LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1375, 12 July 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

PAUL CHANTREY'S DAUGHTER

Argosy. (Continued.)

'Granny,'said Margaret, 'you have fed the hungry, aud sheltered the homeless. You did not give a cup of cold water only, but the best you had, and sometimes all you had. Do you think God will not remember it, and be merciful ?'

'He merciful! That's it. Merciful to me a sinner ! Ay„ ay. He was so merciful that He sent FTis Son to die in onr stead. Can't vou say a little prayer, l?it* ? C'ur Father. Ihat was his prayer, you know?'

Margaret elapsed her hands, and repeated it in a h>w, faltering, reverential tone. After that she seemed to doze. Lina and Rita went over to the window and had a talk to themselves, interspersed with many tears.

'She has not suffered for anything,' explained Lina. ' Only since she got worse, when she feared she might die at any moment, This goi'ig away of mine twice a day has been dreadful. Once or twice I have got off the rehearsal, but I couldn't get off the other. It breaks my heart to leave her alone to-night.'

Lina broke down, nobbing convulsively. •And they would not ' 'No, it spoils the piece I am a good dancer, you know, and have to take a chief part. But, oh ! to think that while I am dancing she may be dying. Not hear her last word ; not to I iss the poor lips as the last breath flutters out of them !' ' Let me think," said Margaret.

She lioked steadily ovet the grey skv for many moments. Sometime 3 her face flushed, sometimes it was almost as pale as Granny's in yonder bed- It seemed to her one of the wrongest and saddest and cruellest things that Lina should have to leave her dying mother at the closing hour.

' Is there no one at the theatre who can take your place for one single night, Lina ?'

'No one. At least, they say there's not, so it comes to the same. It is but an old dance, either—one you must remember, Rita.'

' describe it to me,' said Margaret. 'Your part especially.' Lina, suspecting not the drift of the question, described her part minutely. After listening for a few minutes, the recollection of it came back to Margaret; she remembered it well.

' I could take it,' she said to herself.

Presently she went away, promising to return soon, but there was a strange look in her large, purple grey eyes, and a peculiar expression hoveriDg about her mouth. Calling a cab, she told the man to drive quickly, and was soon deposited at the elegant mansion that was the present abode of the Ashburtons, who had cared for her since the night of Paul Chantrey's death. They grudged her nothing, these Ashburtons : education, accomplishments, luxury; and onlv demanded that she should forget the old life utterly in return. They spoke of her father's genius and misfortunes ; but they never made the smallest mention of her mother. If by ill-luck Margaret spoke of her, she was met by a frown. Yet these three years had been very happy ones to Margaret Chantrey. They could not sigh over any lack of grace or refinement, or want of beauty; all that was returned to them. At times it really appeared as if Richard Ashburton took a warm and fender interest in her, but he never expressed it. There were times when poor M argaret felt like a waif stranded on some distant shore steeped in exquisite beauty; when one clinging, blossoming vine would have been more to her than all these stately halls It chanced on this day that Margaret was alone. Mrs Ashburton had gone to her sister's in the country, and Mi«s Marsh, the governess, had had a telegram in the morning to say her father was ill. Where Biohard was Margaret did not know. ' Do any of you know whether Mr Ashburton will be in soon ?' she asked of one of the maids, Wilson. None of them knew. Dinner was being prepared as usual; it was supposed he would be in then.

Taking something to eat, Margaret changed her a+tire for plainer things. Thtn she called Wilson.

' I am going to spend the rest of the day with a friend,' she said. • Perhaps, I shall stay all night.' ' Oh, Miss Margaret! and not even Miss Marsh hei eto ask! lam afraid Mrs Ash burton would not like it.'

Margaret had thought of this also. Perhap, her remaining out all night might offndM s Ashburton. But then—it might be so late.

'"W ell, I will come at all events then, Wilson.

' But where is it that you are going, Miss Margaret 1 The carriage had better fetch you. ' No, no. I shall come home all safe without the carriage. fJood-bye Wilson.' ' I am not quite sure that it is right,' thought Wilson. ' I wish I had asked her more. Yet the child would not do anything wrong.' She bought some jellies and luxuries, and made ber way back in a cab to the dilapi dated old house. Lina brightened at her coming, but Granny had changed strangely in these few hours. Now and then she muttered some wandering words, or smiled 'aintly in Lma's face. And so the night dropped down upon them. Lina looked grey, and wan, and pinched, not much like the lovely mermaiden she was to represent in the evening. ' Oh ! I can't go,' she said with a cry of despair and pain ' And they will keep my week's pay, and perhaps give my place to another I

' Lina!' Margaret took the tearful face in her hands. ' T ina, I have been resolving all the afternoon that you ahail not go.'

Lina questioned her with frightened eye*

You shall drJ3s me and let me go instead.'

vVhat?' eclaimed the wondering Lina.

