Margie's mistake, and other stories

Front matter

Shelf..

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

T A

Introduction

The writer of these introductory lines knows that the articles contained in this little volume were not, at the time they were written, intended for publication in this form. Admiration and appreciation of them, however, and a desire to see them again “in print,” has caused the author to thus publish them for private distribution as souvenirs among her friends.

She makes no artistic pretensions as a writer, and yet they have been considered “gems of thought” and “jewels of utterance” by those who have read or heard them. Such as these are all too few in the domain of thought or literature and those to whom they will be distributed will appreciate the pity, that a mind that burns so brightly has been prevented from giving more of its light to the world. They, and any who read this volume, may know that the impressions from plates of steel no more truthfully represent the delicate, though iuefPaceable, tracings of the engraver, than do the poems in this volume delineate a few of the thoughts, feelings and emotions of the author.

The little love stories herein told may touch a chord of semblance, or perhaps find their counterpart in the lives of some of the multitude “ who dream, and wish, and strive, and (sometimes) err.”

The descriptive articles will, to some, recall “the days of auld lang syne,” which the writer thereof hopes will ne’er be forgot. And, finally, if the publication and presentation of this keepsake shall increase the sum of human happiness be it ever so little, or awaken for her in the minds of the recipients one kindlier thought or friendlier feeling, then will the author be content.

J. M. S.

Chicago, Nov. 14 , 1891 .

Contents

PAGE.

Geneva to Rome - - - 267

MARGIE’S MISTAKE.

Chapter I. The Lost Child

The beautiful and once happy home of Mr. Charles Lagrange had, at the beginning of our story, been suddenly converted into a house of mourning, and the richly-furnished apartments that so recently resounded with laughter and song were now transformed into a sepulchre for the living.

In this luxuriant home, surrounded by all the beauty and elegance that art could devise or wealth bestow, sat a pale-faced woman, whose tearful eyes and vacant stare foretold a grief that had well-nigh dethroned her reason.

Three years previous she had been led to the altar by the millionaire banker, Charles Lagrange, whose reputed wealth and high

Margie's mistake.

social position had established for him a widespread reputation and made him the cynosure for the envious eyes of a score of ambitious mammas with eligible daughters. The crowning glory of this union was the advent of a blue-eyed, flaxen haired, girl baby, the first anniversary of whose birth had just been celebrated with grand eclat.

The young mother, who had formerly reigned as society queen, found the old life of folly and fashion truly irksome after having tasted the sweeter joys of motherhood, and it was with unfeigned pleasure that she assumed the responsibilities of her new relationship in that purer and holier atmosphere which shed its incense like a saintly benediction over this peaceful and happy home.

The numerous duties which fall to the common lot of wife and mother were faithfully discharged, while ample time was found for those kindly deeds of charity, the multiplicity of which can hardly be realized, save by the few willing workers

THE LOST CHILD.

who seek to relieve the cries pf distress that fall upon their listening ears. In all the varied duties which filled the life of this young mother, nothing was paramount to the absorbing interest she felt in her babe. Youth, wealth and social position, with this delicate little bud that gave promise of blossoming into the fairest of flowers — what more could earth have in store for her? But, alas! while the morning of life betokens a clear and perfect day, the sunshine of our happiness is too often obscured by the dark clouds of disappointment ere it reaches the meridian!

Who can analyze the emotions of this grief-stricken household, as husband and wife sit gazing into each other’s eyes, seeking in vain for one trace of hope to give solace in this dark hour of affliction? The wife had been scanning the columns of a daily paper which has fallen from her nerveless grasp. Raising her tear-stained eyes to those of her husband with a wistful and reverential look, she exclaims: Still no

Margie’s mistake.

hope, no light, ^ave to treasure up in memory those transitory joys with which our past has been so replete.”

The husband tenderly folds her in his protecting arms, and with a breaking heart endeavors to soothe and comfort her as she falls sobbing upon his breast. “My dear wife, we can at least unite our humble petitions to Him who watches the sparrow’s fall, that this cup of bitterness may soon pass away.”

