"She has a mother, Nelly, and her grandmamma."
"A mother in one way, but she is so far-away, and Miss Longridge has been here seven months and only seen her once—four weeks ago. Poor young lady! She is dreadfully lonely, for the old lady is—well, you know, ma'am, when people get quite old, they cannot help being—" Here Nelly stopped for a word. She did not like to say cross or ill-tempered. So she blushed, and bending her head over her work, stitched away diligently.
Mrs. Moffat knew enough of Lady Longridge to fill up the blank, so she did not ask Nelly's meaning. But she drew from her the story of Margaretta's daily life, her yearning for instruction, her friendlessness, the solitary wanderings in the grounds, and efforts to get out of the hearing of the relentless old relative, who compared her sweet rich voice to the screams of a railway-whistle.
"But surely Lady Longridge has someone to teach her granddaughter," said Mrs. Moffat.
"No, ma'am. Miss Margaretta has no lessons of any kind, and she cannot practise, for the only old piano is just dreadful. It is never tuned, and if it were it would not keep in tune. The young lady's mamma would have left her beautiful piano for her daughter; but Lady Longridge would not have it there, or a scrap that belonged to her. You see, ma'am, she has fancies, being old, and she seems to think she is poor and cannot afford to spend any money on her granddaughter."
Mrs. Moffat remained silent for a little while, turning over in her own mind a plan suggested by Nelly's confidences. She was a highly accomplished woman, a born musician, who delighted to encourage musical talent in others, and at once the thought occurred to her—
"Here am I, a lonely woman, with such talents as I possess running to waste for want of an opportunity to exercise them. And just within reach is a sweet young creature, wanting exactly what I am able to give. How can we be brought together?"
Soon afterwards Nelly Corry knew that her innocent stratagem had been successful, for Mrs. Moffat said—
"How I wish I could be of use to this dear lonely girl! I am sure I can trust you, Nelly. Tell me, now, what I can do for her. It would be quite a delight to me to give her an opportunity of using my piano, and I might perhaps direct her musical studies a little. Do you think Lady Longridge would let her come here?"
"Indeed, ma'am, I do not know. Thorley, that is her ladyship's maid, could tell more than anybody else. Lady Longridge never comes near the workroom, which is the old nursery at Northbrook, though she knows when I am there, for she sometimes grumbles at having to pay me for altering Miss Margaretta's frocks."
"How could I see Thorley? I know her by sight already, for I call on Lady Longridge now and then."
"She gets out very little, for it seems as if her mistress could hardly bear her to be out of hearing, but I am sure she will contrive to come to you if you will see her."
It was arranged that Nelly should take a message to Thorley on the following day, and certain hours were named at which she would find Mrs. Moffat at home for a week to come. Two days later, Thorley called at Clough Cottage, and had a long talk with its mistress. At its close, she said—
"If, madam, you could persuade my lady to fall in with your plan, it would be the saving of Miss Margaretta; but please do not let her think that it will be a favour to you. And if you would be so kind as to make her pay for it."
There was something quite whimsical in the look on Thorley's face as she said this, for she was in mortal dread of giving offence. Mrs. Moffat was a lady of means, who visited the county families, being as well-bred as any of them, and to suggest her receiving payment was something dreadful.
The maid began to try and explain her meaning, but Mrs. Moffat interrupted her with a smile, and said, "I think I know enough of Lady Longridge to comprehend the difficulty. We have to make great allowances for the peculiarities of aged people, and at four-score they are privileged."
"Lady Longridge is turned eighty-one, and just a wonder for her age," said Thorley enthusiastically, and with a look of infinite relief. "I have served her five-and-twenty years."
"She is fortunate in retaining such faithful service. Well, Thorley, I think I understand your meaning. You believe that if Lady Longridge supposed that I particularly wished to assist her granddaughter in her studies, and that the dear girl's presence would give pleasure to a solitary woman, she would say 'No.' And yet she does want a teacher for her granddaughter."
"I could not quite say that much. Miss Margaretta has been at her grandma to let her have lessons, and the rector has ventured to tell my lady that her granddaughter's time is being wasted, and that she is being let run wild as no working man's child would be. He told her what people were saying, and how it was the talk of the countryside that her son's only child was being frightfully neglected. I don't know how he dared, but, though he is so quiet mostly, he speaks out in a matter of right or wrong. So my lady has been asking about a governess, but she does not like to pay for a good one; besides, she does not wish one altogether at the Hall; and who that knew how dull it is, would like to come? It takes years to get used to the life there, and it is hard for the young.'
"Tell me exactly what course would be best, and speak out. Do not fear my being displeased."
"Then, madam, I think if you could call at Northbrook, very soon, just whilst my lady is worrited about getting someone to teach Miss Margaretta, she might perhaps ask your advice. You need not tell her straight out what is in your mind, but if only you could get to know what ladies have asked who have written about coming, you might see your way by making a great favour of it. As to the money part, you would know better than I should. Only my lady values most what she has to pay for."
Mrs. Moffat was shrewd enough to realise the position at once. She paid the proposed visit, as it happened, in the nick of time; found Lady Longridge irritated and perplexed, the former at the unconscionable salaries asked by governesses, when only a few years ago twenty pounds a year would have been considered ample.
"Not that my son and his wife thought so. They gave a hundred and board to the one who used to teach Margaretta, as though money were picked up in the streets! There is only one of these," and she laid her hand on a pile of letters, "that asks less, and she cannot write plainly, and has misspelt two words."
"She is perhaps one of the old twenty-pound-a-year class, belonging to the days when persons who could earn a living in no other way went out as governesses amongst people who knew not whether they were fit to teach or otherwise. But you, Lady Longridge, are better able to judge. Besides, teaching is now a distinct profession, and a highly honourable one, in which the incapables of old times would stand no chance to-day."
"Yes," said Lady Longridge, ignoring all but the compliment, "I can spell yet, though I am over eighty. Can you tell me of anyone hereabout who would teach Margaretta, just to make out a little income? I would give fifty pounds a year for three or even two hours' lessons a day, morning or afternoon, as might suit her best. I am wearied out of my life with all these letters."
"Would you give sixty to a competent person?"
"Yes, even sixty, but no board. Mind, no board," added the old lady, eagerly.
"I will think about this and tell you to-morrow without fail." And Mrs. Moffat departed, leaving Lady Longridge much relieved.
"She will find somebody, Thorley, I am convinced of it. She is a clever woman, with a good head and plenty of common sense, which almost make one wish she had to teach for a living. What a governess she would make for that gipsy of a girl!"
Thorley felt herself a dreadful hypocrite as she replied that Mrs. Moffat was quite a lady, and had plenty of money. Also that she did a world of good with it; but this remark caused such a snappish rejoinder, that she wished it had been suppressed.
