Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 May 1885 — Page 6

FINDING A SITUATOIN.

BY MANDA L. CROCKER.

“That girl will have to go; she’s old enough .to earn her own living if she ever intends to. Of course, when her mother died I took her in, but that did not signify that I was going to keep her forever. I’ve done a good part by the thankless chit in the last ten years, and I’ve made up my mind not to be badgered with her any longer.” Mrs. Lucinda Maynard brushed back a few silvered hairs which had fallen unceremoniously into her face, and leaned back in her ample chair, watching furtively the countenance of her husband, who sat opposite her on the broad, chintz-covered lounge. “I don’t know, Lucinda; ’seems to me ’twould be kind o’ hard to send her adrift at present. She is only sixteen this coming winter, and sort o’ frail; so quiet and white-faced, you know,” and the husband ended deprecatingly. He had said his little say, feeling, that with his wife his words had but little weight; for ever since marriage had made them one, he had been aware that she was the one, and he and his views constituted a mere matrimonial cipher. “Frail, fudge! Josiah Maynard; that’s always your way of putting things. I am all but out of patience with you. Just as if I didn’t know-natural-bom slowness and inherited laziness from disease. I am old enough to know that the grass will always have a chance to grow under Mag Lovell’s feet, so you need not begin to hoist your charity sails in her behalf. No, sir. I’ve settled it to-day. There are our own to look after; Eleanor is to be fitted out for boarding-school, and Agnes must have the Steinway you promised her over a year ago; so counting up what we owe our own children, there isn’t much to throw away on Mag Lovell, I can tell you.” “But she helps you in the kitchen and •dairy a great deal, Lucinda, and I imagine you will miss her often; ’seems to me I should. ”

“Bah! I will not grieve, nor have to ■ wait on her slow motions, either,” and the callous-hearted woman indulged in a hard, rasping laugh as she folded her hands and rocked to and fro complacently. Josiah Maynard heaved a deep sigh, and leaned back against the casement. He knew his broad acres and bountiful home were sufficient for the wants and fancies of all, and his pitying heart yearned toward the quiet orphaned niece who had grown like a pale flower from her babyhood under his roof. His heart ached at the prospect of seeing Margaret Lovell, bis dead sister’s child, thrust out on the charities of an unkind world. He shut his eyes and gave himself up to certain plans concerning Margaret. The door opening out on the piazza •was ajar, and, had Lucinda Maynard noticed it, she might have seen a scared white face and wild eyes just visible in the gathering twilight; while with bated breath Margaret Lovell caught every word of the conversation between her aunt and uncle. Margaret was on the point of entering when the first sentence alluded to fell, stunning in its effect, on her ear; then she drew back and remained motionless until the cruel closing sentence had gone to her heart like a knife; and then, retracing her steps stealthily, she disappeared in the shadows. The evening wind blew coldly from the gates of the sunset across the autumn-seared fields, and moaned around the gables of the Maynard homestead, and the desolate-hearted •girl shivered and walked away. She did not wish to go in now; she was not wanted. No; Aunt Lucinda said she “must go.” Where should she go? :She did not know, and wondered in a vague, frightened way what it all meant. Uncle Josiah went out shortly afterward to lock the barn, and found Margaret standing by the gate. “She’s going to send me away, then! Oh, Uncle Joe!” and her slender lingers dosed tightly over his arm. He started as if a Derringer had been suddenly thrust in his face with murderous intent. “You heard her then, Maggie?” “Yes; what have I done to vex her so ? I really cannot comprehend. I’ve tried hard to please you all, but it seems aunt is not pleased. She has been hard on me lately, but I thought maybe she was tired, or worried over Cousin Eleanor's going off to school. Did she ever talk like this before, Uncle Joe ?” “Yes, child; yet I never thought she was in earnest until now. It almost breaks my heart to think of it—to not see you around any more, Maggie; it’s like a funeral—like a funeral. ” He paused and stroked her head, fondly, “Maybe she will relent,” he added, presently. “No, she will not,” answered the girl, with a sob, “and I could not stay where I am not wanted, any way, even if she never urged my going again. But where can I go? 1 don’t know anybody ? Oh, I wish mother hajLnot died, or that I might have dietr with her! I wonder why God lets things go • 4>n this way ? ” “Be still, Maggie; don’t question our Father’s ways. I cannot answer your question, dear; but it will all come right in the end, if we only put our trust in Him. Don’t ever forget that, Maggie; God’s ways are always for the ■best.” “I suppose so; but now I am walking in the shadows, and the future is •very dark. I really do not see where .1 am to go. ” “Let me think,” said her uncle, wip■ing the suspicious moisture from his ■eyes with his handkerchief

