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Title: Margie's venture
        or, When the ship comes home

Author: Mary E. Ropes

Release date: May 27, 2024 [eBook #73708]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Sunday School Union


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGIE'S VENTURE ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "GOD FORGIVE YOU FOR YOUR EVIL THOUGHT AGAINST
 THIS POOR INNOCENT GIRL!"]



                         MARGIE'S VENTURE

                                OR

                     WHEN THE SHIP COMES HOME


                                BY

                          MARY E. ROPES

                            AUTHOR OF

              "THE MYSTERY OF HOYLE'S MOUTH," "VASSIA,"
                            ETC. ETC.



              PUBLISHED AT 57 AND 59 LUDGATE HILL, E.C.

                 BY THE SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION, LONDON



                             CONTENTS

CHAP.

   I. HARRY'S FAREWELLS

  II. AT GARDEN LODGE

 III. HALF-SISTERS

  IV. PLOTTING AGAINST THE INNOCENT

   V. THE ACCUSATION

  VI. THE PLOT FAILS

 VII. PENITENCE AND PEACE



                         MARGIE'S VENTURE

CHAPTER I.

HARRY'S FAREWELLS.

THEY were a great contrast—these two—as they stood under the trees, in
the deepening twilight of the shady garden.

She—Fay Grayling—very youthful-looking, even for her eighteen years,
with her pretty, fair, flower-like face, her bright if somewhat shallow
blue eyes, her light curly hair, and pouting red lips, which seemed
like the unspent inheritance of childhood itself.

He—Harry Mayne—full ten years older—with his sturdy, well-developed
manliness of form, his grave, earnest face, and quiet manner. The
well-opened, steady eyes, and firm mouth and chin, spoke to force of
character and tenacity of purpose; but there was gentleness too, and an
infinite capacity for tenderness, in that dark, strong face.

Fay and Harry had plighted their mutual troth some few weeks before,
and were now parting; for he was about to rejoin, as first officer, the
big steamship which would carry him far away on a long year's cruise.

There were tears on Fay's round baby-cheeks as Harry at last unclasped
from his arm the little hands that clung there.

"Time is going, dear; I must be off," he said firmly, though his lip
quivered. "No, Fay, don't try to keep me. It is not true kindness,
believe me, child. Where are your mother and sisters? I should like
just to say good-bye to them. They have been so very good to me."

"They are all in the drawing-room," replied Fay, wiping her eyes; and,
leading the way into the house, she opened a door, and ushered Harry in.

Mrs. Grayling and three girls were sitting round the table sewing by
the light of a shaded lamp.

"Here's Harry come to say good-bye," said Fay. "He sails early
to-morrow from Southampton, and he must catch the boat-train to-night."

"So you are really going, Harry?" said Mrs. Grayling. "We shall miss
you very much, and our poor little Fay here will be quite inconsolable.
You are one of us now, you know."

"How long shall you be away, Harry?" inquired Mattie, the eldest
daughter.

"Over a year, I believe," replied the young man.

"That is a long time for you and Fay to be separated," remarked Lettie,
the second girl.

All this time, Margie, the third, said nothing. Her head was bent low
over her work, and she did not even look up.

"Well, I must not stay," said Harry; "to lose that train would be
to lose my berth, and I can't afford that. Good-bye, Mrs. Grayling;
good-bye, dear girls." And he kissed them all affectionately, as though
already they were his mother and sisters.

Margie was the last. As he put his hand on her shoulder, she raised her
flushed face from her work, and he saw those great grey eyes of hers
brimming over with tears, and the lips were quivering as he pressed his
own upon them. Somehow or other, the sight of her grief surprised and
touched him, and as he lingered a moment longer with her hand in his,
he heard her whisper, "God bless you, dear, dear Harry!"

Fay went with him to the door; she was crying again, and she clung to
him as he bade her a fond farewell. But even lovers' farewells must
end at last, for trains and tides do not wait for them. And in another
minute, the door had closed and Harry was gone, while in Fay's ears
were ringing his last words, "Be true to me, Fay, be true!"

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh dear me! Was ever a poor mother in such a dilemma? Just look here,
girls! Another letter from the lawyer, and again bad news!" And Mrs.
Grayling heaved a gusty sigh, and, sinking into the nearest arm-chair,
stretched out a big, bony hand, in which was displayed the unwelcome
letter, open to any one who wished to read it.

It was snatched from her, half playfully, half impatiently, by Mattie,
a tall young woman of about five-and twenty, rather bony and angular,
like the mother, but with a clever, sensible face, that atoned for her
rather masculine figure, and bore no trace of the fretful anxieties
that had made lines in Mrs. Grayling's worn countenance.

"Let me see too," said Lettie, who was a round, good-tempered-looking,
sleepy-eyed, tow-haired girl of twenty-three or thereabouts; and she
rose from her seat and came round behind Mattie, in order to read
the letter over her shoulder. Margie, who was twenty-one years old;
Fay, who was eighteen; and Nat, who was between nineteen and twenty,
completed the family party; and all were eagerly waiting for the news
in the lawyer's letter.

"Yes, mother, it is hard on you!" said Mattie, as she ran her eye
through the one closely written page. "Only three months ago you heard
that your income was to be reduced a hundred pounds a year, and now the
value of the investments seems to have again fallen, and you are to
lose another hundred, and probably more."

"I hardly know what I shall do," said Mrs. Grayling. "When your dear
father was alive, he always attended to business matters, and even the
household accounts; but now I am burdened with so many things, and what
with this reduction of income and the increasing expenses of Fan's and
Eva's schooling, I really do not know how I shall make both ends meet,
unless—unless—"

"I know what you are going to say, mother," interrupted Margie. "Unless
some of us marry, and take ourselves off your hands."

"Yes, my dear, that is just what I was going to say, and I think you
will see that for one or two of you to have homes of your own would
save my pocket and lift a load of care from my heart."

"Poor mother!" said Margie, coming nearer, and putting an arm round
her mother's gaunt shoulders. "I daresay it would be a good thing, as
you say; but it takes two to make a marriage, as it does a quarrel,
and you see we have no gay cavaliers to serenade and carry us off; and
even Fay's sailor boy," added Margie, with a sudden flush on her clear
cheek, "is of no practical use at present."

Margie and her young sister Fay were the only really good-looking
members of the Grayling family. Margie was tall, like Mattie, but
not angular and bony. On the contrary, she had one of those natural,
pliant figures upon which almost any sort of dress looks comfortable
and becoming, and whose ease and grace of movement seem absolutely
spontaneous and unstudied. Fay was more like Lettie, both in face and
figure. But her complexion was clear and bright, her hair a pretty
blonde shade, instead of dead tow-colour; her eyes had none of the
sleepy languor, and her figure, though plump, none of the lumpiness
which spoiled Lettie's looks.

"My dear," remonstrated Mrs. Grayling, with a dark solemnity which was
in marked contrast to Margie's cheerful manner, "you should be the
last to say there are no gentlemen whom you could marry. I know of two
who would be thankful to have you, only that you are so dreadfully
fastidious."

Margie's face became grave all of a sudden; her laughing grey eyes grew
thoughtful, and her pleasant mouth assumed an expression almost grim in
its determination.

"If you mean Sir Peter Brooks and Mr. Elmes," said the girl, "I—"

"Why, of course I mean them," replied the mother quickly. "And only
think what a marriage with one of them would mean! A comfortable, nay,
a luxurious home, an indulgent husband, and all the pleasures that
money and position can give."

"Sir Peter is an old dear!" responded the girl warmly. "There's nothing
I would not do for Sir Peter except marry him. As for Mr. Elmes, he
is a vulgar, purse-proud snob, with a large family of horrid grown-up
children. No, thank you, mother; I'd rather be an old maid."