Lady Longridge looked eagerly for Mrs. Moffat's coming, and greeted her with the inquiry, "Have you brought good news?"
"I cannot tell whether you will think it so, but if you like, I will give your granddaughter the benefit of all I know, on the terms named yesterday."
"You! You teach, and for money!" shrieked the old lady. "You are rich; you want none. I cannot understand you."
"If you agree to my proposal, you will give fifteen pounds a quarter into the hands of Mr. Moorhouse, our new rector, towards the repairs and restoration of the church. I shall not touch a penny of it myself. But the work is badly wanted, and is dear to his heart and to mine. I do not believe in our living in ceiled houses and being surrounded with luxuries, and allowing the House of God to fall into wreck and ruin."
"You have given I don't remember how much already, for the man flung that in my face when he came begging here. He could not say that I indulged in luxuries."
"I have given, but it has been of that which cost me nothing—not even a little self-denial. Now I am anxious to work for some extra money, in order that I may give it under more satisfactory conditions. I have never yet known the happiness of earning anything."
"No more have I, if you call it happiness. But there is an old proverb which says, 'There is more made by saving than getting.' Not," added Lady Longridge, "that I have saved much, only I have had to be careful. I will think of what you have said, but could you not call it fifty?"
"For myself I would say nothing. But this is for God's cause and His house. No, Lady Longridge, you must give me a decided answer before I leave, or you will lose your chance of paying me a salary. If I take your money, mind, I mean to earn it. If you do not pay me sixty pounds per annum, someone else will double the amount, for a similar return. Will you read this letter in proof of what I say?"
Mrs. Moffat handed one as she spoke. It was from a greater personage than Lady Longridge, and the writing was familiar to her. It said—
"My dear Hilda,—If you are bent on earning money in order to try the
luxury of giving at a considerable cost to yourself, do let us have the
benefit. You would have a submissive and adoring pupil in my daughter,
who would come to you daily, and share the advantages with Lady
Longridge's granddaughter, if you choose. You have only to name your
terms."
"Margaretta shall come to you, and I will pay the sixty pounds a year to Mr. Moorhouse. I shall be helping a good work too," added the old woman, with a look of self-gratulation.
"You will enable me to do so much more, but I protest against your claiming second-hand credit," said Mrs. Moffat.
The old lady laughed. She rather liked to meet her match sometimes, and the thought of having made a good bargain, even at the cost of sixty pounds a year, put her into a good humour for the time being. She was eager for Margaretta to begin her studies, but as the morrow would be Friday, it was decided that the girl should go to Clough Cottage on the Monday morning following.
How Thorley and the little seamstress rejoiced in the success of their innocent plan needs not be told, or with what impatience Margaretta counted the hours that must intervene before she should once more touch a piano worthy the name. In the meanwhile she hunted up her books and music, to be ready for use when needed.
CHAPTER V.
BRIGHTER DAYS FOR MARGARETTA.
MRS. MOFFAT took no second charge. Margaretta was her only pupil, and it is just probable that the letter which moved Lady Longridge to decide so quickly was not really intended to be acted upon, though the writer was thoroughly in earnest in making the offer.
What a little paradise Clough Cottage was to Margaretta, after the bare, comfortless rooms to which she was accustomed at Northbrook! How delightful it was to be addressed in terms such as her mother used in old days, and to find that this charming, cultured woman, to whose care she was consigned, was ready to open her heart to sympathise with a girl so untaught, as she now felt herself to be in comparison.
Mrs. Moffat wanted a young creature to love, and to whom she might impart a share of the mental treasures to which she was daily adding. She made a study of Margaretta, as a mother studies the nature of a child whom, by God's help, she aspires to mould into a noble woman. She won the girl's heart—that was an easy matter. She won her confidence, and used the knowledge she gained of the girl's inner nature to give her wise advice and lead her in the right way. How it touched Mrs. Moffat to receive the girl's communications, to know that little secret about the two humble friends who called her "Meg," when no one was at hand to overhear! And how she rejoiced that, despite the difference in their social position, these two friends, Thorley and the little seamstress, were not unwisely chosen, but deserved the name!
"I should never have known you but for Nelly Corry; and oh, how happy you have made me!" said Margaretta, as she held Mrs. Moffat's hand in her own, and caressed it from time to time in her childish fashion. "I owe her more than words can tell."
"And I owe her a great deal also, Meg, my darling. You have cheered my loneliness and given me a new interest in life," replied Mrs. Moffat, adding a loving kiss.
It would be waste of words to enter more fully into details. Meg was happy beyond expression. She worked with all her heart—so hard, indeed, that Mrs. Moffat was obliged to restrain her eagerness and insist on proper time being given to outdoor exercise and rest. As to music, the girl simply revelled in it.
At the end of two years her wonderful voice was the talk of the neighbourhood. Even old Lady Longridge became sensible that excellent value had been given for the money she had expended, and she began to take a grim pleasure in being called "grandmother" by this graceful girl who, though older, was infinitely more manageable than the wild young creature who roamed the woods at pleasure, yet felt all the while like an imprisoned bird, when first consigned to her guardianship. Alas! There was no summer holiday or visit to the seaside for the girl, who longed to be like others in this respect.
Lady Longridge had many more callers after Margaretta was taken in hand by Mrs. Moffat. Many of the neighbours would have liked to show kindly attentions to the girl of whom her teacher spoke so warmly, but their advances met with little encouragement. "I am too old to go out with Margaretta, and she is too young to take care of herself. She gets as much change as is good for her at Clough Cottage, and she has work to do both there and at home."
Mrs. Moffat, however, contrived little pleasures for her young charge, whom she was learning to love like a daughter, and occasionally invited other girls to meet her, when she could obtain permission for her to spend a night at the Cottage. But to strangers Margaretta was shy at first, and she did not meet any of these young people often enough to strike up a schoolgirl friendship with one of them.
She had Mrs. Moffat, whose sympathetic nature fitted her to fill the places of teacher, mother, friend, and sister to Margaretta, who, in possessing her affection, felt abundantly contented—nay, rich beyond expression.
Her days were no longer a weary blank, with nothing to vary their monotony. She had work and loved it, and though still living in such a retired fashion, she felt with unspeakable satisfaction that she was daily becoming better fitted for the society into which, when she returned to her darling mother, she should certainly be introduced.
It was well for Margaretta that there was one who sympathised with her on the subject which lay nearest to her heart, and which she dared not even mention in the presence of Lady Longridge. This was her separation from her mother. Mrs. Norland, who from the moment of her marriage disclaimed all wish to reserve the title by which she might still have been addressed had she chosen, liked her mother-in-law as little as she did after that first meeting at Northbrook. She had twice visited her daughter, but not at the Hall, having declared, when she left it just after her widowhood, that the same roof should never again cover Lady Longridge and herself.