Four long weeks, and still no tidings of the kidnapped child! Private detectives and police officials had about exhausted all the shrewdness known to the profession in their research for the missing child, but thus far all efforts were in vain. Large rewards had been offered for the apprehension of the abductors. Still no gleam of hope had as yet lightened the suspense of the bereaved parents. A strange-appearing young woman had been seen in the neighborhood carrying in her arms a babe purporting to be about the age of the little missing one.

but beyond this no ray of light was cast upon the mysterious disappearance of Baby Lagrange.

At first the parents indulged the hope that but little difticulty would be encountered in regaining the child, believing it had been stolen for the express purpose of obtaining a ransom, thus quieting their fears in the vain hope of speedy recovery. Would that they might never know the bitterness of disappointment! But, while no means were left untried, a whole month had passed, and still the affair was enshrouded in mystery. And so the days grew into weeks and the weeks into months, until hope had given place to despair, and yet the fruitless search was kept up.

Kind friends clustered about the grief-stricken parents and freely offered such poor consolation as lay in their power, but alas! such bereavements are too deep for human sympathy! And so it came to pass, after the lapse of several months, that the mother was stricken down with a lingering illness,

Margie’s mistake.

and for many weeks lay partially unconscious, piteously moaning in the intervals of returning reason for her lost darling.

Time passed on, and instead of succumbing to the ravages of disease, the unhappy wife slowly recovered, only to find that her devoted husband, worn out with hope deferred, had become a physical wreck, and that the continued mental strain had culminated in a mild form of insanity. Perfectly harmless, the poor clouded brain was ever indulging the fond imagination that it had at last discovered the secret hiding place of his lost babe; and nothing was more pathetic and touching than to see him fondly caressing each dimpled cherub that chanced to meet his eye, calling it by every endearing epithet known to the vocabulary of a doting father.

The poor wife watched each dickering ray of intellect, praying for the return of reason, even as she had prayed for the return of the babe; and, with true wifely devotion, endeavored by all the means at her command

THE LOST CHILD.

to divert the mind of her husband from the one thought which had shattered his mental as well as his physical organization. In this she was doomed to disappointment, and one year from the day on which the child had so mysteriously disappeared, the father was confined to a private asylum, where he was pronounced from the first incurable.

After this the mother took up the search with a still stronger incentive to work, feeling sure that the restoration of the babe was the only means of restoring the mental faculties of her husband. Far and near she continued the search, and at the expiration of another year, she one day received intelligence that a child, believed to be the missing one, was dying at the Foundlings’ Home in a neighboring city. Hastening thither, she arrived in time to see the little sufferer breathe its last, and to hear from the matron’s lips the story that it had been found one morning sitting upon the steps of the Institution; and, being too young to tell how

Margie's mistake.

or when she came there, was taken in and cared for.

Upon inquiry, however, it was learneti that a closely veiled woman had been seen leading the little one inside the gate at an early hour, and most likely had left it there, knowing it would soon be discovered by the inmates. Farther than this nothing was known, and the simple fact that the infant was about the same age as the lost one, was in itself but slight proof of its identity; yet the keen maternal eye fancied at once that she traced some resemblance to her long-lost babe in the little pinched, emaciated form that lay before her. Still another and more convincing piece of evidence was brought to bear upon the case, from the fact that, upon a close examination of the body, a small purple spot was discovered, which closely resembled a birth mark which the anxious mother recalled as having been noticeable upon the person of her child.

The heart-broken woman needed nothing more to convince her that the little bunch

THE LOST CHILD.

of inanimate clay lying before her was indeed all that belonged to earth of her long-lost babe. With a feeling that a buried grief was less hard to bear than a living trouble, and a sense of relief that the long suspense was over at last, she wearily wended her way back to her desolate home, bearing with her the precious remains of her little Helene.

