“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 everything.”
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.
“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 fireplace.
“Can you tell me anything about her?” she asked, quickly.
Mrs. Graham shook her head.
“We have no idea,” she answered; then she spoke 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 Dr. 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 my efforts will not
be required for long--I sincerely hope not--it will be a sad lookout
for this baby if we cannot 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 tears 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 clue, 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’s Mardie’s mammie--where a mammie?” she murmured.
“Mammie is asleep,” said Mrs. Graham, soothingly, dreading a fit of
terror.
“Mammie seep? 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
Coningham 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 a while 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--pitty,” 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 Coningham stood and gazed, as if held by some magnetic power, at
the tiny 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 musings, 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 Coningham hastily read the words:
From Mrs. Huntley, Upton Manor, Liddlefield, to Dr. 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 “M.” Pray let me know if I can be of any pecuniary
assistance.
Lady Coningham put down the paper quietly.
“What is to be done now?” she asked.
“I have telegraphed to Newtown,” replied Dr. Scott, looking up, “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 armchair by the fire. She spoke
now as the doctor finished.
“I 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.”
“I know of a person,” began the doctor; but Lady Coningham broke in
eagerly:
“I 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.”
“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.”
“Will Sir Hubert like the arrangement, your ladyship?” asked Dr. Scott,
as he rose to depart.
Lady Coningham’s face flushed slightly.
“I will make it all right,” she replied, though with a little
constraint. “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 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.
“I will come down and assist you to mount. Your groom is with you, I
trust?”
“Oh, yes!” Lady Coningham smiled another farewell to Mrs. Graham,
and was passing out, when a thought struck her. “Suppose,” she said
hurriedly, “suppose I cannot do this, what will become of the child?”
“She must go to the workhouse,” replied Dr. Scott, gloomily; “my hands
are too full already, as your ladyship knows, and there is no other
alternative.”
Lady Coningham could not repress a shudder.
“That must never be,” she said decidedly. “I must arrange with Morris.
Many thanks. Good-by!”
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.
“The post office can give me no clew,” he said. “They recollect the
woman ‘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; “perhaps, after all,
I shall be able to manage something in the future; and here”--handing
two sovereigns to the doctor--“is my small share toward present
expenses. When will the inquest be?”
“To-day,” returned Dr. Scott, picking Margery up in his arms.
“And she will be buried where?” again asked Mrs. Graham quickly.
“It must be a pauper’s funeral,” he answered, sadly; “any other would
cost too much.”
“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.”
“I will do my best to prevent it,” Dr. Scott said, kindly. “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.”
“Ah, I wish I could keep her with me always!” Mrs. Graham responded,
kissing the little cheek once more. “I must say good-by 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?”
“I 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.