"You children think only of yourselves," sighed Mrs. Grayling, putting
on her most fretful and disconsolate face. "You never consider me and
all my troubles and worries, or how you can help me in these straits I
am come to."

"I do not think we quite deserve your reproaches, mother," said Mattie,
folding the letter; "there is not one of us who is not willing to do
our utmost to lessen the burden upon you. I am the eldest, and I will
make the first proposal. Let Fan and Eva come home, and I will teach
them myself; that will save a hundred a year, will it not?"

"There's not much I can do, for I only understand one thing," said
Lettie; "but I am willing to do that. Send our cook away, mother, and I
will cook for the family. That will save twenty-five pounds at least."

"And I'll give up all thought of going to college," said Nat, the
youth, who had not yet spoken. "I will try for a situation somewhere.
Perhaps a clerk's in an office."

"And I will help with the parlour-work," said Fay, "and you can dismiss
one of the maids. If we all take our share of the duties, we can get
along quite well with one servant."

All this time Margie had not spoken. At last she said, "I do not know
enough to teach, and if I take up other work I would rather it were not
at home. I must think what I can do."

Then the conference broke up, and each member of the family went to his
or her own duties.

For a few days Margie was wonderfully silent and preoccupied; but
she gave no explanation of the change in her manner, and her sisters
rallied her on it in vain, and teased her because during these days she
was always studying the newspapers.

But Margie had a very definite object in view, and when she eventually
came across the following advertisement, it struck her that she had
found what she had been in search of:

   WANTED, by an invalid widow lady, a respectable young person of
intelligence and refinement, as attendant. She must have perfect
health, pleasant looks, and a good temper. Liberal salary and
a comfortable home to a suitable person. Personal interview
indispensable.—Apply, Mrs. BEACH, Garden Lodge, River Park, Surrey.

"I may not get the post, but I'll try for it," said Margie to herself.



CHAPTER II.

AT GARDEN LODGE.

THE personal interview to which Margie readily consented did more for
her than the written character which she had forwarded.

When Margie appeared, clad in a neat, close-fitting black dress,
immaculate collar and blameless cuffs, and a sweet little black
bonnet—half Quakerish, half coquettish—beneath which her wavy brown
hair was smoothly brushed back from the temples, Mrs. Beach felt that
here at last was an ideal attendant.

No fringe,—not even a love-lock,—no earrings or ornaments; only a jet
brooch to fasten the linen collar. Yes, and here were the fine health
(bright eyes and complexion showed this), the very pleasant looks,
and, no doubt, the good temper—the three things the invalid especially
desired.

Mrs. Beach was charmed with Margie's frank, natural manners; even
her straightforward confession of inexperience showed the girl's
truthfulness, and was a sort of pledge for the future. The interview
did not last long, and when she left the cosy, roomy house, standing in
its old-fashioned garden and half hidden among trees, it was with the
understanding that she should come and take up her abode there that day
week.

Margie had a couple of hours to travel by rail before reaching home, so
she had plenty of time in which to consider how she should break the
news to her mother and sisters. For she had come to her resolution and
had made her own plans without consulting any one.

When at last she found an opportunity to make her announcement,
it created a very considerable sensation. No real opposition was
threatened to her "venture," but her mother's remark summed up what
perhaps was in the minds of all the others.

"Good gracious, child! What have you done? Why, my dear, I do believe
you have taken a situation little better than that of a servant."

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

If Margie had expected a pathway strewn with roses, and with no thorns
among them, she would have been sorely disappointed. Happily, she was
too sensible to have any such expectations. She had seen enough of life
to know by this time that we must take it as we find it, accepting good
and evil, joy and sorrow, fulfilled hopes and baffled purposes, as they
come. And by the time a month had gone by, the girl had become familiar
with her surroundings, and had also come to know very fairly well the
people in the house.

It was rather a curious household, for it held a somewhat mixed
community, and, consequently, there was friction now and again, or
worse.

Mrs. Beach, however, had turned out to be just what Margie, during
their brief interview, had thought her. She was a kind, motherly,
unselfish woman, whose invalidism had not soured her temper, or made
her suspicious or morbid. She treated Margie from the first with
kindness and consideration, and the girl would have been quite content
if she could have been alone with her employer, and had nothing to
think of but her duties, which were not too hard for her strength at
all, or distasteful to her in any way.

But there were other people in the house not so easy to deal with.
In the first place, there was Mr. Nicholas Beach, the only son
of the widow. He was a young gentleman of no occupation, but of
self-indulgent, not to say vicious habits. As he had nothing to do but
to amuse himself, he was always dawdling about the house, and Margie
was continually meeting him, much to her annoyance; for she had taken
a dislike to his handsome, dissipated face, and strongly resented
his bold, free manner with the maids, and his ungentlemanly personal
remarks.

Another member of the family who was even a greater trial to Margie was
Mrs. Beach's niece, Mabel Raye, whom the aunt had brought up from a
child.

She was a very handsome girl, one of those dark beauties who light
up into positive brilliance under strong excitement, and who reward
a tasteful and painstaking maid by looking their very best when they
emerge from her beautifying hands into the bright light of a ballroom.
But Mabel's mother had been a Creole, and with the glorious dark
eyes and beautiful features, the girl had inherited the hot blood,
the passionate, vindictive temper, the unreasoning jealousy, of the
darker race. Not that she was devoid of generous feelings, of gracious
impulses; but she had no principle; her conduct was governed solely by
the whim of the moment. No wonder, then, that she was, an influence
that had to be reckoned with in the house, and that by her sudden
freaks, her stormy temper, and strange, mad jealousies, she was almost
equally dangerous whether as friend or enemy.

It did not take long for Margie to realise that she must do her best
not to come into collision with this girl. And as her duties kept
her very much in Mrs. Beach's room, and she neither belonged to the
dining-room nor the kitchen, she was usually able to keep out of the
way, and flattered herself that she need never have any trouble.

The girl had not vanity enough to realise that she was quite attractive
enough to rouse the jealousy of such an undisciplined character as
Mabel Raye. Indeed, when Margie looked in the glass at all, it was
just to be sure that her collar was straight, her hair neatly done,
and that her whole dress was spotlessly fresh and tidy. It never
occurred to her that she had a graceful figure, lovely brown hair, and
clear, sweet eyes with an unusual wealth of lashes. She knew she was
pleasant-looking, and of that she was frankly glad, but she did not
guess (and here lay Margie's chief charm) how much more than pretty she
appeared to others.

But Margie had reckoned without her host, as she found to her cost when
a few weeks had passed. It happened on this wise. Nicholas Beach had
been at home even more than usual of late, and Margie was constantly
seeing him. If she took a message from Mrs. Beach, she was sure to find
him dawdling about on the stairs, or sitting in the smoking-room with
the door wide open, so as to watch every one who went by. Of course
the girl took no notice of him, but she could not help seeing that he
was beginning to dog her steps and watch for chances to see and speak
to her. In short, he was evidently going to try and treat her with the
contemptuous familiarity that he had doubtless found successful enough
with the servants in his mother's house, when they chanced to be young
and good-looking.

One day Margie was sewing in the little workroom which belonged
exclusively to her. The door was shut, and she was stitching away,
in order to complete the bit of sewing that night, when, without any
warning, the door opened, and in walked Nicholas Beach, and with him
entered the fumes of whisky and tobacco. The young man's face was
flushed, his manner very abrupt, strange, and disagreeable.

