“I don’t pretend that I do know, Maggie,” said Aneta, who was impressed by the passion and strength of Maggie’s words. “I don’t pretend it for a moment. The poverty of such lives is154to me a sealed book. But—forgive me—if you are so poor, how could you come here?”
“I don’t mind your knowing everything now,” said Maggie. “I am disgraced, and nothing will ever get me out of my trouble. I am up to my neck, and I may as well drown at once; but Mrs. Ward—she understood what a poor girl whose father was a gentleman could feel, and she—oh, she was good!—she took me for so little that mother could afford it. She made no difference between you and me, Aneta, who are so rich, and your cousins the Cardews, who are so rich too. She said, ‘Maggie Howland, your father was a gentleman and a man of honor, a man of whom his country was proud; and I will educate you, and give you your chance.’ And, oh, I was happy here! And I—and I should be happy now but for you and your prying ways.”
“You are unkind to me, Maggie. The knowledge that your stepfather was a grocer was brought to me in a most unexpected way. I was not to blame for the little person who called herself Tildy coming here to-day. Tildy felt no shame in the fact that your mother had married a grocer. She was far more lady-like about it than you are, Maggie. No one could have blamed you because your mother chose to marry beneath her. But you were to blame, Maggie, when you gave us to understand that her husband was in quite a different position from what he is.”
“And you think,” said Maggie, stamping her foot, “that the girls of this house—Kathleen O’Donnell, Sylvia St. John, Henrietta and Mary Gibson, the Cardews, the Tristrams, you yourself—would put up with me for a single moment if it was known what my mother has done?”
“I think you underrate us all,” said Aneta. Then she came close to Maggie and took one of her hands. “I want to tell you something,” she added.
Maggie had never before allowed her hand to remain for a second in Aneta’s grasp. But there was something at this moment about the young girl, a look in her eyes, which absolutely puzzled Maggie and caused her to remain mute. She had struggled for a minute, but now her hand lay still in Aneta’s clasp.
“I want to help you,” said Aneta.
“To—help me! How? I thought you hated me.”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Aneta, “I did not love you until”––
“Until?” said Maggie, her eyes shining and her little face becoming transformed in a minute.
“Until I knew what you must have suffered.”
“You do not mean to say that you love me now?”
“I believe,” said Aneta, looking fixedly at Maggie, “that I could love you.”
“Oh!” said Maggie. She snatched her hand away, and, walking to the window, looked out. The fog was thicker than ever, and she could see nothing. But that did not matter.155She wanted to keep her back turned to Aneta. Presently her shoulders began to heave, and, taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she pressed it to her eyes. Then she turned round. “Go on,” she said.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Aneta.
“Say what you want to say. I am the stepdaughter of a grocer, and I have broken one of the strictest rules in the school. When will you tell Mrs. Ward? I had better leave at once.”
“You needn’t leave at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Aneta, “that if you will tell Mrs. Ward everything—all about your stepfather, and all about your selling that jewel and going out without leave—I am positively sure that dear Mrs. Ward will not expel you from the school. I am also sure, Maggie, that there will not be one girl at Aylmer House who will ever reproach you. As to your stepfather being what he is, no girl in her senses would blame you for that. You are the daughter of Professor Howland, one of the greatest explorers of his time—a man who has had a book written about him, and has largely contributed to the world’s knowledge. Don’t forget that, please; none of us are likely to forget it. As to the other thing—well, there is always the road of confession, and I am quite certain that if you will see Mrs. Ward she will be kind to you and forgive you; for her heart is very big and her sympathies very wide; and then, afterwards, I myself will, for your sake, try to understand your position, and I myself will be your true friend.”
“Oh Aneta!” said Maggie.
She ran up to Aneta; she took her hand; she raised it to her lips and kissed it.
“Give me till to-morrow,” she said. “Promise that you won’t say anything till to-morrow.”
Aneta promised. Maggie went to her room.
CHAPTER XXII.ANETA’S PLAN.
The girls downstairs wondered why Maggie Howland did not appear. After an hour of waiting Kathleen O’Donnell took the lead. The accounts were left alone, but the tableaux vivants were diligently rehearsed, the Tristrams and Jane Burns being the three critics; Rosamond Dacre, Kathleen O’Donnell, and Matty and Clara Roache the performers. But, somehow, there was no life in the acting, for the moving spirit was not there; the bright, quick eye was missed, the eager words were lacking, with the pointed and telling criticism. Then there was the scene where Maggie herself was to take a part. It was fromThe Talisman, and a night-scene, which she was able to render with great precision and even beauty, and the dun light would be in her favor. It was to be the crowning156one, and the last of the tableaux. It was expected to bring down the house. But Maggie was not there, and the girls could not help feeling a little disconsolate and a little surprised.
At supper that evening there were eager inquiries with regard to Maggie Howland. All the girls came up to ask Aneta where the other queen was.
“She is not quite well, and has gone to bed,” said Aneta. “She does not wish to be disturbed until the morning.”
Aneta’s words had a curious effect upon every one who heard her speak. It was as though she had, for the first time in her life, absolutely taken Maggie’s part. Her eyes, when she spoke of Maggie, were full of affection. The girls were puzzled; but Merry, as they turned away, suddenly ran back to Aneta, swept her arm round the girl’s neck, and said, “Oh Neta, I do love you!”