Next Margaretta heard of the birth of a baby brother, whose coming prevented a third visit to which she was looking forward. It was a terrible disappointment, for Margaretta hoped that her mother and her beloved Mrs. Moffat would also meet, and that this would create a new bond between them. But this was not to be, and though Mrs. Moffat had been the tenant of Clough Cottage for five years past, she and Sir Philip's wife had only seen each other at church.
It has been said that Sir Philip seldom remained long at Northbrook, and Mrs. Moffat having no home ties, was often absent during the short time that they were nominal neighbours before his death. Now Mrs. Moffat's affection for Margaretta kept her much more at the Cottage. When she left it for a few weeks she would fain have taken the girl with her. But to this Lady Longridge would never consent, though she would have had nothing to pay for her granddaughter.
"Where I stay, Margaretta, remains also. I cannot go elsewhere, so she must content herself at Northbrook. I will never part with her whilst I live. If I die before she is of age, that will be another matter, though I do not think I shall. My head is clear, my memory good—oh yes, very good; too good sometimes, is it not, Thorley?" Appealing to her inseparable attendant, and looking so wickedly knowing and wide-awake to everything, that Mrs. Moffat felt that there was every prospect of her expectations being fulfilled.
It was of no use to ask, so Mrs. Moffat sorrowfully left her favourite behind, and returned the sooner for her sake.
A few weeks after that disappointment with regard to her mother's visit, Margaretta received the most loving of letters from her, together with a fresh consignment of pretty things for her wardrobe, and unmade materials.
"My dear child," she wrote, "I am extremely grieved to think that I
shall have to leave England without seeing you, and I cannot quite say
when I shall return. I have been less strong since little Hugh was
born, and the doctors say that it will be necessary for me to winter
in a warmer climate. I long to see you and kiss your dear face, my
precious girl, but it is useless to ask Lady Longridge for you to visit
me, and I cannot bear an extra three hundred miles of travelling to and
from Northbrook, when the saving of every mile is important. So I can
only pray, 'May God bless and keep you, and grant us a happy meeting on
my return!'"
"Baby is very like you, and I am so glad of it, for in his,
I seem to see your baby face again, and I give him double caresses on
that account—one set for you. When I was lying very ill, I thought of
Lady Longridge, and I wished we had been better friends. If you have
an opportunity tell your grandmother this. I would send her a kinder
message, but I am afraid she would misconstrue my motives. When a time
of weakness comes, and the end of an illness is doubtful, the little
jealousies and quarrels of the past seem so contemptible, and there is
so much that one would like to undo if possible."
There was much more in the letter that need not be quoted, and with it came a supply of foreign stamps, notepaper, and various articles of everyday use, besides those in the way of dress. Also a ten-pound note, to which no allusion was made, and which, Margaretta judged, was to meet any special need which might arise during her mother's absence. She told Mrs. Moffat about this, and asked her to take care of it for her, saying, "Do you not think mamma avoided naming it, so that if grandmother makes me show her the letter, as she always does, she might not know about the money?"
"I do, dear Meg. If it were sent by any one but your mother it would be different, but she has a right to trust you alone, if she thinks proper. Have you any money?"
"I have a sovereign and some silver left of what mamma gave me the last time. I do not spend much, but I like to have a trifle to give at church, and so on. It looks odd to put a threepenny-bit in always, does it not? And grandmother never gives me more for collections. She says it is enough for me, and she forgets that it is for her too, seeing that she does not go herself."
Mrs. Moffat smiled at this, and consented to take charge of the note, as Meg had no safe place in which to keep it, and to give it back by instalments, as the girl might require.
As Margaretta anticipated, Lady Longridge demanded a sight of her letter, and there was a look of grim satisfaction on her face as she mastered its contents. The girl thought she was pleased at the message to herself, and was glad it should reach her just as it was written. But Lady Longridge was saying to herself—
"So you are being paid out at last, my lady. You are finding out that the old are sometimes hale and hearty, whilst the young are broken down. I don't wish you to die. At my time of life one must not be too hard; but I hope it will be a good while before you come back to England, to put false notions into your daughter's head, or meddle between her and me. Everyone can see how well the girl is being trained. She will be a credit to an old woman's bringing up, and you, proud as you are, will have to own it."
To Margaretta she said—
"Never mind, child. If your mother is away, you have me to look after you. You will be well taken care of, never fear. These meetings are mere matters of habit. I know by experience how well many daughters get on without seeing their mothers for many years together."
Truly she did. The visits of her own daughters had become fewer and farther between, as well as shorter in duration than of old, and the fact did not distress Lady Longridge in the least. She had cared more for her son than for anyone else. Now if she cared for anyone it was for Margaretta and Thorley. Not both alike. Two persons never occupied equal positions in Lady Longridge's regard at the same time. It was first one and then the other who was favourite for a while.
The old lady was great at will-making. How many of such documents had been prepared by her lawyer, Mr. Melville, would be difficult to tell. How many that purported each to be the last will and testament of Dame Sophia Janet Longridge, had been torn to fragments or committed to the flames, only the testatrix and her much-worried legal adviser could say.
At present her ladyship was happy in the possession of two such. By virtue of one, which she mentally styled her "white will," she bequeathed the bulk of what she possessed to Margaretta and a legacy of one thousand pounds to Thorley, of whose worth time had convinced her. By the other, which was her "blue will," the bequests were exactly reversed. Each had been framed according to the humour or ill-humour of the time being, and owed its name to the colour of the paper on which it was written. So, though nobody knew this but Lady Longridge and her lawyer, she delighted in the thought that by burning one will she could in a few seconds dispossess either of those named therein. But neither Margaretta nor Thorley knew how much depended on the whim of a moment, or that Lady Longridge intended to bequeath even a legacy to either.
The girl never troubled her head about the matter, and if Thorley did, she entertained small expectations of receiving any benefit from the decease of her mistress.
"Likely enough she will wear me out, and if I outlive her, I shall miss her terribly. One gets used to being worrited till it becomes a second nature."
From this faithful woman Lady Longridge knew that she had received what money could never repay, but she did not know how glad Thorley would have been if from her mistress's lips she could once have heard a few kindly approving words.
In her younger days Thorley had been eager to accumulate money, and infected, though in a less degree, with her mistress's passion for saving. But as the years went by the maid had seen how little happiness Lady Longridge's hoards were able to confer on herself, whilst they were utterly useless to others. What she had followed as an example she now felt to be a warning, and she gave more from her little than her lady did out of her abundance. Better still, she had been led to seek and to find a peace the world could neither give nor take away, but which our Saviour has promised to all who trustfully yield themselves to Him.