The father was brought from the Asylum to gaze upon the dead form of his child, as hope was entertained that it might possibly restore his lost reason; but, while he feebly pronounced it his own little one, and at times showed some signs of mental improvement, the strain had been too great, and ere another year had passed, he was laid in the family vault beside the remains of Baby Helene.

After a few years of quiet mourning, in which she shrank from all social intercourse, the disconsolate widow, broken in health, yet bearing many traces of her former beauty, removed to a distant city, where,

Margie’s mistake.

surrounded by kind friends, she sought to bury the sad memories that clouded the early sunshine of her domestic happiness. How well she succeeded may be determined by the fact that, three years later, the announcement of the marriage of Mrs. Charles Lagrange to a retired army officer appeared in the columns of a leading journal.

Many were the hearty congratulations offered by admiring friends, who had known and loved this amiable lady in the midst of her desolation and despair, and all were happy to know that the fountain of earthly joy was not dried up forever, but that from the dying embers of the unhappy past, fresh-born hopes and sweet aspirations had awakened to newness of life. And now as we draw a veil over the opening chapter of our story, let us hope that the flowers, which perchance may bloom along the pathway of the future, may emit as sweet and subtle a perfume as if the past were unclouded by events of so great magnitude.

Chapter II. Margie

‘‘ She’s a foine lass, that — aye, a foine lass — and the pictur’ of her sainted mither,” were the words of old Michael, as he brushed away the silent tear that was coursing down his thin, weather-beaten face.

Margie, come here to me and sit on yer old father’s knee. Margie, do ye hear? ”

“Yes, father, I’m coming,” said a sweet, childish voice, as a bright young girl came bounding forth from a low, moss-covered cabin, which was the humble habitation of Michael O’Connor and his only child.

Placing herself upon her father’s knee, as he sat upon the rude porch in front of their lowly dwelling, she clasped both white shapely arms about his neck, and looking into his dim, sunken eyes, asked why he looked so sad.

“ I was thinking, my sweet bonnie lass, of makgie’s mistake.

the tinie when you’d be tiring of this quiet life here, all alone with yer old father, and be wantin’ to run oif with some handsome young lad and make a leetle nest all to yersel’ — eh, Margie?”

Papa, whatever put such nonsense into your head? ” said the girl, at the same time imprinting a hearty kiss upon the old man’s wrinkled brow.

“ Hey, child, hev’ ye never thought o’ the loikes yersel’? ”

Dropping her head upon his breast, she replied, in a low, pensive voice: ‘‘No one has ever spoken to me of this, and I could hardly dwell upon anything that seems so very far away.”

“That’s not the question, lass. Did ye never think the young master might ask ye to be his own leetle wife some day?”

“ Oh, father, father!” and the fair young head fell upon his bosom, while great tears filled her big brown eyes; “please, papa, never speak of the son of Captain Fairchild wishing to wed the daughter of his

MARGIE.

‘21 father’s gardener. It is absurd, it is impossible! ”

“Well, lass, he hangs around considerable o’ late, on one pretence and another, and I dunno what it all means.”

Raising her tear-stained face to his, she begged to be released, and disengaging herself from his embrace, walked slowly away. Reaching her own poorly-furnished apartments, she threw herself upon the bed, and burying her face in the pillow, sobbed piteously. “Oh, has my father at last discovered my long-hidden secret! Does he know that his poor foolish child is so weak as to give her heart unsought to Arthur Fairchild? No, no; I must — and will — crush out this wild passion that is fast gaining control of my every thought! ”

Arthur Fairchild was the only son of a wealthy and aristocratic father; and, although not a dissolute youth in the broadest sense which that term implies, was, using a homely phrase, sowing his wild oats. He had just finished his college course, and con-

Margie’s mistake.

trary to his father’s wishes, had declared himself unwilling to visit the old world previous to entering upon the studies of his chosen profession — that of the law. He preferred to pass his time for the next six months in the enjoyment of his favorite pastime — hunting and fishing — rather than to be under the watchful eye of his maternal ancestor, during an extended European trip.