Aneta pressed Merry’s hand. For the first time these two understood each other.
Meanwhile poor Maggie was living through one of the most dreadful periods of her life. Her mother’s intimation that she and her stepfather were coming without fail to Aylmer House on Saturday—theday, the glorious day when Maggie and her friends were to entertain Mrs. Ward and the rest of the school—drove the girl nearly wild. Aneta had discovered her secret, and Aneta had urged, as the one way out, the painful but salutary road of confession. Maggie writhed at the thought, but she writhed far more terribly at the news which her mother’s letter contained.
The girl said to herself, “I cannot stand it! I will run away! He has destroyed my last chance. I will run away and hide. I will go to-night. There is no use in waiting. Aneta is kind; she is far kinder than I could ever have given her credit for. She would, I believe, help me; and dear Mrs. Ward would help me—I am sure of that. And I don’t really mind now that it comes to the point of losing my position in the school as queen; but for all the school—for the Tristrams, for Merry Cardew, for Kathleen—to see that man is beyond my power of endurance. He will call here, and he will bring poor mother, but as I won’t be here I won’t feel anything. I will go to-night. I’ll slip downstairs and let myself out. I have some money—thank goodness for that!—and I have my father’s treasures. I can take them out of the tin box and wear them on my person, and I can sell them one by one. Yes, I will run away. There’s no help for it.”
Maggie, at Aneta’s suggestion, had got into bed, but even to think of sleep was beyond her power. She got up again presently, dressed, and sat by the foggy window. The fog was worse; it was so thick now that you could not see your way even as far as the trees in the middle of the square. There were fog-signals sounding from time to time, and cabs going very slowly, and boys carrying torches to light belated and lost passengers.157
Maggie was safe enough in her room, which had, like all the other bedrooms at Aylmer House, a small fire burning in the grate. By-and-by some one tapped at the door. Maggie said, “Don’t come in”; but her words were unheeded. The door was opened an inch or two, and Merry Cardew entered.
“Oh Merry, you—of all people!” said Maggie.
“And why not?” said Merry. “I am your friend—your own very, very great friend. What is the matter, Mags? You were so jolly at tea; what can have happened since?”
“Something most dreadful,” said Maggie; “but you will know on Saturday.”
“Oh!” said Merry, coming up to Maggie and dropping on her knees and fondling one of the girl’s cold hands, “why should I wait till Saturday? Why should I not know now?”
“I can’t talk of it, Merry. I am glad you—you—lovedme. You won’t love me in the future. But kiss me just this once.”
“I am not going to leave you like this,” said Merry.
“You must, dear; yes, you must. Please, please go! And—please, be quick. Some one will see us together. Lucy Johnson will come in. Oh! don’t make matters worse for me. Good-night, Merry, good-night.”
Maggie seemed so anxious that Merry should go that the girl felt hurt and rose to her feet.
“Good-night, Merry dear,” said Maggie as Merry was walking towards the door. Then she added, in a semi-whisper which Merry did not catch, “And good-bye, Merry dear; we shall never meet again.”
Merry left the room, feeling full of apprehension. She thought for a minute as she stood outside. Then she went and knocked at Aneta’s door.
“Aneta, may I come in?”
“Of course, dear. What is the matter?” said her cousin.
Merry entered at once.
“I have been to see Maggie. She is awfully queer. Oh, I know I broke the rules. I must tell Miss Johnson in the morning.”
“I did beg of you, Merry, not to go to her,” said Aneta.
“Yes, I know you did; but I could not help thinking and thinking about her. She is very queer. Her eyes look so strange.”
“I hoped she was in bed and asleep,” said Aneta.
“In bed!” said Merry. “Not a bit of it. She was up and sitting by the window gazing at the fog.”
“I will go and see her myself,” said Aneta.
“Will you, Neta? And you will be kind to her?”
“Yes, darling, of course.”
“Somehow, she used to think that—that you didn’t love her,” said Merry.
“Nor did I,” said Aneta. “But I will be kind to her; don’t be afraid. I think I can guess what is the matter.”
“It is all very queer,” said Merry. “She was in such158splendid spirits to-day; all the girls said so when they were out preparing for our party, and now she looks years older and utterly miserable.”
“Go to bed, Merry, and leave your friend in my care.”
“Then you don’t think it wrong of me to be very fond of her?”
“I do not, Merry. There was a time when I hoped you would not care for her; now I earnestly want you to be her true friend. There is a very great deal of good in her, and she has had many sorrows. Pray for her to-night. Don’t be anxious. Everything will come as right as possible.”
“Oh Neta,” said Merry, “you are a darling! And when you talk like that I love you more than I ever did before. You see, dear, I could not help caring for Maggie from the very first, and nothing nor anybody can alter my love.”
Aneta kissed Merry, who left the room. Then Aneta herself, taking up her candle, went out. She was wearing a long white wrapper, and her clouds of golden hair were falling far below her waist. She looked almost like an angel as she went down the corridor as far as Miss Johnson’s room.