"Ah," said he, with an impudent leer, "so here you are! Caught at last.
Here I've been trying for ever so long to get a talk with you, but you
always managed to keep out of my way." So saying, the young man flopped
down into the one easy-chair the room contained, and stretched his long
limbs out upon a smaller seat. Apparently he was come to stay, and as
Margie was quite determined that he should quit, she braced herself up
for what she felt sure would be an unpleasant interview.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything to a fellow?" said he at last,
fixing his bold eyes upon the girl, who had now put down her work, and
had risen from her seat by the table.

"Yes, sir, I am," rejoined Margie; "will you be kind enough to get up
and leave this room at once?"

"'Pon my word, but she's a cool one!" said Nicholas Beach to himself;
then to her, he added in a louder tone, "You look awfully pretty when
you're angry, Margery; do it again, will you?"

"Sir," said the girl, "if you have any respect for yourself or for me,
you will leave this room. If you do not go at once, I shall leave you
here, and go straight to Mrs. Beach."

"You pretty little vixen, I'm sure you'll do nothing of the sort,"
rejoined Nicholas, with an impertinent leer. "You'd never have the
heart, you know; it would be too cruel, when I admire you so."

For answer, Margie walked to the door, her head held very high, her big
eyes flashing indignantly. Nicholas stared at her stupidly.

"What a little spitfire it is!" he said thickly. "I didn't want to
rile you, my beauty. Come here, and make it up." And he seconded his
invitation with a smile so odious in its drunken impudence, that Margie
said not one word more, but opened the door and went straight upstairs
to Mrs. Beach's boudoir.

Mabel Raye was sitting there with her aunt, and as Margie entered,
with flushed cheeks and haughty bearing, the young lady said, "Good
gracious, Margery, what's the matter with you? You look like a tragedy
queen."

But Margie did not answer her. She turned to Mrs. Beach and said,
"If you please, ma'am, will you allow me to bring my sewing into
your dressing-room, or to take it to my bedroom? Mr. Beach has taken
possession of my workroom, and declines to move."

Mrs. Beach looked troubled and annoyed. For a moment or two, she
seemed as if she did not know what to say, but Miss Raye broke out
passionately, "Don't believe her, auntie. It's all a lie! Nick wouldn't
do such a thing. If he went into the workroom at all, it was because he
was invited in. The girl's conceited, that's all, and wants to make us
think he admires her. The idea! A servant, too!"

Margie turned very white, and her face was set and rigid, as she
replied, ignoring Mabel entirely, and turning only towards Mrs. Beach,
"I have told you the exact truth, ma'am, and I beg you to believe me. I
never told a lie in my life."

Mabel started up. "I'll go and ask Nick himself," she said. "I'll soon
prove to you, auntie, that this girl has made a false statement." And
with a vindictive glance, Mabel Raye departed.

Margie now came nearer to where Mrs. Beach sat. The old lady was
apparently in real distress, and the girl felt very sorry for her. "I
am grieved, ma'am, to say or do anything to trouble you," said she very
gently and tenderly; for she loved Mrs. Beach, who had always treated
her well, and with perfect fairness.

"Will you tell me all that passed between my son and you?" asked the
mother, with an anxious face. "I would rather know the exact truth."

"I will if you really wish it, ma'am," said the girl; "but I would
rather save you the pain of hearing it. And there need be no more of
this sort of thing, you know, ma'am, if you will give me leave either
to be in your dressing-room or in my own bedroom upstairs."

"You really would prefer this, Margery?" said Mrs. Beach, looking at
her attendant's frank, sweet young face, and thinking what an honest,
straightforward girl she seemed.

"Of course I should, ma'am, very much. I should always be safe then,
and no one would interfere with me."

"Then I will arrange it so," replied Mrs. Beach. "Meanwhile, go and
fetch your work, my girl, and sit here for an hour. It is nearly time
for Miss Mabel to go for her ride, and I shall be glad to have you with
me."

Down went Margie to fetch her sewing, and there, ensconced on the sofa
in her workroom, she found Nicholas Beach and Mabel Raye. The young
lady's face was flushed, her black eyes blazed, while Nicholas too
looked angry, though somewhat more sober than when he had first entered
the room.

"So here you are, my dear!" said the young man, addressing Margie
familiarly as she came in. "I thought I'd lost you when you went off in
such a temper. Glad you've come back."

"For goodness sake be quiet, Nick!" hissed Mabel, more and more
enraged. "As if that girl wasn't vain and brazen enough already,
without any more of your compliments."

But Margie went on calmly gathering together her things, and taking
apparently no notice of either of the usurpers of her domain.

"The girl's done nothing," replied Nicholas, in his turn speaking
angrily. "Only, Mab, you're so mightily jealous that if I look at a
woman, you're down on me. And I'll not stand it, I tell you, Mab, I
won't."

"Hush, for goodness' sake hold your tongue—at least while that creature
is here," said Mabel excitedly. "We don't want to discuss our private
affairs with kitchen folks."

This was said with such gratuitous spite and unnecessary insult that
it struck Margie ludicrously, and she could not help smiling. Had she
not been a lady, with a lady's instincts, intuitions, and gifts, such
a speech would have galled her pride to the quick. As it was, however,
it was such a silly, causeless exhibition of malice, and seemed, to
sensible Margie, so unreasonable and childish that she was only amused.

"That's a bit too bad!" said Nicholas. "Anybody can see she's not one
of the usual sort. Why, Mab, where are your eyes? Look at her hands and
feet. She mayn't be tip-top, but she's not common."

But this kind of personal criticism, as if she had been goods and
chattels, or a horse or dog whose points must be noted and described,
was too much for Margie. Colouring deeply, she hastily gathered all her
things together and hurried out of the room.

"Now we're alone, you might apologise, I think, for being so rude to
me," suggested Mabel. "For people who are as good as engaged, I must
say we behave queerly; or, at least, you do. I've a good mind to break
with you for good and all."

"Well, do, and get done with it," said Nicholas savagely. "I'm sick of
having it held over me as a threat. If you're so precious jealous now,
what would you be if we were married?"

"Oh, Nick dear!" said Mabel, her voice trembling, her eyes filling with
tears. "If I did not care so much for you, I should not be so jealous.
But when we once really belong to each other, I shall be quite happy."

"Don't count your chickens before they are hatched, Mab," said the
young man almost brutally. "I tell you frankly that unless you come
into that money, I can't afford to marry you, and must look out for a
girl—another girl—with money."

Mabel gave a little impatient stamp of her foot on the floor. "It's too
bad," she said angrily; "that tiresome creature, Clara, crippled and
helpless, unable to enjoy life or to do anything, and yet she's got all
the money, and I nothing till she dies. It is a shame!"

"Could you not persuade her to give you the money now instead of
leaving it to you?" suggested the young man. "She could keep enough for
all she wanted, and hand over the rest of the property to you, surely."

"Of course she could, if she would," replied Mabel; "but she does not
like me, and—"

"Well, I am not surprised at that," said Nicholas frankly; "you've
never behaved like a sister to her, so it is hardly strange she does
not care much about you. Nobody can be much more horrid than you when
you choose, Mab."

"And nobody nicer, too!" and the girl leaned towards him, a real
love-light in those glorious eyes of hers. "Oh, Nick, say that nobody
can be nicer than your madcap Mab!"

The young man laughed, and patted her cheek, as he might have done the
head of a dog. "You can be nice if you choose," said he, with tardy,
reluctant praise. "The worst of it is that when you're horrid you're so
very nasty, and when you're nice, you're so altogether too luscious;"
and he ended in a grimace.

