LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1374, 11 July 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

PAUL CHANTREY’ti DAUGHTER. (Argosy.) Fiik paused a moment and gazed furtively around—this Margaret Ohautiey, beautiful enough for any king’s daughter, with the peculiar something that most people admit to be the prerogative of birth and breeding ; an indefinable air and grace, a certain sumptuousness, if the word is not too important to apply to seventeen, blossoming in the tender sunrise of youth. She, with her elegance, and refinement, and rich attire ; her dainty feet, that seemed too airy for the common stone flagging ; the maid behind her. What could this bright and fortunate and brilliant girl have to do with that poor young woman on the other side of the street ? Margaret saw her ; saw the pale, worn face, the eyes that bore traces of weeping, the shabby attire. Should she pass her by ? ' No,’she said to herself, with passionate eagerness, choking down a lump in her throat— ‘ Lina was always so good to me. It would be shameful ingratitude.’ Then, bidding the maid stay where she was, she flashed across the street, caught the cold fingers from under the coarse abavvl. her own warm and rosy from their nest of ermine ; and in a strong, sweet voice, cried, * Lina! Lina !’ ‘ Oh !’—with a start of surprise, and a look of consternation out of the heavy blue eyes—‘Oh! it is not you, Margaret!’ ‘ Yes it is Margaret. Lina, I have not forgotten those old days when you and your mother were so good to us. I must forget papa before I can forget that.’ ‘ But you are—so different now,’ said Lina du Puy, drawing back in sudden delicacy.

There was certainly a great dissimilarity between them. Margaret Ghantrey, in her silk, and velvet, and ermine, and the long white plume trailing from the the hat that crowned her curia of gold ; everything was in short, moat rare and elegant. The other in her brown dress and plaid shawl, and shabby black velvet bonnet, with some faded leaves and flowers. As to the two faces : they might have been a study for a painter wanting contrasts. Possibly Margaret Ghantrey had as good blood in heir veins as the proudest dame can have Her father was that brilliant unsuccessful artist, Paul Ghantrey, who in rare moments of boasting, would say that he traced his descent backwards through generations. He was just a Bohemian, as are many other artists : perhaps their want of success makes them so. He did not paint many works. Those few were rare and beautiful: yet the pubi c did not appreciate them until the daisies had blos°omed above the grave in which lay the poor, worn man. Then fine judges said —“ Here was, indeed, a genius! If he had been more persevering, or ambitious, o? industrious—anything but idle, and poor and proud.’ But Paul Chantrey was not idle; he painted and sold when he could find buyers. But he never asked a favour of any man. He was too gentle, and sensitive, and delicate to push his way through the turbulent crowd rushing up the hill of success : and then came his lingering illness, and his death. His wife was a noble and impoverished Italian lady. She went upon the stage for support, having no means and no friends to help her. Mr Ghantrey 1 'at caste when he married her ; though she was lovely as a poet’s dream, and inherited the grace and culture of generations of refinement. Her tenderness to him failed to ennoble her in the ?yes of strict, pure souls, who never knew cold or starvation, or hunger, or that worst of all agony —the lingering death of loved ones, when a tithe of gold lavished by us upon a single luxury would have saved them. Being notlvng but a stage singer, of course she was quite beneath the notice of well-bred people. She was brought homo one night to Paul, himself then, and long, an invalid, with a face of ghastly whiteness, and a small scarlet stream issuing from the palUd lips Hiring her exertions that evening, dancing for the sick husband that was at home, and the poor little child, she had broken a blood vessel. Paul sold the picture in which he had interwoven the love and ambition of his whole life for a mere pittance wherewith to. give her decent burial. Some kind, humble friends came to care of Paul then —Mrs Chantrey’s French friend, Madame du Puy, and her daughter Lina, Bohemians also, for Liaa was a dancer on the same stage, P’rora that time Paul * 'hantrey never did a stroke of work. He was not able to d > it. But ho must live. Good Madame du Puy,