Margaret guessed at her uncle’s tears, although the deepening twilight obscured his countenance. “Let me see,” he continued, “there’s your Aunt Lucinda’s step-brother, Cyril Belknap. You remember him, Maggie ? Well, he is as different as can be from your aunt. Now it strikes me that he would like to have you make your home in his great big house. He is* a bachelor, and no one lives with him excepting his • cousin, the housekeeper, and a servant or so. Besides, he said when your mother died that ‘if you had been a little older Lucinda wouldn’t have got you.’ You see he’s a great big heart, Cyril has, and he is generous to a fault. Yes, Maggie, it strikes me that that is the nicest home in the world for you—seeing you have to leave me, though God knows there’s an abundance here. But I suppose your aunt would object to your going there; she would not be anxious for you to find favor with Uncle Cyril.” “Why, Uncle Joe?” “Oh, reason enough. She sort of hankers after his elegant property, and thinks maybe he might remember the girls, which thing may not be if you find a warm spot in his heart. Of he’s no more relation to them than to you—no relative of any of you, really—but she has her anticipations.” But Aunt Lucinda did not object. Her mind was too full of the present for a thought of the future. Although several weeks elapsed after this conversation and declaration of Lucinda Maynard’s, still Margaret had not gone. There were the holidays, and the work, and company, consequently “Mag could not be spared until after Christmas week, any way; "but one cold bright morning in January Uncle Joe drove Margaret to the station in his sleigh, and, putting a purse of money into her trembling hand, bade her good-by, and saw her off with genuine tears. Down over the hill swept little angry gusts, whirling the snow in little spiral clouds hither and thither, while the flaring sunset betokened a cold, windy night The dry leaves rustled and whirled off by twos and threes from the scrub oaks straggling along the solitary road from the lonely little station at the crossing to the interior. Down over the hill, also, but not in such a flurry, came Margaret carrying a heavy basket, and looking anxiously ahead of her down into the valley, expecting to see her destination ere long. Yes, there it was; away in the distance, with the sunset gleaming on its panes and fretted eaves, stood Cyril Belknap’s home, half hidden by a dozen or more great pear trees, whose naked branches caught the rising wind and lashed each other savagely. “Sure enough, there was Uncle Cyril’s home,” and Matgaret took a better hold of the big basket and descended into the winding valley road.

On and on she pressed, with benumbed and aching feet, guessing it was a mile to Uncle Cyril’s, when in reality it was nearly two. But how should she know, having never been over the road before? Uncle would have met her at the train, of course, but she was coming unannounced; she preferred somehow she had not the let him know she was way she was—homeless. The man at the station told her it was “a couple of miles, perhaps, to the Belknap place,” and she thought she might walk that far and carry her luggage. When the gray-haired conductor helped her down with the tremendous basket, at the desolate little station of Doster, he noticed her pale, thin face, and wondered what a starved-looking youngling could want to be set down in such a place in midwinter for; and when she started off with her unwieldly burden, he shut the carriage door with a bang, saying, “Good Lord, and no one to meet her even.” Poor Margaret. Life’s cloud? had never exhibited to her eager vision much of their silver lining. Orphaned in her babyhood, she had clung to Aunt Lucinda; now she had cast her off - “to find a situation,” she said. “Big enough to do for herself;” well, mavbe she was. Now what would Uncle Cyril think? Perhaps he would think as Aunt Lucinda, and send her adrift also. She remembered him as a tall, handsome man, with a pleasant laugh and musical voice, when she saw him last. ' All day long the thunder of the train had made her nervous, and to get out into the crisp air once more seemed like getting a new lease of liberty. She was not used to the close, heated air of the coaches, but she was used to walking in the cold, else this adventure of com„ing unannounced would have been simply insurmountable. “Want to ride a ways?” sang out a pleasant voice, and Margaret paused in her weary trudge, trudge to look up. A little old man had reined in a superb span of black horses, harnessed to a sleigh, with an abundant provision of warm robes, which looked very comfortable and inviting. “I do not mind, sir, as I am very j tired,” answered Margaret; “and if you are going past Cyril Belknap’s home I will be very glad to ride that far. ” “I am going right by there, miss; so hustle in here; the sun is about down, and if you are going there, why, you’d freeze to death before you would get there.” “Y r es, sir,” said Margaret, settling herself among the robes and sighing from weariness. “You don’t live there, do you?” “No, sir,” answered the girl, feebly, from the depths of the sleigh. “Just a going there, then, a visiting, I presume; well, you will find him a very nice man. He is so liberal and benevolent generally; many’s the poor family can tell of his generosity. Rel-