CHAPTER VI.
ANXIOUS DAYS.—A PAINFUL DISCOVERY.
MONTH followed month, and Margaretta received no tidings of her mother, though Mrs. Norland had promised to send her address as soon as possible. Naturally the poor girl was greatly distressed at hearing nothing. Even had her mother been in perfect health when she wrote, the silence would have proved sufficiently trying, but those ominous words in the last letter, "when the end of an illness is doubtful," came again to her mind and filled her with sad forebodings.
Mrs. Moffat felt deeply for her favourite, and made several unsuccessful attempts to obtain information for her. Unfortunately, Mrs. Norland had not named the probable place at which they would sojourn, and the "South of Europe" was too vague an expression to help her inquiries. One thing she ascertained. The town house formerly occupied by the Norlands had been cleared of its contents, which were stored, and was in the hands of other tenants. This did not look favourable for a speedy return to England, as the house was Hugh Norland's own.
Once Margaretta returned to Lady Longridge, and asked if she had received news of her mother.
"I! No, indeed. Florence has never penned a line to me in her life of her own free will. She wrote a duty letter now and then whilst your father was living. I know no more of her movements than you do, or whether she is alive or dead."
"Oh, grandmother!" cried Margaretta, in an agony of distress at hearing those last terrible words. She could say no more, but broke into a passion of tears, and sobbed bitterly.
"Don't cry, child. Why, those words have no meaning. I told you the truth that I know nothing. I dare say your mother is all right and enjoying herself, gadding about with her new husband, as she did with her old one. You must remember she has another child now who is of more consequence than you, for he is heir to a fine estate, and you have nothing to look forward to, though you are Sir Philip Longridge's daughter. Do not trouble your head, child. You have your grandmother, who may have scraped enough to leave you what will keep you from going out as a governess, if you are a good girl. I like you better than I used to do—ever so much better; and after all blood is thicker than water." And Lady Longridge began to meditate as to the propriety of burning the blue will. Subsequently, she decided to keep it a little longer.
It was something to poor Margaretta's wounded spirit to have gained the goodwill of her grandmother, though this did not make up for the anxiety she was suffering on her mother's account. It was a trying time for her. Mrs. Moffat was away, and would be for several weeks, and Margaretta had only Thorley and Nelly Corry to whom she might look for sympathy. These gave it in full measure, but during her friend's absence the girl had more time to brood over her trouble, and to count the years that must yet pass before her twenty-first birthday would give her freedom from Northbrook and her grandmother's rule.
Margaretta never doubted her mother's love; never even thought that she could live and forget her child. She was seventeen and a half now. In three years and six months she would be of age, and then! Would there be any one to claim her? Or would she hear—she dared not think what? She dared not count years and months—the very process made the time seem longer. She would wait patiently and work till Mrs. Moffat returned, praying for the patience she sorely needed.
Prayer had become a blessed necessity to Margaretta, and this, too, was through Nelly Corry, so far as the human means went. The little seamstress, by her simple talk of God's goodness, His love, His provident care of all His creatures, had been the means of bringing Margaretta, into communion with a Friend far better even than the kind earthly one she had won for her in Mrs. Moffat.
"You see, Meg dear," Nelly whispered, "poor people, like mother and me, would be miserable if we could not think about God's love and all that Jesus told about it. We have sometimes been a good deal tried, but we have prayed that we might trust. We have thought how not a sparrow can fall without God knowing and caring, and we have taken up the words of Jesus and said to one another, 'Those that have precious souls that live for ever are of more value than many sparrows.' God never forgets us poor folks, Miss Meg, and He will not forget you."
It was a blessed day which brought the little seamstress to Northbrook Hall, and the results were doubly blessed to Margaretta.
Up to this time it had never struck the girl that her grandmother could possibly have suppressed her mother's letters; but one day she was reading a story, the interest of which hinged on an incident of the kind. Then it flashed across her mind how easily Lady Longridge could keep back letters which she did not wish her to receive. The post-bag was carried, locked, into her room, and she invariably sent Thorley out of it on some errand, before examining its contents. The maid had her suspicions, but had never breathed them to Margaretta, as she had no proof to offer. But she kept her eyes and ears open, and her watchfulness was at length rewarded.
Margaretta was asleep—for it was still early in the morning—when Thorley stole into her room and awoke her with a kiss and a whisper.
"Dear Miss Meg, I have found something. My lady must have dropped it without noticing, when she was taking out the letters yesterday morning, and it had gone under the edge of the bed-vallance, quite out of sight. She had a great many letters to look over, and did not see this one. Be calm, my dear, and do not make a bit of noise, for your grandma sometimes pretends to be asleep when she is not, just to find out if I leave the room, and why. I do believe you will have news of your dear mamma at last."
Thorley might well urge Margaretta to be calm, for the eager expression of the young face, as it paled and flushed in turns, showed how deeply she was moved. Yet even before her trembling hands released the precious letter from its cover, she clasped them together, and thanked God with all her heart for the good news. Yes, the very address brought this much of happy tidings. The writing was in her mother's hand, clear, firm, and beautiful to look upon. It said to the daughter's heart, "Your mother is living, and in very different health from what she was at the time when that letter came long ago, bearing evidence of having been written by feeble, tremulous hands."
Well might Margaretta utter a thanksgiving, and feel that a great load of suspense had been lifted from her mind. But what a revelation did the present letter present! Its contents showed that many others had preceded it, but no reply had reached the writer.
"And now I despair of hearing from you, my darling daughter," wrote
Mrs. Norland. "You would have written if you could, and I can only
suppose that your replies have been suppressed, unknown to yourself.
At any rate, you will have heard of me, and rejoiced in my recovery,
though the process has been a very slow one. But I am well now, and I
expect to reach London not many days after you read this. I am sorry
that you can never see your little brother as a baby proper, for he is
now turned into a tiny boy, who trots to and fro at will, and is as
bright and full of mischief as possible. But you will love little Hugh
for his own sake, as well as for mine. He only has his proper share of
love. My Meg has hers, and with interest. It only seems to accumulate
during absence, and, darling, I trust you, though no line has come from
your dear hand to say, 'Mother, I have not changed, I love you always.'"
"I do not ask you to write now, as we shall be travelling slowly
homeward, but I shall lose no time in coming to Northbrook and clasping
my darling to my heart.—Yours," etc.
With what mingled feelings Margaretta read these words cannot be described. Her joy and thankfulness on the one hand, her indignation at her grandmother's cruelty on the other.
She had no one to speak to at the moment, for Thorley, having just heard the good news that the letter was really from Mrs. Norland, stole back to her mistress's chamber, not daring to wait for particulars.
