Margery Daw. A novel

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Chapter I

“ Staxd back there! Move aside! Good heavens! Can’t you see the woman will die if you press about her in this way?”

The speaker bent over the lifeless form as he uttered these words, and tried once more to pour a little stimulant between the pallid lips. The scene was one of indescribable confusion. A collision had occurred between the Chesterham express and a goods train, just a short distance from Chesterham Junction. Five of the carriages were wrecked. Fortunately three were empty; and the other two contained only three passengers — a man, who, with his arm bound up, was already starting to walk to the town; a boy, badly cut about the head, leaning pale and faint on a portion of the broken wood- work; and, lastly, a woman, who lay motionless on the bank, a thick shawl spread between her and the cold damp earth. On discovery she had been removed from the debris, laid on the bank, and forgotten in the excitemeut and terror. The rest of the passengers had sustained only a severe shaking and bruises; and loud were their grumblings and expressions of selfsympathy as they clustered together on the bank, shivering in the gray autumn mist. A doctor who had been summoned from Chesterham ran his eye over the assembled people, strapped up the boy’s head, and skillfully set the broken arm of the man. It was while doing this that his glance fell on the prostrate form lying on the grass; and the sight of the pale bloodless face immediately brought a frown to his brow.

“ What is the matter there?” he asked a passing porter.

‘ * Lady in a faint, sir. 99

The doctor fastened the last bandage, and with hurried

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steps approached the woman. A crowd followed him, and gathered round so closely as to cause him to request . them to “ stand back.” His words produced the desired effect, and the by-standers moved away and watched with breathless interest his fruitless efforts to restore animation.

The frown darkened on the doctor's brow; there was something more than an ordinary faint here. He raised the woman's head for another trial, and the mass of red-gold hair already loosened fell in glorious waves round the beautiful pale face, bringing a murmur of admiration from the beholders. The sudden action caused one limp cold hand to fall against the doctor's warm one, and at the contact he shuddered. He raised the heavily fringed eyelids, gave one look, then gently laid the woman's head down again, and reverently covered her face with his handkerchief.

“ I can do nothing,” he said tersely, as if speaking to himself; “ she is dead!''

The crowd drew back involuntarily; some hid their faces, while others gazed at the slight form in its dark-brown dress as if they doubted the truth of his statement. Suddenly, while the doctor stood thoughtfully drawing on his gloves, one of the porters appeared in the crowd. He held a child in his arms — such a pretty child — with hair that matched the red -gold masses of the lifeless form on the bank, eyes that shone like sapphire stars from beneath her curling lashes, and a skin of cream white, with no warmth of color in the face save that of the small red lips. She was dressed in a little gray coat, all covered now with dust; in her tiny hands she clasped a piece of broken wood-work, holding it as though it were a treasure, and she glanced round at the by-standers with an air of childish piquancy and assurance.

“ Whose child is this?” inquired the porter, looking from one to another.

There was a pause; no one spoke, no one owned her. The porter's honest face grew troubled.

“ Where does she come from?” asked the doctor quickly.

“We have just picked her from under the roof of a second-class carriage,” the porter explained. 4 4 We were turning it over — you see, sir, it fell some distance from the rest of the carriage — and when we lifted it we found this mite a-singing to herself and nursing her dolly, as she calls this

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piece of wood. It's by Heaven's mercy she ain't been smashed to bits; but she ain't got not even a bruise. She must belong to some one/' he added, looking round again.

A lady in the crowd here stepped forward.

“ Give her to me," she said kindly. 44 Perhaps she was traveling alone : if so, that will be explained no doubt by a letter or something. "

But the child clung to the porter, her pretty brows puckered, her red lips quivering.

44 Mammie!" she cried, plaintively. “ I wants my mammie!"

The doctor turned and looked at the child and at that instant she suddenly wriggled and twisted herself from the porter's arms to the ground, and, running to the silent form lying on the bank, crouched down and clutched a bit of the brown dress in her hands.

