IN FACE AND NAME.

Poverty Bay Herald, Volume XXXIV, Issue 11126, 27 July 1907, Page 1 (Supplement)

IN FACE AND NAME.

CHAPTER!

Miss Drummond of Glenernan was the ruler of a 6tate. Slie was also an autocrat, but the yoke of her autocracy was such that her people hugged it closely to their faithful hearts. They had never raid that the King could do no wrong, kings not passing habitually their way ; but that a Drummond of Glenernan could not err they knew, and would maintain, gainsay it who would. In days long past many, such Had been found, and much blood hod been spilt to prove where lay the right; after the rising of '45, however, there was not much spare blood to spill; folk stayed at. home and minded their own business,, and the. Drummonds of Glenernan, by thrift and industry, grad. ually regained some ofi the wealth which their inherently saving and careful hands had flung forth lavishly .'at Prince Charlie s> call. They had given, him of their best, risking land. and life, but, as Miss Drummond was wont to remark when she told the tele of those .days, as her grandmother had toM it to her, "There is no luck with the name of Stuart."

Truly enough, it had brought none to Glenernan, but the Drummonds were mad c of stern stuff, and most of. their broad lands had been won back by the time that Margaret Drummond, only child of Sir lan and Dame Elinor, his wife, became mistress of Glenernan.

-Scarce five-and-twenty summers had passed : over her head when her father died, followed „ few months Tater by the gentle wife who was so used to lean upon him that she could neither stand alone nor trust to the support of others. Her daughter, however, had seemingly no inclination to lean upon anyone, and all the anxiety felt and expressed upon the estate is to who Miss Margaret would take for her "man" proved needless, since when more than another five and twenty years had passed, she was Miss Margaret still. 'Some whispers there were of a young soldier who had come to bid her farewell when starting for the Crimean War, and who had never returned; but whether it was for his sake that Glenernan lacked a master none knew, and the locked frame, which had stood on the table m Mi6s Diummond's room for thirty odd years, kept the secret of the face it held irom all save her who wore its key about her neck.

Miss Drummond's room was large and airy and comfortably, although not luxuriously, furnished. It opened into what she' termed her business room, and few rdbms have better deserved the name, for everything done 'or .-^contemplated upon Miss Drummoiid's estate was. either evolved or examined by ' Miss Drummond herself.

Upon this particular June morning, however neither plans nor accounts were engrossing her attention. The sheete of notepaper she held m her slender fingers were of such texture as to suggest that their owner was some dainty, luxurious woman, to whom soft) living and smooth ways were as the breath of life. Yet that the fine, elegant writing perturbed tlie reader considerably was evident. The little straight line btween her eyebrows deepened and . widened, and the hand which held her glasses tapped impatiently upon the table. It was her habit to carry glasses attached to her, waistbelt. bnt she seldom remembered to use -hem, having m truth' no occasion so to do. She was a very picturesque figure as the sun shone m upon the bright silver hair, turned back over a cushion and smoothly coiled beneath the lappets o_ old lace that matched the bow at her neck. A large white mußlln apron cover, ed the front of her grey gown, and white turned-back cuffs protected her sleeves. Spotlessness, both as to the outer and inner man, was a creed at Glenernan. "Whatan exceedingly tiresome person Adelaide * is," M?ss Drummond exclaimed, aa sho laid ibe closely written sheets upon the table. "I have no patience with her. People have no business to have children if they don't know how to manage them. Now,' if I had had c girl — — "She stopped, and a sigh closed the sentence. .."May I come m,. Cousin" Margaret?" cried a bright young voice from the doorway, ahd with a little abrupt shake of the head Miss Drummond banished the sadness that 'had crept: into her eyes as she answered, "Of course you may, my dear. Indeed, I rather wanted to see you." "Oh! You have had a letter from mother," Majorie Grant cried, and the bur blue eyes clouded like a child _ as they fell upon the fine, writing which covered the pages beneath her cousin's hand. "Yes. I have heard from your mother," Miss Drummond answered slowly, and paused. Then, turning suddenly towards the girl, who stood a little behind her, she asked gently, "Why did not you tell me of tins— this gallant of yours, Majorie " In an instant the girl was kneeling beside her, with her arms about her waist as she answered:

"I wanted to, oh ! so badly, bus somehow, I don't know why, I just couldn't," and she buried her crimson cheeks m Cousin Margaret's apron.. Miss Drummond smiled as her hand smoothed the curly head caressingly, and there, was sadnesss as well as tenderness m her smile.

