The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVII, Issue 50, 14 December 1899, Page 23

The Storyteller.

GOOD LOOKS ARE NOT EVERYTHING. I WAB the plain one of the family. Lucy was fair and blue-eyed ; Myra was dark, with a bright oolonr and neat features, whilst Mave was tall and stately, with the face and figure of a Diana. My Bisters were all well pleased with themselves, and very angry with me. I had no right to be so ugly, they often remarked — it spoilt the harmony of things and made people talk. • After all, Mave, what does it matter II 11I 1 I heard my mother Bay, in a tone of expostulation, one morning. 'Good looks are not everything. "Handsome is as handsome does," remember, and a better girl than Molly never lived. She ought to be a model to you all.' I blushed to the roots of my hair, and wished I dared come out from my hiding place behind the window curtains. But I was afraid to show myself, and sat very still, hoping my mother and sister would soon leave the room. 'Good!' Mave tossed her handsome head and shrugged her shoulders. 'Goodness doesn't count for much in this world. If a girl can only be a saint, she had better go into a convent at once.' ' I don't see that,' my mother answered sharply. ' And you'll please keep such thoughts to yourself. It's all very well to be pretty — but, we're as God made us. And a girl like Molly would bring a blessing on any home.' ' I'm glad you think so,' Mave laughed a little contemptuously. ' For I'm quite sure you'll get leave to keep her. No one will be anxious to steal her away from you.' ' You ara very severe. But wait till Molly puts up her hair and gets suitable frocks, and you'll see how nioe she'll look.' • She'll cost you a fortune. Her dress allowance will have to be twice as big as ours.' ' And so it shall be, if neoessary. Everything Bhall be done to make my sweet Brownie appear to the best advantage.' 4 Dear, kind mother !' I cried, as I heard the door shut, and I knew that I was alone. ' I don't think dress will make much difference in your Brownie. And she must be content to remain plain and unnoticed. It is God's will. And if He will but make her good and gentle and patient, and you will love her thus, she will not complain.' The tears that had been long gathering in my eyes now splashed down in great drops upon my olaßped hands, and for a moment or two I sat in my secluded corner weeping silently. Then I jumped up and said : ' What a goose I am. These are the last tears I shall shed over such nonsense. If lam plain what matter. My sisters are pretty and admired, and as frivolous as can be, but they are not happy, always wanting something— craving for something that they never seem to get. I shall never be pretty, never be admired, and am not naturally frivolous. I shall not try to be either one tiling or the other. But I will be happy. The secret of happiness is to be content — never to expect or to look for anything beyond what we've got, and to devote ourselves to others. I'll do that, My mother shall be my first object. I'll do all I can to make her life bright and happy.' Having come to this determination I went upstairs, bathed my face and re-arranged my hair, and putting on my freshest white blouse, hurried down to tea. In three months' time I was to come out as a young lady. My skirts were to be lengthened, my dresses made by Have's Parisian dressmaker. •I don't think they'll suit my style, mother dear,' 1 said, smiling into her loving eyes. • Sweet simplicity is the bebt thing for me.' • Not at all, dearie,' kissing me. 'As long as I can afford it you must be well dressed.' I laid my cheek against hers, saying softly : 4lt will be a waste of money, mother dear. Your little Brownie is not worth it.' 'My little Brownie,' pressing me in her arms, ' is worth more than I can ever give her. And as far as I can I'll see that she has everything of the very best.' Taking little interest in my new finery, which I felt could never make me look anything but a small, brown, insignificant person, I was greatly relieved when my last visit to the dressmaker had been paid, and my outfit was complete. 4 You're a lucky girl,' said Mave, coming into my room one evening and gazing round at the dainty olothes that lay upon the bed and chairs and couch. ' I'd love to be beginning all over again like that.' • But you have lots of lovely things.' 'Not half what I want. And my allowance is so absurdly small that I'm always in debt ' ' That's a pity,' I said gravely. ' I think a hundred a year iB a good deal to spend on one's clothes.' 'Oh! do you? Well, just wait But then, of course, you're different. You'll never have the temptations I have to be extravagant.' 4 1 hope not. Anyway, I don't mean to give in to them.' 4 You're a virtuous creature Too good for this world,' laughed Mave, and she Bwept gracefully out of the room. 4 Too good and too plain,' I tighed. ' Molly Craven, you're a mistake. If you hadn't a mother to love you, your lot would be a sad one.' When I went down to the drawing-room before dinner that evening, in one of my new frocks, an exquisite white muslin, trimmed with fine lace and insertion, a bunch of scarlet poppies on my breast, a tall, good-looking young man was standing by the piano turning over Mave's music, He was very fair, but with deep-

