_GRATIS WITH_] [_SOMETHING TO READ._
[Illustration: SOMETHING TO READ NOVELETTE]
CONTAINS A COMPLETE STORY AND PRESENTED GRATIS EVERY WEEK
WITH THE JOURNAL “SOMETHING TO READ.”
No. 675.] EDITED BY EDWIN J. BRETT. [Vol. XXVII.
[Illustration: “IT IS A SORRY TALE FOR YOUNG EARS, MY CHILD,” SAID THE
OLD LAWYER, TAKING HER HANDS IN HIS.]
DESTINY.
BY G. P. S.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER I.
“My dear Miss Standen,--Now that the arch-enemy of mankind (in reality
he is often a friend) has deprived you of your--shall I say foster
mother? it is time for me to say that I hope you will always regard
me as a friend, who has known you from your earliest childhood. There
are some events in your family history which a promise to the dead
kept me from relating during Mrs. O’Hara’s lifetime. I will acquaint
you with them fully in a few days. As a preliminary, Mrs. Gascoigne
and myself will be delighted to have you with us while you decide
about the future. The sooner the better. Shall we say to-day at your
own time? A house of mourning is not a suitable place for a young
girl who--although she may have experienced much kindness--is no way
connected with the deceased. Forgive an old lawyer’s bluntness; you
are too sensible, I am sure, to take offence at my home-truths (which
are always disagreeable). Awaiting you and your luggage,
“Believe me, my dear Miss Standen,
“Your sincere friend,
“HENRY MORTON GASCOIGNE.”
It was impossible not to believe in the sincerity of the letter, and
Muriel Standen read it a second time with a keen sense of gratitude for
the writer.
She had believed herself entirely alone in the world, penniless, and
without a home.
For, after the death of Mrs. O’Hara, she could no longer stay at the
farm.
Tom was to be married in a few weeks at his mother’s last request, and
although she had mentioned Muriel’s name, apparently with the intention
of adding something regarding her, death had intervened.
Mrs. O’Hara died before the girl could ascertain any particulars of her
early life.
She answered Mr. Gascoigne’s letter, thankfully accepting his kind
offer, and sent it by one of the farm-hands.
Then she packed her two small trunks and said good-bye to sturdy Tom
O’Hara, who said the farm would miss her sadly.
“But it is not the place for a lady like you, Miss Standen. My mother
was next door to being one, as you know, and even she detested farm
life. It was better for you when she was here. Now you will go among
your own people, I hope. I wish I could tell you who they are, but my
mother kept her knowledge--if she had any--to herself.”
“Thank you,” she said, sadly. “I do not know where I am going when I
leave Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne. I expect that I am quite alone in the
world, otherwise my people could hardly have left me without any sign
all these years.”
“If it comes to that, Miss Standen,” and the big fellow strode hastily
across the room to her, “the farm’s a home to you whenever you like to
make use of it. Maggie’s a good girl, and she would feel honoured by
your staying here.”
“I thank you Tom most warmly,” giving him both her hands. “You are
a kind hearted man, and I shall never forget your generosity. But I
intend to go to London to make my living there.
“I have made some enquiries, and my voice ought to do something for me.
Mr. Gascoigne will always have my address, and he will give me news
of you now and then. Good-bye, I must not keep your horse waiting any
longer.”
“I am going to drive you myself, Miss Standen, if you will allow me. It
will be the last time.”
* * * * *
“Well, well, my dear, there is no immediate hurry. You have scarcely
been with us two days. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Gascoigne and myself
would be only too glad if you could make up your mind to remain with us
altogether, but I suppose you are tired of the country.”
“You beggar me of gratitude,” she said, flushing. “I have not the
slightest claim upon you and you treat me like a daughter--almost.”
“I wish you were now that my own are so far away. Well, if you are
determined to hear I must tell you, sit down in that arm-chair
comfortably, and remember that a lawyer does not like to be
interrupted. At the same time my dear, prepare yourself to hear some
sad news.
“Twenty years ago, your mother came to Abbott Mansfield with you, a
little child just able to walk without falling.
“She rented the cottage, known as the Laurels, which was then let
furnished, and lived there for four years with a nurse for you and one
other maid servant.
“She dressed always in widow’s weeds, made no acquaintances whatever,
and refused to see any people who from kindness or curiosity called
upon her.
“One day I received a note asking me to go to the Laurels.
“I went, and found your mother dying.
