CHAPTER XIX.THE LETTER.
Maggie got out and came back again without any apparent adventure. She had five pounds in her pocket, and thought herself rich beyond the dreams of avarice. What a delightful fairy-gift had been handed down to her by her dear dead father! She did not miss the brooch in the least, but she valued the small sum she had obtained for it exceedingly.
But while Maggie thought herself so secure, and while the pleasant jingle of the sovereigns as she touched them with her little hand comforted her inexpressibly, things quite against Maggie Howland’s supposed interests were transpiring in another part of the school.130
It was a strange fact that on this special afternoon both the queens should be prostrated with headache. It is true that Queen Maggie’s headache was only a fiction, but poor Queen Aneta’s was real enough. She was lying down in her pretty bedroom, hoping that quiet might still the throbbing of her temples, when the door was very softly opened, and Merry Cardew brought in a letter and laid it by her side.
“May I bring you some tea upstairs, Aneta?” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Oh no, darling,” said Aneta. “I can’t eat or drink; but if I stay very still I shall be better by-and-by. Leave me now, dear; all I want is perfect quiet.”
“I am so sorry for you, Aneta,” said Merry.
“What are you doing downstairs?” said Aneta as the girl turned away.
“Well, Maggie has a headache too.”
“Oh!” said Aneta.
“So we are without our queens,” continued Merry; “but Maggie’s girls have taken possession of our sitting-room, and we are all in the schoolroom. We’re having great fun and are very happy, so don’t worry about us at all, Aneta.”
“I won’t,” said Aneta, closing her eyes, while a feeling of drowsy relief stole over her.
Her anxiety with regard to Maggie was really making her ill. Her sense of responsibility with reference to the Cardew girls seemed to oppress her usually calm spirit. She could not conceal the fact from herself that Merry loved Maggie, most passionately. The knowledge, therefore, that Maggie was not downstairs gave her such a sense of comfort that she dropped into a doze, and when she awoke a short time afterwards her headache was gone.
Yes, her headache had departed, but there lay by her pillow what is a great treasure to all schoolgirls—an unopened letter. She looked at the handwriting, and saw that it was from her aunt, Lady Lysle. Aneta was very fond of Lady Lysle; and, sitting up against her pillows, she tore open the letter and began to read. She was surprised to see that it was dated from Meredith Manor.
“My dear Aneta”—it ran—“I have been staying with the dear Cardews for the last week. We have been having a very pleasant time; although, of course, the house is vastly different without Cicely and Merry. But the dear Cardews are so sensible that they never would regret anything that was for the real benefit of their children.
“Your letter assuring me that the children were happy at school gave me great delight, and when I told the Cardews they were equally pleased. Altogether, this school-venture seems likely to turn out most satisfactory, and the dear children will be properly equipped for the brilliant life which lies before them.
“But now I have a curious piece of information for you.131You told me about Miss Howland and her mother’s second marriage to one of the Martyns of The Meadows. Well, dear, we went there yesterday, and I happened incidentally to speak on the subject; and, whatever may be the position of Miss Howland’s stepfather, he certainly is no relation to our dear friends the Martyns. They have no uncles or cousins in England at all. All their people come from Australia, and they assured me that such a marriage as I have described has, in the first place, never reached their ears, and, in the next, is impossible, for they have no marriageable relations in the country. I mention this to show that your friend has made a mistake. At the same time, it is strange of her to say that her mother, has married into such a well-known and distinguished family. I can add no more now.—Yours, with love, and in haste,
Lucia Lysle.”
Aneta thought over this letter for some time. Her face was very grave as she tried to put two and two together. She rose from her bed, dressed herself with her usual immaculate neatness, and came down to supper, which took place each evening at half-past seven.
All the girls were present, and each and all were in the best of good-humor. Maggie was radiant. Why not? She had performed a difficult task discreetly, and she had five lovely golden sovereigns in her drawer upstairs. She could put the required money into the bag for the school-treat, and she would have plenty over to buy chocolates and little things that she might require for herself. She did not in the least miss that one small brooch which her father had left her; but she thought with a feeling of intense satisfaction of her treasures. She need no longer be a penniless girl. She had but at rare intervals to visit Pearce the jeweler, and her pocket would be well lined. She had no romantic feeling with regard to those beautiful things which her father had collected on his travels. She had been so poor all her life that money to her represented power. She even thought of getting a couple of new dresses made by a fashionable dressmaker. She resolved to consult Lucy on the subject. She was never quite as well dressed as the other girls, although very plain clothes were the order of the hour at school.
Immediately after supper those girls who required to look over their lessons went into the schoolroom and spent a quiet time there; but the others, as a rule, joined Mrs. Ward in the drawing-room. There those who could play were requested to do so, and those who could sing did likewise. Mrs. Ward was very fond of needlework. She could do rare and wonderful embroideries, and knew some of the tapestry stitches which were in vogue hundreds of years ago. The girls who cared to be taught those things she was only too glad to instruct; but she never pressed any one into her working-party. This was always an hour of relaxation for132those girls who had all their lessons ready for the following day.
Maggie, who was exceedingly clever and learned with the utmost ease, was generally a member of the drawing-room coterie. She wore a white dress on this evening, with a somewhat crude pink sash round her waist. She hated the crudity of the color, and it occurred to her that she could get some soft and becoming sashes out of part of the money which Pearce had given her for the brooch.
By-and-by she found herself near Aneta. Aneta was working a center-piece which she meant to present to Lady Lysle at Christmas. Maggie was no good whatever at needlework, and seldom joined the band of needlewomen. But Aneta now motioned the girl to come and sit by her side. Maggie did so. Aneta looked full in her face.
“Is your headache better, Maggie?” she asked.
Maggie had to reflect for a time, she had so absolutely forgotten that she had pretended to have a headache that afternoon! Then she said, with a slight flush and a suspicious narrowing of her eyes, “Oh yes; thank you, I am quite all right again.” Maggie had not heard of Aneta’s headache. She, therefore, did not ask about it.
“I pity people who have headaches,” said Aneta. “I suffer from them very badly myself. Nothing cures me but perfect rest. I was lying down all the afternoon. Merry came to see me, and told me that you were also prostrated with headache. I was sorry for you.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” said Maggie. “Mine is quite gone; is yours?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Aneta sat quiet and very still. When her face was in repose she never moved her body. There was an absolute sense of rest about her which was refreshing to those who really knew her well. But Maggie hated it. She wanted to leave her; she wanted to go and talk to Merry, who was playing a solitary game of patience in a distant part of the drawing-room; she wanted to do anything rather than remain by Aneta’s side.
Then Aneta looked up. “I had a letter this afternoon from my aunt, Lady Lysle.”
“Oh!” said Maggie. She could not quite understand why her heart beat so fast, but she had undoubtedly a premonition of some sort of trouble ahead.
“Aunt Lucia is staying with the Cardews,” continued Aneta.
“Is she?” said Maggie. “Oh, that sweet and beautiful place!” she continued.
