A Short Story.

Rodney and Otamatea Times, Waitemata and Kaipara Gazette, 28 August 1912, Page 6

A Short Story.

(All Rights Reserved.)

MARGARETTA.

BY STELLA RAY, Author of "In the Master's Service," "The Casket," "Have a Purpose," "Cecil Langton," "The Golden Stairway," &c.

"Hurry on, miss, time's up. Shall I carry your bag?"

Margaretta Halton roused from her drowsy state and handed her burden to the man .following as quickly as she could. The walk from the train to the boat at Newhaven is not romantic on a dark night, and as she cautiously "descended the wet steps ai the end, she felt a shiver go through her whole being.

Who was she, and where going? She was one of the world's waifs, unknown and unknowing.

Memory recalled an (old military man leading her as a little child and leaving here in charge of an old-fash-ioned woman in Kensington. What money he left for her keep she never knew. What her real name was remained uncertain. Over those strange days her restless mind travelled while rocked on the waves during that night's voyage.

"Grannie* (as she had called her) gave her the barest attention and scant food. Sometimes a letter came with> H.M'.S. on it, which greatly mystified her, but she always found that after those mysterious blue envelopes were opened some change would be made either in her dress or books for school. Sad and curious were those years ; she felt within her a longing to know, and break forth into some connection with a large and imaginary life that ever semed to stretch before her. Questions were useless"Grannie" was provokingly silent even to severity, and Margaretta buried her questioning mind in the responding world of. literature.

But the day came for her to seek work, and towards this "Grannie" had always turned her attention when speaking of her future, and for a long time she fretted and chaffed her spirit by serving in a stationer's shop. Then "Grannie" suddenly died, and Margaretta hunted among the few papers and letters, but not one could she find by which to trace from whence her pay had come, and no communicattion came to her after then.

She took lodgings near by, when a relative of "Grannie's" came and iemoved the furniture, saying he had nothing to do ■with her, and he supposed those who had maintained her would cpntinue to do so.

Naturally high-spirited, and with a heart beating for freedom and independence, Margaretta determined to cut the last thin cord that might bind her even in the slightest way; so that very evening after the one connection of her protector had gone, she put her few belongings together and sought apartments in a distant street, and there watched her opportunity for her new venture. Sometimes the craving for friendship came to her, and the loneliness seemed crushing, but with her daily occupation and close reading when indoors, time passed easily. One evening, scanning the lists of advertisements, she came across one that arrested her. "An invalid lady residing in Paris requires a cheerful and intelligent companion, English preferred."

Several letters) were written and the correspondence ended in the acceptance of terms offered, and Margaretta set out alone to a new destination.,

"Dieppe! Dieppe!" A rush and bustle, and the passengers, some wiih woe-begone faces, some hardly able to walk, were moving on to the train that awaited them.

The boat was late, and on this May morning the sun was rising. All looked fresh and new to the girl who had only gazed on London's busy streets, and as the train rushed along she sat in the comfortable compartment luxuriating in the sense of freedom and novelty.

Almost too quickly the journey was over, for one always dreads the unknown. Very recklessly the cabman seemed to drive along-, the crowded boulevards of Paris, and up the stony streets, till he stopped before a high and imposing house. Mademoiselle Montague was in, and ascending the broad and polished stairs, Margaret, ta was shown into a large and pleasant room. From a lounge chair by the window, slowly rose a small, pale woman, extending her hand.

"So you are my correspondent? Have you journeyed comfortably? Sitdown after mounting those dreadful stairs. I am glad you have come. Your face seems familiar. I believe we shall get on well together," said the chatty lady. ' Then, reclining again, she took up a letter and added, "It seldom rains but it pours, some say, and now that I have broken my solitude. I hear my cousin is coming over from America to study French at the Sorbonne."

Margaretta glanced round the room, so different from her murky little room in London, then her wondering eyes looked out on to the Luxembourg Gardens, where the trees in all their beauty were gently moving in the

breeze.