Meanwhile, as Margie was sitting in Mrs. Beach's room, the door opened,
and a woman entered, dressed in the uniform of a professional nurse,
with white apron and cap. Margie had often seen her in the house,
meeting her on the stairs, and exchanging greetings with her sometimes
when they happened to encounter each other in the long corridor. For
this passage, passing outside Margie's room, ran by the head of the
staircase to the east wing of the house. Margie had never been in the
east wing, but she understood from the servants that the rooms there
on the third floor were given up to an invalid relative of Mrs. Beach
and her nurse. Sometimes Mrs. Beach paid the invalid a visit; but very
few of the others seemed to take much notice of the poor creature who
spent her life in those rooms. Once or twice a week the doctor called,
but hardly any one else entered the east wing, unless Mabel Raye's one
visit of five minutes about thrice in the year could be counted.

"What is it, nurse?" asked Mrs. Beach anxiously, as the woman appeared.

"Miss Clara wants a book from the library, ma'am," replied nurse, "and
wishes me to go and get it, and take a bit of a walk besides, as I've
not been out for several days. But she's not very well, ma'am, and I
don't feel as if I could leave her alone, so I came to ask you if you'd
please arrange for some one to sit in the room while I'm away. I won't
be gone over an hour, ma'am."

Mrs. Beach turned to Margie. "Will you go, Margery?" she said. "My poor
afflicted niece, Miss Mabel's half-sister, is a stranger to you as yet,
I suppose; but you won't mind that, will you?"

"Not at all, ma'am; I will go to her with pleasure."

"Do so, then, at once," said Mrs. Beach. "Take her with you, nurse, and
introduce her to Miss Clara before you go out."

So Margie followed the nurse down the long passage, and into a light,
spacious room furnished with every comfort and luxury.

In a bed with its head turned towards the window, so that the light
would be behind the invalid, lay the poor cripple, the half-sister of
the beautiful Mabel Raye.

Clara was said to be as much like her fair Swedish mother as Mabel
resembled the dark Creole, and no contrast could well be greater than
that between the two half-sisters.

So thought Margie as she approached the bed, and stood there by the
nurse's side.

"Mrs. Beach has sent Margery Grayling, her own special attendant, Miss
Clara, to stay with you while I am away, and I'm sure she will take
good care of you," said the nurse.

Clara Raye opened her great blue eyes and fixed them upon Margie's face
so intently that the girl flushed, and dropped her own; but she lifted
them again as a low, sweet-toned voice said, "Yes, nurse, now I see
her, I am quite sure she will. Please thank my aunt for sending her to
me;" and she put out a hand of welcome and greeting to the newcomer.

Margie took the slender white hand, and, touched by the expression of
the lovely, fair, smiling face on the pillow, and the look of suffering
in the heavy eyelids and on the sensitive mouth, the tears came into
her eyes, and stooping she raised the hand to her lips.

Then the blue eyes met the grey ones frankly, and a flash of sympathy
and understanding passed between them.

"Why, Margery Grayling, you are a lady," said Clara Faye.

"You are the first person in this house who has found me out," replied
Margie, flushing again, but smiling through her tears; "still, it is
true."

"Tell me your story, will you?" asked Clara.

And Margie, quite openly, told her the whole history, from beginning to
end, including the description of all her sisters and of her brother,
and speaking, too, of Fay's engagement to the best man in the whole
world, as she called Harry Mayne.

Clara listened intently, her responsive face changing constantly in
expression. And as Margie wound up by saying cheerfully, "So here I am,
you see, in my servant's cap and apron, and not in the least ashamed of
them."

Clara put up a hand, drew the brave, bright face down to her, kissed
it, and said, "I think you're one of the noblest girls I ever saw,
Margery Grayling, and you're just the sort of friend I've been wanting
and praying to God for all my life. And now He has sent me the desire
of my heart."

After Mabel Raye's scornful treatment of her, and Nicholas Beach's
insulting familiarity, the sweet words fell like dew upon the parched
ground, and poor Margie could only weep for sheer thankfulness and joy
at having so unexpectedly found a friend.

So that, when nurse came home, she found her substitute and the patient
left in her charge both enjoying themselves so much that she vowed—not
being of a jealous disposition—that Margery Grayling was better than
any doctor.

Margie was very much happier after this visit to Clara. It was not
only in the fact that she had found a friend that she rejoiced. She
was conscious of a bond of union closer than this between the patient
sufferer and herself. The comprehending sympathy was much to her, and
this the invalid had given her unstintingly out of an overflowing
heart, but more precious to Margie than even sympathy was the knowledge
that this new friend of hers was one of God's own children, bearing
with uncomplaining patience the heavy burden laid upon her, and
carrying her cross of pain and weakness with cheerful willingness in
the steps of Him whose footprints marked the way to Calvary.

And now Margie thankfully realised that here, in this new-found friend,
was one whose spiritual experience was greater than her own, and that
to this friend she could go for advice and help in difficulty. For
Margery Grayling, though a true and humble follower of her Lord, was
as yet but a young disciple, and she gladly and thankfully welcomed—in
the promise of frequent intercourse with Clara Raye—the opportunity of
gaining further insight into the things of God's everlasting kingdom of
truth and righteousness.



CHAPTER III.

HALF-SISTERS.

MARGIE had letters from home regularly every week, and was eager for
the news as any schoolgirl, and of late there had been several matters
of more importance than usual.

At Monkston Manor there had been a very gay time indeed, for the house
had been full of staying company, and all sorts of parties were given
by way of entertainment. To these parties, of course, the Graylings
were all and always invited, and Fay especially wrote in raptures of
the "lovely time" they were having.

Lettie wrote too, and she mentioned something that Fay had carefully
omitted, namely, that Howard Logan, a nephew of Sir Peter, a very
good-looking but reckless and headstrong young fellow of about
three-and-twenty, was apparently much smitten with Fay's youthful
charms, and was paying her a good deal of attention, which flattered
the young lady not a little.

"There's no harm in having a little fun if one is engaged," Fay was
reported to have said. Harry was far away. It could not hurt him, and
she would only just amuse herself a wee bit. Untrue to Harry of course
she could never, near be; but she would seem silly, indeed, to shut
herself up and have no pleasures just because she was engaged to be
married. Harry surely could not be so exacting as to wish it.

So she amused herself very well with Howard Logan; so well, indeed,
that her engagement to him was commonly reported. It was not true, of
course, but there was little doubt in Margie's mind that her young
sister had behaved very wrongly towards both men who loved her; and
for Harry's sake especially—good, true-hearted, dear Harry—she felt
indignant, and wrote Fay a warm letter of protest, receiving in reply a
note which briefly told her to mind her own business and not meddle.

As for Mattie, she was in her element at Monkston Manor. Her talent for
organising and managing, for arranging and entertaining, made her an
ideal housekeeper, and the handsome salary Sir Peter gave her, enabled
her to dress as became the lady hostess. Indeed, Lettie wrote that
when Mattie was dressed for the evening, and had a nice colour in her
cheeks, she was almost handsome.

Margie was glad to think that her old suitor, Sir Peter, had become, at
last, aware of the hopelessness of his wishes to obtain her (Margie)
for his bride; and she hoped that, seeing how remarkably well Mattie
did the honours of his home, how reliable and high-principled she was,
and how she seemed to have fallen, quite naturally and easily, into her
position of lady of the house, Sir Peter would transfer his affections
to the elder sister, who was more suited to him in years, and who
really would make in many ways as good a wife to an old man as he could
desire.

Altogether, home affairs seemed to be in a satisfactory condition,
except as regarded Fay, and Fay would allow nobody to say a word to
her, and showed herself in a new character—one which hitherto had been
quite unsuspected by any one. Margie had always told herself that she
loved Harry Mayne as a dear brother, and she felt that she was well
within her duties and privileges as sister, if she strongly resented
his being badly treated by any one. She felt as if somehow she were
responsible for Fay's good faith, and she was bitterly ashamed that
the girl whom Harry loved, and who had confessed her love for him in
return, should be suspected—with more or less reason—of disloyalty to
one so whole-hearted and true as Harry.