“The doctor said it was general weakness, want of vitality and nervous
power, and had advised her to go to a warm climate some weeks before.
“She told me it was a broken heart, my dear.”
Muriel had grown white and her eyes were dark with suppressed tears.
“You will find me brutally matter-of-fact. Do not think me devoid of
sympathy. Cry as much as you like. Shall I go on?” after a few moments
pause.
“Yes, please.”
“Mrs. Standen’s story was a sad one, but unfortunately, no new thing.
She had married when very young, and, being a lovely attractive woman,
as I saw by the miniature which is in your possession, had no lack of
attention from her husband’s friends.
“He was a major in the --th Hussars, a good officer and beloved by all
who knew him. Unfortunately he trusted too much, and he trusted Captain
Ainslie absolutely.
“The two were the closest of friends, and even the marriage of Major
Winstanley had not weakened their friendship.
“Your father was a very striking-looking man, Miss Winstanley, I
will show you a portrait of him when I have finished, a thoroughbred
gentleman, nobility and integrity stamped on every feature; but the
captain was handsome in the style admired by ladies--fair, with blue
eyes, a long moustache, and, no doubt, golden hair.
“Your father was passionately attached to your mother, and up to the
time of your birth they were very happy.
“He had a strong, stern nature, however, and in addition to his duties,
which, of course, absorbed a good part of each day, he was fond of
literary pursuits.
“A man does not care the less for his wife, Miss Winstanley, because he
does not keep up his honeymoon all his married life. Your mother did
not say that she was neglected; but Captain Ainslie got into the habit
of going to see her every day, when, nine times out of ten, she was
alone.
“He was the type of man who is found in ladies’ drawing-rooms at
tea-times. Sometimes he took her out for drives or rides, the major
trusted him entirely.
“When you were about a year old, Major Winstanley was summoned to the
death-bed of his father; as the journey to the North was long and
fatiguing, he did not take his wife, for she was not strong and from
the time of your birth had always been delicate. Four days later, when
Major Winstanley returned--”
The old lawyer stopped, the look on the girl’s face was so piteous to
see.
Her large grey eyes were wide and dark, the sweet mouth was quivering
with feeling.
He went up to her and took her hands in his kindly.
“It is a sorry tale for young ears, my child, but I promised a dying
woman to tell you, and to hide nothing. Cheer up a little, it ended
better than could have been hoped. Captain Ainslie had gone off with
his friend’s wife. But Major Winstanley was a modern Don Quixote;
he traced them, followed them, and found his wife in a Paris hotel,
sobbing with grief for her sin, the consciousness of which could not be
effaced in spite of her companion’s attempts at consolation.
“Her husband went up to her and said very quietly, ‘Marion, come home
dear.’ To Captain Ainslie he uttered one reproach, ‘What had I done to
you to merit this?’ But his heart was broken. He took his wife home,
and to the day of his death, which occurred a month afterwards, he
showed her nothing but love and kindness.
“When she was left a widow, Mrs. Winstanley found that a bank, in which
most of her husband’s money was deposited, had failed--misfortunes
never come singly--and so she was reduced to poverty. She thereupon
sold her furniture, and came to Abbott Mansfield with her child,
changing her name to that of Standen, for she wished to be forgotten
by all who had formerly known her. As both she and her husband had few
relations, and these but distant ones, her object was attained. She
lived quite alone.
“When she knew that her days were numbered, she sent for me and told me
all the painful story, making me take it down in writing, to be handed
to my executors in case of my death before you became of age.
“By her wish I was to be her child’s guardian, to place her in the
care of some trustworthy person, and, on her twenty-first birthday to
acquaint her with the facts; also to hand over to her the sum of one
thousand pounds, which was all that Mrs. Winstanley had to leave. The
interest of this has been paid to Mrs. O’Hara for her care of you.
“I need not tell you, my dear, that no other person has the slightest
idea of your identity--or of this story. Here is the paper with your
mother’s signature.”
He handed her the document, which she took with trembling hands,
looking at the shaking writing “Marion Orme Winstanley” with dim eyes.
“There is nothing to prevent you from burning that here in my library,
if you choose. In this box are your certificates of birth and baptism,
with your mother’s marriage papers, so that your identity can easily be
established with my help. What do you say, my dear?”
“I will take your advice in everything,” Muriel said, faintly. “You
have been so kind----”
“Pish! my dear. Had it not been for the expense of having three sons
and two daughters to educate, Mrs. Gascoigne and I would have taken you
in here. They are all out in the world now, and there is nothing to
prevent your making this your home, if you would like it.”