“Yes,” said Aneta, “Meredith Manor will always be lovely. There is no season of the year when it is not, in my opinion, more charming than any other place I know.”
“Is your aunt going to stay there long?” asked Maggie, who felt that she need not say anything further with regard to the delights of Meredith Manor just now.133
“I cannot tell you,” replied Aneta. “She mentioned something rather curious. It is connected with you.”
“With poor little me?” said Maggie.
“With you,” said Aneta. “You remember telling me that your stepfather is one of the Martyns of The Meadows?”
Maggie’s face grew crimson, then turned pale.
“Well,” said Aneta, bringing out her words with great calmness, “it turns out to be a mistake. Your stepfather is no relation whatever to our friends the Martyns. Aunt Lucia and Mrs. Cardew went to call on them the other day, and asked the question. You made a mistake in announcing your stepfather as being a connection of our friends.”
“Did I? Perhaps so,” said Maggie. “I thought he was, that’s all.”
“You thought wrong,” said Aneta. “I felt I would mention it to you. He may be just as well connected,” she added quietly; “but he isnotrelated to the Martyns of The Meadows.”
“You speak in a very disagreeable tone,” said Maggie.
“I don’t mean to,” replied Aneta; “but I thought I would tell you in order that you should not spread the report any further.”
“I am sure I don’t want to. My stepfather has just as good connections as any one else.”
“No doubt,” said Aneta gently; “only, he is not related to our special friends. You might let Merry and Cicely know.”
“Why?” asked Maggie in a dogged voice.
“You can please yourself. I shall tell them if you don’t.”
“Why do you hate me so much, Aneta?” said Maggie then.
“I hate subterfuge and untruth,” said Aneta. “I don’t hate you. If you would be straight and open and above-board you would find me your best friend.”
“Thank you so much!” said Maggie in a sneering tone. “When I require you for my best friend it will be time enough for you to offer me that enviable position.” Then she added, speaking in a low tone of intense dislike, “Is it likely that any girl would wish to make a best friend of another girl who accused her of subterfuge and want of truthfulness?”
The delicate pink rose in Aneta’s cheeks. She raised her eyes and looked full up at Maggie. Her clear, calm eyes seemed like mirrors. Maggie felt that she could not meet them.
It was just at that moment that Cicely Cardew, in a state of suppressed excitement, came into the room.
“Maggie,” she said, coming straight up to Maggie Howland, “there’s a very large parcel addressed to you in the hall. It has been paid for; we are all dying with curiosity to know what it is.”
Maggie rose abruptly.
“I will go and look at it myself,” she said. “A large parcel addressed to me! Who can have sent me anything?”
“It looks like a huge dress-box,” said Cicely. “We’re all curious about it.”134
Before any girl could leave the drawing-room it was necessary that she should ask Mrs. Ward’s permission. So Maggie now went up to that good lady and asked if she might go and look at her parcel.
“A parcel for you, dear?” said Mrs. Ward. “And you want to see its contents? But bring it in here; we shall all be delighted to look at it—sha’n’t we, girls?”
Maggie went away, wondering a good deal. Cicely accompanied her. Miss Johnson also appeared on the scene.
“Why, Maggie,” she said, “what can you have got? Such a huge box, and all covered over with brown paper! I don’t suppose Mrs. Ward would really like that box to be brought into the drawing-room. I’ll just go and ask her.”
One of Mrs. Ward’s peculiarities, and perhaps one of the reasons why she was such a favorite and led her girls with such gentle, silken cords, was her power of entering into their pleasures. She used to confess with a smile that she was like a child herself over an unopened parcel; and when Miss Johnson appeared with the information that the box was large and cumbersome, Mrs. Ward still gave directions that it was to be brought into the drawing-room.
“You can put some of the brown paper on the floor, if you like, Lucy,” she said, “and Maggie can show us its contents.”
Now, one glance at the parcel told Maggie Howland who had sent it. She recognized her stepfather’s writing. That bold commercial hand was painfully visible on the label. She would have given worlds not to have anything selected for her by Martin exhibited in the drawing-room at Aylmer House. But to refuse to show the contents of the box would but raise strong suspicion against her. She therefore, although very unwillingly, followed Miss Johnson into the drawing-room. The box was laid on the floor. The lid was removed, some tissue-paper was next extricated, and beneath lay a wardrobe such as poor Maggie even in her wildest dreams had never imagined. There was a letter lying on the top which she clutched and put into her pocket. This letter was in her stepfather’s writing. She could not read it before the others. Aneta and all the girls of her set, also Kathleen O’Donnell, Rosamond Dacre, Matty and Clara Roache, Janet Barns, the Tristrams, the Cardews, all clustered round the box.
“Oh, what fun!” said Kathleen. “A box of dresses for you! You lucky Queen Maggie! How I wish some one would send me some clothes!”
“Take them out, dear, and let us look at them,” said Mrs. Ward.
The first dress to be removed was a magenta cachemire. It was made with a short skirt trimmed with little frills of the same. The bodice had sleeves to the elbows, and long, coarse cream-colored lace sleeves below. The front of the dress was also much bedizened by the same coarse cream lace.135
Maggie felt her face nearly purple with rage. “Oh, why must all these things be looked at here?” she said; and there was a piteous note in her voice.
“I don’t see the necessity, dear,” said Mrs. Ward kindly.
“But, oh! please, please,” said Kathleen, “wemustsee the others. Here’s a sage-green dress trimmed with bands of black silk: that will be quite useful in the winter, won’t it, Mags?”
She tried to speak kindly, for the sage-green dress was as little to her taste as the impossible magenta. Under the two dresses were ribbons of different shades and hues, some strong, coarse stockings, some square-toed shoes, and finally, below everything else, an evening-dress made of voile, and deep blue in tone.
“Some of the things will he very useful,” said Miss Johnson. “I will put them all back again now.”
“But whom have they come from?” said Mrs. Ward. “I saw you take a note and put it into your pocket, Maggie.”
“Yes, these are a present from my stepfather,” said Maggie.
“Miss Johnson, you will take them upstairs, won’t you?” said Mrs. Ward.—“It is kind of your stepfather to think of you, Maggie.”
Maggie looked up and met Aneta’s glance. Was Aneta thinking of the Martyns of The Meadows? The color rushed all over Maggie’s face. She clenched her hands. “I hate the horrid, horrid things!” she said. “I won’t wear one of them.”
“Oh, come, dear,” said Mrs. Ward kindly; “your stepfather means very well indeed by you. He has doubtless had very little to do with dressing a lady before.—We can slightly alter those dresses, can we not, Miss Johnson?”
Miss Johnson had now placed all the hideous garments back in the box. She said with a smile, “The sage-green dress can be made quite useful; but I rather despair of the magenta.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Ward, “it was meant kindly. Perhaps, Maggie, if you gave me your stepfather’s address I might write to him and tell him the sort of things that I like my girls to wear.”
Maggie turned crimson. That would indeed be the final straw. She murmured something which Mrs. Ward did not choose to hear. To her great relief, the hour for bed had arrived, and all the girls went to their rooms.
