When a Woman Dreams.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 221, 22 October 1914, Page 2

When a Woman Dreams.

II Jl KEW SHOVEL

BY MME. ALBANESI Author of " Envious Sliza," "The "Blunder of an Innocent," S'c., &0.

I! [copyright.] II M '=BBl CHAPTER Vl.—(Continued.)

still harder fight for Mary. He had helped them latterly, and there had been hopes that, in time .he would be able to do considerably more: After he was killed the burden of life fell solely on Mary's shoulders. Alone, she had fought a brave, stubborn fight —one of those grim, hand-to-hand struggles which some women are called upon daily to fight in silence, and which, many .never" even guess at, certainly never understand.

Her last bitter cry had come when Sir Francis himself had gently touched her shoulder, as she had knelt, still-hold-ing the cold hand in hers. "Don't touch me! Don't dare to say one word. She is dead, and you—you have killed her! " she had cried, wildly. For one instant she had risen, and stood facing him, then she had swayed, and would have fallen had he not . caught her, and carried her gently from the room. Mary's recovery to consciousness and understanding had been very slow. She was mentally and physically worn out v Courage, strength, hope itself, were dead to her in this hour, and her brave spirit sank down to ilie very gate of shadows itself. Indeed, for a time her life hung in the balance; only the care, the watchfulness of Sir Francis Newtrie saved her. The man was greatly troubled about her. He was built on such brOad; such noble lines, that there was no room for . angerj>r,resentment that he should be so misjudged and misunderstood. He only remembered how this young creature had sufferedi how wonderful" had been her love and her endurance. Mary Trentham's father had been dead for some years. He had been/ a clergyman in a manufacturing town in the north of England. Her first memory of home, and all it meant, had been within the house; her father's tired, lined face, her mother's anxious one as she had sat counting up the figures in the pile of house books, that seemed always higher than they ought to have been. Outside there had been only smoky_chimneys, dreary streets of brick houses, children* playing without the mirth of and looking on life already with eyes grown old'and wise, j After her father 's death there had! been little left for her mother and herself. To her brother Ralph had come j the greatest sacrifice of all. Mr Trentham had been resolved, at whatever! eost, that his son should receive as good an education as he-had, and at the same Bchool. So the boy had gone to Winchester, and the struggle' to keep him there had been more severe than any who knew the Trenthams in those days ever guessed. At his father's death Ralph had;been forced;to leave school -much sooner than he would, otherwise have done. The time had come f Or him to turn his thoughts to earning his own living, and in time add toVhis mother's Blender . Machinery, and all to do with machinery, had always interested the lad deeply, and. so it was to practicalengineering he turned, Only a yeaT or two later £0 meet with a terrible and tragic death. The grief of this death fell across his mother's life like a {tail of sorrow, never to be raised as ong as She herself lived. With Ralph's death, too, had come a

Mary had always known of old Robert Darrell's existence. She knew that he was her mother's tingle, that long ago he had'been kind to his- niece," thateven to herself and Ralph, when they had been small he had shown, niatiy kindnesses. The stbry of his quarrel with Mr vTrehtham was an old one. The breach had widened with the" years; j no attempt had ever been made to patch up the old feud. In the later days of difficulty and hardship, it is true, Mary had tried to persuade her mother to find her old kinsman, and ask his help, but to this Mrs Trentham would never consent. She would not beg charity from the 'man who for so many years had taken no notice of her.

! When Mary, would have urged her to write tp him, Mrs Trentham always refused. /'He knows we are his nearest relatives,'' she would say. '' Let him look for us, if he wants to find us,'' adding: ''And I can never for get that he grossly insulted your father." . Once Mary had ventured to say, gently, "But, mother, darling, Uncle Robert only differed in.certain religious views from father. That , was not an •insii.lt."'.: But Mrs Trentham refuted this: "To a man of your father's profession it was.".''. And this ended the matter. Robert Darreli, had evidently forgotten all about his brother's child, and when he died he carried his forgetfulness even to the grave itself, for his will had bequeathed all his wealth to a stranger. There were few ways by which a woman not educated to any ' special trade could make an honest living that Mary had not tried, and the fight had told upon her. The girl was not clever. She had a'quick temper, which all too frequently istood in her light. And it is not easy for a yOung woman, however eager she may be to work, to find ployment if she is quite alone in .the world. In Ralph's lifetime, she had found a situation as a companion to an old lady. It had only lasted for a time. Mary had not sufficient patience. She had rashly. attempted to argue, that open windows, .especially when driving in a shut carriage on ,a Warm.summer: afternoon, "are: healthier than closed ones. The old lady had merely temained and Mary had -lostv-fief situation. ■.:.'■':"-*:."'.' ' „•

Next she had secured. a place as % nursery governess who was hot required to sleep in' 1 the house, her charges hav-

ing a capable nurse as well. She had thus been able to share her mother's lodgings, those poor rooms, which' Mrs Trentham so gallantly attempted to make into some sort of home for Ralph. A hand-to-hand battle with the old nurse, who had, it would seem, set herself to make short work of the younger woman's term of office, had ended Mary's career as a nursery governess.