44 Mammie," she said, confidently, looking round with her great blue eyes on the circle of faces, all of which expressed horror, pity, and sadness — 44 Mardie's mammie!"

The doctor stooped, drew back the handkerchief, and glanced from the living to the dead.

44 Yes," he said, abruptly; 44 this is her mother. Heaven have mercy on her, poor little soul!"

The lady who had come forward went up to the child, her eyes filled with tears. She loosened the dress from the small fingers.

“ Mardie must be good," she said, tenderly, 4 4 and not wake her mammie. Mammie has gone to sleep. ' '

The child looked at the still form, the covered face.

“Mammie peep," she repeated; “Mardie no peak, mammie — be good, " and she lowered her voice to a whisper and repeated, 4 4 be good. " She suffered herself to be lifted in the kind, motherly arms, and pressed her bit of wood closer to her, humming in a low voice.

“ We must find out who she is," the doctor said, his eyes wandering again and again to the dead woman. 44 She must be carried to the town; there will be an inquest."

A passenger at this moment pointed to some vehicles coming toward them. They could not drive close to the spot, as a plowed field stretched between the railway and the road, and one by one the group dispersed, all stopping to pat the child's face and speak to her. The doctor gave some orders to the porter who had found the child, and a

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litter, formed of a broken carriage-door, was hastily improvised. As the crowd withdrew, he knelt down by the dead woman and with reverent hands searched in the pockets for some clew. He drew out a purse, shabby and small, and opening this, found only a few shillings and a railway ticket, a second-class return from Euston to Chesterham. In an inner recess of the purse there was a folded paper, which disclosed a curl of ruddy gold hair when opened, and on which was written — “ Baby Margery's hair, August 19 th.”

The doctor carefully replaced it. A key and a tiny old-fashioned worthless locket were the remainder of the contents. He checked a little sigh as he closed the purse, and then proceeded to search further. A pocket-handkerchief with the letter “ M. 99 in one corner, and a pair of dogskin gloves, worn and neatly mended, were the next objects, and one letter, which — after replacing the gloves and handkerchief — he opened hurriedly. The lady, still holding the child in her arms, watched him anxiously. The envelope, which was already broken, was addressed to “ M. care of Post-Office, Newtown, Middlesex.” The doctor unfolded the note. It ran as follows:

“ Mrs. Huntley will engage ‘ M.* if proper references are forwarded. Mrs. Huntley would require ‘ M. * to begin her duties as maid, should her references prove satisfactory, as soon as possible. ‘M.V statement that she speaks Erenctqand German fluently has influenced Mrs. Huntley to reconsider the question of salary. She will now give 4 M. 9 twenty-five pounds per annum, for which sum ‘ M. ’ must undertake to converse daily with Mr. Huntley s daughter in French and German, in addition to her duties as maid. Mrs. Huntley desires that ‘ M. 9 will send her real name by return of post.

The doctor handed the note to the lady, who read it through quickly.

“ That does not give much information,” he observed, rising from his knees.

“ Dated yesterday — received this morning. We must relegraph to this Mrs. Huntley; who knows? — the poor creature may have sent her references, with her full name, before starting from London. ”

4 4 Yes, you are right; we must do that. But what is to become of the child Are you staying here for long, madame?”

44 No,” replied the lady; 44 1 had intended to travel straight on to the North. But I shall remain in Chesterham for the night, and continue my journey to-morrow. I wish I could delay it longer; but unfortunately my son is ill in Edinburgh, and I must get to him as soon as possible. However, I will take care of this poor little mite to-night. I hope by the morning we shall have discovered her friends and relations. 9 3

44 If you will do that,” said the doctor, 44 1 will see to the mother. I must have the body carried to the infirmary.”

He beckoned as he spoke to the porter, who was standing at a little distance talking to the crowd of navvies who has arrived to clear the line, and the dead woman was lifted on to the litter, and covered with a rug belonging to the lady who had taken charge of the child. She watched the proceedings with a feeling of unspeakable sadness, and, as the melancholy burden was carried toward one of the cabs, she clasped the child closer to her breast, and tears stole down her cheeks.