who had nothing but her daughter’s earnings could not keep him much. It: was decided that little Margaret should go upon the stage and dance too; and for twelve months she supported her father. Madame du Pay nursed him, for it was a long lingering illness and death, and Margaret earned the pittance that kept them. The girl went to and fro with Lina, who was some year the elder. On the very night that was Paul Chantrey’s last, one whom he had known well, but had not seen for years, chanced to find him out—Richard Ashburton. He had gone very late to College, and then made nearly the tour of the world; while unsuccessful Paul was starving and dying. ‘ You’ll save my child, my darling, Dick?’ he said, in the tremulous death weakness. ‘ I know I shall find her mother an angel in heaven, and Margaret has been an angel here. ’ So Richard Ashburton carried the poor girl to his mother, who had once loved Paul Chantrey like a son. Yet it must be confeaseed that she shrank somewhat from this little dancing girl, whose mother had been a stage singer. Tf Paul had but married wisely I’ lamented Mrs Ashburton. However, they carried the girl away to their country house, and educated her, and brought her up to wealth and refinement. That was three years ago. Margaret was seventeen now, but older than her years, the result of her early Bohemian life. Just now they had come to town for a month or two’s sojourn, and Margaret, chancing to be out alone, met Lina. Margaret came out of her momentary trance. She was wondering whether anything besides wealth made the difference between herself and dear, noble Lina, whom she had loved with a child’s fervour, ‘ But I’m glad to see you—so glad,’’ with a long, quivering breath ‘ And you are in trouble—you have been crying! How is— Granny ?’ ‘ That is my trouble, Margaret,” answered Lina, and the tears flowed afresh. ‘ I’ve been to beg off, but couldn’t To-night is Mademoiselle Arlino’s benefit, and they will not give me up. Oh. Margaret, thank God every day of your life you are not a dancer. We must dance, even if it be] on the graves of our kindred. There was a passionate anguish in the girl’s tone. A sob that shook her slight frame, * Then Granny is ’ Margaret could not finish her sentence, but looked at her friend with an awe-stricken face She had always called good old Madame dn Puy Granny. * Granny—my poor mother —is dying,’ said Lina. * I have been, as I tell you, to get excused to night, and cannot. It seems that I would give half my own life to stay with her tid she dies ’ *Do you mean —dying now ? To-day.’ ‘ The doctor thinks she will last till evening * ‘ Oh, Lina, Lina, take me with you. I must see her once again.’ The yong girl clung to her friend. She was not afraid of her silks, her velvet, and ermine being contaminated. For somehow the old life was strong upon her, and these three years of luxury were the dream. 1 But Margaret-r-Miss Margaret I ought to say what will they think at home ?’ * Nothing; they won’t be angry. Mrs Ashburton may wait for me for one moment Running across the street to the maid who wait d, Miss Chantrey told her to go home, that she was going to see a sick friend, and went back again to Lina. They hurried along. It was noon—a bleak dreary March day. Upstairs in a forlorn-looking place, just ready to fall iuto decay, here, in the garret room, lay Madame du Puy ‘ She liked it better because there was no one to make a noise over her head,’ apologised Lina. The house had been built by some aristocratic man who had a Dutch taste Even this upper garret was large. It had two great dormer windows, one of which was filled with vines aud flowers —a perfect greenery. The place was scrupulously neat, though the furniture was old and worn. A bright fire burning in the stove, an atmosphere of warmth and faint perfume, and an air of quaintness unusual. Margaret paused in astonishment. In the bed under the snow-white cover, lay a wasted, shrunken figure. But Margaret knew it at once, and was kneeling beside the couch a moment later, her great eyes full of tender pity, her own fair face flushed and tearful, and her plump, warm hands clasping those shadows that had nearly lost their hold on life. ‘You don’t know me, Granny, but I’m little Pita Chantrey. You used to call me Rita, you know. I have never forgotten you, nor how you held poor mamma in your arms all that long n'ght, and how you brought some white roses to put in her coffin ’ Granny looked wistfully out of her sunken eyes. ‘ You’re a grand lady now, we hear,’ breathed the dying woman. ‘ Not so grand that I’ve forgotten you, or ceased to care for Lina.’ A sweet, steadfast smile shone on the face. ‘ Poor Lina 1 She has so few friends now. None, I think.’ How the feeble voice quavered through the words. Rita’s heart was full of teuderest sympathy. ‘Child!’ touching Lina, ‘ you, are going to stay with me this one evening? You may stay ?’ The slowly-moving eyes questioned so hungri : y that the pile girl wavered for a moment. How could she bear to tell her mother the truth. ‘ I am so glad, so thank r ul.’ murmured Madame du Buy. ’No, I knew they would not grudge just the last evening to your dying mother. Rita, lam going-to —the far country. Will there be any place for a poor old woman like me ?’ * There will,’ said Margaret, clearly and earnestly. * I sometimes think—but I never could understand all their doctrines. A parson comes in to pray sometimes, and the prayers are sweet. But looking back on my life, I can see that I have done many wrong things.’ (To ho continued.)