CLARINDA’S DECEPTION

New Zealand Tablet, 22 April 1915, Page 7

CLARINDA’S DECEPTION

‘lf I were only rich and had money to spend just as I pleased,’ cried Clarinda Uttley, ‘ and becoming hats and dresses for every possible occasion, I’d be as happy as a queen, and wouldn’t care a. pin for‘friend or relation.’ And tossing her head, she danced gaily round the room on the tips of her toes. ' ‘ You deceive yourself. You havq more heart than that,’ said a young man who j a cigarette between his lips, stood near the open window watching the girl with amusement and admiration. Oh ! you think so?’ gaily. ‘But it’s you 'who deceive yourself. You fancy all kinds of absurd things about me.. And just because I’m a little bit prettier than the other girls you know ’ A little bit! There isn’t .one in the place fit to hold a candle to you.’ She blushed brightly. ' ‘ It’s kind of you to say so. But they are all far bettor, I feel ‘sure. And really, you know, Ernest, I am not at all inclined to be a poor man’s wife.’ ‘l’ll get on!’ be cried eagerly, ‘and some day we’ll take a pretty cottage, and when we’re married you’ll bo so happy ’ I’m afraid not!’ Clarinda grew grave. ‘I want more than that. I must get out of this village, see the world, and gel. rich.’ ‘But how?. Oh ! 'Clarinda, you’re not going to marry old Poselthwaite ? He’s rolling in money, and would go to the end of the. earth if you asked him. But ’ Clarinda laughed merrily. ‘ The “but’’ is very big. No, Ernest, I’ll never marry Poselthwaite. Don’t be alarmed. Poverty may be trying, but Poselthwaite would be—maddening. I must think of a better place than that—only get away 1 will. My life here is stagnation—pure’—with a. wave of her arms— 1 and simple stagnation. I’m an ambitious soul, and must see the world.’ Ernest Langtou sighed. He loved Clarinda with all the strength of his honest heart and longed for nothing so ardently as to make her his wife. But he was poor, a struggling country solicitor, with little to offer her, and as he watched her glide gracefully round her stepmother’s parlor, and listened to her remarks, he knew it was useless*to press his suit. ‘ If she loved me, I might have a chance, for she’s not ’ Clarinda threw open the piano, and dashing her fingers over the keys, burst into a lively song. Leaving the window, Ernest approached and stood hanging over the piano, entranced. A loud brilliant chord brought the song to a close, and the girl started to her feet as though seized with a sudden inspiration. ‘You are in* wonderful spirits, Clarinda, and in splendid voice.’ ‘Yes. Isn’t it wonderful? Oh! Ernest,’ growing suddenly grave, ‘if 1 could but help them all ’ —tears gathered in her eyes ‘ my poor stepmother and hexthree little golden-headed darlings. Sometimes I fancy that if I got away, my voice might be a meansbut, oh ! I’ve got an idea. You know my mother’s aunt, Mr.;. Golding?’ e „ I’ve heard of her.’ ‘ She’s rich. I’ll go to her, and then ’ ‘Will she have you?’ ‘ Tra la! We’ll see. I’ll write such a sweet letter.’ ‘ But even if she did bid you to come, she would not, perhaps, allow you to help your friends here. And you’d never be happy away from those you love.’ ‘ So you think. But—well, at least, my stepmother would not have to keep me, and I’d have fun. and amusement and dress. Oh, I’d get on very well if I never,’ with an arch glance and a wave of her hand, ‘ saw one of you again.’ . ‘ I don’t believe it.’ ‘ Wait awhile, and then you’ll believe. I’m off to write my letter, so good-bye,’ and she flashed out of the room, taking all the sunshine with her.