ative of his I suppose?” he added, tapping the horses with his whip. “Yes, sir; he is my uncle, and I am coming to live with him, if he will let me,” answered Margaret in an unsteady voice. “Oh! he will let you, miss; don’t for anything be as aid of your Uncle Belknap, for he never would have the hardness of heart to turn a poor youngster away, who comes wanting home and friends, in the dead of winter. No, miss, don’t be afraid to ask him for a home. Here’s where he lives; now, d’ye see that big barn and the two little ones on the west side of the road, and the house on the east? Well, that’s iris home, and a good homev home you’ll have, miss. I’ll just turn in a bit and take you to the door; if Cyril is not at hr me the housekeeper will be, and it will be all right any way.” With a gentle curve the spririted steeds swept around the drive, and the little old man stood up in the sleigh and shouted, “Hello!” Ihiswas a novel way of calling on the neighors, to Margaret, but an old lady came to the door, in a black dress and white. cap, and said, “Mr. Belknap is not just in; I presume you wished to see him, Mr. Boss ?’

“No, ma’am; not for myself, but I’ve brought a relative of his, who will come in immediately, as she is almost perishing from the cold.” The housekeeper stood shading her eyes with her hand from the western gleaming, which still lingered low and bright. “Come in, please,” she said pleasantly, addressing Margaret. “I am so crippled up with rheumatism that I dare not venture down the steps without my overshoes.” Margaret climbed down and took the big basket which Mr. Boss handed out to her, and thanking him warmly for his kindness, she followed the housekeeper into the halt The sitting-room, a wide, low room, with its wide fire-place and great blazing logs, seemed a very paradise to the half-frozen girl. “You are a relative of Mr. Belknap's then ?” questioned the woman, helping Margaret off with her wraps, and drawing a chair to the fire. “Hardly,” answered Margaret, “he is step-brother of my aunt’s, yet we all call him uncle; lam Margaret Lovell, of Waterford, and live with Aunt and Uncle Maynard,” “Oh, yes: veil I am Agnes Newell, the housekeeper,” returned the other, “and you may call me simply, Agnes. I wonder that your uncle did not meet you at the station, Miss Lovell?” “Uncle Cyril is not aware of my coming.” “Oh! then you mean to surprise him, I see,” and the old lady Smiled, and smoothed her cap ruffles in a satisfied way, and stirred the fire with the long brass tongs. “But he will be glad to see you, I know, for I’ve heard him speak of you many times; ’twill be a real glad surprise for him, I am sure,” she ended, meditatively, hanging up her tongs and looking over her spectacles at Margaret. “Yes, I am sure I shall have a pleasant visit.”

The housekeeper drew the heavy blue curtains over the double windows of the sitting-room, and lighted the lamp swinging over the mantel, whose light gave the long room a cosy, soft glow, even in the corners by the high walnut bookcase. Margaret, having become warm and somewhat rested, took a survey of the room, noting the fine pictures on the wall, the soft gray carpet, the deep, inviting sofa, and the two great chairs, with their gray and brown cushions, flanking the wide, cheerful,- open fire. “How restful,” murmured Margaret, with the tears in her eyes. . Just then the door opened and Cyril Belknap entered. He walked to the hearth" and began taking off his great coat. Having hung it up finally by the great bookcase, he turned toward the fire, catching sight of the pale, pinched face and dark, wistful eyes of his niece. “Whom have we here ?” he questioned, kindly, coming forward. “I am Margaret Lovell, of Waterford; you remember me, do you not, Uncle Cyril?” The tired, wan countenance and quivering lips told a pitiful chapter, and the tender heart of Cyril Belknap was stirred within him. “Yes, indeed,” he responded, kindly. “I remember my little niece; lam so glad to see you, Margaret,” and he took both her thin hands in his. “So you thought you would surprise lonesome Uncle Cyril in his bachelor quarters? Well, you are doubly welcome, Margaret. ”

“How shy and worried she looks; and so miserably clad, for this time of year, too,” cogitated Cyril that night in his own room, when he had retired for a smoke. “I verily believe Lucinda has kicked her out; every move of Margie’s goes to warrant it, and, if she has, I’ll keep her—that is, if she will stay. I’m certain she has come to stay; what else could explain that enormous basket? I do not believe there’s another one of its sue in the State,” and he held the fragrant Havana between his forefinger and thumb a moment, thinking. Then presently he said, aloud, “My! was not that faded gingham cold-looking, though? Lucinda had ought to be ashamed of herself!” and he shivered at the idea. Alter a few days Margaret lost her shy, frightened manner, and faint roses began to creep into the pale cheeks, and for the first time in her life she enjoyed life; but at times it troubled her to think that she had not revealed to her uncle the reason of her coming. Then, too, there was the possibility of his refusing her a home, although* he had been so kind and thoughtful since