The baby, cooing to her strange doll, looked up as they moved across the field. She put up one little hknd and rubbed away a tear from the motherly face.

44 No kye,” she said, in her pretty lisping fashion. 44 Mardie dood — she no kye. ”

The lady kissed the small lips.

44 Mardie is a sweet angel,” she whispered; 44 and now she shall come with me to a pretty place and have some nice dinner.”

44 Din, din,” said the child, nodding her head with its wealth of red-gold curls. 4 4 Mardie Tmgry. Mammie a din-din, too?5'

The lady shivered.

44 Yes, mammie will go to a pretty place too,” she answered hurriedly.

When they reached the cab, the doctor came up to them.

44 If you will allow me to suggest. The Plow is the best hotel. I would come with you, but I must drive straight

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to the infirmary. Give me the child for a moment while you get in. She has lost her hat, poor little thing; but the town is not far off, and the best place for her will be in bed.”

Mardie went willingly to the doctor's arms. She prattled to him about the “din -din” and “ mammie,” but much was unintelligible to him. She did not ask for her mother or seem strange. “ Mammie a peep,” she asserted several times in a whisper; and she was content with the two kind beings whose hearts were heavy with pain as they thought of the long dreary path she must tread henceforth without a touch from the loving hands or a word from the tender voice she knew so well.

“ There, madame,” and the doctor placed the small grayclad form in the cab. This poor little mite can not thank you herself; but, if you will allow me in humanity's name to offer you gratitude — ' '

The lady stopped him.

“ I have done no more than my duty. I thank you, sir, for your courtesy. Will you kindly let me know as early as possible the results of your telegram? I will go to The Plow; my name is Graham.''

“ And mine Scott. I will certainly let you know the instant I receive any intelligence. Something must be done with this child; but that is for to-morrow's consideration. She is safe in your hands for to-night.''

Dr. Scott raised his hat, and the cab started along the country lane toward Chesterham. Mrs. Graham drew Mardie on to her knee, and tried to chat to the child; but her whole nervous system was so shattered by the events of the past hour that the effort was vain.

Chesterham was a large manufacturing town. The news of the collision had spread rapidly, and, although the November dusk was closing in, crowds were thronging to the scene of the disaster. Mrs. Graham leaned back in a corner to escape the eager eyes, for she knew the story of the young mother's death would be known by now, and her natural refinement and delicacy shrunk from vulgar curiosity and hysterical excitement. The cab soon rattled into Chesterham, and, after a short journey through the lamplighted streets, stopped before the door of The Plow. Mardie was handed out to a pretty-faced chamber-maid, whose bright cap-ribbon immediately claimed the child's atten-

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tion, and Mrs. Graham followed slowly and wearily up the stairs, feeling her strength go at every step. The babyish voice and shrill peals of laughter echoed in her ears as the wail of future grief; her eyes were fixed on the small form, but her thoughts were with the dead young mother.

She dismissed the maid when she reached her room, and, drawing Mardie to her, began to loosen the gray coat, which bore traces of dainty design beneath the dust and dirt. For the first time the child seemed to feel her loss.

“ Mammie undress Mardie,” she said, putting up one little hand. “ Mammie peep now, but wake soon.”

“ Mammie would like Mardie to take off her coat like a good girl,” Mrs. Graham replied, feeling instinctively that the youthful mind grasped already the meaning of love and duty.

The child dropped her hand and nodded her head, then submitted to have the coat removed. She was neatly dressed in a dark-red cashmere frock, made loose like a blouse; she wore a tiny thread of gold round her neck with a little heart-shaped pendant suspended. Mrs. Graham took it in her hand, eagerly hoping to find some clew; but, on turning it, her eyes rested on a miniature of the mother’s lovely face.

“ Mardie’s mammie,” exclaimed the child, taking it and kissing it — “ dear mammie!” — then, with infantile changeableness, she rushed with a little shriek to the door where a kitten had just appeared, and with great delight picked up the downy little creature and caressed it.