• Mrs. Golding,’, groaned Ernest, ‘a worldly, hard old- woman. (Jlarmda could never be happy with. her. But I need not be alarmed. . Her letter will not even be answered. u But' in the course of a few days Mrs. Golding did answer her niece’s letter. . * I hear you are pretty and ambitious,’ she wrote. ‘So come to me when you please. 1 had almost forgotten your existence when your note arrived. But i’ll make up for lost time, and' if you are amenable to my wishes, soon settle you in life.’ Clarinda blushed to her eyes. This letter ought to have pleased her, since it fell in so well with her own desires. But somehow it jarred upon her, and her first inclination was to send a scornful refusal to her aunt’s invitation. But on second thoughts, she saw how foolish this would be, and she sat down and wrote, as charmingly’ as possible, announcing her arrival at the end of the week. Clarinda was a little tearful on saying goodbye to her stepmother and the children, and as Ernest pressed her hand for the hundredth time through the open window of the railway carriage, she thought he had grown suddenly very handsome. Clarinda, sweetheart,’ he whispered, encouraged by the softening light in her eyes, ‘ if the world is not what you fancy, come back. My love will be always yours. To make you my wife would be the greatest joy on earth.’ ‘ Ernest — you know-—oh ! pray, forget me — I— ’ Never,’ he cried, ‘ never.’ And then the train moved out of the station, and Clarinda was gone. ‘ Absence, they say,’ the girl murmured as she was carried swiftly through the country, but tears dropping upon her book, ‘ makes the heart grow fonder. Shall I come to love kindred, my stepmother, the yellowhaired babies, and Ernest Langton better than anything else? Shall 1 long for home and rusticity? No, indeed, I hope not. I’m not going to be a goose. I’ll send them lovely things and be a sort of fairy godmother to them —but I’m going out into the world to become a somebody, either by a- great marriage or my splendid voice, I’m not sure which.’ Mrs. Golding, a tall, handsome woman, received her niece kindly. She was dressed in a gown of rich texture and beautiful coloring that enchanted Clarinda and helped to rouse her somewhat drooping spirits. But if Clarinda looked with admiration at her aunt’s flowing robe, Mrs. Golding gazed in horror at the short, clumsily-made garment that had been the girl’s Sunday best for many months. My dear,’ she cried, throwing up her hands, ‘ Madame Frilldydill must see you at once. No one,’ with a shudder, ‘ must be allowed to catch sight of you till you are clothed like a lady.’ Clarinda blushed deeply and bit her lip, then laughed at her folly in resenting these remarks. ‘ I’m a country bumpkin so why should I wonder at her horror,’ she thought; then looking at her aunt, she said sweetly : ‘Thank you. Aunt Tabitha. You are most kind. I’ll be delighted to have a. new dress.’ Madame Frilldydill was a person of marvellous skill and astonishing rapidity, and the very next evening Clarinda entered her aunt’s drawing-room a vision of youth and beauty in a soft filmy dress of snowy white, the like of which she had never seen before. Tier success was instantaneous. Everyone in the room, admired her, and predicted wonderful things for .her future. Mrs. Golding was delighted, and so complimentary and effusive were some of the men of the party that Clarinda went to bed that night, her brain in a whirl, quite intoxicated by their sweet words and flattering glances. The next few months passed like a dream. There were dinners and balls, receptions, and small dances, and the belle of them all was the young girl from the country. Clarinda was enchanted. Nothing seemed wanting to complete her happiness.. She had crowds of admirers, a variety of beautiful dresses, and plenty of