Miss Johnson came down again after she had deposited the hideous dresses in Maggie’s wardrobe. “I quite pity poor little Maggie,” she said. “What frightful taste! There is really nothing in the whole of that box that she can possibly wear.”
“I must write to Mr. Martyn,” said Mrs. Ward. “Didn’t somebody tell me that he was a country gentleman—a relation of the Martyns of The Meadows? Such particularly nice people!”
“I know nothing about that,” said Miss Johnson. “I only know that the contents of the box are simply atrocious.”136
“Well,” said Mrs. Ward, “we won’t say anything to annoy Maggie to-night; I could see that the poor dear child was greatly mortified. I only regret that I had the box opened here; but you know it is one of our customs to share all our pleasures. Poor little Maggie! The thing was most unlucky.”
Up in her room, Maggie had locked her door. She would unlock it again, but she must read that frightful letter without any chance of being disturbed. She opened it, tore it from its envelope, and read the contents:
“Dear Popsy,—I came across a cheap lot of frocks the other day at a bankrupt’s sale, and thought at once of Little-sing and her daughter Popsy-wopsy. I am sending the dresses off to you without saying a word to Little-sing. You will be well off now for some time, and won’t require the five pounds from me for dress at Christmas. Hope you’re enjoying your fine young ladies and fine life. Neither Little-sing nor me miss you a bit; but, all the same, your room will be ready for you at Christmas. Take care of those good clothes, for I can’t often spend as much on you.
“Good-bye for the present.—Your affectionate father,
“Bo-peep.
“P.S.—I have a good mind to call on that fine-lady schoolmistress of yours, Mrs. Ward. There’s no saying but that Little-sing and me may come along some afternoon when you least expect us.”
Maggie crushed the letter in her hand. Fresh terrors seemed to surround her. Dreadful as the impossible clothes were, they were nothing to what the appearance on the scene would be of the impossible stepfather and her poor mother. Oh, why had she concealed the position of the man whom her mother had married? Already Aneta had detected her little act of deception with regard to the Martyns of The Meadows. But that, Maggie felt, could be got over. It was easy for a girl to make a mistake in a matter of that kind, and surely there were other Martyns in the country high-born and respectable and all that was desirable. But James Martin who kept a grocer’s shop at Shepherd’s Bush—James Martin, with “grocer” written all over him!—rich, it is true; but, oh, so vulgarly rich! Were he to appear and announce his relationship to her at the school, she felt that, as far as she was concerned, the end of the world would have arrived. What was she to do? There was not a minute to be lost. In one way or another she had seen a good deal of Bo-peep during the last half of those dreadful summer holidays, and she knew that he was, as he expressed it, as good as his word.
Her only chance was in writing to her mother. But then, if, by any chance, Maggie’s letter got into the hands of Bo-peep, his wrath would be so great that he would, in all probability, take her from the school at once. What was to be done? Poor Maggie felt herself between two fires. In either137direction was danger. On the whole, she resolved to throw herself on her mother’s mercy. Mrs. Martin, as she was now, would much prefer Maggie to remain at school, and she might be clever enough to keep Maggie’s stepfather from putting in an appearance at Aylmer House.
Maggie wrote a short and frantic letter. She was in the midst of it when there came a tap at her room-door.
“It’s I, Maggie,” said Miss Johnson’s voice from without. “Your light is still burning; you ought to be in bed.”
Maggie flew and opened the door. “I am sorry,” she said. “I was a good deal upset about those detestable clothes. I am writing to my mother. Please, Lucy, let me finish the letter. When it’s done—and I won’t be a minute longer—I’ll put it in the post-box myself, so that it can go by the first post in the morning.”
“Very well, dear,” said Lucy, who was too kind not to be good to any girl in the school; “only be quick, Maggie,” she said, “for you know you are breaking the rules.”
“Yes! oh yes!” said Maggie; “and I will never do it again.”
Miss Johnson left her, and Maggie flew back to bend over her paper and continue her writing:
“Darling, you must not let him come here. He threatens to come, but you must keep him away. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school. I beseech of you have a little mercy on me. For the sake of my own father, keep him—do keep him—from Aylmer House.—Your distracted daughter,
“Maggie Howland.”
This letter was addressed to Mrs. Martin (spelt this time with an “i”), Laburnum Villa, Clapham. Maggie stamped it, and, flying downstairs, popped it into the box which held the letters.
CHAPTER XX.THE VILLA.
Laburnum Villa, in the suburb of Clapham, was, in the new Mrs. Martin’s eyes, quite a delightful place. She had never appreciated her first husband, Professor Howland, but she thoroughly appreciated Bo-peep, and after her own fashion was fond of him. He gave her comforts. She had lived so long without comforts that she appreciated these good things of life to the full. She had never really been much attached to Maggie, who was too like her own father and too unlike herself to allow of the existence of any sympathy between them. Maggie, even before Mrs. Howland met Martin the Shepherd’s Bush grocer, had been more or less a thorn in the flesh to her mother.
Laburnum Villa was furnished, as James Martin expressed it, with an eye to comfort. There were solid arm-chairs with deep seats and good springs, and these were covered138with maroon-colored leather. There were thick, maroon-colored curtains to the dining-room windows, and all the furniture of the room was of solid oak. There was a rich Turkey carpet on the floor, and prints of different hunting scenes—by no means bad in their way—hanging on the walls. The paint-work of the room was of dull red, and the paper was of the same tone. It was a small room, and the furniture was large and heavy, but it represented in Martin’s eyes the very essence of comfort. The fireplace was modern, and when it was piled up with goodly lumps of coal it caused a warmth to pervade the whole room which, as Mrs. Martin expressed it, was very stimulating. The house had electric light, which both Mr. and Mrs. Martin considered distinguished.
They spent most of their time in the dining-room, although Mrs. Martin, with some faint instinct still left of her own life, would have preferred to use the drawing-room in the evenings; but when she suggested this Bo-peep said, “No, no, Little-sing; I can smoke here and sit by the fire, and enjoy the rest which I have rightly earned. I hate rooms full of fal-lals. You can keep your drawing-room for the time when I am out, Little-sing.”
Mrs. Martin knew better than to oppose her husband. She recognized her own weakness, and knew that against his fiat she could no more exercise her puny strength than a babbling stream can disturb a great rock. She used her drawing-room when Bo-peep was out, and regarded it with intense satisfaction. It is true that the colors were crude, for James Martin would have screamed at any Liberty tints. But the carpet was good of its kind, the pictures on the walls not too atrocious. Although they were in gilt frames, the large mirrors over the mantelpiece and at one end of the room were first rate; in short, the drawing-room was fairly presentable, and Mrs. Martin had some traces of her old life still lingering about her which gave a look of domesticity and even repose to the place. Her little work-basket, with its embroidery, was home-like and pleasant. She had forgotten how to play, but she always kept the piano open. Bo-peep suggested buying a pianola, and Mrs. Martin thought it would be a good idea.
