FREDA ALONE

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20328, 11 June 1934, Page 12

FREDA ALONE

Author of •* Poggy, -w the Daughter,” || , *‘lV»ary Gray,” etc.

i B v

KATHARINE TYNAN

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. FREDA is a forlorn little orphan girl, under the charge of DENIS VANE, a man with an ungovernable temper, and PEGGY VANE, who is even more cruel than her husband. For years Freda works as a piteous drudge at the Villa Marguerite, the Vane household at Marigny, a small French watering resort. l’he only person who has been kind to her since her parents died is LIONEL DAMPIER, one of the young men who come to the villa for card playing. There are hints of cheating, and another MR. COLQUHOUN. loses heavily, while Mrs. Vane lavishes much attention on him. Rater Freda is taken by Vane and lift friend. MR. LUTTRELL, to the village fair, where she gets lost. Lionel Dumpier rescues her from the rough crowd. She breaks down, but lie comforts her and promises to help her if he can. Meanwhile Peggy Vane is out motoring with Colquhoun, and Vane is so worried that he has a Hr. However, he is helped home and recovers. He broods over his wife’s flirtation, and awaits the return of the party from the fair. CHAPTER VII. Harbour. Freda read through the letter, which she onlv partly understood, with dilating eyes. Jt seethed to her that now for the first time in all the terrified, overshadowed years did she reullv know fear. Her aunt was gone and was not coming back. ITow would he take if ? What did it all mean? She put the letter where she had found it. How long would it he befoio he awoke and went upstairs and came upon the letter for himself? Perhaps not till it was time to dress for dinner. It was one of the odd things in the man’s degraded life that he never omitted to dress for dinner.

She crept to the drawing room door and listened. There was not a sound lo be heard. The silence and darkness of the house were oppressive, heavy as lead. If only she dared go out in search of human companionship! But the rain streamed and a premature darkness had come on; jus she peered out she could see only the shapes of the trees as they flung themselves together in wild contortions of dread and terror.

She opened the drawing room door and looked in. She could see Denis Vane huddled among the grey sofa cushions as she had left him. He was lying on his back, and his, sharp profile glimmered in the dimness. “Uncle Denis,” she said, coining nearer. The house seemed full of ghosts that pressed upon her heels. “Uncle Denis!”

Her voice rose to a shriek. His hand hung limply upon his knee. It was icy cold. Between his eyelids she caught the grey, dull gleam of unseeing eyes.

Captain Roget, lying warm in bed, en j°ying the cessation from pain which had come to him with his few days of rest, was startled most uncomfortably by a sudden wild screaming in the next house.

His first step was to jump out of bed and seize his clothes; the next to open his bedroom door and shout down to old Margot, who had served him faithfully for so many years, to go round next door and hammer, hammer with the knocker, so that that scoundrel should know he was not going to he allowed to kill the child—that he, Roget, was coining to kill him, and that there was no jury i n France that would convict him of murder for doing it. While he was shouting to Margot, he was huddling on his clothes, being perfectly aware that Margot had not hoard a word he said, since she was stone deaf. Indeed, the good woman was utterly unprepared for the vision she saw presently of the captain, whom she had left comfortably in bed, enjoying his “Petit Journal” and his cigar, flying through her kitchen, his revolver in his hand, and out into the storm. As soon as she could recover her scattered senses she went after him, but could see no trace of him in the gathering darkness. The captain meanwhile nad arrived at the door of the Villa Marguerite, and was battering upon it shouting: “Stop it, scoundrel! Stop it! Let the child be. I am coming, I. Roget, and as soon as I find thee I will kill thee as dead as a rat.”

Suddenly lie was aware that the screaming was close by him, almost at his head. Through the iron lattice work which formed the upper portion of the door ho could see something light lying on the floor close to the door from which the screaming proceeded. There was no trace at all of his enemy.

The Captain looked about him helplessly for a second; then espied a window slightly open. He swung himself on to the stone sill with an activity Avhich surprised himself to think upon afterwards, flung up the window and clambered into the room beyond. He did not glance the way of the huddled figure among the cushions. The terrible screaming led him into the hall, where Freda. lay on the floor, her face pressed against the wall, in the grip

When he touched her she screamed worse than ever and tried to push him off. He did the host thing that could be done. He lifted her up in spite of her struggles, opened the door anil carried her out into the garden. “Keep quiet, little one, keep quiet,” he said soothingly, drawing her hair away from his face. “What art thou afraid of? It is I, Roget, and no one will hurt thee. What is it, then?”

lie stroked her hair back gently, and all of a sudden she stopped screaming and looked at him. Something of rea” son came into her daft eves.

