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[Pg 2] 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.”

[Pg 3]

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.”

CHAPTER II.

A railway train is sometimes the scene of much misery in those who travel by its carriages; sometimes of much mirth, most often of the assumed indifference adopted by English people as a rule, and which, despite the contempt with which it is spoken of by dwellers on the Continent, is also the theme of admiration to chatterers.

Two people occupying a first class carriage, of congenial sympathies, can often while away the tedium of several hours. If their sympathies are opposed, they will of course entertain mutual distrust and dislike.

When they are of opposite sexes, and experienced enough to judge of character impartially, friendships are often formed which endure for a lifetime.

“I owe you many thanks for the pleasure you have permitted me to enjoy. I looked forward to a wearisome journey only, but you have accepted my society, and made me your debtor as well.”

“I could not help myself, you see,” smiling.

“But you might have frozen me up in the true British style, and then I should have had to wait in helpless misery for the first stopping-place. You looked very annoyed when I got in at Swindon.”

“I am sorry; but the guard was fee’d to let me be alone if possible. Perhaps the desire of wanting to hide yourself, to get away even from one’s best friends, is happily strange to you.”

He was silent for a little, not looking at her.

Had anyone told Muriel that she would be holding a conversation with a perfect stranger less than an hour after she had started, she would have repudiated the imputation with scorn.

Her nature was a very proud and reticent one, she was not given to sudden confidences.

But there was in her as in all natural women—a hidden spring of impulse, and on meeting a nature sympathetic with her own, she almost unconsciously broke down her guard, with the result that she and her companion were talking as naturally as if they had known each other for years.

“May I hope that you will forgive my presumption in expressing sympathy? You are so young to experience suffering.”

“I am twenty-one in years, but I feel quite old,” she said, quietly. “I am going to London to make my fortune—or to fail.”

“You have resolution enough to succeed, but a woman has many difficulties to encounter. And you aren’t of the calibre to be a governess.”

“Never.” She shuddered a little. “I possess no certificates.”

“Had you a dozen, your face and air would debar you,” he said, with quiet courtesy. “May one ask which of the professions you are wishing to enter? I know a great many people, and perhaps you may allow me the pleasure of being of some service to you.”

“I thank you very much, but I am thinking of the stage.”

He started, and looked at her for a moment or two, at which she laughed, and drew farther into her corner.

“Your offer of introduction had better be withdrawn. You did not expect to hear that.”

“You are right. I did not expect to hear that,” he repeated.

“You think that it is a pity I have chosen this—career?”

“It is fraught with many dangers, particularly for one gently born and brought up with luxury.”

“My father and my mother were; but I lost them both in earliest childhood, and all my life has been passed in a farmhouse amid middle-class poverty.”

“But your friends? Pardon me if I am impertinent; I do not mean to be.”

“I know that you do not,” she said, simply. “My mother had changed her name, so that no one knew me. The lawyer of the place was appointed my guardian; he and his wife were very kind to me, even when—” She paused, then went on again. “I was a great deal with them and their family, in fact, we grew up together. They are all in the world now, most of them married. The girls live abroad, too far for me to visit them.”

“Have you made up your mind to become an actress?”

“It is the only thing I am fit for. I can sing a little; the organist at Idleminster Cathedral was a good musician, and he trained my voice. I used to sing the solo in the anthems and oratorios on special occasions—hidden behind a screen, of course. And I have had lessons in elocution and declamation from an actor. He knew Shakespeare and most of the French and English dramatists by heart. I used to listen to him for hours.”

“What was his name?”

“Gray Leighton.”

He started violently with excitement.

“Gray Leighton. You knew him well. I have been trying to find him for four years. You are fortunate to have had lessons from one of the most gifted actors of the day. Did you know his history?”

“No. He was crippled, and could not stand for more than a few minutes at a time. He came to Idleminster about four years ago, and lived very quietly, making no friends nor ever reciting in public. I got to know him through his little boy. The child was very lovely. I used to play with him, teach him music, and take him out. His father would always trust Bertie with me.”

Watching her lovely face, with its look of sweet girl-woman’s sympathy in the deep clear eyes, the man thought it was matter for small wonder that a father had trusted her with his only child.