“We’ll have all the comic operas on it,” said Bo-peep; “nothing of the classic order for me—nothing over-my-head, but the popular tunes, plenty of them—no stint. What do you say, Little-sing?”
Little-sing replied that it would be charming; but in her heart she somewhat shuddered, and was glad that the pianola was still a thing to be purchased.
Tildy had been turned into a very presentable little parlor-maid. There was also a first-rate cook, for Martin was fond of the pleasures of the table. On the whole, the little household was comfortable, and Mrs. Martin enjoyed her life. She had some cards printed with her new name and address, and the notification that she was “at home” on the third, fourth,139and fifth of each month. Tildy was very much excited about these At Home days; but the first month after Mrs. Martin’s marriage passed without a single individual calling upon her.
Mrs. Martin had been settled for over six weeks, and the day of Queen Maggie’s great reception at the school in Kensington was drawing on apace. Mrs. Martin was in a state of subdued excitement. She was dressed in her best. Her best consisted of a light fawn-colored silk with velvet trimmings of the same. The silk rustled as she walked. On her fingers were many rings of much brilliancy, and she wore a small diamond brooch at her throat. The reason of all this festive attire was a simple one, a good one, a domestic one. James Martin was coming home. He had been in Liverpool, engaged on special business, for the greater part of a week; but he was now returning to his beloved Little-sing, who had missed him, and he was pleased to feel that he would be with her again. She knew his tastes to a nicety, and had desired the cook to prepare a very special dinner for his delectation.
“Beef-steak pudding, cook,” she said, “with mutton kidneys, and plenty of oysters; and be sure the crust is very light.”
Cook replied that if she did not know how to make beef-steak pudding she ought immediately to leave her “perfession.” She was a stout, red-faced woman, and had a way of frightening Mrs. Martin, who generally retreated from the kitchen premises as quickly as possible.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Martin; “I am glad you quite understand. You know that my husband is very particular. Then we’ll have potatoes and fried mushrooms, and I think afterwards apple-tart and cream.”
The cook, whose name was Horniman, condescended to signify her willingness to provide this dinner, and Mrs. Martin went up to the drawing-room.
“You had better light a fire here, Matilda,” she said. “It’s going to be a very cold day.”
“I’d a sight rayther you called me Tildy, mum. It seems like as though a lump o’ ice got on my ’eart when you say Mat-tilda.”
“‘Matilda’ is more refined and suitable,” said Mrs. Martin with dignity.
“Oh yes, ’um—’course, ’um. When ’ull Miss Maggie be comin’ to see us, ’um?”
“Not before Christmas, you silly girl. Miss Maggie is at school.”
“So I ’ave ’eard,” said Matilda. “You ’aven’t give me no ’olidays, ’um, sence I come to yer; and it were understood, sure-ly, that I were to ’ave my day out once a month.”
“You shall go out to-morrow, Matilda. I haven’t the slightest wish to keep you indoors against your will.”
“To-morrer’s cook’s day, ’um.”
“Well, then, you shall go the next day.”140
“Thank you, ’um. I thought I’d go and see Miss Maggie ef you’d give me her address.”
“Well, now, that’s a very good idea,” said Mrs. Martin. “I could write her a little note, and you could take it to her. That’s very thoughtful of you, Tilda. Yes, I should like you to go and bring me word how she is.”
“It’s longin’ I am to lay eyes on ’er, mum. She’s a bee-utiful way with ’er,” said Matilda.
When she was quite alone Mrs. Martin took that letter of Maggie’s, which she had received during her husband’s absence, from her pocket. She was terrified lest Bo-peep should read it. The letter had offended her. Maggie had written with great fire and distress: “You must not let him come here. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school. For the sake of my own father, keep him from Aylmer House.”
Mrs. Martin slipped it back into her pocket, and then sat by her comfortable drawing-room fire waiting for the arrival of the good Bo-peep. He was a very playful creature. His one idea of happiness consisted in endless jokes—practical jokes or otherwise, just as it suited him at the moment.
He had done a very successful stroke of business in Liverpool, and was returning to Laburnum Villa in the highest spirits. While he was in the train he was planning how he could most effectively announce his return. To ring at his own hall-door, or to open it with a latch-key, or to walk in in the ordinary fashion of the master of the house did not content him at all. He must invent a more novel manner of return than that. He was really fond of Little-sing. She suited him to perfection. What he called her “fine-lady airs,” when they were displayed to any one but himself, pleased him mightily. He thought of her as pretty and gracious and sweet. He really loved her after his own fashion, and would do anything in his power to make her happy. But he must, as he expressed it, have his joke.
Mrs. Martin was seated by the fire in the drawing-room. It was getting late—nearly four o’clock; but, according to an expressed wish of Bo-peep, the window-blinds had not yet been drawn down. He liked, as he said, to see his home before he entered it. Mrs. Martin, therefore, with the electric light on, was perfectly visible from the road. Mr. Martin guessed that this would be the case, and he stopped the cab at a little distance from the house, paid the fare, shouldered his bag, and walked softly down the street. He went and stood outside the window. He looked in. The street was a quiet one, and at that moment there were no passers-by. Mrs. Martin was seated in her smart dress which he had given her, with her profile towards him. He thought her very beautiful indeed. His heart swelled with pride. She belonged to him. He hated fine ladies, as a rule; but a fine lady who was his very own was a different matter. He even felt romantic.
She was reading a letter. Who could have been writing to141Little-sing? Suddenly it occurred to him to slip down the area steps and stand close under the window. He did so, to the terror of cook and Tildy. Cook was about to scream, “Burglars!” but Tildy recognized her master.
“It’s his joke,” she said. “’E’s a wonderful man for jokes. Don’t let on to Mrs. Martin that ’e’s ’ere for your life. ’E’ll do something so comic in a minute.”
The comicality of Martin consisted, in the present instance, of singing in a harsh baritone the song of the Troubadour:
“Gaily the TroubadourTouched his guitar,When he was hasteningHome from the war;Singing, ‘From PalestineHither I come.Ladye love! ladye love!Welcome me home.’”
Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by the back way, and ran up the stairs.
“Little-sing!” he said, and clasped his wife in his arms.
During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie.
“By the way,” he said, “I did a right good turn for that girl of yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of clothes—two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?”
“She wrote to me, dear,” said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. “She was very much obliged to you.”
“And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her the things—that you had nothing to do with them?”
“Oh yes, yes,” said Mrs. Martin. “Won’t you have some coffee, James? I’ll tell Matilda to bring it in.”
“Coffee—fiddlestick!” said Martin; “and you know I hate to be called ‘James.’ Where’s Bo-peep?”
“You are Bo-peep,” said his wife with a funny smile.
“Well, then, no ‘Jamesing’ of me. I think it is very queer of your daughter not to reply to me when I send her expensive and handsome things. What did she say in her letter to you?”
“Oh, she was very grateful, of course, Bo-peep.”
“Well—but—where’s the letter? I may as well see it. There’s stuff in that girl. I don’t despair of her yet. She has142a head for business. I wouldn’t have your dear little head muddled with business, but your daughter’s a different person. She has nothing whatever to live on except what I allow her, and unless she is to starve she has got to please me.”
