It was Tuesday afternoon in the week following Easter week, and Mrs.
Heritage and her daughter were together in the tiny drawing-room of
their house in York Road, when a knock at the street door made them
turn and look at each other in surprise.
“Whoever can it be, mumsie darling?” exclaimed Marielle, pausing in
her occupation of arranging bunches of yellow daffodils in brown jars
on the mantelpiece. Fresh and fair and sweet as the Lent lilies, some
of which she had pinned in the bosom of her dress, looked the girl
herself, as she stood there in her simple black gown, which only served
to set off her delicate complexion to greater advantage.
“I’m sure I don’t know, dearie. It is not very likely to be a visitor
for us any way, since very few of our old friends seem to care to
trouble themselves about calling nowadays. It was different when your
father was alive.” And Mrs. Heritage’s lips quivered a little as the
recollection of social triumphs, long gone by, flashed through her mind.
How true it is that “a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier
things!”
Marielle had only time to cast a loving glance at her mother in answer,
for the opening of the door and a slight rustle outside warned her that
a visitor was approaching.
“Mrs. Duncan!” was announced by the little maid who, with faithful old
Mysie the cook, constituted the whole of the domestic establishment at
No. 27.
With stately courtesy Marielle’s mother rose to receive the doctor’s
wife, her manner insensibly thawing however, under the influence of her
visitor’s winning smile.
“I am so glad to find you at home,” began Mrs. Duncan as soon as she
was seated. Then, noticing that Marielle dropped the rest of the
flowers she was holding on to a newspaper which she had spread upon a
chair near, “Please do not let me interrupt you, Miss Heritage. Will
you not go on arranging your flowers?”
“I shall do so with pleasure if you do not mind,” replied Marielle
brightly, “only I fear I shall have to turn my back upon you now and
again during the performance.”
“Oh, never mind that, it will be reward enough to see the effects of
your handiwork when finished. I am so fond of daffodils. They are my
favourite flowers.”
“And mine also,” returned Marielle, pleased at the mutual taste.
Then—smiling and holding a big bunch towards Mrs. Duncan—“Aren’t
these beauties too? I saw them as I was coming back from Forman’s this
morning, and I could not resist the temptation of bringing some home
with me. They look so bright they are quite cheering. I always think
yellow flowers are like sunlight in a room.”
“They are indeed,” assented Mrs. Duncan, lifting her gaze from the
flowers in order to contemplate the face bending over her.
“How pure and true it looks!” she mused. Those large clear hazel eyes,
with their black lashes, and delicately-pencilled dark eyebrows, the
refined features, and rose-leaf skin, crowned by the rebellious fair
hair which, in spite of all Marielle’s efforts, persisted in standing
out round her shapely head, like a veritable golden halo—all these
made up a picture which, once seen, was not likely to pass out of mind.
And the girl herself, with her tall, dainty figure, was as good and
true as her face indicated.
Little wonder then that Mrs. Heritage thanked God every day on her
knees for the precious gift of her daughter. Her flowers all disposed
of into the various vases, Marielle slipped away to wash her hands, and
to give a few directions concerning afternoon tea. Ann was to be sure
to put the pretty new cloth worked by Marielle’s busy fingers on the
table, and Mysie must not forget to send up some of her delicious hot
scones, and the shortbread which she was famous for making.
Mysie, who nearly worshipped the young girl she had known from a
baby, promised to do her best, and Marielle ran upstairs to remove
the flower-stains from her fingers, humming as she went the air of a
favourite song.
In the meantime the elder ladies, left alone, found themselves rapidly
progressing towards intimacy. They had many tastes in common as they
soon discovered, and each had known a great sorrow in the loss of one
very dear to them. We know that in the one case, viz., that of Mrs.
Heritage, it was the husband who had been taken away, while in that of
Mrs. Duncan, it was the daughter.
It was not long before the conversation turned upon Marielle’s singing,
and her mother’s face flushed with pleasure at the warm tribute of
praise bestowed upon the girl by her new acquaintance.
Mrs. Duncan was proceeding to enlarge upon the pleasure it had given
them all to hear her, when she was interrupted by the girl herself, and
shortly after, the tea made its appearance.
The hot scones and shortbread were duly discussed by the three ladies
in a manner that made old Mysie beam again when told of it by Marielle.
After extracting a promise from Mrs. Heritage and her daughter to the
effect that they would soon come and see her, Mrs. Duncan took her
departure. But all the way home she seemed to be haunted by the fair
face, clear hazel eyes, and ringing laugh of Marielle Heritage.
“I like Mrs. Duncan, mother, don’t you?” asked the girl after their
visitor had gone.
“Very much, darling, as far as I can tell at present,” replied Mrs.
Heritage, fondly regarding her daughter as she ensconced herself upon a
footstool at her feet, and prepared for a cosy talk in the firelight.
“She has known trouble too, poor thing, she lost her only daughter two
years ago.”
