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 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 tearsrolled 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 wasscarcely 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.
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, haveacted 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.