"I understand," 6lte said quietly, and Marjorie caught the slim white hand and kissed it gratefully. "You love him very dearly," Miss Drummond continued, more m assertion than interrogation; but Marjorie answered firmly, though her tone was low, and her cheeks burning. "Yes, Cousin Margaret." And he; I am very _ure, love 6 you,',' her cousin answered, "but that is not what we have to discuss," and she sighed impatiently as she glanced askance at. Lady Adelaide's letter. "You know, dear child," 6he added slowly, m the tones of one trying to recaU some sermon read long since and more than half forgotten, -"love is not a livelihood, and your mother says Captain Graliam is penniless." At this Marjorie raised her head impetuously, and her eyes blazed angiriy. as she cried. "He is not penniless. He had got three hundred a year and his pay." Her tone could not have been prouder ; indeed., it seems more than probable that it would not have been proud at all had site mentioned millions! % "Three hundred a year and his pay, ' Miss Drummond repeated, "and you, my Marjorie, have just what your mother chooses to give you." "Which will be nothing if I marry Mai. colm she says ; but neither he or I care for that," the girl cried recklessly. "Malcolm," her cousin repeated, and a shadow of rememberance crossed her face. "Is his name Malcolm?" "Yes, isn't it a delightful name " Marjorie cried appealingly. - "It is the nameT like best m all the world," Miss Drummond answered dreamily ; then, seeing the look of surprise m the. girl's face, she added hastily. "But we are not discussing names, my dear, but ways and means— and obedience to parents." This . last clause, an obvious afterthought, made Marjories mouth take a mutinous curve, but her cousin continued:—"No one, I think, sympatahises more with love, real legitimate love, than I do. I would let every girl have her sweetheart if I could; you amongst the first, my Marjorie ; but, you see, when the sweetheart turns into a husband, and his dinners and— and other things— have lo be provided -for. you will want another banker besides love." "But we dont mind a bit about our dinners," the girl protested, "Malcolm doesn't care what he eats, and you know I don't!" "Don't talk nonsense, child! Captain Graham is m a good regiment, and that means a good mess, and it will seem to him a matter of course that home dinners should be at least as good as regiental ones ; while as for you, like most people who say they are not particular about food, you have never even seen a badly cooked chop m your life!" Marjories face fell. 'She recollected that her mother always had a French chef, and that she invariably refused to go to any house where it was possible that the cuisine might be inferior to her own. .

"You are a foolish child," Miss Drummond continued, "and your mother haa, of course, much reason on her side when she says that it is preposterous — yes, preposterous is her word — to sign away your whole life at seventeen, and agree to wait for what perhaps may never come." The words were wise, but the voice that spoke them gave too clearly the idea of inverted commas to carry a conviction to the hearer that the speaker evidently lacked, and the sigh m which the sentence ended mended matters not a whit.

"Oh ! Mother always has so much reason on her side," Marjorie cried impatiently. "Bnt when one cares for a person one doesn't reason, one just cares."

"That is not a respectful way to speak of your mother, Marjorie," her cousin said reprovingly. "I .suppose it's not," the girl assented, "but you know one can't he respectful about mother. She's so aggravating." "That is worse still," said Miss Drummond. "You are quite wrong, and we will not discus, the subject.'

The faintest hint of a smile played round the corners of the girl's mouth. She was well used to her cousin's abrupt methods of closing a conversation, lid knew that they were frequently employed when she felt bound by duty to one side, while sympathy drew her to the other.