pocket-money. Her aunt was most generous in that respect, and this was a matter of much rejoicing, for the girl, as it enabled her to help her stepmother and send presents to the children. Nothing delighted her* more than to hear that they were pleased, and talked of her as their ‘ good sweet fairy ’ from morning till night. One day as she was busy putting up a parcel of pretty 'frocks and pinafores that she had spent some hours choosing in Swears and Wells, Mrs. Golding r entered the morning room, smiling pleasantly. ‘You are looking charming, my dear,’ she said, patting the girl softly on the cheek. 1 And I feel sure I shall soon hear some very good news from you. ‘ ’Tis fortunate you came to me, heart-whole, Clarinda, otherwise all this would be. so much time lost. Now, you have only to hold up your little finger, which you will do, I know, and Samuel Ibbotson is at your feet —yours for ever. My dear, it’s splendid. Thirty thousand ’ ‘ But aunt,’ cried Clarinda, aghast, ‘ I don’t care for Mr. Ibbotson. He’s ’ 1 Just the man for you. Girls like you cannot afford to pick and choose. But,’ breaking off suddenly and gazing in astonishment at the children’s things, ‘ what have you there? Where is the bazaar?’ ‘ 1 here is no bazaar, aunt. These are for my brother Eddy and my sisters Flossy and Clare. Aren’t they nice?’ Very,’ dryly. ‘But you’ll please buy no more filings for Mrs. Uttley and her children with my money. When you are Mrs. Samuel Ibbotson,’ shrugging her shoulders, ‘ you can do as you please,’ and she walked away. That evening Clarinda’s eyes shone like stars. Her complexion was brilliant, her lips rosy, though slightly tremulous, and all who saw her enter the ball-room at Lady Fane's declared her to be the loveliest girl they had ever seen. But notwithstanding her bright look and her dainty gracefulness, so admirably set off by white satin, chiffon, and pearls, Clarinda’s heart was very sore. * Half the joy of being well off will be gone if I cannot help Maudie and the little ones,’ she had told herself that afternoon, as her aunt left her. ‘ I shan’t care nearly so much about—anything.’ Then as she sighed over what she had been told must be her last parcel home, a letter from her stepmother was brought to her by the butler. Mrs. Uttley wrote cheerfully. The children, were blooming. She was getting on well. A few investments, that she had looked upon as a dead loss, had begun to pay again, and made a nice and useful addition to her income. 1 That’s good news now that I am forbidden to help the dear things,’ Clarinda murmured, much relieved. Then, with a sudden pang and a feeling of deep regret, she read that Ernest Langton had been ill. ‘ He is better,’ wrote Mrs. Uttley, ‘ but seems immensely changed. He is dull and depressed, and takes little interest in anything. He has had some trouble of mind, people say, and everyone is anxious about him.’ ‘Trouble of mind? Poor Ernest!’ cried Clarinda, with a swelling heart. ‘He who was so good and noble and bright. What can it be?’ The idea of Ernest ill, Ernest in trouble, haunted her, and for the first time since her arrival in London she dressed and went out, caring nothing about her looks or the party to which she was going. But her unconsciousness of self, and the look of feeling in her face, only enhanced her beauty, and Mrs. Golding felt a glow of pride as she entered the ball-room with Clarinda by her side. After a while, under the influence of the music and the excitement of the dance, the girl’s spirits revived, and she was consoling herself with the thought that very soon Ernest would be quite himself again, when in the pause of the waltz she heard a voice behind a heavy portiere near which she was standing say : ‘Have you seen Mrs. Golding’s niece?’ . * ‘Yes,’ was the reply; ‘a remarkably lovely girl. What will be her fate, I wonder V