Lucy Johnson was just getting into bed when Aneta knocked.
“What is it, Neta?” said the governess in a tone almost of alarm.
“I want to break a rule, Lucy,” said Aneta; “so put me down for punishment to-morrow.”
“Oh, but why? What are you going to do?”
“I am going to do something which I shall be punished for. I am going to spend to-night, if necessary, with Maggie Howland.”
“Is she ill, Neta? Ought we to send for the doctor?”
“Oh no, she is not a bit ill in that way. Good-night, Lucy; I felt I ought to tell you.”
Aneta continued her way until she reached Maggie’s room. It was now past midnight. The quiet and regular household had all retired to bed, and Maggie had feverishly begun to prepare for departure. She knew how to let herself out. Once out of the house, she would be, so she felt, through the worst part of her trouble. She was not unacquainted with the ways of this cruel world, and thought that she might be taken in at some hotel, not too far away, for the night. Early in the morning she would go by train to some seaside place. From there she would embark for the Continent. Beyond that she had made no plans.
Maggie was in the act of removing her father’s treasures from the tin boxes when, without any warning, the room-door was opened, and Aneta, in her pure white dress, with her golden hair surrounding her very fair face, entered the room.
“Oh!” said Maggie, dropping a curiously made cross in her confusion and turning a dull brick-red. “Whatever have you come about?”
Aneta closed the door calmly, and placed her lighted candle on the top of Maggie’s chest of drawers.159
“I hoped you were in bed and asleep,” she said; “but instead of that you are up. I have made arrangements to spend the night with you. It is bitterly cold. We must build up the fire.”
Maggie felt wild.
Aneta did not take the slightest notice. She knelt down and put knobs of fresh coal on the fire. Soon it was blazing up merrily. “That’s better,” she said. “Now, don’t you think a cup of cocoa each would be advisable?”
“I don’t want to eat,” said Maggie.
“I should like the cocoa,” said Aneta; “and I have brought it with me. I thought your supply might be out. Here’s your glass of milk which you never drank, and here’s a little saucepan, and there are cups and saucers in your cupboard, and a box of biscuits. Just sit down, won’t you? while I make the cocoa.”
Maggie felt very strange. Her dislike of Aneta was growing less and less moment by moment. Nevertheless, she by no means gave up her primary idea of running away. She felt that she must hoodwink Aneta. Surely she was clever enough for that. The best plan would be to acquiesce in the cocoa scheme, afterwards to pretend that she was sleepy, and go to bed. Then Aneta would, of course, leave her, and there would still be plenty of time to get out of the house and disappear into the foggy world of London. The glowing fire, the beautiful young girl kneeling by it, the preparation for the little meal which she made with such swiftness and dexterity, caused Maggie to gaze at her in speechless amazement.
Maggie drank her delicious cocoa and munched her biscuits with appetite, and afterwards she felt better. The world was not quite so black and desolate, and Aneta looked lovely with her soft eyes glowing and the rose-color in her cheeks.
“Why are you doing all this for me?” said Maggie then.
“Why?” said Aneta. “I think the reason is very simple.” Then she paused for a minute and her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I think it is, Maggie, because quite unexpectedly I have learned to love you.”
“You—to love me—me?” said Maggie.
“Yes.”
Maggie felt herself trembling. She could not reply. She did not understand that she returned the love so suddenly given to her—given to her, too, in her moment of deepest degradation, of her most utter misery. Once again the feeling that she must go, that she could not face confession and the scorn of the school, and the awful words of Bo-peep, and her poor mother as Bo-peep’s wife, overpowered her.
“You are—very kind,” she said in a broken voice; “and the cocoa was good; and, if you don’t mind—I will—go to bed now, and perhaps—sleep a little.”
“What have you been doing with all those lovely curios?” said Aneta.160
“I?” said Maggie. “I—oh, I like to look at them.”
“Do pick up that cross which is lying on the floor, and let me examine it.”
Maggie did so rather unwillingly.
“Please bring over all the other things, and let me look at them,” said Aneta then.
Maggie obeyed, but grudgingly, as though she did not care that Aneta should handle them.
“Why have you taken them out of their boxes and put them all in a muddle like this?” said Aneta.
“I—I wanted something to do,” said Maggie. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Was that the only reason—honor bright?” said Aneta.
Maggie dropped her eyes.
Aneta did not question her any further, but she drew her down to a low chair by the fire, and put a hand on her lap, and kept on looking at the treasures: the bracelets, the crosses, the brooches, the quaint designs belonging to a bygone period. After a time she said, “I am not at all sure—I am not a real judge of treasures; but I have an uncle, Sir Charles Lysle, who knows more about these things than any one else in London; and if he thinks what I am inclined to think with regard to the contents of these two boxes, you will be”––She stopped abruptly.
Maggie’s eyes were shining. “Aneta,” she said, “don’t talk of these any more; and don’t talk either of wealth or poverty any more. There is something I want to say. When you came into my room just now I was packing up to run away.”
“Oh yes, I know that,” said Aneta. “I saw that you had that intention the moment I entered the room.”
“And you said nothing!”
“Why should I? I didn’t want to force your confidence. But you’re not going to run away now, Mags?” She bent towards her and kissed her on the forehead.