Mrs. Martin might have said, had she not been afraid, that Maggie was certainly entitled to her own father’s money; but it is to be regretted that Little-sing had not much courage.
Matilda came in with the coffee, which caused a slight diversion, more particularly as it was not to Martin’s taste, who desired her to take it away again, and request Horniman to send him something fit to drink. When the door was closed behind Matilda he renewed the subject of the letter.
“I saw you reading something as I came along,” he said. “When I peeped in at the window you had a letter in your hand. Who has been writing to you?”
“Only Maggie.”
“And that is the letter you spoke about?”
“Yes, dear James—I mean Bo-peep—yes. The child is very grateful.”
“She ought to be. I’d like to see the letter. Where is it?”
“I will go upstairs and fetch it,” said Mrs. Martin, who knew well that it was safe in her pocket all the time.
James Martin roused himself and gave her a studied look.
“Do so,” he said. “Bring it back to me at once. If I have to support that girl, and keep her at school, and pay for her clothing, I’ll allow her to have no secrets from me. You understand that, don’t you, Little-sing?”
“Yes. I will fetch the letter,” said Mrs. Martin.
She left the room. Martin was fond of her, but he was no fool. He was certain now that there was something in the letter which his wife did not wish him to see, and his curiosity was instantly aroused. He was determined to read poor Maggie’s letter at any cost. He waited impatiently, drumming his large, fat hand on the highly polished oak table the while. Tildy came in with fresh coffee.
“Please, sir,” she said, “cook wants to see you for a minute.”
“I can’t see her now. Tell her so,” replied Martin.
“Which is no message for a woman of my class,” said Horniman, entering the room and showing a very heated face. “I wishes to give notice that I leave your service this day month.”
“You can go to-morrow,” said Martin.
“As you please, sir; wages in full.”
“You go to-morrow,” said Martin; “and if you say another word you go to-night. Leave the room.”
Tildy breathed a little quickly, felt inclined to pat master on the back, thought better of it, and left the room.
“Whatever is keeping Little-sing?” thought Martin to himself.
He was not going to worry about cook and her whims, but143of Little-sing and the letter. He grew a little more suspicious, and consequently a little more angry.
“She has that letter in her pocket; I saw her put it there when I was acting the part of the Troubadour,” he said to himself. “She is destroying it now; but she sha’n’t—not before I get it.”
He softly left the dining-room and crept with catlike steps upstairs. He stopped outside his wife’s bedroom. There was a light burning there. He turned the handle of the door. It was locked.
“Open the door at once,” he said; and Mrs. Martin flew to do so.
“Oh Bo-peep, you gave me a fright!”
“Where is that letter, Victoria?”
“It—it—I can’t find it,” she replied.
“What are those papers lying on the floor?”
Mrs. Martin gave a cry. Mr. Martin was too quick for her. He swept up the pieces of torn letter, collected them in his great hand, and, taking Mrs. Martin with the other hand, returned with her to the dining-room.
“Now, you sit there, Little-sing,” he said, “while I piece the letter together. There is something in it that you want hidden from me; but you’ve quite mistook your man. There are to be no secrets between you and me. I’m not the least bit angry with you, but I am not going to have that girl ruling you. You’re frightened of that girl. Now, let’s see what she has to say.”
Poor Mrs. Martin trembled from head to foot. Suddenly she went on her knees, clasped her hands round Bo-peep’s arm, and looked into his face. “She was naughty. She was a silly child. Oh, forgive her! I ought to have destroyed the letter. I ought not to have kept it until you came back. Please—please, don’t read it!”
“Nonsense, Little-sing,” he replied, restored once more to the height of good humor. “You have roused my curiosity; nothing will induce me not to see every word of the letter now.”
It took Martin some time to piece together poor Maggie’s letter; but at last the greater part of its meaning was made plain to him. Mrs. Martin sat, white as death, looking at her lord and master. What was going to happen? What awful thing lay ahead of her? She felt crushed beyond words. Once again she struggled to get on her knees to implore him, to entreat; but Martin put out his great hand and kept her forcibly in her seat.
When he had quite taken in the meaning of the letter he made no comment whatever, but carefully deposited the torn fragments in his pocket-book. Then he said quietly, “I don’t blame you, Little-sing, not one bit. But we’ve got to punish this girl. To-morrow I shall be busy in town. The day after will be Friday, and I shall be busy then; but on Saturday we’ll take a half-holiday and go to visit Miss Margaret Howland at144Aylmer House—you and me together, Little-sing—the grocer and his wife together. Not a word, my love; not a word.”
CHAPTER XXI.TILDY’S MESSAGE.
Nothing ever kept Mrs. Martin awake; and, notwithstanding her anxiety with regard to Maggie, she slept soundly that night. Bo-peep was his own delightful self. His jokes were really too good for anything! She regarded him as the wittiest man of her acquaintance. She laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. He told her that he would take her to the theater on the following evening, and further said that he would engage a cook himself in town, send her out in the course of the morning, and that Horniman could go.
Horniman came up to interview her mistress soon after Martin’s departure. She was penitent now, and willing to stay; but nothing would induce Martin himself to forgive her, and, in consequence, Mrs. Martin did not dare to do so. The woman was paid her wages in full, and dismissed. Then it occurred to Mrs. Martin that here was her opportunity to send a short note of warning to Maggie. Why she did not send it by post it is hard to ascertain; but she thought that it would go more swiftly and surely if Tildy were the messenger.
Accordingly she sent for Tildy and told her what she expected her to do.
“Matilda,” she said, “cook has gone, and I shall be quite content with tea and toast and a lightly boiled egg for my lunch. After lunch you can take the train to London and convey a message from me to Miss Maggie.”
“Oh mum, ’ow beauteous!” said Tildy.
“I will have a letter ready which you are, if possible, to put into her own hands.”
“Yes, ’um; and don’t I long to see ’er, jest!”
“Well, this is the address,” said Mrs. Martin. “Get everything cosy and comfortable in the house, and bring me my tea by one o’clock. A train will take you to Victoria at half-past one, which you ought to catch. You can easily be back here between four and five; by that time the new cook will have arrived.”
“Things ain’t dull a bit to-day’,” said Tildy. “They’re much more Shepherd’s Bushy, and I like ’em a sight better than I did.”
“Well, go now, and attend to your business,” said Mrs. Martin.
Having secured a messenger, Mrs. Martin next prepared to write to poor Maggie:
“My dear Child,—Most unfortunately your father has discovered the letter you wrote to me. He doesn’t say much, but I can see that he is furiously angry. He intends to take me145with him to call on you next Saturday—I presume, some time in the afternoon. I will try to make him dress in as gentlemanly a manner as possible, and also will endeavor to prevent his talking about the shop. You must make the very best of things you can, dear; for there’s no possible way of keeping him from Aylmer House.—Your affectionate mother,
“Victoria Martin.”