set dark grey eyes, that gave colour and intelligence to hit handsome face. Mave looked superb in pale mauve silk and Honioon lace. She laughed as I came in and, turning on the mnsio* stool, introduced me to our guest. ' Miss Molly Craven, Lord Vandeleur,' she said. ' Her first appearance in long frocks.' And she swung round again to the piano with a silvery, and I thought somewhat mocking, laugh. Lord Vandeleur bowed, and as I met his frank eyes I recovered my composure, which had been suddenly routed by Mave's peculiar introduction. ' I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Molly, either in short frocks or long,' he said with a friendly Bmile. ' I have heard a great deal of you as a tennis-player.' 4 Yes, Molly iB terribly energetic,' Mave remarked with a drawl. ' These little people always are. Now, Lord Vandeleur, we'll go over this again, please.' He turned to the piano, and after sitting quite still for moment with crimson cheeks and loudly-beating heart I stole away to look for my mother. As I paused in the conservatory I heard Lord Vandeleur my to Mave: ' There's something very nice about your little sister, although she's not at all like the rest of the family.' ' Happily not,' she answered dryly. 'We consider her very plain.' ' Oh, do you ? Well,' I'm not so sure. Those little brown things are very fascinating.' ' This is too bad,' I cried, stamping my foot. ' Why oan't they leave me and my looks alone?' And I fled away, angry ana ashamed. For the next few days we lived in a whirl of exoitement and gaiety. There were danoes, tea-parties, and tennis, both at home and abroad. I went every where— my mother insisted on that— and thanks to the kindness of friends and my own good spirits I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Lord Vandeleur was a welcome guest at all these entertainments, and although he was an acknowledged admirer of Mave's and was constantly by her side, he was extremely kind to me and paid me many little attentions that filled me with wonder and gratitude. I was always bright and happy in his oompany, and the only time I felt inolined to envy Mave her good looks was when I saw him talking and dancing with her and heard people say what a handsome couple they made. But I resolutely put these thoughts aside, and was as merry and free from care as the prettiest girl amongst the many at these gay parties. The idea of trouble was far from our minds in those days. No fear of coming sorrow dimmed our happiness for a moment. And yet, though we knew it not, our time of trial was fast approaohing, our years of ease and luxury were drawing to a olose. One evening we came home late from a tennis party. I was in high spirts. Lord Vandeleur had been my partner in a set that afternoon, and as I had played my very best, we had won. My suooesß, the compliments I had received, and my partner's evident pleasure in being with me, had almost turned my head, and I was in a state of wild elation when I ran into the morning-room to look for my mother. But she was not there, and to my surprise Father Ryan, our parish prieat, came forward to meet me, and with grave, sad eyes, took my hand in his. 4 Molly,' he said (he had known me from my infancy and had given me many words of advice and comfort during my life), ' a great sorrow has fallen upon your mother and upon you all. But God will help you to bear it. You are brave and good and ready to submit to His holy will in all things, I know.' 'Father, what is it?' I cried, growing white and trembling with sudden fear. 'My mother ! ' ' Your mother is well, dear child, but in sad trouble. Your father was taken ill soon after you went out. He was worried and anxious. Things had been going wrong in the city of late and ' ' He — is — dead. Oh, father ! I see it in your eyes. 1 1 He — God rest his soul. His call wob sudden. But Our Lord is good. His mercy is great. And He will .help and care for you as He has always done. Go to your mother, Molly. You were tht only one she asked for in her sorrow.' ' Oh, father V I sobbed. 'It is very terrible. Poor, dear father —dead.' And then I turned away and staggered out of the room. A moment later I was weeping my heart out in my mother's arms. My father's Budden death, and the discovery that he had left us well nigh penniless, wae an awful blow to us all. We were prostrate with grief and misery, and for some weeks were incapable of raising a hand to help ourselves. But the situation was a grave one, and before the first two months had elapsed we were obliged to sell off everything and leave our beautiful home for ever. Then came the question of what we were to do. For every one of us, mother and all, had to turn round and, ill-fitted as we were for any kind of really remunerative work, try and earn our own bread. A cousin of my mother's, a hard-working old priest in a poor and lonely parish in the Gotswold Hills, offered her the post of housekeeper in his modest establishment, at an almost nominal salary. Atid glad to get away to some quiet spot, -when she conld think of and pray for her lost darling in peaoe, she accepted his offer. Tall, beautiful Mave, with her graceful figure and stately carriage, soon found a place at a hundred a year in Messrs. Jay's big show-rooms in Regent street. Ijuoy went as a governess to Lady Dairy mple's ohildren, and Myra joined a well-to-do friend, who was opening a bonnet shop in Bond street, and wanted a pretty, dainty little person to sail about her rooms and persuade people they looked charming in her very costly and extremely fashionable head-gear,