Poor Margie's heart, very full of grief and indignation for Harry's
sake, must have shown itself in her face one day when she took a
message from Mrs. Beach to the invalid, Clara Raye, between whom and
herself a warm friendship had sprung up.

"Margery clear," said Clara, "you are in trouble of some sort; I see it
in your heavy eyelids and those lines about your mouth, which make even
your smile a sad one. Can I help you at all? Is there nothing I can do?
I am such a poor thing, and so debarred from most means of usefulness,
that it would be conferring a favour upon me, if you could let me serve
you. Is it a case in which money would be of any service, Margery dear?"

Margie shook her head. "No, thank you, Miss Clara," she replied. "It
has nothing to do with money. But I am puzzled to know what to do for
the best, or whether I ought to do and say nothing."



CHAPTER IV.

PLOTTING AGAINST THE INNOCENT.

NURSE was gone, and Margie fairly established in her place, yet
managing to do a great deal besides caring for the invalid. There was
not an atom of selfishness or anything that was exacting in Clara
Raye's nature.

All that there was of these qualities and of jealousy had gone to mar
the character of Mabel, who had never known the restraining power of
religion in her own experience, the fear of God, which purifies the
life; the love of Jesus, which intensifies and makes more true, more
abiding, all worthy love; the vivifying influence of the Holy Spirit,
at once the Convincer, the Awakener, and the Comforter of the human
life that has learned the great secret of the life to come.

There was thus nothing to control the strong passions inherited from
that beautiful Creole mother of hers; no steady motive to hold in check
the many headlong impulses and wild ideas which seemed sometimes to
take possession of this undisciplined nature, as we read the demons
did of those unhappy sufferers in the olden times. And, unfortunately
for Mabel, Nicholas had begun to tire and sicken of her intensity.
The man's nature was fickle, changeable, incapable of any steady or
faithful love; and the fierce and exacting fidelity of this girl
wearied him till he could no longer hide from her his distaste alike of
her passionate endearments and her equally passionate suspicions and
accusations. And she, on her side, laid the whole blame of what she
called this change in him upon his fancy—or supposed fancy—for Margery
Grayling.

As for Margie, now that her work was all upstairs, she and Nicholas
seldom met. Much of her time was spent in the east wing, where no one
else went, except at rare intervals. And whenever Clara could spare
her, she returned for a while to the old lady; and yet, in spite of
this, Mabel's unreasoning jealousy invented all sorts of imaginary
circumstances connecting together the objects of her love and hate—both
love and bate bordering upon madness in their intensity.

"You're getting to care less and less for me," sobbed Mabel one
evening, when she had gone down to say good-night to Nicholas, and
found him alone in the library. "And I know why it is. I'd like to kill
that girl, I would!"

"What girl?" questioned the young man coldly.

"That detestable little minx upstairs," replied Mabel, with vindictive
emphasis.

"If you mean Margery Grayling, I never see her nowadays," said Nicholas
lazily. "More's the pity, for it's refreshing now and again to meet a
modest lass who doesn't throw herself at a man's head, but gives him
'what-for' when he tries it on with her. I shall never forget," he went
on, with more enthusiasm than one might have expected from him, "how
fine she looked that day in her workroom, when she told me to get out,
and I wouldn't. I tell you, Mab, I couldn't help thinking that a girl
with that proper pride and dignity about her would be worth winning,
however hard to be won she might be. A man values what he has to work
for."

Nicholas Beach was smoking while he talked, puffing curling wreaths
between the sentences, and dreamily watching them as they dispersed.
Had he been looking at Mab's handsome face, he would have seen the very
spirit of hate and menace flashing out from the depths of her glorious
eyes and setting in hard lines the curves of that beautiful red mouth.
But she made no reply; nor did she offer to kiss him as she said
good-night, but merely gave him a nod as cool as his own, ere she went
upstairs.

Margery slept in a little room leading out of Clara's, so her own
bedchamber—used also as a workroom—was now left unoccupied, and there
was no one on the same storey with Mabel, except the occupants of the
distant east wing.

For a while that night, Mabel sat on the side of her bed thinking. At
first her feelings were too chaotic and stormy for her thoughts to
shape any definite plan.

"If I could kill that girl, I would!" she said to herself; but she knew
that, strong and murderous though her hate might be, to wreak it thus
would only be to separate herself from Nicholas for ever. "I can't kill
her, so she must go," she said. "She must go away from this place, and
with such a stain on her character that Nick will never think of her
again, unless with disgust. But how am I to get her off?—That's the
point! They're all so insanely fond of her. There must be very clear
proof that she is unprincipled, or Aunt and Clara will never part with
her."

At last, with a start, her resolution was taken. She went to her
dressing-table, and, opening her jewel-case, took out a handsome
diamond ring. This she wrapped up in a bit of tissue paper, and taking
the little parcel in her hand, she walked across the corridor to
Margie's room, which was empty now, and the door standing open.

Mabel stole in. There was light enough, from a lamp outside, to see
things pretty clearly. Close by the window, opposite to the door, was
Margie's table with her work-box, her little writing-desk, and a pile
of sewing and mending neatly folded up, beside it. Mabel stole across
the floor, looking about her in a furtive, stealthy way, till she
spied the desk on the table. She opened this, slipped the tiny parcel
into a corner, under a packet of envelopes, where it was quite hidden,
and softly shut the lid of the desk. Then, all of a sudden, the demon
of jealousy seized her again, and she began wondering whether there
had not, perhaps, been some secret correspondence between Margie and
Nicholas.

In the little letter-stand near was a bundle of letters tied up with
ribbon. She was about to put this into her pocket to take away and
examine, when she fancied she heard a slight sound, which might have
been the closing of some door, and, fearful of being discovered, Mabel
replaced the letters, stole out, and, after a long look up and down the
corridor, she returned to her own room, closed and locked her door, and
proceeded to undress, well satisfied that at all events her principal
object was attained.

But the best laid plans are often defeated by what we are accustomed
to call an accident, forgetting that in the universe of the Almighty's
plans, accidents and things of chance have no place. That night Clara
turned faint, as she sometimes did after a day of unusual pain, and
Margie, finding the eau de Cologne bottle empty, remembered that
there was one half full on her own dressing-table. Knowing that Mabel
occupied the only other chamber opening on the corridor, and fearing
to disturb her in her slumber, Margie trod the passage very softly
on tiptoe, and was just about to enter her own room, when she saw,
outlined against the light from the window, the tall form of Mabel
Raye, with one hand holding up the lid of the desk, while with the
other she slipped the packet into it.

Margie had seen enough, and she must now get away quickly, lest the
plotter should spy her; but she resolved to return presently and see
what new wickedness Mabel had been planning against her, for well the
girl knew what a malignant enemy she had in Mabel Raye. She watched in
the dark corner at the east wing end of the passage till Mabel had been
a minute or two in her chamber; then she fetched the eau de Cologne,
and when Clara was better, and had fallen asleep, she lighted a candle,
and went softly back to her own room, and straight up to the table. She
opened the desk, and after a little search—with the faint hope that she
should find nothing, and that perhaps Mabel had only been wanting a
sheet of paper or a pen—she suddenly came upon the little parcel, and,
opening it, discovered the ring.