Captain Fairchild had for many years occupied the lovely home where he now resided, and as the relentless hand of death had severed the silken cord that bound three beautiful and beloved children to earth, he had centered all his hopes upon Arthur, his only remaining child. To gratify his every wish was the father’s highest ambition; consequently, when this young gentlemen expressed the desire to remain at home, rather than accompany his mother abroad, the overindulgent parent was quite ready to yield the point; hence, the proposed European trip for mother and son was a thing only to be realized in imagination.

MARGIE.

Arthur Fairchild was an exceedingly handsome young man. His dark flashing eyes bespoke a nature that would submit to no restraint; and, while the father looked upon the petted child of fortune with the fondest admiration, the more sensible but equally loving mother trembled for the future welfare of her wayward son. She feared the result, when once his bark was fairly launched upon the rough sea of life. The parental roof was considered by her as the only safeguard and protection from the evils that doth so easily beset, and she looked forward with grave apprehension to the time when Arthur would leave the home of his childhood. Ah, the patient longsuffering mother little knows, as she pillows the infantile head upon her loving breast, whether the young life she guards so faithfully will cause her to blush at the sacred name of mother, or crown her life in after years with the sweet joys known to those whose children rise up and call them blessed.

Margie’s mistake.

One bright afternoon, as Margie was returning from a visit to one of her companions, she very unexpectedly came in contact with young Fairchild, who was reclining listlessly under the shade of a forest tree near the home of old Michael. She was a lovely picture as she came tripping along, her little jaunty hat perched on one side of her head; her long fair curls blown in bewitching confusion over her snowy neck and shoulders, while in her hand she carried an exquisite bouquet of wild-flowers. Singing merrily along, this innocent young maiden was unprepared for the interview that awaited her. As her eyes chanced to rest on Arthur Fairchild, she dropped a low courtesy, while the crimson current mantled her neck and face. She was hurrying timidly past, when he accosted her in the following manner:

“Hey, Margie, my pretty little wildflower, whither art thou going? ”

“ I’m going home, sir,” she replied, confusedly. “ I have been to see a friend who

MARGIE.

was my room-mate the winter father sent me to the seminary at D-

‘‘Ah, indeed; then you have been away to school, have you?”

“Yes, sir; for one year only. I attended the village school here for some time, but my father saved up his earnings, and together with some money my uncle sent me', I was enabled to go away to school for one year.”

“ Who took care of your father’s house in the meantime? ”

“ My grandmother, sir,” she replied; “my father’s mother, but she died six months ago, dear old lady, and I was then compelled to return and superintend my father’s home. Good day, sir, I must be going.”

“Oh no, not so soon. Miss Margie; stay and talk with me, won’t you? I like to hear you talk.”

“ Oh no, sir, it is getting late, and I must hurry home,” she timidly answered; “besides, my father does not like to have me talk to strange gentlemen.”

“ Strange gentlemen, Margie?” replied the

Margie’s mistake.

young man, “ why, I’m no stranger. I knew you when you were a little bit of a girl.”

“Yes, sir, I dare say you did, but you have been away to college for such a long time, and grown to be a man since you knew me, and now you seem very like a stranger.”

So saying she swept along, without giving her companion a chance to continue the conversation. After she had disappeared from his admiring gaze he lay upon the cool grass for some time in deep meditation.

“By Jove!” he soliloquized, “she’s a stunning pretty girl! Just rig her up in style, and she would play the deuce with more hearts than one. Been to school, too — Jupiter, what eyes! Well, well, I had thought her rather above her class, both in looks and manner, but I’ll be whipped if I ever dreamed she could be quite as fascinating as she appears to-day. Wonder what the ‘ Governor’ would say if 1 should fall in love with this little rustic beauty? Guess I’m in luck after all in giving up that little foreign trip. I’d half a notion to go at one

MARGIE.

time, but now I’ve become somewhat interested in this little piece of femininity and will try to get a bit of fun out of it.” So saying he gathered up his fishing-tackle and game-bag and walked slowly toward home.