The advent of dinner soon attracted her attention, and she prattled away merrily in her baby-language while the dishes were carried in. Mrs. Graham forced herself t talk to the child, and tried to divert her mind from i s gloomy thoughts by devoting herself to the task of tendiiu the little one. She was not a young woman, and the events of the day had proved almost too much for her nervous system; but with true unselfishness she tried to forget her own troubles in ministering to the tiny atom of humanity thrown so cruelly upon the world’s ocean, with mayhap no haven or port of love and affection to look to.

She lifted Mardie on to a chair, and was about to give her some food, when the door opened, and, looking up in surprise, she saw a lady, young and handsome, attired in a riding-habit, enter the room.

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Chapter II

“ I must apologize for this intrusion,” began the stranger, as she closed the door; “ but my errand I trust will excuse me. ”

“ What may I do for you?” asked Mrs. Graham, rising.

“ Let me introduce myself,” said the young lady, with a pretty smile. “ I am Lady Coningham, wife of Sir Hubert Coningham of the Weald, Hurstley, a village about three miles out.”

Mrs. Graham bowed.

“ I heard of the terrible accident while returning from a long run, and I rode over immediately to make inquiries. I have learned every thing. '•' She stopped for an instant, and then asked, “ Is that the child?”

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Graham briefly.

“ Poor thing!” murmured Lady Coningham involuntarily. She moved forward and bent over the child, stroking back the rich golden-red curls. “ Poor wee thing! How pretty she is!”

Mardie smiled and showed her pearly teeth as she rapped her spoon impatiently on the table.

4 4 Din-din,” she cried eagerly — “ Mardie so 'ungry!”

Lady Coningham stood by while Mrs. Graham prepared the child's meal. She said nothing, but two tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon her well -gloved hand. As soon as the child was well started, she turned and motioned Mrs. Graham to the fire-place.

“ Can you tell me anything about her?” she asked quickly.

Mrs. Graham shook her head.

“We have no idea,” she answered; then she S])oke of the letter and the doctor's intention of telegraphing to Mrs. Huntley.

“Yes — yes, that will be best. My object in coming here, Mrs. Graham, was to speak about the child. I met Doctor Scott, who told me briefly of the mother's death and your kindness; and I hurried here to see what I could do. Sir Hubert is one of the magistrates; therefore, as his wife, I consider it my duty to take up the case. Perhaps

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my efforts will not be required for long — I sincerely hope not — it will be a sad lookout for this baby if we can not find her friends. "

“It is the merest chance/' Mrs. Graham observed. “ This lady in Yorkshire may have received the name and references. I earnestly trust she has. "

“ If not, we must consider what to do with her/' said Lady Coningham. “ I would give everything I possess to be able to carry her home with me; but" — she sighed a little—“ that is out of the question. "

“You have children?" inquired Mrs. Graham gently, attracted by the other's sweet expression.

“ No," Lady Coningham answered slowly. “ I had one once, but — but it is gone. " She bent to kiss Mardie's soft little cheek as she . spoke, and again teal’s welled into her eyes.

“ I am glad you have come," said Mrs. Graham, after a pause, “ for it would have gone to my heart to leave the child without some kind hand to minister to it occasionally. I must go North to-morrow; but I feel now that, should the worst happen and we find no clew, you will care for this poor little flower. ' '

“ I will do all in my power for her," returned the younger woman; “ but do not let me keep you from your dinner — indeed you must want it."

Mrs. Graham rose and seated herself at the table. She felt weak and faint, but eating was almost an impossibility. Mardie, her food finished, put her hands together and whispered a grace, then wriggled down from her chair and went to the fire.

“ She must go to bed," said Mrs. Graham, rising again and ringing the bell; “ she is growing tired now. "

The words were quickly verified, for the little head suddenly began to droop, and the beautiful eyes to grow misty and sleepy: but, as Lady Coningham, who had hurriedly removed her gloves, knelt and began to unbutton her frock, the little child pushed her away and looked round with a sudden quick feeling of fear and strangeness.