' You're all suited now except me,' I said disconsolately. ' And I don't know what to do. I'm not tall, not pretty. I couldn't teach a baby, and I can neither bake nor sew.' • You might be a lady-help,' suggested Myra. ' You could make beds and dust.' ' Perhaps. But the prospect is not a lively one.' 4 Here's an advertisement that doesn't Beeoa bad,' Lucy answered, taking up a number of the Lady. 'I'm not sure I wouldn't rather have it than a place as governess. Only I know Lady Dalrymple, and she's so kind, and will treat me well.' I took the paper and ran my eye over the advertisement : 'Wanted as companion and lady-help to an elderly lady, living in quiet country house, a well educated girl of eighteen or twenty ; duties light ; salary, £18 a year and washing. 1 • I'll answer it,' I cried. ' And if the old lady's reply is fairly promising I'll go to her. And I Bball not want many dresses in her quiet country house. I daresay it's a hundred miles from everywhere. But beggars can't be choosers. So I'll go to this old lady if she'll only take me.' My mother caressed my hair with a trembling hand. 'I'd have liked something more promising for my Brownie,' she Baid. ' But lam sure your decision is a wise one.' ' I am sure it is,' I answered, trying hard to speak cheerfully. • And something tells me it will prove a blessed one. My old lady will prove an angel in disguise.' 1 You're a brave little soul and deserve to prosper," whispered my Bweet mother in a choking voice. And kissing her silently I ran off to answer the advertisement. « Very promptly came Mrs. Lester's reply to my letter, and even my mother was forced to admit that it was perfectly satisfactory. She was evidently a lady, and every word she wrote showed extreme politeness and delicacy of feeling. • I feel that I love her already,' I said, my eyes full of tears. ' Since I must leave you, mother, I'm glad to go to her. I'll accept her situation at once.' And I did so without an hour's delay. All this time little had been seen or heard of Lord Vandeleur. A few days after our father's death he had called and left a card, but since then he had made no sign. ' Was he only a fair-weather friend after all V I thought, stealing a glance at Mave, lovely and stately in her deep mourning 'No, I oan't believe that. Perhaps she sent him away. Well,' Bighing, ' it's no business of mine, and she doesn't seem to mind. Bat Btill I'm sorry. He was suoh a pleasant friend.' The end of the week Baw us all scattered. Saying good-bye to one's nearest and dearest is a terrible ordeal, and I was red-eyed and eick at heart when I at last reached the ' Lodge ' on Banstead Common. Mtb. Lester, a sweet-looking lady just verging on seventy, her enow-hair lying in smooth bands upon her broad forehead, a cap of soft tulle tied with white ribbons under her chin, and a fichu of old lace folded across the bosom of her handsome black silk dress, received me in the kindest manner possible and invited me into the drawing-room to take a cup of tea. •I—lI — I didn't know lady-helps were treated as friends,' I said, blushing furiously, as she pressed me to eat some cake, and waited on me aa though I were an honoured guest. ' You — you are far too kind.' She Bmiled and patted my hand softly. 'Itis a little unusual, perhaps. But then lam unusual. And you, my dear, are just a little unusual. I think we'll get on together.' 1 I'm sure we shall,' I cried. ' But,' half laughing, half crying, ' you must not spoil me and take me out of my place. You must give me work and ' 'Of course I shall. But I want you as a companion more than anything. Your duties, otherwise, you will find very light, and I hope not too irksome.' 1 Oh, I don't mind what I do. lam young and strong, and,' blushing, ' not beautiful enough to give myself airs.' ' No.' She examined me a little critically. ' You are not beautiful ; but you have a sweet face.' And she bent down and kissed me. I was soon perfectly at home at the Lodge. My duties were light, and Mrs. Lester was kindness itself. The days and weeks passed away fairly quickly, and in spite of a little sadness of heart and a feeling of dulness that came over me very strongly at times J was content, almost happy. My place at the Lodge was really an easy one. I helped Mrs. Lester to dress, kept her clothes in order, and dusted and arranged her room and the drawing-room. I did the marketing and saw that the servants did their work. In the afternoon I walked or drove out with my mistress. In the evening I read to her or sat sewing by her side whilst she played ' Patience ' or wrote her letters. All my meals were taken with her, even when she had visitors, and she introduced me to everyone in the sweetest manner as her ' friend, Miss Molly Craven.' ' You're a good girl, to be always so bright and cheerful in such a dull house aB this, Molly,' she said one day when I had been with her about three months. 'But by-and-bye we'll be more lively. A nephew of mine ia coming for a fortnight at Christmas-time, and he'll wake us up a bit. I felt sorry to hear this. I didn't want waking up, and I was sure that a man about a tiny house like the Lodge would be a nuisance. However, I kept my thoughts to myself and did my best to look pleased when the young stranger's visit was talked •bout. 'I've been most fortunate to find such a place, and such a friend,' I told myself on Christmas Eve, as I dressed to walk across the Heath to do my marketing. ' I cannot expect to have everything my own way. And, after all, this young man may add to our happiness. And if not — well, a week will soon fly over.' And little guessing the joy that lay before me, I tied on my veil and running downstairs, passed out of the house, through the frosty garden, and away at a brisk pace, over the hard, white common.