"I am keeping you standing; now you must go and rest after the night's crossing; I'm sure you got no sleep," and ringing the bell Miss Montague bade the servant take her to her room.

For three hours she slept, then refreshed by luncheon, she was eager to hear and see. „

There was no fear of being dull or ill at ease with such a cheery companion, and but for her pale cheeks and the wording of the advertisement no one could imagine she was an "invalid."

"Now we must go out. I always drive in the afternoon, and you must be introduced to Paris, you know. The chaise will be here quite soon," said Miss Montague.

Margaretta could have sung for very delight as they wMrl^ along the Champs Elysee, and under the Arc de Triomphe; everything appeared so light and airy, "so chaste and clean,*' Flowering chestnut trees bedecked the way, and the Bois de Boulogne was a scene of beauty.

The first few days would never be forgotten by her. Every new sight exhilarated her, and slumbering hopes awoke with energy. She read aloud sometimes, but frequently, Miss Montague would question her about her thoughts and opinions on subjects, and then expect her to listen while she related long stories of her own past life.

"I shall call you 'Etta,' " she said one day. "I am surprised at myself for giving out affection to you so quickly, but from the first glimpse of you it was like love at first sight.'" Margarett kissed the hand held out to her, and they sat clown on the little couch beside the window.

"Claude is coming to-night; I shall want to hear about our mutual friends. His home was not far from New York, and he was often with us. His father is my favorite uncle. He was very fond of my mother and father— in fact, we are a loving and happy family altogether," Miss Montague said, and much more about the home so suddenly broken up by her parents' death.

"I do not know anyone in my position, do you? No one I can claim as relative; wrapped in mystery, nothing to call my own save what I work for. I fancy I am unique, and I suppose I never can know my history," said "Etta," turning her dark eyes full on the one beside her. "But tell me more of yourself, I like to hear."'

"I have told you all the brightest part, but there is a skeleton even in the cupboard of my life's story; my father's brother Ralph is a s ad character. I hardly like to speak about him; he is the black sheep in our flock," and Miss Montague reached her album. "That was his likeness years ago; he was a fine-looking man then, but always rather wild. His father was an engineer, and Uncle Ralph went travelling for him, and he married a poor but respectable woman, and when his father found it out he threatened to disinherit him, and told him not to take his wife there. Tlu-n -oon after the birth of a little girl she died, and he kept the L nild away, near where he was, until old enough to be sent off to London. Can you imagine such, cruel heartlessness? Think of it, Etta, a father to put his own child into the charge of an old Colonel he knew well, who agreed to see her boarded with a woman he was acquainted with!"

A cold shiver went through Margaretta, then a feverish flush. Why was this part of that wretched story running so near her own experience ? Why had not Miss Montague mentioned this when she listened to the account of her lonely life in London ? Surely it must have reminded her of it? Such thoughts as these rushed through her brain.

"Of course," continued Miss Mon^ tague, "he sent rao"^- J" educate the child and keep her, but who knows how nvuch that woman used for herself, and how she treated the helpless child; but, poor, wicked man. he plunged into gambling and drinking, and of late his mind seems ruined, and he is like an imbecile. Don't look so white and anxious, Etta dear, you are too sympathetic, I daresay the child has fallen into good hands.

