FREDA ALONE

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20331, 14 June 1934, Page 18

FREDA ALONE

Author of “ Peggy, the Daughter,” “Mary Gray,” etc.

By

KATHARINE TYNAN

CHAPTER IX.—(Continued.) As she finished her coffee she became aware of a change in the throbbing of the screw, which hitherto had been the predominant sound. It was slower, more deliberate, surely; it was beating out a quieter tune. “We are going slower, is it not so?” she said to the waiter. “Yes, madam, because of the foggy weather.” He glanced at the clock. “Unless the fog clears we shall get in very late.” “How late?” Freda asked with a startled air. She wondered what Mrs. Maitland's maid, now waiting her her at Newhaven, would do when the boat did not arrive. “Impossible to say, madam; we might be several hours late if the fog thickens.” She went on deck. The sun had disappeared completely by this time, and the boat was moving quietly through a grey world of fog. The fog-horn screamed overhead as she stood looking about her in consternation— she realised now that it had begun before she came upstairs. There were a few men on deck besides the sailors; only a couple of strongminded women were to be seen. It had suddenly turned cold; the motion of the boat was hardly perceptible. Someone spoke to her suddenly, making her start. It was the man she had been thinking of, the man who had never been long out of her thoughts during these quiet years while she had been growing to womanhood. “Awful nuisance the fog,” he said. “And it seems to be growing thicker. You are not nervous, are you V” “Not at all.” It was good to have the old friend by her side, although he did not know her. She could almost have added, “not with you.” Indeed, she said it under her breath. “You don’t want to go downstairs?” “But no. Not if I can help it.” “Quite right,” he said heartily. “People are much better on deck if they only realised it. Supposing you sit down here.” Ho set her a chair out of the way of the sailors who were hurrying up and down. Then he fetched a rug, which she remembered to have seen over the knees of his companion, and wrapped it about her. “You don’t mind?” he asked. “I saw you were travelling alone. Please let me do anything I can for you.” “I don't mind at all,” she said. “You are very kind.” She could hardly keep the joy out of her voice. “Kind! Oh, not I. I can see you’re a stranger to England. It is not at an cheerful receiving such a damp wel- [ come as this from her.” They sat side by side talking easily. He took Freda for a French girl, and complimented her on the excellence of her English. Now and again he glanced sideways at her curiously. The lace of the veil revealed only enough of the face to show that it was young and charming. He could see the outline of a little ear and the profile at once piquant and a little austere. He wanted to see more of the face, but she kept her veil down, while he cast about in his mind for pretexts to make her lift it, discarding each one, as it presented itself to him. She turned her head, and she had the indefinable elegance of the Frenchwoman of refinement. Her goldenbrown hair had a shining smoothness. It broke into little rings at the nape of her neck. “Please forgive me,” he said abruptly: “I can’t help feeling that we have met before; and yet, if we had, I could not have forgotten you.” “All, but one often has those fancies, is it not so?” she said, putting her words with an uncertain deliberation that he thought delightful. Then she listened ■with her veiled head daintily on one side and a finger laid against her lip. The screaming of another fog-liorn broke into theirs. The boat came to a standstill with a jerk that nearly flung them from their chairs. They felt, rather than saw, something glide by them in the fog, screaming as it went. “We are all right,” he said, and laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “We stopped just in time. Confound the fog. It seems to be growing thicker and thicker.” The boat seemed to quiver under their feet like an over-driven horse pulled up suddenly. ‘I want to see what has happened,” ho said. “Will you come with me, or shall I leave you here ? I shall come back immediately.” “I shall wait here,” she said. “I am not at all afraid.”