' I never in my life,' I told myFelf, ' liked bat one man— except, of course, my dear father. But he -ah, well! I never deceived myself. He was kind and pleasant, and . But it was not likely that his feelings would ever be. any deeper for poor, plain little me, when Mave— tall, beautiful, graceful Mave was about.' I gave my orders, made my various small purchases, and turned homewards. At the top of the hill, a fly bearing- a couple of portmanteous, a hat-box and a big dreesing-bag, passed down the road from the station. • It's too early,' I thought, • or I'd think that was-our visitor. I laughed merrily. ' It's very funny, but now I come to. think of it, I don't know his name. I don't believe Mrs. Lester ever mentioned it. Well, what matter— l'll know it soon enough.' On entering the lodere gates I met the fly again. There was no ' one inside and the luggage had been taken off the top.' I ' Why, it is our visitor after all,' I cried in surprise. « Well, I'll not disturb the aunt and nephew just yet. Mrs. Lester wishes the place to look as Christmassy as possible, so I'll get my scissors and basket and go and cut a lot of holly and ivy. The berries are lovely this year. And " In the porch stood Mrs. Lester, smiling and radiant. 'He has come,' she exclaimed. ' Dear Vandeleur looks bronzed and handsome after his stay in Egypt. But what's the matter, child? Are you ill?' ' ' No, no,' I answered, feeling horribly couscious that my cheeks were changing from white to red. ' I was a little surprised. Wa knew a Lord Vandeleur at the awful time of my father's death.' •He told me he knew you well. Vandeleur, you have not been forgotten.' ' I trust not.' And before I had time to recover my dignity and presence of mind Lord Vandeleur caught my hand and looked straight into my eyes. ' Molly, little Molly,' he whispered, ' you are glad to see me V ' Certainly,' I answered, affecting an indifference I was far from feeling. ' You have been long away.' ' I could not help it. I was obliged to go abroad. When I returned you had all gone ; your old home was deserted. ' Such is life,' I said lightly. ' Nothing but change and . But we'll meet again. I have work to do now.' And I sped into the house and up the stairs to my room. At lunch Lord Vandeleur and Mrs. Lester kept up a lively conversation. The old lady had many questions to ask about absent friends, and seeing that they were happy together I slipped away. ' I can't breathe in the house,' I cried, putting nay hands to my burning cheeks. ; I'll get the holly now.' As I stood on tiptoe trying to break off a branch of holly laden with bright berries a deep voice Baid in my ear : ' Allow me, Molly,' and in an instant the branch was lying in my basket. ' Thank you,' I said ; • you are very kind.' And I took a step back towards the house. But Lord Vandeleur sprang to my side. ' Molly, I came here to Bee you. I heard by accident that you were with my aunt, and I travelled night and day to ask you a question that was often on my lips four months ago. Molly, will you be my wife ? ' I grew crimson, then pale. ' But Mave,' I stammered. ' I—lI — I thought you loved Mave.' ' You thought wrong. Mave knew I loved you. But she said you did not care for me, and I feared ■' ' She should have allowed me to answer for myself,' I blazed out. ' I ' ' You will do so now. Molly, sweet Molly, do you love me 1 Will you marry me 1 ' 1 A lady-help — your wife ! ' I began with a wild attempt at gaiety ; then I burst into tears. ' Look up, my darling, and whisper " Hugh, I love you." ' But I could not speak. My heart was too full, and I raised my eyes in silence to his face. What he saw there satisfied him. The mute eloquence told him more than any words, and drawing' me gently to his side he murmured : ' God bless you, my love, you have made me very happy.'— Claea MtriiHOLLAND, in the Catholic Fireside.