“It is in there; in there!” she said, pointing to the house. “And it is so

“Never mind that. We shall see to that presently,” he said soothingly. “Come now, my little one. Do you think you can walk a few steps. Don’t you know me? Old Roget, who used to drop von pears over the wall. Come now, mignonne.”

He put an arm about the child and half-led. half carried her down the forlorn garden, in at the adjoining gate, between the rows of vegetables, depositing her in the warm kitchen, to the amazement of Margot, who was just huddling herself into a big cloak to go in search of her master.

“Get. her into my bed, Margot,** be shouted in the old woman’s ear- “She is cold ns ice. Build up the fire. Get her something hot to drink. I depend on thee. The child has had a shock. See now. thou art safe, my little one. Here is Margot, and here is Mousquetaire. who would guard thee with his life, and old Roget will come to thee presently.” But Freda’s terror had exhausted her. She could only shiver and lie in bed with tears oozing from under her closed lids, while Margot hustled about, covering her up with blanket- and down quilts, putting fuel on the tiny fire, finally lifting lier head and holding something hot and pungent to lier lips,

which the child swallowed, sip by sip. with repugnance, but yielding to tiie old coaxing voice. Following that was an interminable time, or so it seemed to Freda, of tossing and turning on a bed of fire and i pillow of fire, and finding no rest. The-n there came a day when lier eyes opened and she looked about her without turning her head, at a strange room, a bare, austere little room, flooded with light, as unlike as possible to the stuffy dark rooms at the Villa Marguerite. There was a bright fire burning in the grate, vet she was cold, for the autumn had followed hard on the heels of the storm, and she was exhausted by the few days of fever. She felt quite shadowy, almost non-existent, as she lay in bed, which was odd enough, seeing how her burning body had oppressed her in that long dream of acute discomfort.

’lTiere were two persons in the room, besides the grey, silkv French bulldog, which had discovered" that. Freda was awake before the others did, and sat licking his chops in a friend I v manner, while his eves goggled at Freda from the mat by the side of the bed.

One of the persons in the room was Captain Roget. lie sat, stiff as a ramrod, on the edge of a hard, wooden chair.

Facing him was a stranger to Freda. She was a middle-aged lady, who seemed quite old to Freda, and she was dressed in deep black. Her white hair, dressed high, gave her an air of majesty. She had a very austere, sorrowful, sweet face.

Their talk slipped past Freda as might the sound of running water, but pre sently her attention was aVrested by the sound of her own name, and she discovered, with only half-awakened interest, that she was the subject of dis‘4Poor little one!” said the Captain, with an air of profound pity. “Poor little Freda! It. rests between thee and me, my friend, who is to have the child, f wish it might be me. but she needs a woman’s care. See what an upbringing she has had. There will be much that needs undoing. I wish 1 might keep her with me. lam a very lonely man, as tliou knowest, Clementine, lint what life have I, what security? And my little annuity dies with me. Thou knowest I gave nearly all I had to my Henri. It lies buried with him in Algiers.”

“All, yes, I know,” the woman answered, in a thin sweet voice; “and, besides, it is my task, to atone for at least one of that unfortunate’s sins. Tlie child is mine, unless, indeed, we can find out to whom she belongs. Poor little one, poor nameless little one! Wliat a

crime was theirs who filing her out on the world to they knew not what fate!”

“Nameless!” Something stirred in Freda’s mind, but would not form itself into consecutive ideas. Her thoughts went slipping and sliding from her, and would not take shape. “It will lie as the aunt thought—the excellent aunt,” said Captain Roget:

“Ah, my friend, when I see women like thee and the aunt., I believe in the good Cod. What patience, what to rhea ranee. What angelic goodness! And the aunt thinks the child must be nameless, a nobody’s child. She will search his papers thoroughly to see if she will come upon a scrap that relates to the child. He may have kept a record. If not, the child is thine and mine. Anything I have saved will go to thee, Clementine, for thee and for her. It would have been thine in aJiy ease, thou knowest.”

“Re in no hurry to go on our account, dear Louis,” the lady said, with a smile which was as when the sun comes out flooding a wintry landscape with pale brightness. “We shall do very well, although, as thou knowest, I am poorer than I was. Rut my hoy is good and gifted. We shall not want for anything.” “Adorable woman, do 1 not know liow he bled thee —that one whose name we mention no more!”