“Oh, did she, mumsie? How sorry I am! Perhaps that is what makes her
look so sad at times.” For Marielle had noticed the wistful look that
had crept over Mrs. Duncan’s face when regarding herself.
“It may be that she envies me my daughter,” rejoined Mrs. Heritage
proudly. “Yet I do not think she is sad, for she told me that this
Eastertide had been the happiest she had ever known.”
“I wonder why?” speculated Marielle.
“Perhaps we may learn the reason some day, darling. But here comes Ann
with the lamp, and you must leave me in peace as I have several letters
to write before post time.”
“And I must try over that new work for the Chester concert,” replied
Marielle, and very shortly both the ladies were absorbed in their
respective occupations.
* * * * *
Three months had come and gone, and the acquaintance begun between
the Duncans and Heritages had rapidly ripened into a warm friendship.
Scarcely a week now passed without, at any rate, the ladies of the two
families meeting at one house or the other, and Mrs. Duncan had begun
to feel that she should sorely miss either Mrs. Heritage or Marielle
should anything occur to cause their removal from Manningham. True,
the remark was frequently made to Marielle, “Oh, you ought to be in
London!” But the girl so far had only smiled and answered very justly:
“Why should I go to London when I can find plenty to do here. There I
should be only one among hundreds, while here I already have a position
and name in the musical world.”
The force of her argument was undeniable, and the Heritages remained in
Manningham.
One hot afternoon in July a telegram came to No. 27, York Road, from a
pupil, to ask Marielle if she could give a lesson at Forman’s at five
o’clock.
Marielle grumbled a little, not unnaturally, as it would necessitate
her breaking a promise she had made to accompany her mother and Mrs.
Duncan in a walk to the High Park at that hour. But the pupil was one
whom it would not do to offend, so she wired back that she would give
the lesson, and persuaded her mother not to give up the walk on that
account, but to go notwithstanding her own absence.
“You will get your walk just the same, mother darling, won’t you? For
I know Mrs. Duncan would be greatly disappointed if you did not go. It
would seem as if you only cared to go when I was with you, and that
would never do!”
Mrs. Heritage gave the required promise, and duly set forth at the time
appointed.
The lesson over, Marielle glanced at her watch. It wanted
five-and-twenty minutes to six.
“I know what I will do,” she said to herself as she closed the piano
and drew on her gloves. “I’ll take a Roxton Road tram, and get out
at the park gates. I am sure to find mother and Mrs. Duncan in the
Rose-walk, they always gravitate in that direction”—smiling, as she
pictured their surprise at her unexpected appearance. “I wonder I did
not think of it before. I shall be in time to walk home with them in
any case, if only I do not have to wait long for my tram!”
Good fortune awaited her in this respect, and the hands of the clock
in the park tower were pointing to six as she sped along towards the
Rose-walk. Presently she descried the two ladies she sought sitting
together on a bench, but they were evidently far too much occupied with
one another to take any heed of Marielle’s approach, if, indeed, they
heard her footsteps on the grass. No one else was in sight, and the
girl drew nearer until when within a few yards, her mother looked up
and saw her.
“Why, Marielle darling, what a pleasure!” Mrs. Heritage exclaimed,
but her voice sounded tremulous, and Marielle, coming closer still,
scrutinised the faces of the two friends. The eyes of both were full of
tears, which, as the girl gazed, overflowed. Not a little alarmed, she
hurriedly asked what was the matter.
“Come and sit here between us, dear, and you shall know,” answered Mrs.
Duncan for them both, smiling and making room on the bench beside her.
Puzzled, and it must be confessed, extremely curious, Marielle did as
she was requested, and Mrs. Duncan began:
“I have just been telling your dear mother, Marielle, what it has often
before been my wish to make known to her; but one naturally feels a
little shy about speaking of such matters until sufficiently intimate
with anyone to warrant doing so. What I had to tell was simply this,
that under God, to you, dear girl, I owe the greatest happiness of my
life. Your singing at St. Jude’s on the last Sunday in Lent, of ‘There
is a green hill,’ was the means of opening my dear husband’s eyes to
his need of a Saviour, and he has been a changed man ever since. Not
that he was ever anything but good, kind, and true, but his belief was
not a living faith, and his soul might be said to have been almost dead
within him. Now all is different, and John and I, who had been at one
upon every other point except religion, are now at one upon that too. I
repeat that I have to thank you, dear girl, for the greatest happiness
of my life, under God,” and taking Marielle’s hand in hers, Margaret
Duncan pressed it affectionately.
For a few moments not a word was spoken, for Marielle could not control
her voice sufficiently. She was moved beyond expression, and realised
more fully than ever she had done what a gift had been entrusted to
her by God, in that glorious voice and high musical talent. Presently
however she turned to Mrs. Duncan with glistening eyes, and remarked
simply:
“I shall always consider what you have told me, as my greatest reward,
since no amount of money could ever be worth to me what the knowledge
of the good I was the instrument, in God’s hands, of doing, will ever
be.”
(_To be concluded._)
[Illustration]
A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.
BY C. A. MACIRONE.