After that, for a time she had sold in a shop, but she was a poor saleswoman, and when, on returning from a short absenee owing to influenza she had found her place filled permanently and her services no longer required, she had not 'really felt surprised. About this . time, even while she was looking for something else to do, there had-come the tragedy of Ralph's sudden death, and after that the struggle for existence, the misery, of it all, became almost unbearable. Yet she fought bravely on, thinking only of her mother, now completely broken by her son's terrible fate, and quite unable in any way to help in the struggle for, daily bread.; .There was no task, it mattered not how" humble, that Mary had not gladly accepted to inake enough to keep soul and body together. At moments she knew she no longer cared what befell,her, but there was always her mother—-her dear , pathetic, proud, bereaved mother. For this dear one She had stuck at nothing, she had gone out to do plain sewing and mending. She had taken work home With her, stitching half the night through; and yet even that was not enough to make as much as she required for her mother's comfort. The lodgings they were in, though cheap enough, I were nevertheless beyond their means. ' Mary had trudged about wearily searching for others; and she had found those cheap, poor, comfortless ones where Sir Francis Newtrie had gone with her to minister to her dying mother. They were poor enough certainly, and yet even to keep that shelter above her mother's head Mary had found herself at times sadly put to it. She had.even eked out their slender purse and met the weekly rent due to their landlady ! by working at times for that good woman herself when an extra crush of lodgers made another pair of hands i necessary. Poor Mary! At first she had felt it practically impossible to do the menial task~-to wash the greasy plates, to scrub the floor on which the cockroaches swarmed in the dingy little kitchen. Then she would remember that in return for such services as she. I was rendering, her mother's shelter for at least one week more would be assured, and the thought would steel her I heart anew, and put fresh courage into her tired spirit. ~. j And yet all through the girl had been [ conscious of defeat. Mary, watching her mother's face and noting the change that was ever there, and always j for the worse, knew even in the doing I of all this sordid work that she was playing a losing game. Her love and j all shd would gladly do was not enough. | Her mother was dying jslowly but surely dying. In those miserable days Mary Tren;thani told herself with unavailing hitSvterness a hundred times that old Robert, : DarrelL who had forgotten his own peo-: !ple and loaded a stranger with wealth, had filledl.'her -mother; Just a littles of /the irioney he had willed to a stranger, only just a-very little, and her mother need;not have 'died.' To pass on Hhis; accusation and lay it at the door of

the man who had cajoled her uncle's wealth away from his rightful heirs was inevitable, and, kneeling by her dead mother's side, she had vowed to make Francis Newtrie suffer, if such a thing could be. She longed for a way to reveal itself. She hated him. Then came the time of merciful oblivion, and the necessity of thinking 110 longer about anything. The tired brain had ceased to puzzle over its weary problems. The grief-stricken heart no longer brooded over its ills and bitterness. For awhile it was as if Mary herself had ceased to exist. Returning consciousness, however,- "signified returning power and thought. At first she had lain on her pillow, and "had looked about her* taking in the big, luxurious room with puzzled eyes. The nurse bending over her had assured her not to trouble herself; that she was with friends.

the girl had muttered, faintly, thickly; "I have no friends." But the nurse had hardly understood. And that had been all for one day: almost immediately the girl had drifted ;back once more into the land of shadows.

When she opened her eyes again to the world about her, it was to be, told a second time that she was with friends. Sir Franeis Newtrie's name was men-: tioned. He had himself come to see her, standing beside her bedside for a moment, and looking down with kind, sorrowful eyes at her white, wan face. With consciousness the old antagonism, the sense of terrible worng, woke in Mary's heart. "I hate you, Ido not wish to see you; leave me. I—l hate you!" she cried, hoarsely; and, seeing that she was beyond all reasoning with at the moment, he had left her with a sigh. For some days after that Mary saw only her nurses, and the doctor who, chosen by Sir Francis, came daily. At last she was able to understand more fully all that had happened. All that was going on about her. Her mother was dead, gone from her for ever. And she herself was under the protection of the one man in the whole world who, she told herself, it was her duty to hate and despise. A fever seemed to pass into Mary's wasted body. ... .•;'.. -J 1 " ■;' ' I must leave this house, nurse! I must—-I must! You do not understand!" she cried, with a new firmness in her voice, as she sat up against her pillows, a bright patch on each cheek, a gleam in her eyes. "I understand, Miss Trentham; indeed I do,'' the woman answeredj kindly. '' But at present all you have to do is to lie still and get better." "I am better—as well as I ever shall be in this hateful house." Mary spoke feverishly. '' lam strong enough to leave it—-I must leave it. lam my own mistress; no one, Jias the right to control me, and I will not stay here!*'.

At that moment there came an interruption that brought a look of relief to the nurse's face; the door opened very gently, and Sir Franeis Newtrie himself came quietly into the room. (To be continued.)