. It gave her a curious sense of exhilaration to be alone with him in the dense curtain of the fog. A few hours more and he would be lost to her again. Now she was glad of the chance that left two old friends to each other’s society for a little while, between forgetfulness and forgetfulness. His bride need not grudge her this little while, seeing that she would have him for so long. With the thought she glanced apprehensively toward the companion, supposing the bride should sally forth and demand by what right her rug was on this stranger’s knees and her bridegroom by this stranger’s side. Freda’s glimpse of the young, woman had seemed to convey a suggestion of imperious temper as of a spoilt child, although, indeed, it was enough to make anyone cross to be seasick on a honeymoon. . # I-ionel Dam pier was back again by her side. “It is all right,** he said, and there was a note of deep relief in his voice. “I wasn’t sure that we hadn’t struck. It was the closest thing. The other vessel almost grazed our bows. Do you think the fog is lifting? It seems to me a little lighter.” She was not at all sure she wanted the fog to lift. This was her hour, the hour she had looked toward since the old days, which time was hastening to snatch from her. Was fate going to be so unkind as to lift the fog and speed him on his honej'moon ? Fate was not so unkind. The fog was so thick that for a time they were obliged to cast anchor. Xow and again he left her for a few minutes. Once he came back to her with tea, and watched her face with the same puzzled bewilderment when she had pushed up her veil to drink it. The round white chin, the soft pale month, the little white tip-titled nose. Where had he seen them or their counterparts? Oddly enough, he never thought of Freda and Marismy. She talked easily and impersonally of the limited life she knew, saying nothing which gave him the slightest clue. He seemed to have come upon one at last. It eluded him. Xow he thought he had his finger upon it; now it was gone. Where was it ho had known such a chin and mouth? Sucli an adorable nose? There ought to be grey eyes to complete that face and golden brown lashes. He could see the eyes hidden behind the envious veil.

He leant forward a little. Things began to come out of the darkness. Her eyes looked at him through the veil. It was on her lips to say: ‘T kept my promise, and I have the little angel still.” Then, the magical moment was over. “Leo,” said a voice close by. “Are we nearly in? I have been so frightened. This horrible fog. And that dreadful horn.” ‘“'Are you better, dear? I am so glad—” Freda was forgotten- When Lionel Dampier remembered her again and looked about for her she had disappeared. The rug was yet warm that had wrapped her about. He felt its warmth as he laid his hand upon it, and it thrilled him. “Were you talking to that pretty girl, Leo?” The sweet voice had a peevish sound. “Who is she ? Did I see my rug about her knees ?” “She is travelling alone, Yere. A French girl, quite bj' herself. There is someone to meet her at Xewhaven, or ought to be. We must see if no one turns up that her luggage is all right, and that she gets into the proper train.” “I dare sav she is very well able to take care of herself,” said the girl crossly. She had not yet got over her discomfort, else peevishness did not go with the small, dark face. “What a ■wretched journey. I do wish we had stayed in Paris.” “Poor little girl,” Dampier said compassionately. He looked as though he could be very patient with feminine unreasonableness. * CHAPTER X. The First Step. . The boat had arrived, after all, without mishap or disaster five hours late. Freda had known from the time the bride appeared in the doorway of the companion that her hour was over. She was very unwilling to intrude herself again, and very much against her inclination kept for the rest of the time to the safe seclusion of the ladies’ cabin. At Newliaven she discovered a tiredlooking, elderly woman scanning the faces of the passenger** as they came down the gangway from the boat and went to her at once. Yes, it was Mrs. Maitland’s old servant, Clara. Clara had travelled much in her time, and had telegraphed to her mistress that the boat was. late in getting in. She was quite equal to collecting Freda’s luggage; and having deposited the weary girl in a* corner, set about it in a most business-like fashion. But dark as her corner was. Lionel Dampier Jiad found her out. “Have you been met?” he asked eagerly. “If not, please let me help you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you since you disappeared on the boat.” Then Clara had interrupted.

“The luggage is all right now, miss,” she said, “and a porter is keeping our seats.”

She glanced at Lionel Dampier with an air of surprise. He had looked irresolutely from her to Freda. Then had lifted his hat, and hurried away. It was like him, Freda thought, to be so concerned about a strange girl on his wedding journey. They ran up against him once more as they moved along the platform. He was just about to enter a cab, and was giving the address to the cabman. The cab was heaped with all manner of luggage and a porter stood by with a trolley, similarly loaded.

