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.