FREDA ALONE

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20330, 13 June 1934, Page 12

FREDA ALONE

Author of “ Peggy, « the Daughter,” Ij **lV»ary Gray,” etc. ii

By

KATHARINE TYNAN

(CHAPTER VIII. —Continued.) “Not that, not that, maman!” Freda *iroke out vehemently. “Andre is my brother. Does one marry one’s brother? If you meant that you should not have brought me up as Andre’s sister. It is horrible.” Madame looked at her with a troubled face. “Why, we did not think of marriage when you were little, Freda. You were —what shall I say ? —a little wild one, a bundle of contradictions, a small wicked pagan. Was it likely I should of tliee for my Andre? But it all fell away from thee. Do I not know that all that was his doing, whom may heaven forgive? Now art pure as gold. I desire none better for my son’s wife. See you, Freda —you have the power over Andre. He worships, but also he fears a little. It is not every girl I would choose for Andre’s wife. There is only one. Freda, he is a good boy, my Andre, but he is his father's son. And, listen to me” —her voice fell to a whisper. “I am afraid, afraid for my Andre. Up there in Paris —it is terribly wicked, and my boy does not practise his religion. He confessed as much to me. He is his father’s son as well as mine, and I know how it begins. Freda, Freda, you will save my boy for me ?” She dropped her white-capped head on to the girl’s shoulder and wept, wept profusely, in a passion of tears, clinging to Freda and imploring her to save her boy. “But it is often so'with the young men,” Freda assured her. “It is only that they grow careless. He will come back, maman. Think of all your prayers, your goodness. He is your son—not that But as she said it, she shuddered to herself with a memory of Andre’s high, thin nose, as she had sometimes seen it in profile, against the light. “And you will marry Andre?” madamc said, lifting her wet face. Her emotion, in a singularly repressed and selfcontrolled woman, affected Freda acutely. For a moment she felt that she would do anything, anything to comfort maman. But when the anything resolved itself into marrying Andre she could not away with it. The idea filled her with horror, even while she hated herself for feeling so about the kind fellow. She took the worn face in her hands and hid it from her own eyes. She could not even temporise. The thought came to her that she could postpone the question, could ask for time; but she dismissed it. No time would ever make any difference. “Petite maman,” she said tenderly, “there is nothing I would not do for thee and Andre —nothing in the wide world, except marry Andre. I cannot do that. Would you have him marry a girl who loves him as a brother and would shudder at him as a husband? Dear Andre, he is too good for liuch a fate! Bear with me, iittle mother. Send me away where Andre will not see me. Let me go to the aunt, if she will have me. There are others to make Andre happy.” “There is none but thee, Freda,** madame said, beginning to wipe away her tears. “But is my Andre one to shudder at? Ungrateful, thou dost not know what thou dost say —to Andre’s mother!” Freda had accomplished her purpose, by that one phrase which had so bitterly affronted Andre’s mother. It was not as Freda would have had it; but plead and pray as she would, she could not wipe out the memory. Madame, who could forgive royally, like an angel, the worst sins against her, seemed unable to forgive Freda’s attitude towards her boy. She kept an averted face while Freda made her preparations to go to London, '■> Mrs. Maitland —“the aunt” —who had signified her willingness to receive Freda, for a time at least. They all looked condemnation at her: Madame, Captain Roget, old Margot,. Suzette (who was still madame’s bonne a tout Zaire), even Germaine, to say nothing of the whole circle of madame’s friends. The dogs only seemed to make jio difference with Freda. These were strange, sad circumstances in which Freda set out to look for a name. No one helped her. Even the packing of her trunk she did alone, taking°with her very few of her belongings. M. Roget was to see her off from Dieppe. Mrs. Maitland had promised to send a maid to meet her at Newhaven. She went away in great grief because of the changed attitude towards her and the sadness she had brought to the house which had sheltered her. At the last she had not seen madame —who had dealt with her generously, however, bringing out from her savings five hundred francs —a great sum to her mind, so that the child should not lack for mdney. Only M. Roget thawed to her at the last. “Au revoir, Freda,” he said. “To thv happy returning! Fret not, child. After all, can we make one thing into another? 'Andre would be better with a French wife; and that dear angel j loves thee still, though she turns her face away from thee. Be asr-ured and take comfort. They are like tigers, those angelic women, when they would do good to their children.” Freda flung her arms around his neck., careless who was looking on, and kissed him frantically. “1 will .come back,” she cried. “I will come back. And do thou, dear friend, intercede for me. I go, but I leave my heart behind.” She stood at the side of the boat, watching first the faces, then the town and the pier and the harbour, disappear. Lastly tlie two great crucifixes at the entrance to the harbour dropped from her view. She drew her veil over her face. As long as Ihey remained they seemed, with outstretched arms, to be imploring her to return. CHAPTER IX. In the Fog. Freda was not thinking of her fellow* passengers, and was quite unconscious of the looks sent her way by more than one person of the male sex. She stood gazing over the taffrail of the boat, apparently watching the foam and wash the screw left in the water; really "her thoughts occupied with the future and the pact. She bad a high sense of adventure. She was going out into the world with only two definite clues to her identity. Her name was Freda Traquair, and she had lived with her parents in the upper part of a house in Sloane Street, close to a milliner’s shop. That was all she had to*go upon, but she was young and desperately in earnest. Hers was going to be a Holy War. It was for her parents as much as for