■he came. Day after day slipped by, leaving her more undecided as to what to say and how to say it “So you’ve no father or mother?” ventured little Nellie Dunbar, th<-maid of all work at Uncle Cyril’s, as she hung a large engraving in Margaret’s room and stood back to see the effect of the light. “No, Ive no one; not even a brother or sis; er,” answered Margaret, with a sigh. Nellie thought of her own brother and sister at school in Kent, and of her father in his shop, and mother with her cheery smile in their humble but happy home on B street, and wondered how she should feel to give them all up and have no happy home-coming. Perhaps she should feel still and lone-hearted, too. “And the lady you lived with,” resumed Nellie, aching to get at the secret of Miss Lovell’s poverty, “was she poor?” “No; quite well-to-do,” rejoined Margaret Then becoming suddenly confidential, she added, “but her wealth never did me much good. ” “I should think not,” said Nellie, warmly, feeling her risibilities on the move. “I should not have worked my finger-ends off for her then.” “It was not quite so bad as that,” answered Margaret, deprecatingly. <r Well, pretty near, I guess,” said Nellie, with an affirmative toss of her sunny head. Both girls laughed merrily. The one had come nearer the truth than she really guessed, and nearer than the other felt at liberty to confess. They had grown to be the best of friends in a short time, as girls sometimes do; and Nellie was daily wishing in her little warm heart that Miss Lovell “had really come to stay forever.”

One day Uncle Cyril came home from the village with his pockets full of letters, and greeted Margaret with such a kind, happy smile that the hot blushes suffused her face. “Would you come to the library a moment, Margie, please?” and she followed him, feeling instinctively that Aunt Lucinda was mixed up in this interview some way. One thing reassured her: Uncle Cyril was not displeased with any news he might have heard. She sank into the first chair she came to, and sat trembling like a culprit. The faint roses had all died out of her cheeks, and she laeed her fingers in suspense. Uncle Cyril sat down and said, pleasantly : “Margaret, how would you like to live here—always?” “Oh, if I could!” she said, huskily, and the big tears rolled down the pale cheeks. “You can, Margie; I am more than willing. Indeed, I have thought of asking you to stay ere this, but did not know but I should be interfering with Mrs. Maynard’s plans, or yours, perhaps. To-day I received a letter from her, stating that I might keep you if I like. Now that lam at liberty I would love to tell you of my plans, and find out whether they find favor with you.” Margaret looked up, with the tears still in her eyes, and Uncle Cyril continued :

“How would you like to live here—at home, have your own pony and carriage, and plenty of pin-money, and be Miss Lovell, of Saybrook—that’s the name our house is known by, Margie—how is it ?” “Oh, Uncle Cyril; you’re too kind—too kind,” and Margaret hid her face in hands and sobbed softly. “I thought I might find a situation with your help, so I came to you; but if I may stay, I’ll try to please you, uncle; I will try hard.” “Well, well,” said Cyril, with a tremor in his musical voice, “I am not hard to please, Margie, and we shall be the best of friends; so it is settled from to-day. Y r ou ane Margaret Lovell, of Saybrook, instead of ‘ Mag, of the Maynard kitchen.’” He ended almost bittesly, and Margaret looked up inquiringly. “Never mind, Margie,” he continued, softly, “perhaps I know more than you think I do, yet what Lucinda was pleased to say in her letter does not affect our lives in the least. We will get along nicely together, and the years will go smoothly, happily by, and there shall be none to say you nay in Cyril Belknap’s home. You need a friend—and so do I,” and Uncle Cyril ended by taking her hand in his and saying, sowly: “Welcome home, Margie.” So Margaret was really at home in that great sunshiny house, and the years that rolled by in happy content over Saybrook wrought a" magical change in the once friendless, homeless girl. At twenty-one she found herself a tall, graceful woman, with dark wavy tresses, and her refined soul shining through the beauty of her lovely, pleading eyes. This, with the flush of perfect health on her fair face, rendered her beautiful, and she could scarcely believe herself to be the pale, hungryeyed girl set down at this hospitable door five years before.