“Yes,” said Maggie, trembling. “I want you to let me go.”
“I cannot possibly do that, dear. If you go, I go too.”
“I must go,” said Maggie. “You don’t understand. You found things out about me to-day, and you have behaved—well, splendidly. I didn’t give you credit for it. I didn’t know you. Now I do know you, and I see that no girl in the school can be compared to you for nobleness and courage, and just for being downright splendid. But, Aneta, I cannot bear that which is before me.”
“The fact is,” said Aneta, “you are in the midst of a terrible battle, and you mean to give in and turn tail, and let the enemy walk over the field. That is not a bit what I should have expected at one time from Maggie Howland.”
“I will tell you,” said Maggie. “I am not really a bit brave; there is nothing good in me.”
“We won’t talk about that,” said Aneta. “What we have to think about now is what lies straight ahead of you; not161of your past any more, but your immediate future. You have a tough time before you; in fact, you have a very great battle to fight, but I do not think you will turn tail.”
“You want me,” said Maggie, “to go to Mrs. Ward and tell her everything?”
“You must do that, Maggie. There is no second course to pursue. There is no way out. But I have been thinking since I saw you that perhaps you might have your day on Saturday. I think it would be best for you to tell Mrs. Ward to-morrow; and I think she would not prevent you having your day on Saturday. Perhaps it will be necessary—but she is the one to decide—that some of your schoolfellows should be told; and of course your little brooch which you sold to Pearce must be got back. Even Pearce is far too honest to keep it for the price he paid you.”
“He gave me five pounds, and I have spent one. There are still four pounds left,” said Maggie. “I meant to run away with the help of these.”
“I will lend you a pound,” said Aneta, “and we’ll get the brooch back to-morrow.”
“But, Aneta, I have not yet told you—it is too fearful—you cannot conceive what my stepfather is like. It isn’t only his being a grocer—for I have no doubt there are lots of grocers who are quite, quite tolerable; but you cannot imagine what he is. I had a letter from him a little time ago—that time, you remember, when he sent me those perfectly awful dresses—and he said then that he and my mother were coming to see me, as he wanted to interview Mrs. Ward and to look at the school for himself. Well, that poor Tildy brought me a letter to-day from mother. I had written to mother to beg of her not to let him come; but he got hold of the letter, and he was nearly mad about it. The end of it is that he and she are coming onSaturday, and, somehow, I can’t bear it. I must run away; Icannotendure it!”
“I don’t wonder,” said Aneta. “Let me think. Lay your head on my shoulder, Maggie. Oh, how tired you are!”
“Aneta, you seem to me quite new—just as though I had never seen you before.”
“I think you and your story have opened my eyes and done me good,” said Aneta. “Then what you said about the sufferings of the poor—I mean your sort of poor—gave me great pain. Will you take off your things and lie down, and let me lie by your side? Do, Maggie darling!”
Maggie darling! Such words to come from Aneta Lysle’s lips! Maggie felt subjugated. She allowed her rival queen to undress her, and presently the two girls were lying side by side in the little bed. Maggie dropped off into heavy slumber. Aneta lay awake.
It was early morning when Aneta touched her companion.
“Maggie, I have been thinking hard all night, and I am going to do something.”
“You! What can you do? Oh, I remember everything now.162Oh, the horror! Oh, how can I endure it? Why didn’t I run away?”
“Maggie, you must promise me faithfully that you will never run away. Say it now, this minute. I believe in your word; I believe in your fine nature. I will help you with all my might and main through school-life, and afterwards. Give me your word now. You will stay at Aylmer House?”
“I will stay,” said poor Maggie.
“I don’t ask any more. Thank you, dear. Maggie, do nothing to-day, but leave matters in my hands. You are not well; your head aches, your forehead is so hot.”
“Yes, I have a headache,” owned Maggie.
“I shall be away for the greater part of the day, but I will ask Miss Johnson to look after you. Don’t say anything until I return.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“I am going to see your mother and your stepfather.”
“Aneta!”
“Yes.”
“Oh Aneta, you must not see him!”
“It is probable that I shall seem him, dear; I am not easily alarmed. I will take Aunt Lucia with me. I am going downstairs now to ask Mrs. Ward’s permission.”
“And you will say nothing about me?”
“Something, but nothing of your story. When you feel well enough you can get up and go on with the preparations for to-morrow. I believe we shall have our happy day.”
CHAPTER XXIII.AT LABURNUM VILLA.
Aneta went back to her room, where she dressed with her usual expedition and extreme neatness. When she had finished her toilet she ran downstairs. It was not yet eight o’clock; but most of the girls were assembled in the large hall waiting for prayers, which always took place before breakfast. Mrs. Ward was seen passing to the library, where prayers were held. Aneta went up to her.
“Prayers first, of course,” said Aneta, “and afterwards may I talk to you?”
Mrs. Ward looked at Aneta. “What is the matter, dear?”
“Something very important indeed. I must see you.”
“Well, breakfast follows prayers; come to me the minute breakfast is over.”
“Thank you, dear Mrs. Ward,” said Aneta.