.y. p / ‘ Oh,^she’ll;marry some rich old man. I hear she’s ' v booked for Samuel Ibbotson.’ Clarinda felt the blood run surging to her brain. * Booked for Samuel Ibbotson,’ she gasped. ‘ Why such a thing be said V And drawing back from the crowd of dancers, she sank limp and trembling on a seat. ‘ Aunt would surely never force me to do that.’ ‘ Ah ! here you are, sweet child,’ Mrs. Golding cried, coming towards her, her hand on Samuel Ibbotson’s arm. ‘But why— is wrong?’ The girl smiled faintly'and put her hand to her eyes. . . ‘ I’m tired My head aches. May I—will you take me home?’ ‘ Of course, if you are ill. Mr. Ibbotson, will you kindly ask for my carriage?’ ‘ Certainly; and I hope this is only a passing indisposition, Miss Uttley.’ ‘ Oh, quite passing, thank you.’ ‘And may I call tO-morrow morning?’ he said in a marked way. ‘ I have much to say to you.’ ‘ You may call,’ Clarinda replied, looking at him with cold eyes. ‘ My aunt will be glad to see you. But I am going to the country. Good-night, Mr. Ibbotson.’ Mr. Ibbotson bowed stiffly and withdrew. Mrs. Golding gazed at her niece with wrathful eyes, but did not speak till they were in the carriage driving home through the quiet streets. ‘ And pray,’ she said fiercely, ‘ what is the meaning of this freak? Why did you refuse to see Mr. Ibbotson in the morning ?’ ‘ For the reason I gave, Aunt dear,. I shall not be in town.’ Your departure will be a tacit refusal of Samuel Ibbotson’s hand. He was coming to ask you to be his wife.’ ‘ I could never be his wife.’ ‘ And pray, why not in a low, suppressed voice. ‘ lie is a good man —wealthy.’ ‘I know. But I do not love him.’ ‘ That would come. If a sensible girl loves no one else, is heart-whole, as I understand you ’ Clarinda gave a. sob, and laid her hand upon her aunt’s arm. ‘ I deceived myself—l deceived you,’ she cried, ‘and I only knew I had done to-night.’ ‘ You mean you love someone ’ ‘ Yes, I could never marry as you wish.’ ‘ You have disappointed me bitterly.’ ‘ I am sorry, you have been so kind, so good to me,’ stammered Clarinda. But I cannot — help it.’ ‘ You must go your own way,’ icily, ‘ I cannot prevent you. But you need not expect help from me when you repent of your folly.’ And without another word Mrs. Golding swept out of the carriage, up the hall-door steps, and away to her own room. The afternoon was waning. In the orchard, behind the Langton’s house, under the old apple trees it was cool and shady, and here in a long chair reclined Ernest Langton, white and weary, a shadow on his face, a look of pain across his eyes. He had been very ill, and although out of danger did not recover his strength as quickly as the doctors and his friends desired and hoped he would. That afternoon he was depressed, and when they left him alone under the trees his eyes had a sad and mournful look as he fixed them, with a heavy sigh, upon the bright, beautiful sky just visible through the waving branches of the firees. N ‘I cannot believe it,’ he moaned. ‘A girl of heart and feeling could never make such a marriage if she did —would surely be unhappy. When the first glamorthe novelty of —-passes, what will remain ? To Clarinda, with her sweet and loving nature —nothing.’ , Ho looked round and suddenly started up in his chair and, turning from white to red, put his hand to his forehead and uttered a little cry. Through the trees, in her plain serge dress, her fair hair shining golden in the sunlight, her eyes bright

with excitement blooming and radiant, came Clarinda Uttley. * :■/ / ‘Am I dreaming?’ gasped Ernest. ‘Orwhy is she here? Clarinda! You?’ He stiffened himself and. held # out a white and shaking hand. I—did not expect to ’ The £irl caught his hand and threw herself on her knees by his side. ‘ You have been ill,’ she cried, with a sob. ‘Oh 1 why did they not tell me sooner ?’ ‘ I have been ill. But ’ Don t look like that, Ernest. Say you are glad to see me. I’ve just come back — to you and those I love.’ .‘ I must congratulate you,’ he said coldly. * I hear you are about to marry—well, a wealthy man.’ ‘ No, those rumors are false, I could not do it. Ive breathng very hard ‘ as you once said, deceived myself. I want something nobler, better than a life of worldly dissipation and wealth. I must have—with those I— Oh! Ernest, I now know that without love life is not worth living.’ ‘But—youdread—dulness— poverty ?’ broke from his trembling lips. ‘ Not with the man,’ a bright blush dyeing her sweet face crimson, ‘I love.’ Clarinda ! Do I understand ?’ His pallid countenance was lit up with a great joy, his eyes shone with happiness. ‘ Dare I hope ? Do you mean that you love me — that you are willing to give up wealth and ease and luxury, and be my wife ?’ I left all that behind me. I will never,’ touching her homely dress with her fingers, ‘ wear better than this, till you can give it to me, as your wife. Now,’ with a happy little laugh, ‘ I hope you are glad to see me?’ ‘Glad? Oh, my beloved,’ throwing his arms around her and drawing her head upon his breast, more glad than words could say My beautiful love —my sweet Clarinda— have given me hope. Now, 1 have something to live for.’— Clara Mulholland.