' Yes. I can take it. I can do the necessary dancing. I remember tho part as though I had seen it yesterday. I can, and T will tak;e it. I shall enjoy it, too. It seems to me that the one passion of my life is dancing, You shall stay here and watch; I know all about it, and wi'd not h°. a'armed at anything. I have ordered a carriage +o come for me, and it will bring me back safely.' ' Oh, Margaret, I cannot allow yon to do this ; indeed I cannot. I will give it all up fist, theatre and all,' ' Yes, you can. lam almost wild for a taste of the old life, just a glimpse of the light and glamour, and the long beats of the inspiring music Why, it would be delicious —for this once only.' ' But your friends the Ashburtons V

Margaret was silent for a moment ' They may be angry, perhaps just at (irat; only that. Where's the harm, Lina ; Mrs Arliburton and all the people we know go to see this dnncin. v ': if it be right for them to look on, will it be wrong i'o3? me to. dance ?' ' My head allies,' said Lina wearily. When I begin to think of the right and wrong I get confused. Some of the grand ladi»s do things that we poor girls shrink from, and yet they fancy that we '

• Hush, dear. Let me bathe yonr poor throbbing temples. No one expects me home until late, so do not give it a thought. I am g"ing to dance for you tonight.' Margaret overruled thus all active scruples She had such a pretty, imperious way ; and to-night, in her glowing health and energy, she was stronger to conquer than p or grief-worn 1 iaa. She curled her golden hair in waw ringlets, un'.il it looked like a shimmering sea. Her eyes were luminous lakec, and her check blossomed like the hea t of a rose. Some strange enchantment inspi ed her She was going to have one taste of the old life

Then she dressed herself suitably inLina's things : they were both so much >.f a size as to give no difficulty on that score : and put

her own plain dress over all. The carriage ordered drew up in the street below. Margaret bent to kiss poor Granny's cold, wrinkled face and passive lips. ' Don't leave me, Lina,' th* faint voice murmured : and it made Margaret strong. •Good-bye Lina,' she said, with a kiss ' I will do everything just as you have directed.'

She was late at the theatre. They we - e scolding about L'na, and she hurried i T *to the dressing-room. The attendant there was a stranger. It was curious that it should, have happened so : but the regular woman was ill, and for to-night a substitute was provided She did.not know but it j"as the regular dancer, Lina du Puy, whom she harl to dress. The other girls were ready and had quitted the room, and the woman was a trifle cross at the tardiness of the (amongst them) chief dancer. So, amid much hurry, Margaret slipped into her cloudy, airy, diaphanous garments, and ran across to the stage, questioning her own identity. The audience waited: Margaret was in deed late. This creature, Lurline, rising from the sea foam with the cloud of golden lights about her, was more beautiful than before. The surging tide of music throbbed on the air, and it touched some wandering chord in Margaret's nature. Every pulse started into p ssionate life. The light feet were at home in thoae graceful poises and whirls, and in that slow, floating, undulating movem nt, in which the very soul seemed to grow languid with overwhelming grace.

Up and down. Circles widening, narrowing ; drooping arms, and shoulders, and eyes; soft lights in rose and violet, gold and purple ; a glamour of beauty, a perpetual dazzle, until at last the Naid disappeared in her sea green foam. Then came a prolonged burst of applause. Lina had never danced like this ; had never looked the character as Margaret had looked it. An eager childish delight seemed to thrill her every nerve.

' You are perfectly marvellous to-night ?' declared Mademoiselle Arline, who rarely condescended to speak to the ordinary dancers ' You Why are you a witch chi'd ? It is not Lina du Puy!' ' No, it is not Lina. Her grandmother is dyimr, and I came to take her place.' * Who are you ?' ' Call me Lina. For lam Lina to-night.'

Something in the young girl checked further inquiries. And mademoiselle was in no wise offended, since the dancing had been so vast a success, and it was her own benefit. At Easter she was going abroad to fulfil other engagements. The piece went on. Now the audience saw a whirling, radiating circle, a haunting crowd of lovely forms and faces ; then only this one peerless girl, holding them breathless. It seemed to Margaret that she could stay on these enchanted boards for ever.

At last the concluding act came. There was some wondeful dancing, some bewildering fairy scenery ; and Margaret, on a cloud, with her own cloud of filmy golden hair about her, might have been the Peri indeed.

She hardly listened to the thanks and and compliments, but hurried off her stage trappings, and hurried on her mortal garments with a sen«ation akin to intoxication. The hired carriage awaited her, a - d she sprang in, leaving hosts of questions unanswered

Arrived at Madame du Puy's, she hastened up the stairs, hardly daring to enter. Lina met her on the threshold.

'I am safe, you see. It was—royal ! Why should In't tell the truth ? lam not tired, but full of excitement, and throbbing with a lingering sense of music It was triumph. And your poor mother, Lina V Lina shook her head. Margaret gathered the truth from the room's strange stillness.

'Yes, she is gone,' sobbed Lina. 'She rallied pgain afte" you le f t, and talked, oh ? so sweeny. Margaret, is there a heaven for us poor folks who do the best we can in our hard, thorny path ? IV she was so good in her simple, homely way And I can never, never thank you. Not for worlds would I have missed this eveir'ng with her ' Margaret was weeping too. Chang : ng her things again, she kissed. Lina in silence, and ran downstairs, the great sobs in her throat almost choking h«*r. <'h! how stra- ge life was. Sorrow, and death, and gaiety, and carelessness, jostled each other on every side. If she could dare to tell all thia to Richard Ashburton, surely he would give her pardon. The carriage deposited her at home. She shivered a little in the hall. Reaction had set io.; all her excitement was go ie; how weak and tired she was no one but herself cjuld know.

Kichard Ashbnrton opened the drawingroom door. Pale and stern, his lips compressed to a scarlet line, his eyes steady with a relentless light, he stood. ' Oh !' she exclaimed with a crimson flush, which quickly faded to a'thes. She would have glided by him, but he barred h«?r with his arm, and led tier into the dimly lighted room. (To hfi continued )