When the letter was finished Mrs. Martin put it into an envelope, addressed to Miss Maggie Howland, Aylmer House, Randal Square, South Kensington, and put it into Tildy’s care. Tildy caught her train all in good time, arrived at Victoria, and took a bus to South Kensington. A very little inquiry enabled her to find Randal Square, and at about half-past two she was standing on the steps of that most refined and genteel home, Aylmer House. The look of the place impressed her, but did not give her any sense of intimidation. When the door was opened to her modest ring, and the pleasant, bright-looking parlor-maid answered her summons, Tildy gazed at her with great interest but without a scrap of shyness.
“I’ve come from ’er ’ome to see Miss Maggie ’Owland,” said Tildy; “and I’ve a message for ’er from ’er ma.”
The girl, whose name was Agnes, stared for a minute at Tildy. She recognized her “sort” in a moment. Tildy belonged to the lodging-house sort of girl. What she could have to do with one of Agnes’s young ladies puzzled that young person considerably. It was the rule, however, at Aylmer House that no one, however poor or humble, should be treated with rudeness, and certainly a person bringing a message to one of the young ladies was entitled to respect. Agnes said, therefore, in a polite and superior tone, “Step in, will you, miss? and I will find out if Miss Howland is in.”
Tildy stepped into the hall, feeling, as she expressed it, “dream-like and queer all over.” She did not dare to sit down, but stood on the mat, gazing with her bright, inquisitive eyes at the various things in this new world in which she found herself.
“How beauteous!” she kept repeating at intervals. “Why, Laburnum Villa ain’t a patch on this. How very beauteous! No wonder Miss Maggie ’ave the hair of a queen.”
Now, it so happened that Maggie Howland was out, and would not be back for some time. This was the day when she and the other girls belonging to her kingdom had gone forth to purchase all sorts of good things for the coming feast. Maggie, as queen, had put a whole sovereign into the bag. There would, therefore, be no stint of first-class provisions. Every sort of eatable that was not usually permitted at Aylmer House was to grace the board—jelly, meringues, frosted cake, tipsy cake, as well as chickens garnished in the most exquisite way and prepared specially by a confectioner round the corner; also different dainties in aspic146jellies were to be ordered. Then flowers were to be secured in advance, so as to make the table really very beautiful.
Maggie, Kathleen O’Donnell, and Janet were the people selected to arrange about the supper. Not a single thing was to be cooked in the establishment; this would give extra trouble to the servants, and was therefore not to be permitted. The girls would make their own sandwiches; and, oh, what troublesome thoughts they had over these! Maggie was in the highest spirits, and left the house with her companions—Miss Johnson, of course, in close attendance—half-an-hour before Tildy with her ominous letter appeared on the scene.
Now, it so happened that Agnes knew nothing at all of the absence of the young ladies. They usually went out by a side-door which had been specially assigned to their use when the house was turned into a school. As Agnes was going upstairs, however, in order to try to find Maggie, she met Aneta coming down.
“Oh miss,” she said, “can you tell me if Miss Howland is in?”
“No,” said Aneta, “I happen to know that she is out, and I don’t think she will be in for some little time.”
“Very well, miss; the young person will be sorry, I expect.”
“What young person?” asked Aneta, eager in her turn to find out why Maggie was inquired for.
“A girl, miss, who has called, and has asked very particularly to see Miss Howland. She’s rather a common sort of girl, miss, although I dare say she means well.”
“I will go and see her myself,” said Aneta; “perhaps I can convey a message from her to Miss Howland, for I know she won’t be back for some little time.”
Agnes, quite relieved in her mind, turned down the back-stairs and went to attend to her numerous duties. A few minutes after, Aneta, in all her slim grace, stood in the hall and confronted Tildy. Aneta was herself going out; she was going out with Mademoiselle Laplage. They had some commissions to execute. The day was a foggy one, and they were both rather in a hurry. Nevertheless, Aneta stopped to say a kind word to Tildy. Tildy gazed at her with open-eyed admiration. Beautiful as the house was, this young lady was indeed a radiant and dazzling vision.
“She made me sort o’ choky,” said Tildy as she related the circumstance afterwards to Mrs. Martin. “There was a hair about her. Well, much as I loves our Miss Maggie, she ain’t got the hair o’ that beauteous young lady, with ’er eyes as blue as the sky, and ’er walk so very distinguishified.”
“What can I do for you?” said Aneta now, in a kind tone.
Tildy dropped an awkward curtsy. “I’ve come, miss,” she said, “to see our Miss Maggie.”
“Miss Howland is out,” said Aneta.
“Oh, miss!” replied Tildy, the corners of her mouth beginning to droop, “that’s crool ’ard on me. Do you think,147miss, if I may make so bold as to inquire, that Miss Maggie ’ll be in soon?”
“I do not think so,” replied Aneta; “but I can convey any message you like to her, if you will trust me.”
“Oh miss,” said Tildy, worshipping Aneta on the spot, “who wouldn’t trust one like you?”
“Well, what is it? What can I do for you?”
“I was maid, miss—maid-of-all-work—at Shepherd’s Bush when Miss Maggie and ’er ma used to live there; and when Mrs. ’Owland married Martin the grocer they was that kind they took me to live at Laburnum Villa. It’s a very rich and comfortable ’ouse, miss; and the way they two goes on is most excitin’. It’s joke, joke, and play, play, from morn till night—that’s the ma and steppa of Miss Maggie. I’ve brought a letter from Mrs. Martin to be delivered straight to Miss Maggie.”
“I can give it to her,” said Aneta in her calm voice.
“You’ll per’aps mention, miss,” said Tildy, taking the letter from her pocket, “as I called, and as I love our dear Miss Maggie as much as I ever did. You’ll per’aps say, miss, with my dutiful respects, that my ’eart is ’ers, and always will be.”
“I will give her a kind message,” said Aneta, “and safely deliver her mother’s letter to her. I am afraid there’s no use in asking you to stay, as Miss Howland is very much occupied just now.”
“Very well, miss, I’ve delivered my message faithful.”
“You have.”
As Aneta spoke she herself opened the hall-door.
“Good-day, miss,” said Tildy, dropping another curtsy, “and I wishes you well.”
“Good-day,” replied Aneta.
Tildy’s little form was swallowed up in the fog, which was growing thicker each moment, and at that instant Mademoiselle Laplage, profuse in apologies for her brief delay, entered the hall.
“Pardon me,ma chère, that I have caused you to wait. I was just ready to descend, when—see! the lace of my shoe was broken. But what will you? You will go out in this dreadful fog?”
Aneta replied in French that she did not think the fog was too thick, and the French governess and the girl went out together into the street. But all the time Aneta Lysle was thinking hard. She was in possession of Maggie’s secret. Her stepfather, instead of being related to the Martyns of The Meadows, was a grocer! Aneta belonged to that class of persons who think a great deal of good birth. She did not mind Tildy in the least, for Tildy was so far below her as to be after a fashion quite companionable; but—a grocer! Nevertheless, Aneta had a heart. She thought of Maggie, and the more she thought of her the more pitiful she felt towards her. She did not want to crush or humiliate her schoolfellow.148She felt almost glad that the secret of Maggie’s unhappiness had been made known to her. She might at last gain a true influence over the girl.