The whole diabolical wickedness of the plot came upon and appalled
her. What could she do? She must not tell Clara; the invalid would not
sleep a wink after such a story as this. And yet some one must know,
and know before morning, or she would find herself involved in the web
that had been spun for her, and be deprived of all defence. At last she
remembered that Mrs. Beach never went to sleep till very late at night,
and that it was her habit to read in bed by the light of a specially
contrived lamp. Margie's resolve was taken. She first returned to
Clara, and found that she was peacefully sleeping under the influence
of a soothing draught which had been administered. The patient was not
likely to wake, and might safely be left for a few minutes.

Down went Margie with the ring in her hand, and softly knocked at Mrs.
Beach's door.

"Come in," called the old lady, and in walked Margie, and came near to
the bed, having first carefully closed the door behind her.

"I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, ma'am," said the girl, "but
I have just found out something accidentally which might, had I not
discovered it, have ruined my character and driven me away from here in
disgrace."

"My dear girl," said the old lady, "you surprise me! What has happened?
Tell me exactly, and keep back nothing."

"You know, ma'am, that Miss Mabel has always from the first disliked
me; every one in the house has seen this, and of late, the dislike has,
I fear, grown to hatred."

Then Margie related how she had seen Mabel putting something into her
desk, and had afterwards found the ring.

"But what is to be done?" said the good old lady, much distressed. "I
can hardly believe, Margery, that my niece could do such a thing as
make a false accusation against you."

"Well, ma'am, I wish and pray that you may be right," replied the girl.
"But, to prove it, may I propose something?"

"Certainly, Margery. You have been a dear, good girl ever since you
came to me, and you shall not have your character taken away in my
house, if I can help it."

The grateful tears rushed into Margie's eyes, and she kissed the kind
old hand that was outstretched to her.

"If, ma'am, you will be so good as to lock up this ring in your own
jewel-case, and not say one word to any one, I shall be much obliged,"
said Margie, as soon as she could command her voice; "then it will soon
be seen what Miss Mabel intended. If she says, to-morrow or the next
day, that she has lost her ring, and accuses me of stealing it, and
insists upon a search being made, and in the search includes my little
writing-desk, that will be unmistakable proof, will it not?"

"Alas, yes, Margery, it will!" sighed the old lady. "God grant it may
not come to that!"

Then Margie gave Mrs. Beach her jewel-case and her keys, and the ring
was put away safely; after which the girl thanked her mistress, said
good-night, and went back to Clara's room.



CHAPTER V.

THE ACCUSATION.

THERE was a strange light of malignant triumph in Mabel's dark eyes the
next morning, and Nicholas, looking at her as she sat opposite him at
breakfast, noticed the expression of her face, though he would not pay
her the compliment of mentioning that he saw anything unusual.

"What do you think, Nick?" said she presently. "I've lost my best
diamond ring."

"You must have been awfully careless," he replied unsympathetically.

"Nothing of the kind," said Mabel shortly. "I only left it out on
my toilet-table while I washed my hands before dressing for dinner
yesterday, and, forgetting to put it on again, thought no more about it
till this morning; but I've been hunting for it high and low since I
got up, and it's not be found."

"What can have become of it?" said Nicholas, helping himself to
marmalade. "It can't have really gone, you know; the servants are all
honest."

"The old ones are, I daresay," rejoined Mabel; "but, to tell you the
truth, Nick, I have something more than a suspicion of how my ring has
gone, and of who has taken it, too."

"Dear me! Really?" said Nicholas indifferently. "Give me some more
coffee, Mab, will you?"

"You don't care a little bit for my annoyance and vexation, Nick," said
Mabel. "If you truly loved me, you—"

Nicholas made a gesture of angry impatience, which nipped her tirade in
the bud, and she stopped short.

"I have had all that so often before, Mab," said he wearily, "that I
confess I am sick of it. I'm sorry you have lost your ring—that is, if
it is lost, which I doubt. But one ring more or less won't matter to
you;" and he glanced somewhat contemptuously at the white hands, which
were too heavily jewelled for those of a young girl.

For the rest of the meal, Mabel was silent,—"in the sulks," Nicholas
called it; and he was not sorry, for her conversation provoked him
nearly always nowadays, and any mood was better than a talkative one.

"Such a misfortune, auntie!" said Mabel, when she went to Mrs. Beach's
room after breakfast.

The old lady was not yet up, and her eyes were very heavy as though she
had slept but little.

"Indeed, Mabel?" replied Mrs. Beach; but an expression came into her
kind old face which the girl must have noticed had she not been so busy
thinking of that plausible lie and the false witness it was to bear.

"Yes, auntie. I have lost that beautiful ring of brilliants that was
mother's. You remember it, don't you? It was on my dressing-table—of
that I am confident—before I went down to dinner."

"Was it there when you went to your room for the night?" questioned
Mrs. Beach, with a trembling voice.

"I never thought of it again," answered Mabel, with the glibness born
of the previous narration of the story to Nicholas; "but if it had been
where I left it, of course I should have seen it."

"Well, and have you looked for it this morning?" asked the old lady.

"Yes; I have hunted all over my room, in every hole and corner, but
unsuccessfully. I am afraid, auntie dear, there can be little doubt
that we have a thief in the house."

"Surely not, Mabel. That is a dreadful thing to say. I would rather
believe anything than that."

"I do not for a moment suspect the old servants; they have been here so
long, and their honesty is beyond all question."

"Whom, then, do you suspect of so wicked an action?"

"That girl you're so fond of; that Margery Grayling, whom everybody has
set up and worshipped ever since she came. I always said she was no
better than she should be, and here is the proof of it."

"Mabel," said the old lady, "this is a very serious charge you are
making."

"Of course it is; but I am sure she is the thief. She has access to
all the rooms, and is upstairs so much more now, that she might do
anything."

"Mabel," said Mrs. Beach, "whatever you may think, I cannot suspect
that girl. I have found her so scrupulously straightforward and
truthful, so high-principled and pure-minded, that unless I had
overwhelming proof of her guilt, I should not believe it."

"You shall have—" There Mabel paused, confused.

The old lady was eyeing her steadily, and somehow she did not feel
quite comfortable. "What if you do find proof?" she said, somewhat
constrainedly.

"Then I will reconsider my opinion of Margery."

"Well, I propose a search in her room, and if we find the ring there,
will you promise to dismiss her? That is all I shall ask."

"You will not wish to prosecute, then?" said Mrs. Beach.

"No; that sort of publicity is so uncomfortable for other people,"
replied Mabel.

"Very well; do as you choose, Mabel," said her aunt.

But the girl wondered at the stern voice and changed manner.

Mrs. Beach rang the bell, and when it was answered by the housemaid,
she said, "Send Margery Grayling to me, if Miss Raye can spare her for
a few minutes."

Mabel was just going to leave the room, but her aunt said, "Don't go,
Mabel. You have been laying this sin to the girl's charge; now you must
accuse her to her face. It is only fair to Margery."

"You have more consideration for that shameless creature than for your
own niece," said Mabel angrily.

But Mrs. Beach made no answer to this, and after a few minutes'
silence, Margie entered.

"Good morning, Margery," said her mistress kindly. "Miss Mabel tells me
she misses a diamond ring, and as the rest of the household have been
with us so long as to be quite above suspicion, her fear is that you
may perhaps have been tempted into taking it."

"I have not taken the ring," replied Margie quietly. "I am incapable of
doing such a thing."

"So you say," put in Mabel spitefully; "but people who can steal, can
generally lie too."

The hot, indignant blood surged into poor Margie's face, and she looked
appealingly at her mistress.

"Mabel," said the old lady sternly, "I cannot have you speak thus
to any one in my house. And until you have proved, to my entire
satisfaction, that Margery is guilty of this crime, you will please be
good enough to treat her as the innocent girl I believe her to be."