“There is no question of liking, dear Mr. Gascoigne; I could not be
such a burden to you. I have thought of using my voice----”
“As a singer? You will require at least a year’s more training.
Although Mr. Oateson has given you invaluable help, he has not been in
London for years, and the competition is so great that you would stand
little chance at present, free as your voice is; and then, it will be
very uphill work, my child.”
The old lawyer watched the girl as she looked into the fire, her pale,
delicately-cut profile standing out against the dark marble background
of the mantel-piece.
“As a child, you played with the boys, and with them you were a general
favourite. You liked them all?”
“Ah! how could I help it?” she said, impulsively. “And Kitty and
Madge were so sweet with me; they were my only friends, for I felt
instinctively that Mrs. Erskine did not wish me to go to the Rectory,
and so I kept aloof from Ethel and Dick.”
“If they were not so scattered about the world, Kitty and Madge would
have had you to visit them; but India and Canada are so far off.
Reginald is coming here for a few weeks before he goes to Melbourne to
join his brother. You know that Robert is married out there?”
“Yes. I hope he is as happy as Henry is with his wife.”
“I believe they are much attached to one another. Two years ago, when
Reginald came back from Oxford, he told me of something which may, or
may not, be news to you.”
“To me?” the girl repeated, meeting old Mr. Gascoigne’s keen scrutiny
with amazement.
“Yes; he told me that, subject to my approval, he would, when he was in
a suitable position, ask you to be his wife. Have you never suspected
this?”
She stood up, staring in silent astonishment.
“Never. I--can hardly believe it. Reginald! We have seen so little of
each other--he has been so much away at his uncle’s.”
“That is the very reason why he was struck so much with your beauty
and fascination, my dear; the others, growing up with you, had become
accustomed to both. Well--is Reginald’s feeling for you reciprocated?”
The girl went up to him, and laid one hand--a little timidly--on his
arm.
“Do I understand that--you would sanction it, knowing--who I am?”
“With the greatest pleasure, my child,” returned the old lawyer,
smiling. “Your father was a major in a crack regiment, and the daughter
of such a man as Major Winstanley is a prize for any man. Tut--tut!
my dear,” as she stammered out her mother’s name, “we are none of us
perfect. If she sinned, poor woman, she expiated her sin.”
She stooped and kissed his hand, then drew herself upright, and brushed
the tears from her eyes.
“You are the noblest man I have ever known. I shall never forget your
generosity--your goodness to one who would be treated with scorn and
contumely by all who knew her story. With all my heart I thank you and
Reginald. Please tell him and that I appreciate the honour he does me
to the uttermost, but dear Mr. Gascoigne--I--” she flushed scarlet, and
raised her face appealingly to his; “I--have never thought of him in
that way, only as a friend. And now that I know who I am,” gathering
strength as she went on, “I shall never marry. You will understand me,
will you not? I must go right away--to London, and earn my own living
where no one knows me. Mary Allen, who used to be at the farm, is
married respectably to an ex-butler, and they let lodgings near Russell
Square. I can go there, can I not? Please do not be angry with me, Mr.
Gascoigne.”
“I am not angry, my dear. Think it all over at your leisure, there
is no hurry whatever for a few days. Reginald will not be here for a
fortnight. Your money is so well invested that it has increased to
fifteen hundred pounds, but that only means about seventy pounds a
year, and the lessons will be a consideration. That, my dear, will be
my affair; as your guardian I insist upon it, and you will not refuse
me. And what about that paper?”
“I will burn it,” said Muriel, putting it into the fire when she had
again thanked him. “And when I am successful you will let me pay off my
debt, please?” smiling sadly. “If I am a failure----”
“Never despair--you have youth, beauty, and talent; and you have a
home here whenever you like to come. By the bye, here is your father’s
portrait. His face is a very fine one.”
She took it eagerly, and after a long scrutiny kissed it passionately
again and again.
“Captain Ainslie must have been a traitor of the deepest dye to wrong
such a friend as my father--and he escaped scot-free,” she said, in
tones of concentrated scorn and contempt. “No doubt he is living in
happiness and luxury, reckless of the misery he caused.”
“He may have really loved your mother. For five years he led a
wandering life. Of course he left the regiment, loathed by everyone in
it. Then he married, and settled down in the West Indies. I ascertained
this myself; but I do not know now whether he is living or dead.”