At breakfast Merry asked Aneta how Maggie was. Aneta said that Maggie had a headache, and would not be in school during the morning.
“Then what are we to do about our day?” said Molly Tristram,163who overheard this remark. “We have absolutely more to get through than we can possibly manage.”
“Oh, to-morrow will be quite all right,” said Aneta; “and Maggie will join you presently.”
Aneta was so respected in the school, so little given to exaggeration, so absolutely to be relied on, that these words of hers had a most calming effect. The girls continued their breakfast, those who were in the secret of to-morrow occasionally alluding to the subject in French, which was the only language allowed to be spoken. The others talked about their different occupations.
As soon as ever breakfast was over, Aneta went to Mrs. Ward’s private room.
“Now, dear, what is it?” said the head-mistress. “I have to take the class for literature at half-past nine, and have very little time to spare.”
“I won’t keep you,” said Aneta; “but what I wanted was to beg for a day’s holiday.”
“My dear girl! What do you mean? In the middle of term—a day’s holiday! Can you not take it to-morrow?—oh, I forgot, to-morrow Maggie is having her grand carnival, as I call it. But what is the matter, Aneta? Have you any trouble?”
“Yes,” said Aneta; “and I cannot tell you, dear Mrs. Ward.”
“I trust you, of course, Aneta.”
“I know you do; and I want you to trust me more than ever. It has something to do with Maggie.”
Mrs. Ward slightly frowned. “I am never sure”—she began.
But Aneta stopped her impulsively. “If you give me that holiday to-day,” she said, “and if you trust me, and if you will also give me Mrs. Martin’s address, which, of course, you must have on your books”––
“Mrs. Martin’s address?” said Mrs. Ward.
“Yes. You know Maggie’s mother has married again; she is Mrs. Martin.”
“Of course, of course; I had forgotten for the moment. Yes, I have her address.”
“Well, if you will do all that,” continued Aneta, “I think that you will find a new Maggie in the future, one whom you—will trust, and—and love, as I love her.”
“My dear girl! as you love Maggie Howland?”
Aneta lowered her head for a minute. “It is true I did not love her,” she said, “in the past, but I have changed my views. I have been narrow-minded, and small, and silly. She herself has opened my eyes. I cannot tell you more now. Maggie will come down, and will be able to go on with her lessons just as usual this afternoon; but I want a day off, and I want it at once.”
“But where are you going, dear?”
“I am going to Aunt Lucia. You will let me have a cab, and I will drive to Aunt Lucia’s house in Eaton Square at once?”164
Mrs. Ward looked doubtful. “You have a very grave reason for this?” she said.
“Very, very grave; and I will tell you all presently.”
“I have never had reason to doubt you,” said Mrs. Ward, “and I won’t doubt you now. Does Maggie know of this?”
“Yes—oh yes; but please don’t question her until I return.”
“Very well, dear; you shall have your way. Oh, you want Mrs. Martin’s address. It is Laburnum Villa, Clapham.”
Aneta entered the address in a little tablet bound in gold which she always wore at her waist.
“Thank you ever so much,” she said, and then left the room.
A minute or two later she met Miss Johnson. “Give me something stiff to learn—something that I don’t like—to-night, dear Lucy,” she said. “I am off for a whole day’s holiday, but I shall be back in the evening.”
“That is very queer,” said Miss Johnson. “What does it mean?”
“I cannot explain, but Mrs. Ward knows. Be specially kind to dear Maggie, and give me something that I don’t like to do when I return.”
Miss Johnson smiled. “You shall hem some dusters,” she said.
Aneta made a wry face. “Thanks ever so much,” she replied; then she ran upstairs to get ready for her visit.
Just before leaving the house she looked in at Maggie. “I’m off, Mags. It’s all right. I shall probably see you about tea-time.”
Before Maggie had time even to expostulate Aneta closed the door, and a minute or two later had stepped into the cab which Agnes had called for her. The cabman was desired to drive Miss Lysle to Lady Lysle’s house in Eaton Square. This was accordingly done, and soon after ten o’clock Lady Lysle, who had not yet completed her morning toilet, was most amazed at being informed by her maid that Miss Lysle was waiting for her downstairs.
“Aneta! You don’t mean Aneta, Purcell?”
“Yes, my lady; and she wants to see you in a very great hurry.”
“Then send her up to me.”
Purcell disappeared. Lady Lysle wondered what was wrong. Presently Aneta burst into the room.
“My dear child,” said her aunt, “what can be wrong? Why have you left school? I do hope no illness has broken out there. It would be very inconvenient for me to have you here at present.”
“There is no illness whatever at the school, Aunt Lucia,” said Aneta, going up to her aunt and kissing her; “only there is a girl there, one of my schoolfellows, in a good bit of trouble, and I want to help her, and I have got a day off from Mrs. Ward, who doesn’t know why she is giving it to me, but165trusts me all the same. And now, auntie, I want you to come with me at once.”
“Oh my dear child, where?”
“To Clapham, auntie.”
“Clapham! I never stopped at Clapham in my life. I have driven through the place, it is true.”
“Well, we’ll stop there to-day,” said Aneta, “at Laburnum Villa, Clapham. I want to see Mrs. Martin, Maggie’s mother.”