' ' Your mother tells me," M iss Drummond continued, taking up the letter before her and reading" from it, "that Captain Graham had the impertinence — that is your mother's expression, my dear, ani doubtless under the circumstances it is quite how it would strike her — but, however that may be, he m effect declined to regard- her decision as final, and declared his intention of coming here to get his answer from yourself." Miss Drummond laid down the glasses, which she had held between her eyes and the letter, and looked at Marjorie inquiringly. "Yes, Cousin Margaret," she answered, and her voice was low and a little tre-

mulous. "And how do you know?" Miss Drummond asked. He wrote to me.

"Oh! indeed, did he? I su-^ose you are aware that it is quite incorrect for young men and young women to write to eath other when they are not en gaged?'" . j "But that is not our fault," the gi • ! p'eaded. "So i suppose. In fact, you probahiv Kgard it as your misfortune. But rra^ 1 ask when this young man may be t-x.---ji cted here?" To-day," Marjorie answered, and ' «.r eyes fell to the level of her sh.:e buckles. - "Oh, indeed ! He is apparently nrorh^t m action as a soldier should be. But c he aware that Glenernan is twenty m'!t>» from the station, and that cabs do not ply the moors for hire?" "'He will walk out," Marjorie answer "a shortly. "An ! If he will walk twenty miles — " her cousin answered, and she paused, as though listening for some distant footfall. Something m her tone sent a glow of courage to the girl's heart. "Might I — might I go just a little way to meet him?" she said beseechingly. . -. The dreamy look faded from._ Miss Drummond's face as she shook her head m swift decision. "'Certainly not, she answered briefly. - "But, 'Cousin Margaret— " the girl ventured, only >to be cut short by a—"\Ve will not discuss it,jny dear. When Captain Graham arrives, which 1 conclude ne cannot do before four o'clock, I will receive him, and — and perhaps I will send hirti to you afterwards. That is, of course, if he pleases me, and if you are a good child." "Oh ! I will be good, so good," Marjorie cried as she flung her arms about Miss Drummond's neck and kissed her, "And you said that Malcolm was the nicest name m all the world, and he is is nicer than his name."

"Ah ! But a name means different things to all of us," Miss Drummond answered slowly; then added, as she kissed the face turned.up to her," Now, run away, dear, I am busy," and Marjorie went, her eyes aglow with hope.' • #'»'■»' » Miss Drummond had 1 slightly miscalculated the pace at which it is possible to traverse twenty miles of moorland road when Love is a motive power, and the great "clock m the stableyard had not yet struck four when- the servant opened the door of her sitting-room and announced, "Captain Malcolm Mac Donald."

The paper m Miss Drummond's hands fell to the floor, and the color fled from her cheeks as a tall, broad-shouldered young man entered the room, and bowing courteously, stood silently before her. A shudder ran through her whole frame as she looked at him. She stretched out her hands as though to ward off something strange and fearful. - "You. You — " she murmured, and her voice faltered and failed. Captain Graham looked at her m amazement, but as it .was evident that the sentence thus commenced was not to be completed, he said, m a singularly clear and musical voice, "It is very good of you to receive me, Miss Drummond.". She passed her hand wearily across her eyes. "I don not understand," she said brokenly, "It is the same name, the same face, the same voice — and yet — I am old and grey — he has not aged a day." Malcolm Graham was utterly perplexed. Marjorie had never hinted that her cousin was mad. She had always spoken of ber with an affection that was almost reverent, yet Miss Drummond's receptiontion of him was decidedly peculiar. He felt . that something must he done to relieve the situation, y? 'l .hope," he said gently, "that you will allow me to see Miss Grant?" "To see — who did you say ?" "Miss Grant," he repeated. "Miss Grant? — Oh! Marjorie — you came to see Marjorie — not me?" Captain Grant flushed. "I hoped you might consent to see me," he said, "and I thought that Miss Grant would have told you that I sail for — " "Ah! You are going to the Crimea,' Miss Drummond cried. Decidedly the poor lady was mad, Captain Graham thought. He must be careful not to excite her. "No," he said quietly, "not to the Crimea, but to South Africa.''

Again Miss Drummond drew her hand across her eyes. "I am- very stupid," she said. "I don't know what has happened, but I cannot understand. Tell me your name." "Graham," he answered, "Malcolm Mac Donald Graham."