Margaretta dressed quickly and went down-stairs to the room in which breakfast was generally served. She was standing, lost in thought, with her elbow resting on the mantelpiece and the letter in her other hand, when Thorley entered with a tray to take the materials for her mistress's meal.
"Is my grandmother awake?" she asked. "I must see her as soon as possible. Thorley, she has been very cruel. She has kept back my mother's letters. There have been many before this. How could she do it? She is very hard, but I did not think anyone could have seen me hoping and hoping till my heart sunk within me, for the news which never came. I cannot tell you what dreadful thoughts I have had. Sometimes I have feared that my mother must be dead. Then I have felt that I must have been told if such were the case, and the more awful fear has come that perhaps I was being forgotten in the new cares that the dear baby brought with him, and owing to my mother's ill-health. Oh, Thorley! I have so prayed that I might be kept from doubting my mother, and I have sat down many a time to call her loving words and ways to remembrance, until I have been able to say to myself, 'No, it is impossible. My mother could never cease to love me.' Grandmother could have ended all this with a word, yet she saw me suffer and would not say it."
"She is very old, dear Miss Meg. She has had her own way always, and gone just in one rut through such a long life. I do believe she thinks she has a right to do these things. If they troubled her conscience, she would never rest, and she does sleep as sound as a healthy baby. She is a wonderful old lady."
"She cannot think that deceit is right. I have asked her so often, and she has declared that she did not know where my mother was."
"And perhaps she told the truth. It would be just like your grandmother to keep all those letters unopened, or to burn them without reading a word, so that she could say truly that she did not know."
"She will have to give an answer about them now," said Margaretta firmly.
"Dear Miss Meg, do consider her age. You know about your mamma now, and where will be the use of upsetting the old lady by saying anything? Beside, she is getting fond of you, and talks quite proudly when your back is turned about your pretty singing. Try and keep in with her, dear Miss Meg. It may mean a great deal to you some day."
But Meg was not to be moved from her purpose. "I will wait until grandmother has breakfasted, and then I will see her. Not all the wealth in the world would tempt me to be silent now."
"Think about it, dear, whilst you get your breakfast, or wait till to-morrow. It is a good thing to sleep on a matter when you are inclined to be angry."
"As to breakfast, I feel as though I could never take another mouthful in this house," replied Margaretta. "I cannot wait to sleep over the matter. I will spend my time in praying that I may not speak angrily, or forget the respect I owe to one who is my relative, and so old. I hope God will help me to be patient, but speak I must."
Margaretta accordingly entered Lady Longridge's room, as Thorley left it with the breakfast-tray.
The old lady greeted her more kindly than usual. She was in high good humour at receiving extra interest on an investment, but did not mention this to her granddaughter.
"Grandmother," said the girl, "I wish to speak to you about my mother. I have had a letter from her. It came into my hands in an unusual manner—you must not ask me how, for I cannot tell any more than this, that the post-bag was not meddled with, and that no one has disobeyed you in any way."
"There has been trickery!" cried Lady Longridge. "Tell me this instant. Give me the letter. You have no right to receive one unknown to me, your lawful guardian."
"I would not; I never have done from anyone else; but this is different, being from my mother."
"It is not. She was to see you once in six months, and seeing that your father had so willed it, she would not try to alter the conditions, though they pinched her, and I was glad of it. She has not come near you; there was nothing about letter-writing in Philip's will. I had the right to keep the letters!" cried the old lady, triumphantly.
"My mother could not come. She had been ill, but she wrote and wrote, and I waited, my heart aching with dread, as you know; but all in vain. Oh, grandmother, you knew, and you did not tell me! Even now you are glad to think of our suffering."
"No. Not yours. It was hers I spoke about," interrupted Lady Longridge.
"Well, hers, then. Did you never think what my mother must feel when not a word of answer reached her? And you are getting so old—forgive me for saying it; and surely if there has been ill-will between you and mother, it is time to forgive one another, and be friends."
"Friends with Florence! Never! And I have told the truth. I never opened one of her letters, so that I might say that I knew nothing, and tell no falsehood. The letters are there to prove it."
"Let me have them, grandmother. Do give them to me!" pleaded the girl.
"Take them, if you like, but take them somewhere else, and do not let me see your face again. I had meant to do something for you, but now you shall not have a penny of mine. I will burn my white will to-day, and send for Melville about the blue one."
"The letters, grandmother, please, the letters!"
"You shall have them. They will pay you well for what this affair will lose you. Take this key. In that little drawer are the letters unopened. Mind, you choose between those and more than you know of."
Without hesitation Margaretta took the key, emptied the little drawer of its contents, and then returned it to Lady Longridge, who said, "Get out of my sight, and do not trouble me again!"
"Good-bye, grandmother. I am sorry you are angry, but I could not help speaking. I forgive you. You have been hard sometimes, but I shall try to forget the pain you have caused me about my dear mother. I am glad I can forgive, or I should not dare to ask that my trespasses might be forgiven. Thank you for having me taught by dear Mrs. Moffat."
"Go!" screamed the old lady. "Go, and do not preach to me. I never wish to see you again."
The girl turned a look of the deepest pity on that old face, distorted with anger, and closing the door behind her went to her own room.
CHAPTER VII.
WHICH SHALL IT BE? BLUE OR WHITE?
ONE thought above all others was in Margaretta's mind. She would leave Northbrook Hall at once and for ever. But where should she go?
She bethought herself of that old promise, and without waiting even to change her simple wrapper for a walking dress, she gathered up her precious letters, threw a soft woollen shawl round her, put on her hat, and went rapidly towards the little dwelling tenanted by Nelly Corry and her mother. As she passed through the ill-kept conservatory she plucked a rose from a bush that had been a favourite of her mother's, and which she had tended with loving hands.
She had tasted nothing since early on the preceding evening, and when she reached the cottage she was faint with want of food and excitement, for it was getting towards noon.
Nelly was in the midst of her dressmaking, but at the sight of Margaretta, she deposited her work on the seat she was occupying, drew forward an old wicker chair, the most comfortable one in the place, and begged her visitor to sit down. Then she removed her hat with gentle hands, and, quite alarmed at Margaretta's woe-begone appearance, asked what was the matter and what she could do for her.
The girl could not answer, but to Nelly's dismay she burst into a passion of hysterical weeping.
Nelly strove to soothe her with loving words, and wished that her mother would come, for Mrs. Corry being a little better than usual had gone to do the shopping of the tiny household.
Soothed and calmed at last, Margaretta told her tale to her humble friend, and concluded by saying, "I have come to you, Nelly. I have kept my promise. I have scarcely any money, for Mrs. Moffat has my last sovereign, and I forgot to mention it before she left."
"Don't name money, dear Miss Meg. I am not without a trifle, and there is Thorley with plenty, who would do anything for you. I will get you a cup of tea and something with it. Then you will be better, for you are faint for want of it."