“Oh, dear child,” said Lady Lysle, “you mean Miss Howland when you speak of Maggie? Now, you know I told you that her stepfather is no relation whatever to the Martyns of The Meadows. I cannot make out why she should have given you to understand that he was. A man who lives at Clapham! Dear Aneta, I would rather be excused.”
“There is no excuse, auntie, that I can listen to for a single moment. I know all about Maggie’s stepfather, and I will tell you as we are driving out to Clapham. You have always let me have my own way, and I have—yes, I have tried to be a good girl; but there is something before me to-day more important and more difficult than I ever tackled yet, and if I can’t come to my own aunt—I, who am a motherless girl—for help at this crisis I shall think the world is coming to an end.”
“What a strange, earnest way you do speak in, Aneta!”
“I am very sorry, darling; but I assure you the case is most urgent. You are quite well, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes, my love; I am never an ailing sort of person.”
“Well, then, I will send Purcell back to you, and please order the carriage, and please be as quick as possible. We have to go somewhere else after we have done with Mrs. Martin.”
“Well, Aneta, I always was wax in your hands, and I suppose I must do what you wish. But remember your promise that you will tell me the meaning of this extraordinary thing during our drive to Clapham.”
“I promise faithfully to tell you what is necessary, for the fact is I want your help. Darling auntie! you are doing about the best work of your life to-day. I knew you would stand by me; I felt certain of it, and I told Maggie so.”
“That girl!” said Lady Lysle. “I don’t care for that girl.”
“You will change your mind about her presently,” said Aneta, and she ran downstairs to request Davidson, the butler, to bring her something to eat, for her breakfast had been slight, and she was quite hungry enough to enjoy some of her aunt’s nice food.
By-and-by Lady Lysle, looking slim and beautiful, wearing her becoming sables and her toque with its long black ostrich plume, appeared on the scene, and a minute later Davidson announced that the carriage was at the door.
The two ladies stepped in, Aneta giving very careful directions to the driver.
He expressed some astonishment at the address. “Laburnum166Villa, Clapham!” he said. “Martin, Laburnum Villa, Clapham! Clapham’s a big place, miss.”
“I know that,” said Aneta; “but that is all the address I can obtain. We must call at the post-office, if necessary, to get the name of the street.”
The footman sprang into his place, and Aneta and her aunt drove off in the comfortable brougham towards that suburb known as Clapham.
“Now, Aneta, I suppose you will tell me what is the meaning of this?”
“Yes, I will,” said Aneta. “I made a mistake about Maggie, and I am willing to own it. She has been placed in a difficult position. I do not mean for a minute to imply that she has acted in a straight way, for she has not. But there is that in her which will make her the best of girls in the future, as she is one of the cleverest and one of the most charming. Yes, auntie, she has got a great power about her. She is a sort of magnet—she attracts people to her.”
“She has never attracted me,” said Lady Lysle. “I have always thought her a singularly plain girl.”
“Ugliness like hers is really attractive,” said Aneta. “But, now, the thing is this: if we don’t help her she will be absolutely lost, all her chance taken from her, and her character ruined for ever. We do a lot at our school for those poor slum-girls, but we never do anything for girls in our class. Now, I mean my girl in future to be Maggie Howland.”
“Aneta, you are absurd!”
“I mean it, auntie; her father’s daughter deserves help. Her father was as good a man as ever lived, and for his sake something ought to be done for his only child. As to her mother”––
“Yes, the woman who has married a person of the name of Martin, and to whose house I presume we are going”––
“Auntie, I have rather a shock to give you. Poor Maggie did mean to imply that her stepfather was in a different class of life from what he is. He is a—grocer!”
Lady Lysle put up her hand to pull the check-string.
“Pray, auntie, don’t do that. Maggie isn’t the daughter of a grocer, and she can’t help her mother having married this dreadful man. I want Maggie to have nothing to do with her stepfather in the future, and I mean to carry out my ideas, and you have got to help me.”
“Indeed, I will do nothing of the kind. What a disgraceful girl! She must leave Aylmer House at once.”
“Then I will go too,” said Aneta.
“Aneta, I never knew you behave in such a way before.”
“Come, auntie darling, you know you are the sweetest and the most loving and sympathetic person in the world; and why should you turn away from a poor little girl who quite against her own will finds herself the stepdaughter of a grocer? Maggie has given me to understand that he is a dreadful man. She is horrified with him, and what I am going now167to Laburnum Villa about is to try to prevent his visiting the school with his wife on Saturday. I will do the talking, dear, and you have only to sit by and look dignified.”
“I never was put in such a dreadful position before,” said Lady Lysle, “and really even you, Aneta, go too far when you expect me to do this.”
“But you would visit a poor woman in East London without the smallest compunction,” said Aneta.
“That is different,” replied Lady Lysle with dignity.
“It is different,” replied Aneta; “but the difference lies in the fact that the grocer’s wife is very much higher up in the social scale than the East End woman.”
“Oh my dear child, this is really appalling! I have always distrusted that Miss Howland. Does Mrs. Ward know of your project?”
“Not yet, but she will to-night.”
“And what am I to do when I visit this person?”
