New Bertha Clay Library

LOVE STORIES WITH PLENTY OF ACTION

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS

The Author Needs No Introduction

Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best work, and is the only authorized edition.

These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.

There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this list is sure to give satisfaction.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To Be Published in July, 1923.

To Be Published in August, 1923.

To Be Published in September, 1923.

To Be Published in October, 1923.

To Be Published in November, 1923.

To Be Published in December, 1923.

LOVE STORIES

All the world loves a lover. That is why Bertha M. Clay ranks so high in the opinion of millions of American readers who prefer a good love story to anything else they can get in the way of reading matter.

These stories are true to life—that’s why they make such a strong appeal. Read one of them and judge.

[Pg 3]

MARGERY DAW

A NOVEL

BY

BERTHA M. CLAY

Whose complete works will be published in this, the New Bertha Clay Library.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION PUBLISHERS 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

[Pg 4]

(Printed in the United States of America)

[Pg 5]

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III. CHAPTER IV. CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. CHAPTER VII. CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER XI. CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIV. CHAPTER XV. CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. CHAPTER XVIII. CHAPTER XIX. CHAPTER XX. CHAPTER XXI. CHAPTER XXII. CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. CHAPTER XXV. CHAPTER XXVI. CHAPTER XXVII. CHAPTER XXVIII. CHAPTER XXIX. CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER I.

“Stand back there! Move aside! Good heavens! Can’t you see the woman will die if you press about her in this way?”

The speaker bent over the lifeless form as he uttered these words, and tried once more to pour a little stimulant between the pallid lips. The scene was one of indescribable confusion. A collision had occurred between the Chesterham express and a goods train, just a short distance from Chesterham Junction. Five of the carriages were wrecked. Fortunately, three were empty; and the other two contained only three passengers—a man, who, with his arm bound up, was already starting to walk to the town; a boy, badly cut about the head, leaning, pale and faint, on a portion of the broken woodwork; and, lastly, a woman, who lay motionless on the bank, a thick shawl spread between her and the cold, damp earth. On discovery, she had been removed from the débris, laid on the bank, and forgotten in the excitement and terror. The rest of the passengers had sustained only a severe shaking and bruises; and loud were their grumblings and expressions of self-sympathy as they clustered together on the bank, shivering in the gray autumn mist. A doctor, who had been summoned from Chesterham, ran his

eye over the assembled people, strapped up the boy’s head, and skillfully set the broken arm of the man. It was while doing this that his glance fell on the prostrate form lying on the grass; and the sight of the pale, bloodless face immediately brought a frown to his brow.

“What is the matter here?” he asked a passing porter.

“Lady in a faint, sir.”

[Pg 6]

The doctor fastened the last bandage, and, with hurried steps, approached the woman. A crowd followed him, and gathered round so closely as to cause him to request them to “stand back.” His words produced the desired effect, and the bystanders moved away and watched, with breathless interest, his fruitless efforts to restore animation.

The frown darkened on the doctor’s brow; there was something more than an ordinary faint here. He raised the woman’s head for another trial, and the mass of red-gold hair, already loosened, fell in glorious waves round the beautiful, pale face, bringing a murmur of admiration from the beholders. The sudden action caused one limp, cold hand to fall against the doctor’s warm one, and at the contact he shuddered. He raised the heavily-fringed eyelids, gave one look, then gently laid the woman’s head down again, and reverently covered her face with his handkerchief.

“I can do nothing,” he said, tersely, as if speaking to himself; “she is dead!”

The crowd drew back involuntarily; some hid their faces, while others gazed at the slight form in its dark-brown dress as if they doubted the truth of his statement. Suddenly, while the doctor stood thoughtfully drawing on his gloves, one of the porters appeared in the crowd. He held a child in his arms—such a pretty child—with hair that matched the red-gold masses of the lifeless form on the bank, eyes that shone like sapphire stars from beneath her curling lashes, and a skin of cream white, with no warmth of color in the face, save that of the small, red lips. She was dressed in a little gray coat, all covered now with dust; in her tiny hands she clasped a piece of broken woodwork, holding it as though it were a treasure, and she glanced round at the bystanders with an air of childish piquancy and assurance.

“Whose child is this?” inquired the porter, looking from one to another.

There was a pause; no one spoke; no one owned her. The porter’s honest face grew troubled.

“Where does she come from?” asked the doctor, quickly.

[Pg 7]

“We have just picked her from under the roof of a second-class carriage,” the porter explained. “We were turning it over—you see, sir, it fell some distance from the rest of the carriage—and when we lifted it we found this mite a-singing to herself and nursing her dolly, as she calls this piece of wood. It’s by Heaven’s mercy she ain’t been smashed to bits; but she ain’t got not even a bruise. She must belong to some one,” he added, looking round again.