“Ah. no. since he is dead. And he was the husband of mv youth.” Some emotion worked in the old soldier’s ruddy face. “You had better have taken me, Clementine.” The woman coloured. Freda watched her in a vague wonder. Why, now that she had that colour, she looked ever sc much younger. “It. was my cross that I had to carry, she said. “For thy sanctification, as though thou didst need that.” “I saved the boy out of the shipwreck. It was the "good God’s goodness to me.” ■ Again Captain Roget’s face quivered. He T ant forward a little and laid his old purple and knotted hand on the lady’s sleeve. “You are a good woman, Clementine —a good woman,” he said, “and the only woman the world ever held for me. Ah, well—you will close my eyes, perhaps, because your pity is like the pity of the good God.” “That will not be for a long time yet,” she said smiling. “And meanwhile, Louis, why should you stay here? Why not be near us at Pont de Pierre? Let us have the solace of each other's friendship in our declining years. There —do not say no. Think upon it, my friend. So often I feel that I need a man’s counsel and help, for my Andre, too. He is spirited. He will not always listen to a woman.” Freda’s thoughts had been taking shape. She forgot that she feared to speak lest her voice should be only a thin whisper, dissolving in air. “I am : not nameless,” she said slowly, “my name is Freda Traquair.”

“Nom d'un pipe,” muttered Captain Roget, staring at her, and with no reference at all to wliat Freda had said.

“Nom d'un pipe; the child is awa«ke.” Mousquetaire lifted his fat body t< the bedside, and stood resting on hi:

squat paws wagging his pleasure at see-in-r Freda awake again. The lady came to° the bedside and smiled down at Freda with a most beautiful expression of face. It seemed heavenly to Freda, who had not known what it was to be looked at like that since her mother died. She smoothed back Freda’s hair softly with her hand; and then, bringing something in a feeding-cup, she held it to the child’s lips. After that, whenever Freda awoke the lady was siting there sewing or reading. Frecla was lapped about with such a warm care as she had never dreamt of since the time when she was a little child and the apple of their eye to father and mother. Day by day she grew a little stronger. But there was une thing that dissatisfied' her tender nurse, and that was that she could not coax the child to smile—not when Mousquetaire played all his tricks for her; and the sight of Mousquetaire going through his tricks so solemnly was enough to make anyone laugh, young or old. 'There was a haunting.

fear somewhere at the back of the child’s mind which looked at the tenderhearted woman out of Freda’s tragical

“What is it, then, daughter?” she asked one day. “What is making thee afraid? See how well tliou art, thanks to the good God. To-morrow, if it is line, thou ehalt go for a drive. Captain Roget has seen to it. And we shall take Mousquetaire in his little red coat.” .She paused for a second, looking into Freda's shadowed eyes. Then she gathered the child to her warm breast.

“Speak, little one,” she said. her cheek against Freda’s hair. “What hast thou, then, in thy mind? Tell it to thy It was the first time she liad used the tender term in speaking: of herself. Freda lmd her eves against Madame’s breast, and began to sob. It all came out—the hidden terror of the next-door house.

“It is just there,” she said, “the other side of the wall. And it is all dark and empty. Only in one room there is something lying. Its eyes are partly open. They are dull grey. And they look at me!”

“Hush, hush, little one, it is enough. Why didst thou not tell me? Rut listen, inv daughter. The house is not dark. The windows are all open. It is my house, and I am giving it for a good purpose. It is to be a home where the sick children from Pont de Pierre are to come to be made well. Some day you will see it, and you will not know it. It will be all" bright and

cheerful for the children. As for that other—child, we belong to tin* good God. Only He can make allowances for the creature He fashioned. Child, we shall pray for him, you and I.” Rut Freda’s fears Jed to an alteration in madame’s arrangements. The young doctor, with the clever, harassed* face, came at mid-day, and madanic and he had a long consultation outside the door. Nothing was said to Freda till after she had had her meal of chicken, being fed daintily by madanic in teaepoonfuls till she had eaten the last scrap. “And now do you feel strong enough to be dressed and to go for a drive, Freda?” madame asked her.

Oh, ves, Freda felt strong enough. A day of Indian summer had succeeded the October chills ami damps, and Freda Ipnged for the open air and the sun. “Strong enough for quite a long drive?” madame said, smiling at lier.

“How long?” Freda was excited by something in madame’s face and voice.

“As far as Pont de Pierre. It will take us all the afternoon. But thou slialt be wrapped up warmly and sleep when thou wilt. And—Freda—we aid not coming back.” Freda's heart leaped up. “I shall he with you, madame? And Mousquetaire and the captain also? And Margot ?”

“Those in good time,” said madame, smiling. “A man like the captain is not uprooted in a day.” Half an hour later the lumbering carriage was at the door. Captain Roget himself carried Freda downstairs, and Freda understood with dumb gratitude when he put her by the window with the blind drawn down, so that her eyes should not fall upon Villa Marguerite. And so Freda left the house of evil memories behind her for many a long