"She has befooled every one in this house except myself," cried Mabel;
"but I am not so easily deceived. I demand that her room shall be
searched, every possible hole and corner looked into, and I will abide
by the result."

"Then if your ring be not found, do you take back your accusation?"

"I do," replied Mabel.

"And supposing some one else, and not Margery, has purloined the jewel?"

"I ask that you should dismiss, without a character, any one who is
proved guilty."

"Be it so," rejoined Mrs. Beach solemnly. "I myself will superintend
the search, so that it may be done with fairness."

"But meanwhile Margery must not be allowed to return to her room," said
Mabel excitedly.

"Margery has no wish to return to her room until we have quite done
with it," replied Mrs. Beach. "But if you are afraid, Mabel, go with
Margery now, lock her door, and bring me the key."



CHAPTER VI.

THE PLOT FAILS.

WITHOUT a word, Mabel left the room, followed by Margie, and in a
minute more, Mrs. Beach was in possession of the key.

"Now go away and send my maid to help me to dress," said the old lady,
"and in an hour's time, we will go together and make a thorough search
of Margery's room."

With a triumphant glance at Margie, Mabel went downstairs, and found
Nicholas in the smoking-room.

"Well, Nick," she said, "that young and lovely attendant of your
mother's will be sent packing to-day, I fully expect."

"I hope not," returned Nicholas stoutly. "Mother and Clara would be
lost without her."

"They'd get over it fast enough," said Mabel scornfully. "And do you
know, Nick, she is getting round Clara so fast, now nurse is not here,
that I should not be surprised, if she left her money to Margery
Grayling instead of to me, and then goodness knows if we should ever be
married."

"We never shall, anyway," said the young man bluntly.

"Why, Nick," cried Mabel, dumbfounded, "you can't mean that!"

"I do mean it, Mab. I wouldn't marry you now, not if you'd a million
sterling. I have been some time coming to this, but now my mind is
quite made up. Now, no tears and reproaches, please. Nothing will
change me."

What Mabel might have said in reply was prevented, much to the relief
of the young man, by the entrance of a servant to say that Mrs. Beach
was ready for Miss Mabel, and with a heart torn between wounded love
and triumphant hate, the girl went up to join in, or rather to lead,
the search. That this would be thorough and exhaustive Mrs. Beach would
have taken care, even had Mabel been less eager; but the work-box and
writing-desk were left to the last, Mabel fearing to call attention to
the latter herself.

"Now," said the old lady at last, "we have just about completed our
search, I think. No thief would dream of putting a jewel of value
into such an absurd place as an unlocked work-box or writing-desk, so
suppose we leave this room now and go to the others?"

"Nonsense!" cried Mabel. "That desk is the very place for it. Let me
look!" And with an eager assurance which she was not self-controlled
enough to hide, she opened the desk, took out the packet of envelopes
under which she had hidden the ring, and in her chagrin and amazement,
committed herself in the involuntary sentence: "Good heavens! Why, the
thing's gone!"

Then, suddenly realising what, in her excitement and disappointment,
she had said, she looked up, met the accusing eyes of her good old aunt
and the clear full gaze of Margie's grey eyes, and dropped her own.

"If you want to find your ring, Mabel, you must look for it, not in
Margery's room, but in my jewel-case, where it now lies. You were seen
last night hiding it in that desk, where you alone had any motive in
looking for it to-day. God forgive you for your evil thought and deed
against this poor innocent girl!"

Mabel said not a word. With her proud head drooping, she went to her
own room, and stayed there all day. The maid who took up her meals
said she appeared to be packing her things. And so it proved. The next
day she went out early, without saying good-bye to any one, but when
she was gone, the maids reported to Mrs. Beach that several boxes were
there all ready packed and locked, and they brought a note addressed to
her aunt in Mabel's writing.

It ran thus:

   "DEAR AUNT,—When you got this, I shall have gone, never to return.
Nick has given me up, and so, after all, I have sinned in vain. I thought
he was in love with Margery, and I was determined to get her dismissed.
But all is of no use. The fates are against me. Charles and Marion
Digby have promised to include me in a theatrical touring company, and
as you know I can act, sing, and dance, I may get on in time. Anyway, I
shall never trouble you or yours again.

                            "MABEL RAYE."

Margie would perhaps have fretted more over the unhappy events just
recorded had not her attention been distracted by two important pieces
of news that reached her the same day.

One letter was from Mattie, who wrote in great grief, saying that
things had suddenly come to a climax respecting Fay and Howard Logan.
The girl had gone on amusing herself by encouraging him, until her
own affections had become involved, and as the young man was really
attached to her, Fay decided to give up Harry Mayne, whom she declared
she had never loved as much as he loved her. Sir Peter Brooks on his
side, and Mrs. Grayling on hers, did all they could to break off the
intimacy between the young people; but the matter was decided by Fay
and Howard running away together and being married at a registrar's
office, much to the consternation of the families on both sides.

The second communication was from Harry himself. He wrote in very low
spirits, saying that his letters to Fay had of late not been answered,
or that when now and again she sent him a line, it was cold and
constrained and wholly unlike the earlier correspondence. From a mutual
acquaintance, too, he had heard that she had become very intimate with
a nephew of Sir Peter, and that it was thought an engagement between
the two young people, if not already actually existing, was imminent.

The letter wound up thus:—

   "I write to you, dear Margie, because I know that from you I shall
always get the truth and nothing else. Also I have had the feeling that
you cared for me more than the rest of the girls did, and that you will
feel for and with me in this great sorrow. Write to me, dear sister
that was to be, tell me all there is to tell; but if Fay has made her
own deliberate choice between Logan and me, and loves him best, I have
nothing to say. Let the child be happy in her own way, and God bless
them both, say I.

   "And as for you, dear, whose continued and steadfast affection I am
somehow strangely counting on, as the one sweet thing left in my lonely
life, do not grieve unduly for my sake. I have learned to see God's
wisdom in all things, and to accept them as a child accepts all from
his father's hand, whether good gifts or needful chastisement. Think of
me and pray for me, my dear, that this sorrow may be sanctified to me,
and make me better fitted for any work that the Master has yet for me
to do.—Your loving brother that was to be, HARRY."

This letter, full of grief and yet of loving confidence, went straight
to Margie's heart. Somehow as she read, over and over again, Harry's
words of affection, and felt that he was counting on her love in
return—sisterly, perhaps, but still love—some sudden awakening thrilled
her with joy, and made known to her a truth at which she had not even
so much as guessed before. She knew now that she—Margery Grayling—loved
Harry Mayne as a woman loves but once in her life; she felt now, in
looking back, that she had always loved him; and though, when he had
shown a preference for Fay, she had resolutely determined not to think
about her sister's betrothed, the love had lain dormant, not dead,
ready to start up into new life at any time.

In spite of all that had happened to sadden her during the last day or
two, her face was radiant when she went back to Clara after receiving
and reading her letter.

"I suppose I am very silly, Miss Clara," she said, "but I have a letter
from Harry this morning, and—"

"Harry Mayne, who, you told me, is engaged to your sister Fay?"

"Was engaged to her," corrected Margie. "She has just married some one
else, and, of course, he is very sad; but—"

"But he turns to you for help and comfort, Margery?"

"Yes; but how did you know, Miss Clara?"

"I did not know, I only guessed; and as I long ago guessed that you
cared a great deal for this same Harry, nothing now would surprise me."

"I feel as though I were getting beyond surprises too," replied Margie;
"for, from the greatest distress, I seem to have jumped into happiness,
though quite how and why, I don't think I can explain even to myself."

Clara only smiled, however, for what Margie could not explain was plain
enough to her.



CHAPTER VII.

PENITENCE AND PEACE.