Nelly busied herself in preparing the tea, and poor Meg thankfully partook of it, and then read, one by one, all the letters written by that dear hand, and now first opened by her own. From them she gathered all the details of her mother's illness and journeyings to and fro, of the tender cares by which she was surrounded; and she read, with tear-moistened eyes, how that dear parent was ever looking forward to meeting her again, and to the time when no one would be able to separate them from each other. In more than one letter money was enclosed, so that Margaretta found she would need no help of this kind.
As she closed the last precious letter she felt more tenderly towards her grandmother. "At least," thought she, "I have been able to read my dear mother's words of love. She might have read them herself and then burned them."
Old Lady Longridge was truly a strange mixture. Too vindictive to give up her daughter-in-law's letters, yet impelled by a certain sense of honour to refrain from reading words only meant for the eyes of her granddaughter, and determined that in saying she knew nothing of Mrs. Norland's movements, the statement should be true.
Thorley had a trying time with her old mistress that day. She found out that Margaretta had left the Hall, but that she had carried nothing away with her, so rightly judged that she had taken refuge at Nelly Corry's. She had no chance of following her thither, for Lady Longridge kept her constantly in sight, and, contrary to custom, remained in her own room all the day.
"I am not well enough to go down," she said. "That girl has upset me with her talk about forgiving. As if I, an old woman of eighty-three, now would ask her pardon. And to talk of Florence! I never could bear the woman! Daughters-in-law and daughters are all alike—at any rate mine were. They cared for themselves, and left me to shift for myself. I am getting old. The girl told the truth there, and somebody must have the money. If I could make a new will—but Melville is away, and I will trust nobody else. He is weak; he wanted me to leave money to my daughters, who had their share long since; but he is true, and can keep his own counsel and my secrets. I wish—"
But the voice became tremulous and quavering, and for a time Lady Longridge ceased to think aloud, and slept in her easy-chair by the fire, while Thorley watched in silence, afraid to move, lest she should arouse her mistress.
Lady Longridge awoke refreshed, but asked no questions about Margaretta. She, however, later in the day gave Thorley the key of a safe which occupied a corner of her bedroom and stood confessed as such, without an attempt at concealment.
"Get out two papers for me," she said. "They are in large envelopes—one blue, the other white, and both are marked alike, 'The last Will and Testament of Dame Sophia Janet Longridge.'"
Thorley obeyed, and placed them by her side.
"Now undress me. I am tired, and will go to bed," said her mistress; and as soon as her head touched the pillow she said, "Give me my two last wills."
Clutching them tightly in her hand, Lady Longridge again began to murmur to herself—
"The girl is a fine girl. She kept her temper better than I could have done. Perhaps I have been hard; but it was Florence I disliked. She would have turned me out of Northbrook, but she had to leave me here at last. I always said I would live and die here, and I shall. I am just a little glad the girl forgave me." Another pause. "I seem to see differently to-day. I could almost see Florence if she came now. Thorley, where is my granddaughter? Call her."
But Thorley knew she should call in vain, so she said she would send and seek Miss Longridge, who was out somewhere.
"I wonder will she come in time?"
The words dropped more slowly from Lady Longridge's lips, and there was a look in her face that startled Thorley. But once again she spoke with comparative firmness, and the maid thought that her mistress was battling against the drowsiness which was stealing over her, and had made her so slow of utterance.
"I think Thorley shall settle it," she said. "I can take her opinion first and act on it. Then if I like I can burn the other 'last will,' and let them fight over the old woman's money."
Addressing her maid, she continued, "Here are two wills. This blue one leaves much to you, little to Margaretta. The white, much to her, little to you. Both cannot stand; which shall I burn?"
"Dear madam, burn the blue one!" cried the unselfish creature, true to her love for dear Miss Meg. "Let the money go to your own flesh and blood. I do not want it; I have saved what will serve my time, and I shall be happy in seeing Miss Margaretta have it when you can enjoy it no longer."
"Here, then, burn the blue one," and Lady Longridge relinquished her hold of it. Thorley first tore it across, and then pushing it into the midst of the fire saw it consumed to the last morsel.
"I almost wish you had burned the other," said her mistress. "You are so unselfish you deserve the money; not that it has made me happy. Margaretta is a long time in coming, and I must go to sleep. Say 'good-night' for me. I think you have made me feel as if I wanted to forgive everybody. After all, blood is thicker than water."
Thorley heard unwonted words from the aged lips—"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us." Then a murmur only, then sleep.
The message sent by Thorley was the means of bringing Margaretta back to the Hall, though she had never intended to return thither. But a talk with her humble little friend Nelly had so softened the heart, that when summoned she was ready to go with the messenger. On tiptoe she entered Lady Longridge's room and crept to the bedside, accompanied by Thorley, who bent over her mistress to listen.
There was no sound of breathing, no sign of life. Those murmured words had been her last, and in her hand, though the grasp on it had relaxed, lay the white will, truly the last will and testament of Dame Sophia Janet Longridge, the contents of which made Margaretta her heiress and owner of wealth far beyond what those who thought they knew had counted on her leaving behind.
The succession of shocks was too great for the girl to bear, and for the first time in her life she fainted by the side of the bed whereon lay all that remained of her whose rule had been so long and so despotic.
It was a great and unforeseen blessing that Mrs. Moffat returned that night sooner than she intended, and that on her way to Clough Cottage she stopped to leave a message for Nelly Corry. From her she heard of Margaretta's flight from the Hall and the summons back, and without hesitating, she ordered her coachman to drive straight to Northbrook, where her presence gave the greatest possible comfort.
Clasped in her kind arms, Margaretta sobbed out her story, and received the best consolation she could have, until, only a couple of days later, she found herself in those of her mother. Mr. and Mrs. Norland had taken a shorter route home than they at first planned, to avoid a district in which there had been cases of cholera; and on reaching England saw the announcement of Lady Longridge's death in the "Times," so hastened to Northbrook.
No more separations to look forward to. Mother and daughter were united, with no fear of being snatched from each other. Lady Longridge would have wondered, if with mortal eyes she could have seen honest tears falling from those of her daughter-in-law. But the account of those last words, the fact that the old lady had left her wealth to Margaretta, as if to make amends for past harshness, the memory of the sick-bed from which, by God's goodness, she had been raised to renewed health, and perhaps the knowledge that she herself might have been more forbearing, all combined to produce softened feelings in her mind. She was very glad of those words which Thorley repeated in a voice broken by sobs, "You have made me feel as if I wanted to forgive everybody," and the divinely-taught prayer which followed, and which Mrs. Hugh Norland herself said that night as she had never said it before.
No one knew what Thorley had done, or by what a noble act of self-sacrifice she had secured the inheritance for her dear Miss Meg.