Her walk, therefore, with Mademoiselle Laplage took place almost in silence. They hastily executed their commissions, and presently found themselves in Pearce’s shop, where Aneta had taken a brooch a day or two ago to have a pin put on.
The shopman, as he handed her the mended brooch, said at the same time, “If you will excuse me, miss, you are one of the young ladies who live at Aylmer House?”
“Yes,” said Aneta, “that is true.”
“Then I wonder, miss, if”––He paused a minute, looked hard at the girl, and then continued, “Might my brother speak to you for a minute, miss?”
“But it make so cold!” said mademoiselle, who knew very little of the English tongue, “and behold—zee fog! I have such fear of it. It is not to joke when it fogs in your country,ma chère. Il faute bien dépêcher.”
“I shall be quite ready to come back with you in a minute or two,” said Aneta.
Just then the man who had bought the brooch from Maggie appeared. “I am very sorry, miss,” he said, “but I thought that, instead of writing to Miss Howland, I might send her a message; otherwise I should have to see Mrs. Ward on the matter.”
“But what matter is it?” said Aneta. “You want to see Miss Howland, or you want me to take her a message?”
“Well, miss, it’s no special secret; only my brother and I cannot afford to buy the brooch which she sold us the other day.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Aneta. “Miss Howland sold you a brooch? Then if she sold it, you did buy it.”
“The fact is, miss,” said young Pearce, coloring rather deeply, “I was not myself quite aware of its value at the time, and I gave the young lady much too small a sum of money for it. I want her to return me the money, and I will give her back the brooch. My brother and I have been talking it over, and we cannot do an injustice to one of the ladies at Aylmer House—it is quite impossible.”
“I will give your message,” said Aneta coldly. “Please do not purchase anything else from Miss Howland. She will doubtless call to see you to-morrow.”
“Thank you, miss; then that is all right,” said the man, looking much relieved.
Aneta hastened home. She felt perplexed and alarmed. She must see Maggie, and as soon as possible. It was a strange fact that while Maggie was in no danger at all, while everything seemed to be going right with her, and as long as she held an undeniable position in the school as one of the queens, Aneta could scarcely endure her; that now that Maggie Howland, was, so to speak, at her mercy, this girl, whose nature was fine and brave and good, felt a strong desire to help her.149
There were, however, very strict rules at Aylmer House, and one of them was that no girl on any account whatsoever was to sell any of her possessions in order to make money. This was one of the unwritten rules of the school; but the idea of an Aylmer House girl really requiring to do such a thing was never contemplated for an instant. There were broad lines of conduct, however, which no girl was expected to pass. Liberty was allowed to a great extent at Aylmer House; but it was a liberty which only those who struggle to walk in the right path can fully enjoy. Crooked ways, underhand dealings, could not be permitted in the school.
Maggie had done quite enough to cause her to be expelled. There had been times when Aneta almost wished for this; when she had felt deep down in her heart that Maggie Howland was the one adverse influence in the school; when she had been certain that if Maggie Howland were removed all the other girls would come more or less under her own gentle sway, and she would be queen, not of the greater number of the girls at Aylmer House, but of all the girls, and very gentle, very loving, very sympathetic would be her rule. Her subjects should feel her sympathy, but at the same time they should acknowledge her power. Maggie’s was a counter-influence; and now there was a chance of putting a stop to it.
Aneta knew well that, kind as Mrs. Ward was to Maggie, she did not in her heart absolutely trust her. Therefore, if Maggie left it would also be a relief to Mrs. Ward. Miss Johnson might be sorry, and one or two of the girls might be sorry; in particular, dear little Merry. Aneta had a great love for Merry, and was deeply sorry to feel that Merry was under Maggie’s spell; that was the case, although she did not openly belong to Maggie’s party. So Merry too would be saved if Maggie left the school. Oh! it was most desirable, and Aneta held the key of the position in her hand. She also had in her pocket Mrs. Martin’s letter. That did not perhaps so greatly matter, for Maggie’s father, whatever her mother had done, was himself a gentleman; but the fact of Maggie’s slipping out of doors alone to sell an ornament was a sufficiently grave offense to banish her from such a school as Aylmer House.
Yes, Aneta could send her away, but it might be managed dexterously. Maggie might stay till the end of the present term and then go, knowing herself that she would never return, whereas the girls would know nothing about it until the beginning of the next term, when they would no longer see her familiar face or hear her pleasant voice. A few of them might be sorry, but they would quickly forget. The school would be the better for her absence. The thing could be done, and it would be done, if Aneta used that knowledge which she now possessed.
The girls all met at tea, and Maggie was in the highest spirits. She knew nothing whatever of all the information which Aneta had gathered in her absence. She knew nothing150of Tildy’s arrival, of Tildy’s departure, nor of the letter which Aneta had put into one of her drawers. Still less did she know anything of Pearce and his betrayal of her. She and her companions had had a very pleasant time, and immediately after tea, in the “leisure hours,” they were to meet in the girl’s private sitting-room to discuss matters officially.
The Aneta girls had, by common consent, given up the room to them during these last important days. There were plenty of nooks and corners all over the cheerful house where they could amuse themselves and talk secrets, and have that sort of confidence which schoolgirls delight in.
As soon as tea was over Maggie jumped up and said, “Now, Kitty”—she turned to Kathleen O’Donnell as she spoke—“you and I, and Rosamond and Jane, and Matty and Clara, and the Tristrams will get through our work as quickly as possible.—I suppose, girls”—here she glanced at Aneta in particular—“you will let us have the sitting-room as usual during the leisure hours?”
“Of course we will,” said Sylvia St. John in her gentle tone; but she had scarcely uttered the words before Aneta rose.
“Of course you can have the sitting-room,” she said; “but I want to talk to you, Maggie.”
“You can’t, I am afraid, just now,” said Maggie. “I am much too busy.—We have to go into accounts, girls,” she added. “There are no end of things to be done, besides, at the rehearsal.” Here she dropped her voice slightly.
“The rest of you can go to the sitting-room and do what is necessary,” continued Aneta. “I want you, Maggie, and you had better come with me.” She spoke very firmly.
A dogged look came into Maggie’s face. She threw back her head and glanced full at Aneta. “I go with you,” she said, “just because you ask me, forsooth! You forget yourself, Queen Aneta. I also am a queen and have a kingdom.”
“My business with you has something to do with a person who calls herself Tildy,” said Aneta in her gravest voice; and Maggie suddenly felt as though a cold douche had been thrown over her. She colored a vivid red. Then she turned eagerly to Kathleen.
“I won’t be a minute,” she said. “You all go into the sitting-room and get the accounts in order. You might also go over that tableaux with Diana Vernon.—Kathleen, you know that you must put a little more life into your face than you did the other day; and—and—oh dear, how annoying this is!—Yes, of course I will go with you, Aneta. You won’t keep me a minute?”