“Just look your dear, sweet, dignified self, and allow me to do the talking.”
“I think you have taken leave of your senses.”
“I haven’t taken leave of my senses, and I would do more than I am now doing to help a fine girl round a nasty corner. So cheer up, auntie! After we have seen Mrs. Martin we have to go on and visit the grocer.”
“Aneta, that I do decline!”
“I am sure you won’t decline. But let us think of Mrs. Martin herself first, and try to remember that by birth she is a lady.”
Just at this moment the carriage drew up outside a post-office. There was a short delay while Laburnum Villa was being inquired for by the footman. At last the street in which this small suburban dwelling was situated was discovered, and a few minutes later the carriage, with its splendid horses and two servants on the box, drew up before the green-painted door.
The villa was small, but it was exceedingly neat. The little brass knocker shone, even though yesterday was a day of such fog. The footman came to the carriage-door to make inquiries.
“I will get out,” said Aneta.
“Hadn’t James best inquire if the woman is in?” said Lady Lysle.
“No, I think I will,” said Aneta.
She went up the narrow path and rang the front-door bell. Tildy opened the door. The new cook had been peeping above the blinds in the kitchen. Tildy had hastily put on a white apron, but it is to be regretted that a smut was once more on her cheek. Somehow, Aneta liked her all the better for that smut.
“I want to see your mistress, Tildy,” she said. “It is something about Miss Maggie, and I am, as you know, one of her schoolfellows.”168
“Lor’, miss! yes, for certain, miss. Mrs. Martin ’ll be that proud, miss.”
“I have brought my aunt with me,” said Aneta. “She would like to come in too in order to see Mrs. Martin.”
“Yes, miss; in course, miss. There’s no fire lit in the drawin’-room. But there’s the dinin’-room; it do smell a bit smoky, for master ’e loves ’is pipe. ’E smokes a lot in the dinin’-room, miss.”
“Show us into the dining-room,” said Aneta. She ran back to fetch Lady Lysle, and conducted that amazed and indignant woman into the house.
Tildy rushed upstairs to fetch her mistress. “You get into your best gown in no time, mum. There’s visitors downstairs—that most beauteous young lady who spoke to me yesterday at Aylmer House, and a lady alongside of ’er as ’u’d make yer ’eart quake. Ef Queen Victoria was alive I’d say yes, it was ’erself. Never did I mark such a sweepin’ and ’aughty manner. They’re fine folks, both of ’em, and no mistake.”
“Did they give their names?” asked Mrs. Martin.
“I didn’t even arsk, mum. They want to see you about our Miss Maggie.”
“Well, I will go down. What a queer, early hour for visitors! What dress shall I wear, Tildy?”
“I’d say the amber satin, mum, ef I’d a voice in the choice. You look elegant in it, mum, and you might ’ave your black lace shawl.”
“I don’t think I will wear satin in the morning,” said Mrs. Martin.
Tildy helped her into a dark-brown merino dress, one of her extensive trousseau. Mrs. Martin then went downstairs, prepared to show these visitors that she was “as good as them, if not better.” But the glimpse of the carriage and horses which she got through the lobby-window very nearly bowled her over.
“Go in, mum, now; you’ve kept them waitin’ long enough. I can serve up an elegant lunch if you want it.”
Tildy felt almost inclined to poke at her mistress in order to hurry her movements. Mrs. Martin opened the dining-room door and stood just for a minute on the threshold. She looked at that moment a perfect lady. Her gentle, faded face and extreme slimness gave her a grace of demeanor which Lady Lysle was quick to acknowledge. She bowed, and looked at Aneta to speak for her.
“How do you do, Mrs. Martin,” said that young lady. “I am Aneta Lysle, one of your daughter’s schoolfellows. My aunt, Lady Lysle”—Mrs. Martin bowed—“has kindly come with me to see you. We want to have a little confidential talk with you.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Martin. “Has Maggie done anything wrong? She always was a particularly troublesome girl.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Lady Lysle. At that moment169she had an idea of Maggie in disgrace and banished from Aylmer House, which pleased her.
Mrs. Martin stopped speaking when Lady Lysle said this.
“Doubtless you agree with me, Mrs. Martin,” continued the lady, “that your daughter would do better at another school.”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Martin; “we wish her—Bo-peep and I—I mean James and I—to stay where she is.”
“And so do I wish her to stay where she is,” said Aneta.—“Auntie darling, you don’t quite understand; but Mrs. Martin and I understand.—Don’t we, Mrs. Martin?”
“Well, I am sure,” said Mrs. Martin, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you are driving at, Miss—Miss Lysle.”
“Well, it is just this,” said Aneta. “You sent a letter yesterday to Maggie.”
“I did,” said Mrs. Martin; “and great need I had to send it.”
“In that letter you informed Maggie that you and your husband were coming to see her to-morrow.”
“Bo-peep wishes—I mean, James wishes—to.”
“Really, Aneta, had not we better go?” said Lady Lysle.
“Not yet, auntie, please.—Mrs. Martin, I begged for a holiday to-day on purpose to come and see you.”