SOON after Mabel Raye went away, Nicholas Beach set out on a
Continental tour, and now, rid of the only discordant elements, the
house was so quiet, so peacefully, harmoniously happy, that Margie felt
almost as though she could have stayed there always—but for Harry's
ship coming home some day.

Nurse came back a week after the departure of Nicholas, so Margie
returned to her former duties and waited again on Mrs. Beach, more
contented and at rest than she had been for long enough.

And so, quietly and restfully, after all the anxieties, time passed
swiftly on, until Margie had been in Mrs. Beach's employment just
a year. During the last month or two, Howard and Fay Logan, both
supremely happy apparently, had called to see Margie, and Fay in her
pretty clothes, and with the half-shyness of the bride hardly gone,
looked so childlike and irresponsible that Margie could not find it in
her heart to blame her. Fay was too light, too shallow, to have loved
Harry as he deserved to be loved, and somehow Margie could easily
forgive her; but how or why so easily, she did not stop to ask herself.

Meanwhile nothing was heard of Mabel Raye, except that once Clara
found in a newspaper, a brief notice of a young actress in Mr. Charles
Digby's touring company, who called herself Miss Mirabelle Maye, and
who seemed to have become quite popular. The description of the new
actress's appearance left no doubt as to her identity in the minds of
those who knew every feature of her beautiful face, every line of that
haughty and queenly form.

Poor Mrs. Beach wept bitterly when she read the notice. The ingratitude
of this girl whom she had brought up from a baby was sharper pain than
the bite of a serpent's tooth, and it seemed hard indeed that her only
tidings of Mabel should have come thus casually through a newspaper.

Tenderly and regretfully, though with many tears, Mrs. Beach and Clara
thought of and prayed for the wilful girl, though hardly daring to hope
that their prodigal would come home to them at last.

It is a strange fact, even among habitually prayerful and devout
Christians, that they are generally much surprised when their prayers
are answered. So few of us have faith enough to believe that God can
and will grant us anything and everything that is good for us. And
although the aunt and half-sister prayed earnestly for their truant's
return, it could hardly be said that they expected it, and indeed they
often spoke of her as of one really lost to them.

But one day there came a telegram which seemed to break with startling
suddenness the long silence. It ran thus:—

   "Am in the greatest trouble. May I come home to you, auntie?—MABEL."

And the answer that went flashing back along the wires was this:—

   "Come, and welcome. Only love and sympathy await you from all.—AUNTIE."

But could this thin, white-faced woman, with dim, hollow eyes and a
careworn stoop in her shoulders, be indeed the splendid girl who, in
all the pride of her beauty, had gone from them only so short a time
before?

This was the question that Margie mutely asked herself when Mabel
stepped from the cab and with faltering feet once more crossed the
threshold of the home where she had spent most of her life. But greater
still was Margie's surprise when Mabel pushed open the morning-room
door, and staggering across the floor, threw herself down at her aunt's
feet in a passion of grief and repentance.

"Oh, auntie, auntie dear, can you ever, ever forgive me?" she cried,
sobbing. "God has sent me shame and sorrow, and now—oh, now at last
I know what your pain must have been—the pain you suffered through
me—through my wickedness, my ingratitude! And Margery too;" for, as
Mabel turned, she saw the girl standing near. "Oh, Margery, I did you
a grievous wrong, and God knows I have been sorely punished. I tried
to deceive, and I have been deceived. I treated you with cruelty and
insult, and cruelty and insult have come to me too, but not more than I
deserve."

And then followed a story of wrong done and pain suffered; a sad
story, which we will give only in outline. After about three months
of touring, Mabel had received an offer of marriage from an actor in
the same company. The man was handsome, gentlemanly, a star in his
profession, and seemed devoted to her; so she accepted his offer, and
they were married after a very brief engagement. They continued with
Mr. Digby until he returned to London, where he dismissed them with the
rest of the company; and Mabel and her husband, Victor Cunliffe, took
lodgings in one of the London suburbs, there to wait until they could
obtain another engagement.

But one night Victor did not come home, and in the course of the next
day or two, poor Mabel heard news of him that convinced her that she
had married a false and heartless man, and that he had deserted her,
leaving her penniless and alone in a strange place. And later on,
through a mutual acquaintance, came the tidings that Mabel had no right
to her married name, for Victor Cunliffe had a wife already in the
United States, and thither he had just returned.

The sudden shock, the heavy blow of shame and grief, brought on a
severe illness which kept her in hospital for weeks, and it was when
she emerged from the sick ward, a mere shadow of her former self, that
she sent, in her sorrow and despair, the pathetic telegram to her aunt,
though she hardly expected such generous forgiveness, such a hearty
welcome. But the pride and the haughtiness were all gone, gone with the
beauty and the passion and the longing for the love of Nicholas Beach.
Emptied of self, humbled in the dust at the remembrance of her sins,
there had come in answer to her cry, "O Lord, I am a great sinner," the
answer of that still, small voice of love, "Then for you Christ is a
great Saviour."

By sorrow her heart had been broken, and breaking, made room for the
Spirit to enter, whose coming means life eternal, for He alone can take
of the things of Christ and show them unto us.

And so Mabel Raye came home, and now her presence did not disturb the
peace of the household; indeed, it added greatly to the happiness, not
only of Mrs. Beach, but also of Clara and Margie, and they blessed God
for bringing back the wandering sheep to the fold again.

So passed another few months, and Margie—but for her great longing to
see Harry, a longing which grew stronger the more its fulfilment was
delayed—would have been utterly content. But the time was at hand when
her reward was to be given to her, greater, fuller, sweeter than she
had ever dreamed of receiving.

Margie was sitting and sewing in Mrs. Beach's room one winter evening
by the light of a shaded lamp, and her mistress, who was resting on the
sofa near the fire, was looking at the girl as she bent over her work.
What a grave, sweet face it was, the old lady was saying to herself,
and how happy, how fortunate, would the man be for whom that face
lighted up with love! For Mrs. Beach had come to care for this girl
almost like a daughter, and depended upon her for everything.

A knock at the door was answered by Margie, who opened it.

"A gentleman to see Miss Grayling," said the servant, with much
surprise in his face and voice, for gentlemen to see Miss Grayling were
not common.

"What name?" inquired Mrs. Beach; but Margie did not hear her. She
was out of the room and downstairs in one moment, her heart beating
wildly. And there, in the morning-room, stood a stalwart man in a rough
overcoat, and with hat in hand.

"Harry, dear Harry!"

He turned, and their eyes met. In Margie's, Harry saw the love-light,
the thing for which he was pining, to brighten his desolate life. But
in his, Margie discovered what she had not expected—such a great joy,
such gladness of tender affection, that it could only mean one thing.

"Margie, Margie, I have wanted you so!" he said, as he gathered her
into his embrace; and she, feeling as if all troubles must be over for
life, could only murmur, "Thank God, my ship has come home, and I am
rich—rich for ever."

How handsomely Mrs. Beach and Clara Raye behaved to Margie when they
heard she was engaged; how their generous kindness made a speedy
wedding possible; how lovely the bride looked in her simple white
satin, the gift of Clara; how Lettie and the two little girls were
bridesmaids; and how Sir Peter Brooks, as the husband-elect of Mattie
Grayling, claimed an elder brother's privilege of giving Margie away;
how Nicholas Beach sent a handsome clock as a wedding gift; and Nat
Grayling was the most delightful of best men—all this we will only
indicate.

Enough that Margie's ship has come home with joy and love, and that we
can trust, as she does, all future voyages in the never-erring hands of
the Master Pilot, knowing that all will—nay, must—be well for her both
in this world and beyond, in that other, where there is no more sea.



                            THE END.



Printed by MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, Edinburgh









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