Now we must go out, tor Claude will arrive at six o'clock." 11. It was wonderfully interesting t<f Margaretta that evening to watch Miss Montague and her cousin ClaudeHe was lively, attentive, and kind, and during dinner (he Related the merry side of his journey, and the muddles he stumbled into by his ignorance of the French language. "Your room is in the flat above us, so we shall expect to see you often, Claude. You won't be out studying all day," said Miss Montague, as they rose from the table. "I intend going in for the classes at the Sorbonne, and I shall make the most of my opportunity; but I shall report myself pretty frequently, no fear/* he answered, and turning to Margaretta, he put a few questions about London life, asking where her people lived, &c. This led to a long explanation of her circumstances in Cousin Dora's (Miss Montague's) kindly way. "Upon my word, truth is stranger than fiction," he said; "did ever two parts of a puzzle fit so easily? Have you spoken of Uncle Ralph?" "Claude, I have hardly been able to control myself since Etta told me about herself. I felt just as you do now you hear it, but I waited till you came. You know I believe in prayer, and I waited for the -:~m.. person to be sent for my companion, and one to whom I might also be a blessing, but this is a wonderful answer. Now., what do you" say?" said Miss Montague, fanning herself. Claude turned to Margaretta. Her face was flushed with excitement, her dark eyes glistened with indignation, and before he could speak, she said: "I do not want to know any relative who could treat a child as I have been treated. Say no more, let the subject remain as though we had never spoken of it. I can go where no one will have a case like your uncle's. I do not need any help or pity; the world is wide, and I am strong and able to work," and tears bubbled into her \ eyes, for she was distressed as though I the bare thought of a relative was a fetter. Nothing more was said that night, but the next day Claude and Miss Montague seriously considered the whole matter, and letters were written to those who remembered the circumstances. For a week each day was taken up in visiting places of special note, and the new life of adventure and investigation fascinated Margaretta's wondering mind. Yet underneath it all she heard constantly reiterated ques- I tions—"ls that imbecile my father? Are those .people my cousins?" and she felt as though a chain was secretly clasped round her. Night and day she fought against it, and worried her brain to scheme an escape. For a fortnight nothing was said directly to her, although they talked of relatives in Toronto and New York, and "Uncle Ralph's" name often came in. Meantime Claude was becomingmore attracted to this strangely independent girl; her flashing eyes, her eager, inquiring manner; her bright repartee, free from the least savour of sarcasm, her devotod interest in learning and art, made her society refreshingly congenial, for the girls he had met were fashion-loving and artificial. "Etta dear," said Miss Montague one afternoon as they came in from a drive, "I want you to come into my room when you have removed your bat."

Margaretta wondered at the sudden request. The voice was solemn, the expression suggestive of surprise and without a word she obeyed, and returning to the room silently sat down quite close to the low chair where Miss Montague rested.

"I am not ill—don't look fearful, but I must speak frankly and openly to you. I know you have shunned the awkward subject of Uncle Ralph, but Claude and I have carefully gone into it all, comparing dates and incidents, and it seems in every way certain that you are the child of his unfortunate marriage. I have written to the person who had care of the child until she was sent to London, and I am hoping for- something conclusive from her."

"But why trouble? Does it matter after all these years? Why burden me with relationship? If he is my father he will not know, and I shall be snubbed and regarded unpleasantly by his connections. Oh! do let me be. I love and thank you for your goodness, but I can fight my own way and would rather go right away," and Margaretta burst into hysterical weeping.

That evening the postman brought a letter which Miss Montague read silently, then passed over to Claude.

"The child I nursed had a large red mark- on her shoulder just above her arm like a large seal. I fancy she could be known by that anywhere. 1 got to love the wee thing, and it nigh broke an old body's heart to see her sent away with a soldier-like man," and then the writer poured out her indignation and ended by saying "but I'm dying now, and these poor eyes will never see her even if she be

alive."

