heard such a moan before nor since. Then all was silent for a time, and presently she had a dreadful fit of tobblng, terrible to hear. I couldn't stand it. I got out of bed and was halfway across the room, when the door aaddenly opened and she cams in. She was in her night-dross, with her hair hanging down, and her face all one awful chalky white save for the great black circles beneath her eyes. I started back with a cry of surprise when I saw her, but she only smiled in a wan, ghoitly sort of way as she sat down on the couch and drew me down beside her.

"Margie," she said, in a funny hollow Bort of way, " I have come to make further confessions, but I don't want to make them juit now. Will you let me sleep with you to-night ? "

"Why?" I asked. I was surprißad, because before she had always refused to share a room with anybody whatever.

" For no particular reason," she said — " only I would like company to-night ; perhaps I may not be able to get it to-morrow. Do you mind 7" I told her " No/ and she sat ih&re Inside me, knitting her brows and occasionally giving a short, quivering sort of sigh. Presently she said : •' Margie, do you remember what you said about Mr Baysell?" " Yes." "It seems it is true. He proposed to mamma for my band to-day." II And will you accept hin>?" I criad. " No."

" Why not ? " 11 Mamma says I must not. It seems that Rosa c«reß as much for him as— as I did once. She thought he cared for hur, too, and told everjbody they were engaged."

" Well," I said sharply. " Mimcna says R >«a would break her heart with love and shame if nothing come 3of it now. And she is bo beautitul ii. is a pity all her life should be waited. Paul's feeling for me can be only a fancy, ar'sing out of mistaken compassion far my plainness and stupidity, mamma says. She advises me to give him up." " And .you ? " " Of course I shall do it," ahe said quietly. "Mamma ia right. I could never m-ike a fitting wife for him. Better an hour's sorrow now tban a lot of misery afcerwa'ds. I think we had better go to bed now, Maggie, dear. lam very weary." She woald not say another word, but told me to go to sleep. Just as I was falling into a d' z-;, though, {•ho called my nams, and I fult her cold little hand touching mine.

" Margie, dear," she said, " kins me. You have always been my beat friend, M my only friend. Pray for me bofora you go to sleep to-night."

I have not much more to n*y, child, and I could not say it if I had. Dj you think I cold describe the horror 1 felt when I w->ke the next oioraing and found I was lying be&idu a corpse 1 She had one .inn thrown round me, and the other was lying straight by hrr side. In her right b«nd ebe bold a tiny bottle labelled " Pubon." Yes, child, in the misery of her disappointed Ufa, in the a^ony of her broken love dream, she had taken her own sweet youog lite. They managed to hush ifc up, and got the doctor to say if waa heart diseass aomehow I did not stay in that house another day ; I could not bear it.

And him 1 Well, he did not marry Rosa, but he was not faithful to Madellna's memory, for all that. Ttiat; is not in a man's nature, dearie.