The look if bewilderment cleared away from Margaret Drummond's brow. "Mac Donald Graham," she repeated. "I thought my servant said 'Malcolm Mac Donald, '" and her voice softened wonderfully as it touched the names. ,

"So he did," Captain Graham responded. "I gave him my card, whereon all my names are fully set forth, and he missed out" the last. 1 '

"But why are you 'Malcolm Mac Donald?" Miss Drummond asked.

Again. Captain Graham looked at her m surprise as he answered, "I am called after my uncle, Malcolm Mac Donald, who was m the Grenadier Guards, and was killed at Inkerman. He and my mother were twins." *

As he spoke Miss Drummond's grasp upon the carved high-backed chair, whereon she laid her hand, tightened until the wood pressed so closely into the flesh as to leave its pattern graven thereon; but she did not feel it. All her life seemed to hang upon the young man's words, "Ah ! The sister," she said softly, and she came a step or two towards him. "I remember now; so like him that when he first jointed his regiment and she tried on his uniform she deceived both father and mother." "Yes*," the young man assented quickly, "my mother often spoke of that— You knew her?" "No; I never knew your mother," Miss Drummond said slowly. "Then it was my uncle who told you — Ah !" he exclaimed, a sudden flash of recollection ringing m his voice, "forgive me, but— are you Pearl?" and his eager look scanned her face closely, searching for something that she seemed half to divine, as men do the contours of an English beauty hidden by the veil of a harem. A sharp sigh, near akin to a sob, broke from Margaret Drummond as she heard the name. "To him, yes," she said brokenly, "always Peari to him — only to him. "Then," said Captain Graham, as he drew something from his waistcoat pocket, "I have found you at last." It was only a little leather case, faded and frayed, but Miss Drummond's eyes filled with tears, and her hand shook fminfully as she took it. Slowly, softy, she touched the spring: the lid flew back and disclosed m an oval setting of pearls the face of a beautiful young girl — on the back of the miniature there was a short inscription. The engraving was faint, and worn, but clear as daylight to the eyes now bent upon it. "My Pearl, 1856, ' it said,' and beneath were two initials, "M.M." Silently Captain Graham looked upon the smiling girl's features to the sad woman's face. He had found what he sought. The real Pearl held the pictured Pearl m her trembling hands.

"It was sent to my mother — afterwards," he said. "My uncle always wore it round his neck. My mother only knew that Pearl was the name of the girl he loved and hoped to return to marry; but her father had refused to sanction an engagement 011 the eve of war, and had made my uncle promise that he would mention her name to no one. 'Please God, she will bear mine soon,' he said to my mother, 'Until them, she must be Pearl to you as to me.' " Miss Drummond had carried the minia. ture to the window and her back was turned to him. There was a pause, and then, moving suddenly towards a curtained doorway, she drew back the velvet folds and passed through. In anotber moment she re-appeared, a locked frame m her hand. Silently she drew a long fine chain of gold and pearls from

inside her dress; attached to it was a little golden key. Fitting it into the lock of the frame and turning it gently, the doors flew back and Malcolm uraham saw what seemed his own face framed m the head-dress of half a century ago. "You see now," she said, "why I thought that the dead had returned.'' Captain Graham bent swiftly over the white hand that held the frame, and kissed n> as he answered, "If the dead could return it' would be here."

A silence fell, between them. , Miss Drummond's eyes were bent upon the miniature she held. At last she spoke, "And so you love Marjorie?" she said. "Yes," Captain Graham answered simply; but his tone told Marjories cousin all she desired to know.

"It is wrong for children to marry against the wishes of their parents," she remarked.

"But m this case — : " Malcolm Graham began tentatively, when he was cut short. "jNo case can be exempt from a moral i law whose effect is generally acknowledI ged to be beneficial," Miss Drummond said. "We will not discuss* the subject; but I see no reason why, her mother's consent obtained, Marjorie should not marry you as soon as you please." j "Unfortunately, however, Lady Ade- ! laide has absolutely refused her consent," Captain Graham replied. J> . "That," said Miss Dfujhmorid, "is merely a preliminary detail. \ I know njty poor cousin's. widow intimately, while you, I think, have seen, her some half dozen times, or less. I think I can assure you of her assent." Captain Graham bowed. "I am m your hands," he said.