“ Where Mardie's mammie — where a mammie?" she murmured.

“Mammie is asleep," said Mrs. Graham soothingly, dreading a fit of terror.

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“ Mammie peep? Mardie want a mammie. Mammie come a Mardie, come a Mardie!”

She ran to the door of the room and tried to reach the handle. Lady Ooningham picked her up.

“ If Mardie will be a very good little girl, she shall have some goodies — such pretty goodies. See — here comes Mardie's bath! She is going to be such a clean little girl. ”

Mardie sat still, but her small hands were clasped together, and her little chest heaved with sobs. Then, as the bath was put before the fire, and, looking from one to the other, she could see nowhere the sweet tender face that had smiled on her every day of her young recollection, she burst into a tempest of tears, and, struggling from Lady Coningham's hold, ran wildly round the room in a paroxysm of fear, calling for her “ mammie. ”

For several minutes their coaxing tenderness was in vain; but after awhile the maid succeeded in attracting her attention with a gaudily painted sugar parrot, which she had purchased at a confectioner's shop near by. The tears were all spent, nothing but sobs remained, and the parrot came as a welcome bright spot in her small world of grief.

“ Pitty — pi tty,” she murmured, clasping it to her breast and hugging it. Then she grew so sleepy that she was scarcely conscious of their hands removing her clothes, and her head drooped like a tired flower as they put on a nightgown borrowed from the landlady. She needed no lullaby to coax her to slumber now, and was lost in dreamland as the maid carried her gently into the bedroom.

Lady Ooningham stood and gazed, as if held by some magnetic power, at the tjny face pressing the pillow, at the clusters of red-gold curls falling in such rich profusion around it. She was lost in the memory of the brief joy that had come to her only two short years before, and lived once again in the unspeakable happiness of motherhood.

The sound of a deep voice broke her m usings, and, stealing softly from the bed, she entered the sitting-room and gave her hand to Dr. Scott.

“ What news?” she asked hurriedly.

Dr. Scott handed her a telegram, then seated himself by the table, leaning his head on his hand.

Lady Ooningham hastily rea l the words —

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“ From Mrs. Huntley, Upton Manor, Liddlefield, to Doctor Scott, Chesterham, — am distressed to hear of accident and the poor woman’s death. I can give you no information, as I have received no reply to my last letter to 6 M. 9 Pray let me know if I can be of any pecuniary assistance. 99

Lady Coningham put down the paper quietly.

“ What is to be done now?” she asked.

4 4 1 have telegraphed to Newtown,” replied Dr. Scott, looking up, 44 to the post-office there, but, as yet, have received no reply. They may know something, but I can not help thinking the poor creature had some reason for secrecy, and I am doubtful as to success. ”

Mrs. Graham was reclining wearily in an arm-chair by the fire. She spoke now as the doctor finished.

44 1 wish from my heart I could take the child, but it is out of the question, at any rate just now. My son is studying at Edinburgh University; he unfortunately caught a severe cold, and is now prostrate with rheumatic fever. My every moment will be with him; but, if you will place the poor mite with some kind people for a time. Lady Coningham, I will add my share to the expense, though frankly I am not by any means wealthy.”

44 1 know of a person,” began the doctor; but Lady Coningham broke in eagerly —

44 1 will take her to Hurstley. There is a poor young woman, the wife of one of my gardeners, almost heart-broken through the death of her baby. Her cottage is not far from the Weald. I pass it every day in my rides, and I could see the child very often. Let her come there to-morrow before you start. I will see Mrs. Morris to-night as I go home. ”

44 That seems an excellent plan,” agreed the elder woman at all events, for a time; but we must leave no stone unturned to find her relations.”

44 Will Sir Hubert like the arrangement, yourladyship?” asked Dr. Scott, as he rose to depart.

Lady Coningham's face flushed slightly.