In all those years Uncle Cyril had been the most indulgent of guardians and a most excellent companion. How careful, considerate, and kind he had always been. She thought of all this, and more, the day he took her note of acceptance of the position of teacher in the village schools with him to deliver it to the Board of Directors. He had educated her, Jie had given her a beautiful home; she had a phaeton and pretty pony, all her own, and a grand piano stood in the drawingroom “for Margie.” How well she remembered the day it came home, and how she began to say she was not worthy of such kindness, when he cut her speech short by putting his hands

over his ears, and er claiming, in mock incignation, “No more, Miss Margie, as you :ove me.” There was one thing more, however, to think of, and it worried her exceedingly. When she told him of her acceptance of the offer of the situation as teacher, and that she wanted him to see to it, he took the note with wide open eyes, and fairly gasped, “Why, Margie, are you not satisfied with your home—with me?” She had replied, “More than satisfied, Uncle Cyril, yet I feel as if I should do something for myself. I can never repay you one tithe of your kindness and care.” He had taken her note with a strange, worried look on his handsome face, and seemed disheartened over it. She wondered why. Did he dislike the idea of her teaching so much! “Home again, Margie,” he said, giving the horse to the stable boy. Thia was his greeting always when he returned, but, some way, that night it lacked that buoyancy of spirit which was its wont.

“Y es,” answered Margaret, putting her ■ hand on his arm, as they walked toward the house together. “I am so glad.” He stopped short, and looked down at her with a gleam of mystified joy in his honest countenance. “Were you lonesome to-day without me, Margie?” “Of course; you were away all day.” He smiled a little, then asked: “And how shall I feel when Margaret Lovell goes away for weeks, instead of just a day ?” She had not thought of it in this way, and his woeful countenance troubled her; and before she knew it the tears were gathering on her dark lashes. , Cyril noticed she did not answer, and saw the tears. “Nevermind,” he made haste to say; “you’ve a perfect right to do as you think best; only I shall be so miserable after you have gone.” She caught the longing, hopeless look in his eyes, and drawing her hand away, she tied into the house and up stabs to her room. She understood him now. He, Cyril llelknap, had loved her as his life; how blind she had been all these years. The shadows were long across the pretty lawn, and just a faint rose-tint quivered along the little lake below the house, and all things seemed peaceful but the misery in her heart. She pushed up the sash and looked out. Down on the piazza below her she heard Cyril walking up and down, and knew he was grieving. Presently he came out and went over to their favorite seat under the tulip tree, and sat down; pulling his hat down over his eyes, he remained motionless. Oh! to grieve the heart which had cared for her so long, and leave the pleasant home he had given her, where there was always so much comfort and sunshine. To turn away from one who had said “come,” when another had thrust her out in the cold world. Oh! it certainly was awful!

Presently a step stole softly near the tulip tree, and Margaret laid her shapely white band on Cyril’s arm. “Forgive me; I never meant to cause you pain—you of all the world, Uncle Cyril.” “Margie,” he said tend'erly, pushing up his hat and drawing her down beside him. “Margie, you’ve read my secret now; I have kept it for years, as a sacred, sweet revelation of my own soul. Do not blame me.” “No; that were impossible—but I’ve concluded not to go away from vou, Uncle Cyril.” “Do you mean that, Margaret, when you understand hew I love you?” He leaned toward her, with a great hope surging up from his heart depths. “ I do mean that, Cyril. ” “ Then you mean that you love me and will be my wife, Margaret ?” “ Yes,” answered she, with a bright blush. He looked into her eyes, hesitatingly. Was she saying this from pity? “Don’t sacrifice your hopes and life for me, Margie; I am not worthy of such ’ a sacrifice,” and he grew visibly agitated. “You must not talk-so to one who loves you too well to listen to it. I should find it a greater sacrifice of life and love to leave you, Cyril, now that I know all. Indeed, I will stay with you always.” “I dared not hope so much, Margie—so much of happiness to come to me; yet for two years I have loved you devotedly. I am very happy, Margie, and you, my pearl, are happy, too,” and he kissed the bright, blushing face.

Presently she said, with some hesitation : “How about my note of acceptance, Cyril?” “Bight here.” He tapped his sidepocket and added, with a smile of happiness, “I have found you a far better situation, darling Margaret.” When the invitations came to the Maynard home for the wedding to be Uncle Josiah could hardly restrain his joy for the great happiness which had fallen to his niece Margaret—a handsome husband, who was as good as he was handsome, and a beautiful home. He went to the wedding and gave away the bride; but Aunt Lucinda turned up her nose with an aristocratic sniff and vowed she would not budge an inch. No, not she; to attend the marriage ceremony of such a designing girl. “Just went there to rope Cyril in and get her clutches on a lovely home that never cost her a cent or a day’s labor,” she said to the girls, and they snarled in unison. But her wrath and disgust availed nothing. She had driven Margaret from her doors “to find a situation,” and Margaret had obeyed in the most delightful manner possible, and' Saybrook had fallen to her lot, owner and all.— Chicego Ledger.