A lady in the crowd here stepped forward.

“Give her to me,” she said, kindly. “Perhaps she was traveling alone; if so, that will be explained, no doubt, by a letter or something.”

But the child clung to the porter, her pretty brows puckered, her red lips quivering.

“Mammie!” she cried, plaintively. “I wants my mammie!”

The doctor turned and looked at the child, and at that instant she suddenly wriggled and twisted herself from the porter’s arms to the ground, and, running to the silent form lying on the bank, crouched down and clutched a bit of the brown dress in her hands.

“Mammie,” she said, confidently, looking round with her great, blue eyes on the circle of faces, all of which expressed horror, pity and sadness; “Mardie’s mammie!”

The doctor stooped, drew back the handkerchief, and glanced from the living to the dead.

“Yes,” he said, abruptly; “this is her mother. Heaven have mercy on her, poor little soul!”

The lady who had come forward went up to the child, her eyes filled with tears. She loosened the dress from the small fingers.

“Mardie must be good,” she said, tenderly, “and not wake her mammie. Mammie has gone to sleep.”

The child looked at the still form, the covered face.

“Mammie seep,” she repeated; “Mardie no peak, mammie—be good,” and she lowered her voice to a whisper and repeated, “be good.” She suffered herself to be lifted in the kind, motherly arms, and pressed her bit of wood closer to her, humming in a low voice.

“We must find out who she is,” the doctor said, his[Pg 8] eyes wandering again and again to the dead woman. “She must be carried to the town; there will be an inquest.”

A passenger at this moment pointed to some vehicles coming toward them. They could not drive close to the spot, as a plowed field stretched between the railway and the road, and one by one the group dispersed, all stopping to pat the child’s face and speak to her. The doctor gave some orders to the porter who had found the child, and a litter, formed of a broken carriage door, was hastily improvised. As the crowd withdrew, he knelt down by the dead woman, and, with reverent hands, searched in the pockets for some clew. He drew out a purse, shabby and small, and, opening this, found only a few shillings and a railway ticket, a second-class return from Euston to Chesterham. In an inner recess of the purse there was a folded paper, which disclosed a curl of ruddy-gold hair when opened, and on which was written: “Baby Margery’s hair, August 19th.”

The doctor carefully replaced it. A key and a tiny, old-fashioned worthless locket were the remainder of the contents. He checked a little sigh as he closed the purse, and then proceeded to search further. A pocket handkerchief, with the letter “M” in one corner, and a pair of dogskin gloves, worn and neatly mended, were the next objects, and one letter, which—after replacing the gloves and handkerchief—he opened hurriedly. The lady, still holding the child in her arms, watched him anxiously. The envelope, which was already broken, was addressed to “M., care of Post Office, Newtown, Middlesex.” The doctor unfolded the note. It ran as follows:

Mrs. Huntley will engage “M.” if proper references are forwarded. Mrs. Huntley would require “M.” to begin her duties as maid, should her references prove satisfactory, as soon as possible. “M.’s” statement that she speaks French and German fluently has induced Mrs. Huntley to reconsider the question of salary. She will now give “M.” twenty-five pounds per annum, for which sum “M.” must undertake to converse daily with Mr. Huntley’s daughter in French and German, in addition to her duties as maid. Mrs. Huntley desires that “M.” will send her real name by return of post.

Upton Manor, near Liddlefield, Yorkshire.

November 15th, 18——.

[Pg 9]

The doctor handed the note to the lady, who read it through quickly.

“That does not give much information,” he observed, rising from his knees.

“Dated yesterday—received this morning. We must telegraph to this Mrs. Huntley; who knows?—the poor creature may have sent her references, with her full name, before starting from London.”

“Yes, you are right; we must do that. But what is to become of the child? Are you staying here for long, madam?”

“No,” replied the lady; “I had intended to travel straight on to the North. But I shall remain in Chesterham for the night, and continue my journey to-morrow. I wish I could delay it longer; but, unfortunately, my son is ill in Edinburgh, and I must get to him as soon as possible. However, I will take care of this poor little mite to-night. I hope by the morning we shall have discovered her friends and relations.”

“If you will do that,” said the doctor, “I will see to the mother. I must have the body carried to the infirmary.”

He beckoned, as he spoke, to the porter, who was standing at a little distance, talking to the crowd of natives who had arrived to clear the line, and the dead woman was lifted on to the litter, and covered with a rug belonging to the lady who had taken charge of the child. She watched the proceedings with a feeling of unspeakable sadness, and, as the melancholy burden was carried toward one of the cabs, she clasped the child closer to her breast, and tears stole down her cheeks.