44 1 will make it all right,” she replied, though with a little constraint. 44 Fortunately, Morris is a favorite with him.. But now I must go; it is very late, and I have a long ride. Lest we should not meet again before you

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start, Mrs. Graham, let me say now how pleased I am to have made your acquaintance, though the introduction has been a sad one. I will let you know early in the morning. Dr. Scott, if I have succeeded; and may I ask you to send the child over?”

The doctor bowed, and opened the door.

44 I will come down and assist you to mount. Your groom is with you, I trust?”

44 Oh, yes!” Lady Coningham smiled another farewell to Mrs. Graham, and was passing out, when a thought struck her. 44 Suppose,” she said hurriedly, 44 suppose I can not do this, what will become of the child?”

44 She must go to the work-house,” replied Dr. Scott gloomily; 44 my hands are too full already, as your ladyship knows, and there is no other alternative.”

Lady Coningham could not repress a shudder.

44 That must never be,” she said decidedly. 44 1 must arrange with Morris. Many thanks. Good-bye!”

Mrs. Graham rose early the next morning. Her sleep had been troubled and restless; but the child had never moved, and still slept on placidly as she dressed herself quietly. Dr. Scott was announced about half past eight, and his face showed that he had gained no further information.

44 The post-office can give me no clew,” he said.

44 They recollect the woman 4 M./ and describe her accurately; but she received no letters save three addressed to her initial; consequently we are just where we were. Lady Coningham has sent her groom to say that Mrs. Morris will receive the child, so when she is dressed I had better take her over there myself.”

Mrs. Graham assented with a sigh, and then rang for the maid to assist her in preparing Margery for the journey. The little one was very good; she submitted to her bath in brightness, and only now and then would turn her head to look for her mother. Already she seemed to know Mrs. Graham, and raised her lips many times to be kissed, her childish affection sending a pang of pain through the woman's heart. At last all was ready; the little gray coat, well brushed and repaired, was donned, a silk handkerchief tied over the red gold curls, and the beloved parrot clutched in a tight embrace. Mrs. Graham knelt for one brief moment by the small form, and a silent prayer went up to Heaven for mercy and protection; then she led the child to the doctor.

“I will write from Edinburgh," she said hurriedly; i 4 perhaps, after all, I shall be able to manage something in the future; and here ” — handing two sovereigns to the doctor — 4 4 is my small share toward present expenses. When will the inquest be?”

44 To-day,” returned Dr. Scott, picking Margery up in his arms.

44 And she will be buried where?” again asked Mrs. Graham quickly.

44 It must be a pauper's funeral,” he answered sadly; 44 any other would cost too much.”

44 Can we not get up a subscription? The railway company should give something. It seems so dreadful that she should be buried in a pauper's grave, with no stone above her.”

44 1 will do my best to prevent it,” Dr. Scott said kindly. 44 Your suggestion about the railway is -good, and I will communicate with the directors to-day. Whatever happens in the future, you, madame, have acted nobly, and this child owes you a debt of gratitude. "

44 Ah, I wish I could keep her with me always!” Mrs. Graham responded, kissing the little cheek once more. 44 1 must say good-bye now. I will write to you in a day or two. Will you let me know if any news reaches you, and where you bury the poor mother?”

44 1 will," answered the doctor; then he turned away and carried the child, still happy and unconscious of her terrible loss, down the stairs, to his trap; and, taking the reins, he drove rapidly through the town to the village of Hurstley.

CHAPTER III. 44 Stuart, where are you going?"

The question was put in a cold sharp voice, and came from a lady sitting at her writing-desk in a spacious window-recess overlooking extensive grounds. She was a handsome woman, with rather massive features and a profusion of dark-brown hair artistically arranged. Her eyes, of a light green-gray shade, were fixed at this moment on

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a young man standing in an easy graceful attitude outside the French window.

“ Going, mother?” he responded. “ Nowhere in particular. Do you want me?”

Mrs. Crosbie examined her firm white hands for one brief second.