They are not parted, for though Thorley at first thought she would have a little home of her own, the tears of her darling induced her to forego her resolution. The same roof covers them, and she who might have inherited Lady Longridge's wealth waits upon the heiress, and is well contented with the legacy which came to her, or indeed would have been content without it.
Margaretta is doubly happy in her present home, for her stepfather is good and wise, and regards her as a sacred charge from his old friend, because she is Sir Philip Longridge's daughter. The girl finds endless pleasure in the little boy who calls her "Sister Meg," and tyrannises over her in baby fashion.
Mrs. Moffat has left Clough Cottage, and resides near the Norlands, so Margaretta, long deprived of her mother's presence, now declares she has two mammas.
Little Nelly Corry's deft fingers are often employed on dear Miss Meg's gowns still, for she, too, has left the neighbourhood of Northbrook Hall, and has a better and prettier home with her mother, rent free, on Mr. Norland's estate.
So we will leave Margaretta, loved and cared for, amid surroundings suitable to her present fortunes, and finding happiness in giving it to others. A holiday story hers is, without a holiday or a hero. But she is young yet, and abundantly contented. Her hero will come in time, and if I happen to know him, I will tell you when a love story begins with dear Miss Meg for its heroine.
A TALE OF A PENNY
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
"Do be quiet, Jack. I wonder who can read, write, or think, with any hope of satisfactory results, whilst you are turning everything topsy-turvy and rummaging round in such a fashion. What restless plagues lads are, to be sure!"
"And all because a penny is lost, stolen, strayed, or otherwise mislaid. I am sure it is not worth all that fuss," said sister number two, while the young gentleman addressed, no ways affected, continued his search for the missing coin.
There were just the three of them in a cosy room, one of those universally useful apartments which are not too grand for working, studying, or playing in, as the case may be, but in which mothers and their young folk love to congregate. Florence, mostly called Flossie, on account of her lovely hair, which was just one mass of silken locks, was the eldest, and a girl of sixteen. She was generally considered "a little bit blue," being a hard worker at her books, and great in various branches of study unknown to girls when our mothers were at school.
One of the teachers had been heard to call Flossie the prop of her class; whereupon Master Jack, who was very fond of having a sly poke at girls in general, and his sisters in particular, said he had never known such an appropriate name for anybody.
"Floss is not only a prop but a perfect clothes-prop in every position," he said, in allusion to his sister's height, slimness, and length of limb.
At this moment Flossie was studying for an "exam." And, though very fond of her young brother, she did not like to be interrupted by Jack's "rampage" for his lost penny.
Madge, the second girl, though nearly two years younger, was a born housewife; full of motherly instincts, and doting on little children. She was still a child, despite those graver employments and abstruse studies which are supposed to promote the higher education of women in these enlightened days. She had been a doll-worshipper always, and now, at more than fourteen years of age, was the happy possessor of an immense family in wax, wood, cloth, and porcelain. Amongst these she was as busy as was Flossie at her books—furbishing up the whole lot, washing faces, repairing garments, tidying dishevelled locks, and otherwise making the multitude of dolls fit to be seen. Madge had brought down a doll's house, relegated a year before to the garret, and was setting it in order for the amusement of some very small cousins who were expected on the following day.
At first Jack had been helping Madge, but the loss of that precious penny—and a new one, too—had diverted his attention, and in the search for it, he had upset chairs, unmade beds, brought down miniature pictures, to the destruction of those works of art, and brought down upon himself, in addition, the wrath of his younger sister and playmate.
It was amusing to see how the ten-year-old lad's nature seemed compounded of the very opposite characteristics of the girls. At lesson time, he plodded away beside Flossie, who helped him with his declensions, gave him almost too-learned lectures on the beauties of Euclid, and piloted him tenderly across the Pons Asinorum.
At playtime, he entered into Madge's pursuits, believed in the reality of doll families and all their joys and sorrows. He even assisted at their toilettes by dressing the boy juveniles, propriety being duly considered, though under the roof of a doll's house. Madge was playfellow, sister, friend, little mother and comforter to Jack from and before the time he could toddle. Her great grief in those early days was that he would grow, and often was she heard to say, when remarking his progress upwards, "Oh, mamma, won't it be a pity when Jack is grown out of a baby!" He being the youngest of the family, and consequently the darling of all.
Father and mother both rejoiced in the close union among the children, which helped, especially in Madge's case, to keep the girls young—alas! A very difficult matter in these high-pressure days. And Jack had a good deal of quiet humour for a lad of his age. He professed to read Madge like a book, and declared that she made the coming of the little visitors an excuse to have a turn at the dolls, of which she was as fond as ever; moreover, that she still nursed them on the quiet, and caressed them with all the old tenderness when nobody was by, though in company she tried to look as grown-up as dear old Floss, who was, in many ways, nearly as old as Methuselah and as wise as Solomon.
An extra crash amongst the small furniture, and a half-penitent apology from Jack, and then Madge began to scold in earnest.
"I declare, you bad boy, you have undone nearly an afternoon's work, and done many a pennyworth of damage. I'll bring an action against you, Jack, and mamma shall be judge. And here's the porcelain doll that I called after you, and you were pretending to wash, left at the bottom of the bath. Of course it's drowned, for no person could be ten minutes face downwards and under water without being finished off. However, the little ones can play at burying him to-morrow—that's something."
This was too much even for Flossie's gravity. She and Jack burst into a fit of laughing at the idea of the drowned doll and funeral in prospective, in which Madge joined a moment after, despite her endeavours to look aggrieved at the sad consequences of Jack's negligence.
In removing the tin bath Madge discovered the new penny underneath it, and then Jack remembered that he had put it there himself for safety, because both his pockets were in an unsafe condition.
"And no wonder, Jack, considering the loads and loads of rubbish you put in. One of your jackets came from the cleaner's only yesterday, and mamma says it smells oily yet, and all through your carrying lumps of putty in it for weeks together."
Jack pulled a long face, and held out his hand for the recovered coin, which Madge at first refused to deliver up.
"Give me a kiss for it, and say you're sorry for all the fuss and the mischief you have caused," said she.
Madge held out her rosy lip; Jack drew back, shrugged his shoulders, and looked as if he were going to perform an act of penance. He gave the pretty lips a very rapid salute, snatched the coin from Madge, then pulled a wry face and polished his own mouth on the cuff of his coat.
"Is it such a terrible dose, Jack?" asked Madge, with just a suspicion of moisture in the corner of her eye, for she could not bear the young rebel even to pretend anything unloving towards her.
For answer she received a hug that would have been a credit to a Greenland bear, and quite a little shower of kisses from the boy, who added, "You knew it was only for fun, Madge. I would not vex you, dear." And she did, know it.