Maggie and Aneta left the room.
Merry turned to her sister and said in a troubled voice, “I can’t imagine why it is that Aneta doesn’t care for poor Maggie. I love Aneta, of course, for she is our very own cousin; but I cannot understand her want of sympathy for dearest Maggie.”151
“I am not altogether quite so fond of Maggie as you are, Merry; and you know that,” said Cicely.
“I know it,” said Merry. “You are altogether taken up with Aneta.”
“Oh, and with school generally,” said Cicely, “it is all so splendid. But come, we are alone in the room, and losing some of our delightful leisure hours.”
The Maggie-girls had meanwhile retired into the sitting-room, where they stood together in groups, talking about the excitement which was to take place on the following Saturday (it was now Thursday), and paying very little heed to Maggie’s injunctions to put the accounts in order.
“Don’t bother about accounts,” said Kitty; “there’s heaps of money left in the bag. Wasn’t it scrumptious of old Mags to put a whole sovereign in? And I know she is not rich, the dear old precious!”
“She is exactly the sort of girl who would do a generous thing,” said Clara Roache, “and of course, as queen, she felt that she must put a little more money into the bag than the rest of us.”
“Well, she needn’t,” said Kathleen. “I’d have loved her just as much if she hadn’t put a penny in. She is a duck, though! I can’t think why I care so much about her, for she’s not beautiful.”
“Strictly speaking, she is plain,” said Janet Burns; “but in a case like Maggie’s plain face doesn’t matter in the least.”
“She has got something inside,” said Matty, “which makes up for her plain features. It’s her soul shining out of her eyes.”
“Yes, of course,” said Kathleen O’Donnell; “and it fills her voice too. She has got power and—what you call charm. She is meant to rule people.”
“I admire her myself more than Aneta Lysle,” said Janet Burns, “although of course all the world would call Aneta beautiful.”
“Yes, that is quite true,” said Kathleen; “but I call Aneta a little stiff, and she is very determined too, and she doesn’t like poor old Mags one single bit. Wasn’t it jolly of Mags to get up this glorious day for us? Won’t we have fun? Aneta may look to her laurels, for it’s my opinion that the Gibsons and the Cardews will both come over to our side after Saturday.”
While this conversation was going on, and Maggie’s absence was deplored, and no business whatever was being done towards the entertainment of Saturday, Maggie found herself seated opposite to Aneta in Aneta’s own bedroom. Maggie felt queer and shaken. She did not quite know what was the matter. Aneta’s face was very quiet.
After a time she drew a letter from her pocket and put it into Maggie’s hand.
“Who brought this?” asked Maggie.
“A person who called herself Tildy.”152
Maggie held the letter unopened in her lap.
“Why don’t you read it?” said Aneta.
Maggie took it up and glanced at the handwriting. Then she put it down again.
“It’s from my mother,” she said. “It can keep.”
“I cannot imagine,” said Aneta, “anybody waiting even for one moment to read a letter which one’s own mother has written. My mother is dead, you know.”
She spoke in a low tone, and her pretty eyelashes rested on her softly rounded cheeks.
Maggie looked at her. “Why did you bring me up here, Aneta, away from all the others, away from our important business, to give me this letter?”
“I thought you would rather have it in private,” said Aneta.
“You thought more than that, Aneta.”
“Yes, I thought more than that,” said Aneta in her gentlest tone.
Maggie’s queer, narrow, eyes flashed fire. Suddenly she stood up. “You have something to say. Say it, and be quick, for I must go.”
“I don’t think you must go just yet, Maggie; for what I have to say cannot be said in a minute. You will have to give up your leisure hours to-day.”
“I cannot. Our entertainment is on Saturday.”
“The entertainment must wait,” said Aneta. “It is of no consequence compared to what I have to say to you.”
“Oh, have it out!” said Maggie. “You were always spying and prying on me. You always hated me. I don’t know what I have done to you. I’d have left you alone if you had left me alone; but you have interfered with me and made my life miserable. God knows, I am not too happy”—Maggie struggled with her emotion—“but you have made things twice as bad.”
“Do you really, really think that, Maggie? Please don’t say any more, then, until you hear me out to the end. I will tell you as quickly as possible; I will put you out of suspense. I could have made things very different for you, but at least I will put you out of suspense.”
“Well, go on; I am willing to listen. I hope you will be brief.”
“It is this, Maggie. I will say nothing about your past; I simply tell you what, through no fault of mine, I found out to-day. You gave the girls of this school to understand that your mother’s husband—your stepfather—was a gentleman of old family. The person called Tildy told me about Mr. Martin. He may be a gentleman by nature, but he is not one by profession.”
Maggie clutched one of her hands so tightly that the nails almost pierced her flesh.
“I won’t hurt you, Maggie, by saying much on that subject. Your own father was a gentleman, and you cannot help your mother having married beneath her.”153
Maggie gasped. Such words as these from the proud Aneta!
“But there is worse to follow,” continued Aneta. “I happened to go to Pearce’s to-day.”
Maggie, who had half-risen, sank back again in her seat.
“And Pearce wants to see you in order to return a brooch which you sold him. He says that he cannot afford the right price for the brooch. He wants you to give him back the money which he lent you on it, and he wants you to have the brooch again in your possession. You, of course, know, Maggie, that in selling one of your belongings and in going out without leave you broke one of the fundamental rules of Aylmer House. You know that, therefore––Why, what is the matter?”
Maggie’s queer face was working convulsively. After a time slow, big tears gathered in her eyes. Her complexion changed from its usual dull ugliness to a vivid red; it then went white, so ghastly white that the girl might have been going to faint. All this took place in less than a minute. At the end of that time Maggie was her old disdainful, angry self once more.
“You must be very glad,” she said. “You have me in your power at last. My stepfather is a grocer. He keeps a shop at Shepherd’s Bush. He is one of the most horribly vulgar men that ever lived. Had I been at home my mother would not have consented to marry him. But my mother, although pretty and refined-looking, and in herself a lady, has little force of character, and she was quite alone and very poor indeed. You, who don’t know the meaning of the word ‘poor,’ cannot conceive what it meant to her. Little Merry guessed—dear, dear little Merry; but as to you, you think when you subscribe to this charity and the other, you think when you adopt an East End child and write letters to her, and give of your superabundance to benefit her, that you understand the poor. I tell you youdon’t! Your wealth is a curse to you, not a blessing. You no more understand what people like mother and like myself have lived through than you understand what the inhabitants of Mars do—the petty shifts, the smallnesses, the queer efforts to make two ends meet! You in your lovely home, and surrounded by lovely things, and your aunt so proud of you—howcanyou understand what lodgings in the hot weather in Shepherd’s Bush are like? Mother understood—never any fresh air, never any tempting food; Tildy, that poor little faithful girl as servant—slavey was her right name; Tildy at every one’s beck and call, always with a smut on her cheek, and her hair so untidy, and her little person so disreputable; and mother alone, wondering how she could make two ends meet. Talk of your knowing what the poor people in my class go through!”