Chapter III. A Wayward Youth

For several weeks subsequent to the foregoing interview, Margie seemed restless and uneasy. The bright hue had faded from her cheeks, the old light had gone out of her eyes, and her merry laugh was no more heard to resound through the humble cottage as she performed her daily routine of home duties.

Old Michael saw with painful apprehension the change that had come over his child and vainly endeavored to ascertain the cause, but she maintained unbroken silence when questioned upon the subject, assuring him from time to time that it was but a slight indisposition that would soon pass away.

In the meantime, young Fairchild was ill at ease. He was aware that his father had set his heart upon a union between himself

A WAYWARD YOUTH.

and the daughter of a city gentleman of wealth and position, and true to the instincts of nature, had fully determined not to allows his affections to be coerced into a channel w’^here they did not voluntarily flow. He had met the young lady but once, and was not at all prepossessed in her favor, and while he was supposed to be in ignorance of his father’s wishes regarding the matter, was virtually planning the means of escape.

Blanche DuPere (for this was her name) was the only daughter of Captain Fairchild’s dearest friend, and as these gentlemen were possessed of considerable wealth, they had secretly resolved to unite their fortunes in the marriage of the young people, without having consulted their tastes or inclinations in the matter; hence, when informed by his mother that Mr. DuPere with his wife and daughter were about to pay them a visit, Arthur was chagrined, and openly manifested his indignation by asking in no very gentle manner ‘‘ what in thunder they were coming

Margie’s mistake.

up there for,” adding that he had hoped for a little peace and quiet, and if they expected him to help entertain old DuPere and family, ‘‘ they had shot wide of the mark.”

“ Why, my son,” replied his gentle mother, “ your father wishes you to make the acquaintance of these very estimable people, thinking thereby to add to your enjoyment, and surely you can have no serious objections to your father’s friends paying us a visit.”

“I don’t care particularly about the old man’s coming, but he had better leave his wife and that confounded daughter of his at home.”

“Oh, my 5on, my son! how can you speak in such a rude manner of those for whom you should have the most profound respect,” remonstrated the mother. “Arthur, my child,” she added, “ I deeply regret to learn that your college course has failed to develop those nobler qualities which T would have my son possess. You should certainly

A WAYWARD YOUTH.

be a gentleman in your mother’s presence, if nowhere else.”

Seeing that he had wounded the feelings of his mother, he drew near her, and in a tone of humiliation rather than anger, continued: “Well, mother, you know just how it is when we have company. Last summer I was bored to death during the few weeks of vacation, when I wanted to rest, and I should really like to have a little time to spend as my fancy dictates. You see this same old DuPere, with his wife and daughter (the latter I thoroughly dislike), came in upon us, and I was obliged to play the agreeable and humor all her infernal whims. Some fellows may think it’s fun to ramble around through the wet grass before breakfast, hunting beetles and caterpillers to stock a girl’s menagerie; row her over all the mill-ponds in the vicinity, capturing flies at intervals wherewith to bait a pin hook, w^hen there is not the slightest possibility of her catching anything save a cold in her head; but as for me I can find a more congenial pastime.”

Margie’s mistake.

“ My son,” replied the mother, “ I am pained at your lack of gallantry.”

“Gallantry! there it goes again! Why, mother, girls ought to have a little sense if they expect a fellow to do their bidding. Only think of hearing a girl screech at the sight of a grasshopper; go off into a feint at the croaking of a tree toad, and be thrown into a lit of hysterics at the near approach of a devil’s darning-needle! Oh bosh! my fun’s up for the summer! Well, well this is a pretty mess to rope a fellow into.” And having thus unburdened his over wrought feelings, he sauntered away in the direction of old Michael’s dwelling.

Arriving at the gate, he saw Margie seated upon a grassy mound beneath the shade of a huge oak that stood near the entrance of her humble cottage. In her hands she held a piece of fancy-work, and as Arthur approached and bade her good morning, she modestly dropped her eyes and seemed intent upon weaving the bright colored worsteds into a shapely mass.