herself. She remembered the young mother who had been so tender to her. How did she know what stigma rested on that beloved shade as well as on her own birth? She turned hopefully to the thought of Mrs. Maitland, the aunt. Madam had said that there was no clue among the papers; but there might be. Clues hid themselves away often in strange places. Perhaps Mrs. Maitland would let her examine the papers. If there was any clue, even the slightest, she would be the one to find it. It was a very etill day, and the passengers were nearly all on deck, a still day and a warm day, the sun showing through a light yellow haze overhead. A middle-aged couple, promenading the deck as well as they could for the press of passengers, stopped jmst behind Freda. “I am sure they are newly-married,” said the woman. ‘’See how attentive he is to her! Isn’t she pretty. And his boots are quite new.” “H’m! Is a man never to have new fboots except when he gets married? It is not an infallible sign.” “Of course it isn’t. Only taken in conjunction with other things. Just see how he looks at her! What a nice-looking fellow! If I were a girl I should like just such a lover.” “You used to be very well satisfied with me,” the man said, jocosely, as they went on their way. Freda turned round, with some curiosity. What woman would not want to see the honeymooning couple ? She caught sight of a young lady in a deckchair, who leant back with her eyes half closed. The young lady was wearing a long, beautifully-cut cloak of a supple purple material, and a hat of purple velvet eminently becoming to her brilliant, petite beauty; a fold of the cloak thrown open revealed that it was lined with white silk. She had a quiet elegance of air which made the women passengers at least look at her with more than common interest. Her companion had just opened a newspaper. As he turned it about he kept watching the young lady—a little anxiously. Freda’s eyes rested on him for a second or two, while 'recognition grew in them. The young man was well on towards thirty. 6e had filled out and matured from the slim youth she remembered. His face had a golden tan, very pleasant to look upon, which seemed to make his eyes startlingly bine. He had a much graver, more mature air than elio remembered in Lionel Dampier. But she had no doubt it was he. Often, often since those years at Marigny the sight of a tweed-clad Englishman in the distance had made her faithful heart leap up, only to fall again; and she had been accustomed to say to herself that she might momentarily mistake another for him, yet if she were really to see him she would be quite, quite She glanced away again as he leant down to the girl in the chair and spoke to her with an affectionate solicitude. He had not looked her way. Freda had pushed up her veil so that she might better see the last of the French shore. Now she pulled it down again. Behind the fine lace of the veil, which had been madame’s gift to her, her eyes moistened and the sudden rich colour came to her cheek. How strange.that she should find him at the very threshold of her new life! Deep down in her heart there had been an unacknowledged hope and interest in the adventure that brought her to England, since somewhere within its borders Lionel Dampier might be met with. A blank feeling of disappointment succeeded the first unreflective joy. Mating him like this, on his honeymoon, he had receded further from her than he had been all those years. She had been used to think of how they should meet if they did meet. She used to fancy herself touching him arm, and saying: “Mr. Dampier, I have kept my promise to you: I have neither lied nor stolen: I have tried to keep my temper: the old Freda that you bore with is gone with all that misery* She keeps your little angel still, tlio gift you gave her.” She used to imagine his amazed blue eyes and the slow recognition warming in them. Now not for worlds would