“If it’s because you think I’ll keep James—Bo-peep—I mean James—from having his heart’s wish, I am sorry you have wasted your time,” said Mrs. Martin. “The fact is, he is very angry indeed with Maggie. He considers her his own child now, which of course is true, seeing that he has married me, and I really can’t go into particulars; but he is determined to see her and to see Mrs. Ward, and he’s not a bit ashamed of being—being—well, what he is—an honorable tradesman—a grocer.”
“But perhaps you are aware,” said Lady Lysle, “that the daughters of grocers—I mean tradesmen—are not admitted to Aylmer House.”
Mrs. Martin turned her frightened eyes on the lady. “Maggie isn’t the real daughter of a tradesman,” she said then. “She is only the stepdaughter. Her own father was”––
“Yes,” said Aneta, “we all know what her own father was—a splendid man, one of the makers of our Empire. We are all proud of her own father, and we do not see for a moment why Maggie should not live up to the true circumstances of her birth, and I have come here to-day, Mrs. Martin, to ask you to help me. If you and your husband come to Aylmer House there will be no help, for Maggie will certainly have to leave the school.”
“Of course, and the sooner the better,” said Lady Lysle.
“But if you will help us, and prevent your husband from coming to our school to-morrow, there is no reason whatever why she shouldn’t stay at the school. Even her expenses can be paid from quite another source.”
Mrs. Martin looked intensely nervous. A bright spot of color came into her left cheek. Her right cheek was deadly pale.170
“I—I cannot help it,” she said. “I never meant Bo-peep to go; I never wished him to go. But he said, ‘Little-sing, I will go’—I—I forgot myself—of course you don’t understand. He is a very good husband to me, but he and Maggie never get on.”
“I am sure they don’t,” said Aneta with fervor.
“Never,” continued Mrs. Martin. “I got on with her only with difficulty before I married my present dear husband. I am not at all ashamed of his being a grocer. He gives me comforts, and is fond of me, and I have a much better time with him than I had in shabby, dirty lodgings at Shepherd’s Bush. I don’t want him to go to that school to-morrow; but I thought it right to let Maggie know he was coming, for, all the same, go he will. When James puts his foot down he is a very determined man.”
“This is altogether a most unpleasant interview,” said Lady Lysle, “and I have only come here at my niece’s request.—Perhaps, Aneta, we can go now.”
“Not yet, auntie darling.—Mrs. Martin, Maggie and I had a long talk yesterday, and will you put this matter into my hands?”
“Good heavens! what next?” murmured Lady Lysle to herself.
“Will you give me your husband’s address, and may I go to see him?”
“You mean the—the—shop?” said Mrs. Martin.
“I don’t go into that shop!” said Lady Lysle.
“Yes, I mean the shop,” said Aneta. “I want to go and see him there.”
“Oh, he will be so angry, and I am really terrified of him when he is angry.”
“But think how much more angry he will be if you don’t give me that address, and things happen to-morrow which you little expect. Oh! please trust me.”
Aneta said a few more words, and in the end she was in possession of that address at Shepherd’s Bush where Martin the grocer’s flourishing shop was to be found.
“Thank you so very much, Mrs. Martin. I don’t think you will ever regret this,” said the girl.
Lady Lysle bowed to the wife of the grocer as she went out, but Aneta took her hand.
“Perhaps you never quite understood Maggie,” she said; “and perhaps, in the future, you won’t have a great deal to say to her.”
“I don’t want to; she never suited me a bit,” said the mother, “and I am very happy with Bo-peep.”
“Well, at least you may feel,” said Aneta, “that I am going to be Maggie’s special friend.”
Mrs. Martin stood silent while Lady Lysle and her niece walked down the little path and got into the carriage. When the carriage rolled away she burst into a flood of tears. She did not know whether she was glad or sorry; but, somehow,171she had faith in Aneta. Was she never going to see Maggie again? She was not quite without maternal love for her only child, but she cared very much more for Bo-peep, and quite felt that Maggie would be a most troublesome inmate of Laburnum Villa.
“Now, Aneta,” said her aunt as the carriage rolled away, “I have gone through enough in your service for one day.”
“You haven’t been at all nice, auntie,” said Aneta; “but perhaps you will be better when you get to the shop.”
“I will not go to the shop.”
“Auntie, just think, once and for all, that you are doing a very philanthropic act, and that you are helping me, whom you love so dearly.”
“Of course I love you, Aneta. Are you not as my own precious child?”
“Well, now, I want you to buy no end of things at Martin’s shop.”
“Buy things! Good gracious, child, at a grocer’s shop! But I get all my groceries at the Stores, and the housekeeper attends to my orders.”
“Well, anyhow, spend from five to ten pounds at Martin’s to-day. You can get tea made up in half-pound packets and give it away wholesale to your poor women. Christmas is coming on, and they will appreciate good tea, no matter where it has been bought from.”
“Well, you may go in and give the order,” said Lady Lysle; “but I won’t see that grocer. I will sit in the carriage and wait for you.”
Aneta considered for a few minutes, and then said in a sad voice, “Very well.”
Lady Lysle looked at her once or twice during the long drive which followed. Aneta’s little face was rather pale, but her eyes were full of subdued fire. She was determined to carry the day at any cost.