A WAYWARD YOUTH.

‘‘What have you there so pretty?” he kindly questioned.

“Oh,” she replied, “only a scarf which is to be my father’s Christmas present.”

Seeing the pained look upon her face, he drew near her and abruptly asked why she so much dreaded an interview with him. “ Is my presence disagreeable 'to you, Margie?” he asked in a somewhat serious tone.

She arose and was about to depart without answering, when she suddenly turned to him and in a voice trembling with emotion said: “ Mr. Fairchild, please never come here again. I think your visits distress my father, and I — I’d rather not meet you.”

Having thus spoken, she burst into tears, and hastily swept past him; but he caught her by the hand, and drawing her near him was about to speak, when she raised her beautiful tear stained eyes to his and implored him to release her. Gazing fondly upon the frightened girl, in whom he was each moment becoming more and more interested, he promised to terminate the seemingly painful

Margie’s mistake.

interview, if she would first candidly tell him her objection to seeing him alone.

“ Is it,” said he, “ contrary to your own wishes, Margie, or for your father’s sake that you make this request? You do not fear me, do you? Listen to me, Margie. Ever since you were a mere child my mother has had a watchful care over you. I remember when I stood before your mother’s open grave, and saw your father press you close to his breast, and amid sobs of anguish beg heaven’s protection for his motherless child; and do you think, Margie, I would consciously harm one hair of your head? Believe me, before heaven, I would not!”

With a wild, frightened stare she looked about her, and being reassured by the gentle manner in which he addressed her, she blushingly replied: “Oh no, no, Mr. Fairchild; I do not fear you, but — but ”

“ Speak, and tell me all,” interrupted the young man.

“Well, then, I will say that, had my sta-

A WAYWARD YOUTH.

tion in life been such as to warrant me in receiving your visits, 1 should gladly have entered your name upon my list of friends, for I have so few.”

‘‘Hang it all, that’s what I thought!” muttered the youth in an undertone; “so much for the aristocratic blood that courses through my veins. Well, well, Margie, if this is all, then allow me to say that I alone am responsible for my choice of acquaintances; and if I feel that you are conferring a pleasure upon me by accepting my friendship whose business is it, if not my own?”

Ere these words had died upon his lips, the voice of old Michael was heard in the distance, as he came trudging along home after a hard day’s labor, merrily singing some familiar Irish ballad.

“There now, you must go at once, and please do not come again,” urged the shrinking girl in a tremulous voice.

With a hurried “ Good-by until we meet again,” he quickly obeyed her injunction,

Margie’s mistake.

mentally resolving to visit her again at his earliest convenience.

As Margie went about, silently preparing the evening meal, the quick eye of her anxious parent discovered that her step was light and elastic and something of the old brightness shone in her beaming eyes. Thinking to divine the cause, he abruptly asked if the young master had been round again. Shocked and surprised at this sudden question, the true answer to which she shrank from giving, Margie hesitated a moment and then timidly replied:

Yes, father, Mr. Fairchild called here today, and I — and I — I asked him not to come again, as I thought his visits displeased you; and besides, I did not wish to see him myself.”

‘‘Ah ha, lass; and had yer the courage to tell him the loikes o’ that? You are right, my purty; let the young sprig know as he is not wanted here.” And with a feeling of satisfaction, old Michael sank back in his chair, and ere long was enjoying a refreshing sleep.

A WAYWARD YOUTH.

With the hitter consciousness of having deceived her father, by leaving the impression that young Fairchild’s visits were distasteful to her, poor Margie sadly recalled the early lessons taught by her mother, in which dissimulation was set forth as being equivalent in its evil propensity to that of absolute falsehood.

As old Michael rubbed his sleepy eyes and drew near the table with a yawn, he glanced at Margie’s pale, troubled face, which a short time previous had beamed with pleasure, and being unable to determine the cause of this sudden transition, began greedily to devour the food set before him, while he revolved the question in his own mind, and decided that verily the ways of girls were mysterious and past finding out.