Jpnd I very much doubt," Miss Drum, mond commented, "if you could find yourself m better. Now go and see Marjorie. She is out there, m the rose garden," and she pointed through the window to the glint of a white gown seen through a trellis of rose leaves. "Bring her to me presently." "I will, Malcolm rejoined, and the door closed behind him.

Miss Drummond turned to her writing table, and, unlocking a drawer, drew forth Lady Adelaide Grant's letter and read it through carefully from the first word to the last. "It is obviously so," she said aloud, "a mere question of money. . We ; liye m a vulgar age. I. am, I know, old-fashioned ; but there ' seems to me something not quite delicate m this making a bargain of a girl's heart. 'Without money there can be no happiness,' she says. How can she know; a woman without a heart to feel happiness, or a head to understand jt? 'He ; .s of good enough family,' she adds, which is mighty condescending of her, to be sure, 'But family counts for nothing nowadays.' Well, really !" cried Miss Drummond, laying down the letter m. exasperation, "I wonder her ancestors don't arise, and disown her! However, her mother, though well-born enough, was but a weakly English lassie, and if Adelaide's blood is blue, it's sadly thin." She put the letter back into its envelope, and turned from it to the two miniatures which she had laid at. her right hand.

She was still looking at them when the door opened behind her, and m another instant soft arms -were round her neck, and a soft cheek pressed to hers, as a glad voice murmured m her ear, "I am so happy, dear Cousin Margaret, so happy." "God bless you, my darling," Margaret Drummond answered, and turning, saw Malcolm Graham standing m the doorway. "Come m," she said. ;"Come m. It seems to me that from to-day what I have to say concerning the one will concern the other also."

"Please God it will," Malcolm answered earnestly, and -Marjorie, though her cheeks grew rosy,- and her long lashes drooped to hide her eyes, stole a hand caresssingly into his. "Have you told Marjorie?" Miss Drummond asked him, as she glanced from him "to his uncle's picture. '..'•'' "Yes, Cousin Margaret," the girl said, ahd with a swift movement she flung her arms about Miss Drummond's neck and kissed her.

Her cousin felt the sympathy m her touch. "Thank you, dear child," she said gently. "It is an old story now, though never old to me," and she siglied. "But at this moment it concerns you both, and there are some details that you do not know. You, Marjorie, are of course aware that at my death Glenernan passes to. your Cousin Douglas, but you do not, I think, know that when I was only, a child my Godmother left me a large sum of money, the disposition of which is mine absolutely. Twenty .thousand pounds of this money would have been settled upon Malcolm MacDonald had he lived to marry me, and it is this sum which his nephew will settle upon you." Captain ■Graham started forward. "No, No !" he cried, "I cannot take it."

"And why not?" Miss Drummond asked. "You have taken all I hold dear; his name, his face, his very voice. What is money beside these things?" "It is not mine,'' he said. "But it will be, she answered, "as it should have been your uncle's." "Ah! It is good, great, generous beyond words," Malcolm cried, "but " "I have made up my mind," Margaret Drummond said decisively, "and we will not discuss the subject." "But Lady Adelaide?" Captain Graham queried. . "We will not discuss her either," Miss Drummond answered. "The dressing bell has gone, and I never allow people to be late for dinner, so be off to dress, both of you," and she gathered up the miniatures from the writing table and left the room."

When, a year later, Malcolm Graham returned from South Africa, a Major and a V.C., he was most affectionately welcomed by his mother-in-law, who felt, as she frankly told her intimates, that Providence had approved her yielding to the claims of love. "Margaret Drum, mond was quite romantic about it," she explained. "You know, dear, old maids who have never had any love affairs oi their own are always so enthusiastic— really, she quite carried me away, and as I found that Captain Graham was able to make a more suitable settlement than I had anticipated, I felt that there was nothing really wrong m giving rein to my feelings and allowing them to be married before he sailed. ,

—Hon. Mrs. W. R. D. Forbes, m the Scotsman.