she have him recognise her. She turned half about so that she might take in him and his companion. How clean and manly and well-knit he looked! How much the superior of a Frenchman! His clothes were not obtrusively new. not so new that he did not seem perfectly at home in them. How well-cut and wellfitted they were! She thought of Andre's baggy garments and the ridiculous French sportsmen she was accustomed to see on the dunes about Pont de Pierre. After all, there was nothing like the Anglo-Saxon man. The Frenchwomen had points —but the Frenchmen! Dampier spoke to his companion, watching her with a kind solicitude. She answered petulantly, pushing him off with a little gesture of her ungloved right hand, which had a magnificent emerald upon its third finger. The boat rose like a bird in the water and settled again. Dampier stood up and moved his chair. The girl had grown a little paler. He assisted her towards the companion, ane hand laid lightly upon her shoulder. Poor thing! Freda thought, with the contempt for the seasick of those immune from that most unpleasant form of suffering. “Dear me!” someone said, close beside her; “what a pity that women who are bad sailors will begin their honeymoon with a sea voyage!” “The groom looks rather dejected over it —don’t you think?” someone else answered, with a light laugh. The decks cleared somewhat. The boat kept rising and falling with the motion of a swing and the nervous scuttled below. The haze blew about a little, showing the sun's yellow face; and Freda turned and walked the length of the deck. She was very glad that she was not of the seasick. She had so little experience that she had not been sure till now. She felt the motion, that meant misery to so many, merely buoyant. Just within the companion she saw Lionel Dampier; he was lighting a*cigar. He glanced at her as she swung by, with her easy, graceful walk. When she came back he was still close to the companion, watching the doorway, an intent and gloomy expression upon his face, she thought. Well, it was hard on him to have a bride who started the wedding journey by being seasick. As she passed she heard him ask someone if the lady were better, and being apparently assured that she was, he said, joyfully: “Thank heaven for that,” then set about lighting his cigar, which had gone out, for a second time. After that he seemed to resign himself to circumstances, and when Freda noticed him again he was talking to another man, leaning over the side. By this time the sun had changed ite mind about coming out strongly, and revealed

itself as a small, dirty grey disk in a greyer mass ot naze. “We shan’t get in lip to time,” someone said. “We’ll be lucky if we aren’t caught in the fog and haven’t to cast anchor and wait till it lifts.” Freda did not think of herself. She thought of what a melancholy beginning it was to that golden journey, which, being a romantic girl at heart, she imagined a honeymoon journey to be. She wondered where they were going, and how they happened to be crossing to England rather than from England. At this moment she thought she would like a cup of coffee. A s she went downstairs to the saloon, once again she ran up against. Dam pier. “Is she asleep?” he was asking a stewardess.

“Sound asleep, sir. I'll let you know when she wakes.”

The sigh as of deep relief which he breathed reached Freda’s ear. She saw something pass from his hand to the woman’s. Why, how nice it was, almost, worth being sea sick—to have someone care like that! She supposed when people were really in love they were not repelled by the pitiful needs of the body, but were rather awakened to something tenderer and deeper than what one gives to the person who has no need. She sipped her coffee, remembering how good he had been to her long ago at the fair. It would be very sweet to be the object of such • tender solicitude from the right person—only it must be the right person.