The baby, cooing to her strange doll, looked up as they moved across the field. She put up one little hand and rubbed away a tear from the motherly face.

“No kye,” she said, in her pretty, lisping fashion. “Mardie dood—she no kye.”

The lady kissed the small lips.

“Mardie is a sweet angel,” she whispered; “and now she shall come with me to a pretty place and have some nice dinner.”

“Din-din,” said the child, nodding her head with its[Pg 10] wealth of red-gold curls. “Mardie ’ungry. Mammie a din-din, too?”

The lady shivered.

“Yes, mammie will go to a pretty place, too,” she answered hurriedly.

When they reached the cab, the doctor came up to them.

“If you will allow me to suggest, The Plow is the best hotel. I would come with you, but I must drive straight to the infirmary. Give me the child for a moment while you get in. She has lost her hat, poor little thing; but the town is not far off, and the best place for her will be in bed.”

Mardie went willingly to the doctor’s arms. She prattled to him about the “din-din” and “mammie,” but much was unintelligible to him. She did not ask for her mother or seem strange. “Mammie a seep,” she asserted several times, in a whisper; and she was content with the two kind beings whose hearts were heavy with pain as they thought of the long, dreary path she must tread henceforth without a touch from the loving hands, or a word from the tender voice she knew so well.

“There, madam,” and the doctor placed the small, gray-clad form in the cab. “This poor little mite cannot thank you herself; but, if you will allow me, in humanity’s name to offer you gratitude——”

The lady stopped him.

“I have done no more than my duty. I thank you, sir, for your courtesy. Will you kindly let me know as early as possible the results of your telegram? I will go to the Plow; my name is Graham.”

“And mine Scott. I will certainly let you know the instant I receive any intelligence. Something must be done with this child; but that is for to-morrow’s consideration. She is safe in your hands for to-night.”

Dr. Scott raised his hat, and the cab started along the country lane toward Chesterham. Mrs. Graham drew Mardie on to her knee, and tried to chat to the child; but her whole nervous system was so shattered by the events of the past hour that the effort was vain.

Chesterham was a large manufacturing town. The news of the collision had spread rapidly, and, although[Pg 11] the November dusk was closing in, crowds were thronging to the scene of the disaster. Mrs. Graham leaned back in a corner to escape the eager eyes, for she knew the story of the young mother’s death would be known by now, and her natural refinement and delicacy shrunk from vulgar curiosity and hysterical excitement. The cab soon rattled into Chesterham, and, after a short journey through the lamp-lighted streets, stopped before the door of The Plow. Mardie was handed out to a pretty-faced chambermaid, whose bright cap ribbon immediately claimed the child’s attention, and Mrs. Graham followed slowly and wearily up the stairs, feeling her strength go at every step. The babyish voice and shrill peals of laughter echoed in her ears as the wail of future grief; her eyes were fixed on the small form, but her thoughts were with the dead young mother.

She dismissed the maid when she reached her room, and, drawing Mardie to her, began to loosen the gray coat, which bore traces of dainty design beneath the dust and dirt. For the first time the child seemed to feel her loss.

“Mammie undress Mardie,” she said, putting up one little hand. “Mammie seep now, but wake soon.”

“Mammie would like Mardie to take off her coat like a good girl,” Mrs. Graham replied, feeling instinctively that the youthful mind grasped already the meaning of love and duty.

The child dropped her hand and nodded her head, then submitted to have the coat removed. She was neatly dressed in a dark-red cashmere frock, made loose like a blouse; she wore a tiny thread of gold round her neck, with a little heart-shaped pendant suspended. Mrs. Graham took it in her hand, eagerly hoping to find some clew; but, on turning it, her eyes rested on a miniature of the mother’s lovely face.

“Mardie’s mammie,” exclaimed the child, taking it and kissing it—“dear mammie!”—then, with infantile changeableness, she rushed with a little shriek to the door, where a kitten had just appeared, and with great delight picked up the downy little creature and caressed it.

The advent of dinner soon attracted her attention, and[Pg 12] she prattled away merrily in her baby language while the dishes were carried in. Mrs. Graham forced herself to talk to the child, and tried to divert her mind from its gloomy thoughts by devoting herself to the task of tending the little one. She was not a young woman, and the events of the day had proved almost too much for her nervous system; but with true unselfishness she tried to forget her own troubles in ministering to the tiny atom of humanity thrown so cruelly upon the world’s ocean, with mayhap no haven or port of love and affection to look to.

She lifted Mardie on to a chair, and was about to give her some food, when the door opened, and, looking up in surprise, she saw a lady, young and handsome, attired in a riding habit, enter the room.

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 tears[Pg 13] 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.”