"Now you've got your chance if you care to use it. Ask her about the mark," and Claude rose to go: he had his work to do. His ambition was to be a professor in one of the leading colleges, after a course as tutor for which he was preparing. "Father is awfully good to let me have this chance, but he didn't guess what he was sending me to Paris for, eh?"" And his cautious cousin answered;

"Don't act too quickly, it's to o f re quently the custom to 'Act in b asCe and repent at leisure.'" 111. A month later, in a garden in Paris, two happy persons watched a man feeding the birds, and yet may be they scarcely saw them, for by the expression in their eyes their thoughts were on other things intent. The mark was found on Margaretta's shoulder, but that atone could never induce her to go to America- She fought against it and entreated them to let her go right away; she wanted no connection with such a father; but to-day she stands beside Claude Montague. All her desire to escape seem to have vanished. For the past three weeks it had been an open secret that Claude loved Margaretta, and that she responded to that love, and daily they saw in each other new virtues and fresh graces to be admired. Miss Montague was delighted at their evident happiness, and found more in "Etta" to love as days went on. On this special occasion Claude had asked his cousin Dora to allow him a time alone with Margaretta, and as they stood together in the brilliant sunshine life seemed to centre in that one being. "Etta, do you still want to be free?" he asked. "I am free," she answered, turning her face brightly towards him: "there is no bondage in love." "And you will go with me to America one day?" "Perhaps I may follow you there, but we are both young- and time is before us." And perfectly content: to leave the future, they walked on, satisfied in each other's companionship. But, then, he had his study to pursue, and she her duties, for Jove s not to monopolise, but to brighten and sweeten life, and weeks rushed ori. Margaretta h»d a great gift for acquiring knowledge, and Miss Montague gave her every opportunity for study, and for lessons in singing nnd music Sooner than was intended, Claude had to go back to his home; an opening for his professional work had occurred, and altogether it seemed better SO. "I shall pave the way for you," he said, "and get ready for your arrival," as Etta leant her head on his shoulder that last evening. "How strange it all seems, Claude A few months ago I was lonely and homeless ;and now it might be years we have known each other, for the mutual confidence we have." "A providence that shapes our ends —I suppose there's a truth in that; certainly we did not shape all this ourselves," he said, putting his arm around her, "but I don't like our separation." "Come, come!" said Miss Montague, breaking in upon them. "I heard that last little bit, and I add —separation is good and will prove you both. Now listen to my plans. I intend going to Switzerland during the hot weather, and then I will accompany Etta to her native place and you will welcome us, Claude. What do you say, Etta? I can't command now." "It has been my great wish to go to Switzerland, and with you, Cousin Dora, it will be delightful," she said, looking for Claude's approval. "Of course it's just the thing, only a fellow doesn't like to let go his prize. But, there, I must turn West, and won't I be busy preparing!" And long and late they talked and reared their castles in the air. It was soon over, the last kiss, the wrench, the cold ache at heart, and he was riding on the waters, and she was helping Miss Montague prepare for their tour. Paris, so artificial and restless, was gladly exchanged for the calm dig-ni-ty of the land of mountains. Lucerne, the town and lake, surrounded by its rugged mountains, charmed them, but when they got far and away up on the heights to A.nciermatt they seemed to breathe lifegiving air, and realise the sense of mountain freedom. A week or two at each place of special interest, and at Interlaken they made a longer rest, visiting Murren and surrounding spots of grandeur and of note. Away there, the newlyfound cousins grew more and more to understand one another, and Margaretta began to know much about the people she was soon to meet, for she listened to all Miss Montague said with different ears since the mark proved her connection. Three weeks passed delightfully, and mind and body were benefited, and the Margaretta of Kensington would scarcely be recognised in the fine and vigorous woman who stood bidding farewell to the mountains on that lovely summer evening. "I cannot tell what I owe to you!" said, suddenly turning and grasping Miss Montague's hand. "Suppose all the longings of my heart and na'ure had met only the chilling touch of disappointment and hardship!" "Rather thank Heaven for the open door through which you may pass to something larger and grander. Etta, dear, who knows what lies b?fore you? Get all the knowledge and strength you can" —thus the little woman, so full of vivacious spirit, chatted on, and the one who listened, while her eyes rested admiringly on the sloping Rigi, felt a burning desire to rise to the opportunity afforded her, ' and be and do something worthy of living. (Completion next week.) Birds of prey are not endowed with the gift of song. 135