So it was all over. He was not even a passenger by the train. Freda had the loneliest feeling of being among strangers as the train steamed out, and she looked about her at the dimly-lit carriage and the tired faces of her fellow travellers, most of them half asleep. Mrs. Maitland lived in a Notting Hill Crescent, having come down there from Seymour Street. Decay was on the Crescent; every year, nay every week, it dry-rotted a little more. The old respectable folk moved out, and a low r er class moved in. There wa*3 a foreign air about the Crescent, between the Jews and the young men of colour who congregated in the boarding houses that were springing up on every side. But the house itself wa* well built and comfortable. It had its little garden at the back, with two big forest trees at the end of it, where one might do a little gardening without mixing with the motley crowd in the public garden outside. Mrs. Maitland received Freda with a kind, yet a majestic air. She seemed to be a queen, as Freda discovered presently, among the other old ladies who had houses of their own in the Crescent, which they had i • erited long before the evil days had come upon it. They used to come in by the garden waj-; averting their gaze from the young people of colour, who strolled about in couples and sat in arbours in the public garden, which was a little damp on even the hottest day of the year. If Mrs. Maitland was in a good humour she received them. If she was not 6lie was oblivious of their presence, even though they could see her reclining on her balcony, which she had made a sort of secluded bower, where she could take the air without observation. She and Freda sat there the day after Freda’s arrival, Mrs. Maitland now and again taking a long look at Freda through her lorgnette, Freda bearing the scrutiny with a suppres*>ed smile which only made her sweet mouth sweeter. “You are quite a French girl, Freda,” the old lady said at last, laying down her lorgnette. “You would pass for one anywhere. And yet—there is something English too—an air of greater selfreliance than the French girl has while she is jeune fille. And now, child, what am Ito do with you ? What prospect is there here for you, amid this canaille?” She waved* her hand magnificently towards the public gardens—quite oblivious of the fact that a little old lady with a pug-dog in her arms was shaking her gate and now and again emitting the words: “Anna! Anna, dear! Do I intrude ?” Freda looked impatiently towards the little old lady. She was very fond of old people, and very patient with their little ways; but at the moment she was so eager to set out on her search that she did not want her talk with Miss Maitland interrupted. “There is someone—” she began. “Only Mrs. Scoles. She will go away when she sees I am engaged. Supposing you lean forward a little so that she may see you? Ah, has that sent her away? So many of these people have nothing to occupy their time and minds. Why not learn Spanish? I said to Georgia Sholes only yesterday. You were saying, my dear — V* “You were saying that there was no prospect for me here,” said Freda.

“Ah, so I was. Excuse my forgetfulness. I was going to say that you were most welcome to stay with me as long as | ever you liked; only I was regretting the opportunities I once had of launching a girl in-society. Ijn afraid you will find it very dull, Freds', very dull.” Freda leant forward with her cheek propped in her hand. Her deep eyes sought the old lady’s, and looked into them as though she would read her very soul. “Mrs. Maitland,” she said, “you are very good, very good to be willing to charge yourself with me. I know how good you are. how unselfish, how you have suffered for the sins of others. Y’ou don’t know what an appetite I have alas! But —I want to go out into theworld. There was no reason why I should not have stayed on at Pont de Pierre if it were not that—” “All, you are quite right. You find me in a backwater —a backwater of life. Please go away, Emily Phaye. I am busy just now. Come in to tea in the afternoon.” Another old lady gave up shaking the gate and went away with a dejected air. “You are not a creature for a backwater, with your looks. My child, what is it you want to do?” “To find out who I am,” said Freda. She burst out passionately: “Mrs. Maitland, do you believe I am illegitimate? Oh, yes, I know; but how dreadful it is, you are thinking. Yet I have to think of it, to impute it. to disprove it . . . “My child, what a painful thing to sav!” The handsome old face was suddenly suffused with colour. “Has anyone suggested such a thing to you ?’* “No one. If you knew what the atmosphere was like at Les Roses you would not fear that. Ah, but it was kind, it was innocent, like the convent. Only, it was something I heard said long ago, between sleeping and waking, when I was recovering from an illness. I did not understand then, being only a child. As 1 grew older I came to understand. I know myself that it is not true, not so. I remember my father and mother together. Ah, mv angel, that my mother was! And my dear young father adored her. I want to right them more than myself. I want to find my name, to discover my belongings, if I have any. It is not likely they would have dropped out of the sky and left no trace. There was Uncle Stephen, of course.” Mrs. Maitland looked up with sudden interest. “Uncle Stephen. There was an uncle then V* “Yes; he used to come to the house in Sloane Street —** “In Sloane Street? You are sure it was Sloane Street— ** “I have carried it in my mind all those years. It was in Sloane Street we lived. My father’s name was Lancelot Traquair. My mother’s name was Elfrida. lam called after her. Elfrida they called me at home, at Pont de , Pierre. Only Maman called me Freda.” Mrs. Maitland got up from the sofa . with the majestic air with which she performed every action of life. She went i into the drawing room, signing to Freda to follow her. I (To be continued daily.)