Richmond dispatch. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1884-1903, 1889-07-21
CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER ii.
"Of course she viii have to leave" said
Mr.. Weston 90 his worthy spouse as they
sat talking over affairs after the funeral.
He was a short, fat individual, with n
round. shiny. red face. and weak, blue
ewes and a bald head; he always dressed
in solemn black and had a way of lifting
his faded blue eyes to Heaven when any
misfortune befell his neighbOrs, and talk
inc of Divine Providence in manner
that was truly edifying He was a hypo-
critic whom Dickens would have delighted
to caricature.
Yes indeed" said his wife. 81 consider
that sister Mary did her full duty by her
IN giving her such an education she
ought to be able to make an independent
living anywhere"
The days slipped by, and Mariory, who
was too heart broken TO think OF the
future. made no movement, and sad no.
thing about leaving, and Mr.. and Mrs. ives
ton determined that as soon as deccncy
would permit they would tell her III PLAIN
terms what she might expect.
They came upon her some four weeks
after Mrs Gray $ death sitting on the front
pOrtico. She was sitting on the broad stone
steps. and her big. wiStful dark eyes were
fixed on the setting sun, which was gong
down behind the heavy, purple, gold
fingered clouds. Major, the big greyhound
that had been Mrs. Gray's special pet,
leaned his sleek head against her knee and
looked in her face with tender brown eyes
hardly less pathetic than her own.
Mrs Weston gave her husband a signit-
cant look rs they came up the walk, and
they went up the steps and seated them
selves in the rustic chars which stood on
the porch. The small figure. looking un-
usually slight and childish in its heavy
black dress. did not move, but kept on
H.. J.. 81.
der white hand in the other she held
cluster of fragrant white lilacs that eleam-
ed pure and spotless against her black
dress.
Mr. Weston took his big white silk hand
kerchief and mopped his red face, and,
after several preliminary hens and clear
ings OF his throat. began, ." suppose, Miss
Gray he always addressed her as bliss
Gray" YOU are aware that your aunt died
without leaving any viii and that the ab-
seuce of SO important a document affects
your financial prospects vey seriously /
/ think il hkelv,n he goes on. that your
aunt considered that she had done her full
duty bv YOU in maintaining YOU IN COM
fort, not 10 say luxury, for twelve years,
and in giving you the advantages OF a SUI
pcriOr education. and she no DOUBT
thought she had best let her fortune go 70
her own kin, for You know you are really
no relative of hers"
Mariory winces q little at his last words,
but saws quietly. You are mistaken:
Aunt Mary often told me that she intended
leaving me all she possessed"
She Is not speaking with any idea of
beneftiug herself. bat TO defend Aunt
Mary from being thought to have inten-
tionallv neglected 20 provide for her, and
at her words the husband and wife ex-
change looks. But she never liked the
idea Of making a will and 50 put it of
until too latc.'
well" he says, knowing that to be
the case, of course Won realize the fact that
YOU are pennies, and see the Importance
of making an effort toward your own
maintenance. We have decided 10 retain
this residence rs our future abode, and as
affairs are 10 be settled up within the next
few DAYS | think the wisest course for
YOU TO pursue would be TO insert an adyer-
tisement IN some leading paper setting
forth your accomplishments and stating
your desire to secure a position as IN
structress in some school or family
He closes his pOmpOus speech and looks
at her QuestiOningly. MariOry regards him
with a look of amaZement IN her large,
dark eyes. Leave Meadowbrook-the home
of her childhood and girlhood, the dear
old place that Aunt Mary loved so well,
the home whose every tree and flower was
dear to her heart. Leave It all-leave
aunty's grave. leave the flowers, the fields,
the gurgling streams-and go TO some hot.
dusty town. among strange faces and I'M
| loving hearts, to drudge ont her life IN
teaching dull, stubborn children, She
had been SO overcome with grief that she
had not given one thought to the future.
and certainly She had never dreamed of
! such thing as this--that she. the child OF
| ease and luxury, whom Aunt Mary had
| loved and shielded from every rude wind
! was to be thrust out on the ptlless world
| to fight the battle of life alone.
Il never thought of leaving" she fall
| ters. d" love the dear old place so much.
II" She stops 10 fight down the hot
/ tears that rise TO her eyes. for she resolves
| that she VIII die before she will cry before
| them and let them see how they have hurt
! her.
mo. don't suppose you did" he says
| quietly, but II Is best that you should
! look the facts i'll the face. We have quite
| a large family, and there would not he
room for YOU here. and | don't think YOU
| could be content 10 eat the bread OF de
| pendence if there was.'
The hot tears dry in her eyes "a she rises
/ to her feet and draws her slender figure TO
! its fullest height. while she gazes down on
! him with naughty scorn.
Certainly not, if the bounty came from
your hand,n she says IN tones of ringing
/ contempt. And without another word she
sweeps past them with the dignity of Il
| duchess.
She goes straight to her room and writes
| a short note to Mrs. Barton, friend of her
aunt's, who lives in the city, a few miles dis
! tant. Going 10 the stable she gives II TO
! Sam the hOstler, and tells him TO take II 10
/ the address, and await an answer. sam,
/ like all the other servants, adOres her, and
would do anything in his power to please
L.. Z is 4
| inc of toward the town. The next morning
/ Mariory is up with tAe sun, and, with Ma
/ Tor trotting close behind her, she takes a
/ farewell look M all her hooks and corners.
! She then bends her steps to Aunt Mary $
grave. At the sight OF the narrow mound
| which held all that was SO dear 10 her, her
| solf-contrOl gives away, and. casting her
self beside it, the hot tears now without re-
} straint. After awhile she feels calmer, and
/ rising she wipes away her tears. and laying
/ the fresh flowers which she has brought on
| the mound she turns away. She tells the
servants good-by, and tells them that She
| is going away. As she shakes SANS black
/ hand she says:
Sam, be good to Major and Brownie,
my pony. | wish could take them with
me: but il is impossible"
Sam assures her that they shall have
the best of care long rs he's round
! Going TO the lou.. she finds that Mrs.
Barton has arrived. and stopping only TO
/ bid Mr.. and Mrs. Weston good morning,
and to tell them that her trunks will be
sent for she leaves them without another
word, and stepping into Alrs. Barton's neat
| little phaeton Is driven away to commence
her new life.
She is opposed 10 teaching in any large
school, for she has decided that teaching
must be her vocation. and through the in
fuence of her friend she secures posi-
ton in the family of Mrs. Arleieh as gov.
erness 10 her two little girls of ten and
/ twelve.
She finds her new friends kind and con-
siderate: but there are times when her
! longing for the country and for aunt Ma
RVS love grows so intense that her heart
fails her. There is vein of strong deter
mination in Marjory's childish nature. and
when she was 50 Inundated 10y the Wes-
tons her whole desire was TO leave them AS
quickly az possible. But now that she has
/ time for reflection, she finds that her grief
and longing for the old place is second
only TO that which she feels for aunt Mary.
| But she is young and hopeful; Mrs. Ar
! leigh treats her as she would her own
daughter and her little pupils are doeile
| and eGectionate, and as the days go by she