At this moment mamma came in.
"My dear children, what an untidy room! What! Up to the eyes in dolls and dolls' belongings, Madge. I suppose you are preparing for the small cousins. But I thought by this time the whole establishment would be in order. Flossie, how have you gone on working amid such a racket? What has it been about?"
"Jack's new penny. He lost it, and would not be pacified until at length it was discovered—but not without enough fuss and turmoil to make the room in this state—in the very place where he had himself put it. I offered him another, two others, but nothing save the particular penny would do. As if the loss of a penny were of any consequence."
"It is of consequence," said Jack. "I did not want to lose it. I never like to lose anything, if taking a little trouble will find it. Besides, I don't believe in being beaten when I know the thing must be somewhere about, so I was determined not to give in, until I got my penny back again."
"Right, Jack," said mamma, "and I am very glad your perseverance was rewarded by its recovery. Still, you had no occasion to make the whole room and its contents look as though the place was the scene of a recent earthquake. Flossie, dear, how have you managed to move your elbows? You might be besieged. Let me say to you, dear, also, never undervalue a penny. I once heard a story which told how the future of two lives hung on a single penny."
Flossie's book was closed, and her pen wiped and put away in a moment.
"I have just finished my work, mamma, and am longing for a chat with you by the fireside. Tell us the story about the penny. Do, there's a darling."
Mamma's cosy chair was drawn forward, and a little fireside circle formed instanter. But mamma protested that she never could tell a story in the midst of a litter, so Madge and Jack began to clear away with great rapidity. The girl, who was naturally methodical, put things in their places; the boy made bad worse by the unceremonious fashion in which he huddled the dolls, their clothing and furniture into the miniature mansion, and closed the door upon them.
In her eagerness to hear her mother's story Madge forgot to find fault with Jack, and soon the girls were seated at each side of the family tale-teller, and the lad stretched on the rug at her feet, his upturned, intelligent face lighted by the blaze of the cheerful fire, gas having been vetoed by unanimous consent.
CHAPTER II.
TWENTY years ago two girls might have been seen approaching a London railway-station. They had evidently been on a shopping expedition, for they were quite laden with numbers of small parcels, besides which they had one of considerable bulk, though not very weighty. A glance at their fine, fresh faces and the lovely colour on their cheeks suggested the idea that they were country girls on a visit to the metropolis. Indeed, few persons could have met these girls without giving them a second glance. One, the elder by several years, was unusually tall; but her carriage was equally remarkable for grace and dignity, and her features for almost faultless regularity. No wonder that she attracted some attention amongst the many passers-by.
The younger, a girl of eighteen, was also above the middle height, and although not a beauty like her sister, her face just possessed the charm which was lacking in the other. It beamed with intelligence, and seemed to be the reflection of an active mind, a cheerful temper, and a warm, loving heart.
Even as they passed along, the unselfish character of the younger was made manifest. She insisted on carrying the larger share of the parcels, notably the largest of all, which was evidently a source of considerable annoyance to her beautiful companion, who plainly deemed these packages infra dig. Though surrounded by strangers, she glanced round from time to time, to see if, by any chance, some acquaintance were noticing her, and carried such parcels as she retained by their loops of string and on the tips of her fingers, as if under constant protest.
As they were nearing the station the elder girl said, "I am so glad we are getting near the end of our tramp. You, Lizzie, scarcely seem to care how many bundles you have about you, if you can only carry them; but I hate to go along laden just like a pack-horse, and on a warm day, too. This hot weather makes me look like a washerwoman."
"It would take a great deal to make you look like a washerwoman, Edith," replied Lizzie, with a merry laugh. "I never saw you look better than you do at this moment. I get as red as a peony all over my face, and you are only rose-coloured, and in the proper places. Do touch my face with your handkerchief; for mine is deep down in one of my many pockets, each of which is crammed with odds and ends of purchases."
Mollified by this tribute to her personal appearance, Edith did as she was requested, and the girls, finding they had a quarter of an hour to spare, seated themselves on a shady seat at one side of the platform, on which Lizzie also placed her larger parcels; seeming thankful for the rest.
They were not going home together after all. They were guests in the same house; but they had other friends in the neighbourhood besides those with whom they were staying. Edith, especially, had many acquaintances, amongst whom she had often visited when in London on former occasions, and she was going to spend the evening with an old schoolfellow recently married.
Lizzie, in London for the first time; was a stranger to this married friend of her sister. She had been invited to accompany Edith; but had declined, because had she gone she must have disappointed some quite little children, to whom she considered herself engaged.
"You might have gone with me, Lizzie," said Edith, in a tone of annoyance. "Just as though it mattered for you to romp with those little cousins to-night."
"I had promised the children before Mrs. Martin's invitation came, and these little people feel a disappointment far more than elder ones do. Besides, I know your friend does not really want me, and Sam and Nellie do. She only asked me out of civility to you, and you will enjoy your confab a great deal better by yourselves. Even if Mrs. Martin did want me, a promise is a promise, and I must keep my word."
A slight look of contempt crossed Edith's fair face as Lizzie announced her intention of keeping her appointment with the little people, but she felt that, after all, her frank young sister might be rather in the way than otherwise, on the principle that two are company, three none. She was rather reckoning on an hour's tête-à-tête with Mrs. Martin, who had been her chosen school friend, and as whose bridesmaid she had officiated a few months before. Mr. Martin and his brother would be in to dinner at six, and then there would be two couples for chatting, and perhaps a stroll together, before she should have to return to her temporary home, and rejoin Lizzie there.
Edith did not say aloud what was passing through her mind. Her reply was, "Of course you cannot go with me now, as you have not dressed for the purpose, and I was certain you would go back to those children in any case. But you will have to take every one of the parcels and my umbrella. It will not matter, as you take the train directly, and you can have a cab from the station."
"Oh no, I can manage very well. But, Edith, you forget. I have no money left. You must give me some."
"And I have very little; only five and sixpence. I cannot go to Mrs. Martin's without anything in my pocket. If you had not persisted in buying that Shetland shawl to-day we should have had plenty and to spare, and if you had let the shop people send it, we need not have gone about laden like two excursionists."
"We are excursionists," laughed Lizzie. "Haven't we got special tickets for this very trip? As to the shawl, it was so exactly what mamma has been trying to obtain, that I felt we ought not to risk losing it. I care nothing about carrying it, for though it makes rather a large parcel, it is very light, and I shall have the pleasure of forwarding it to mamma at once. Besides, Edith, you bought several little things for yourself after I had spoken for the shawl."
Lizzie felt just a little bit hurt at her sister's reproof, for Edith's purchases, which had nearly drained her purse, were all for her own personal adornment, and helped very considerably to increase the load which she declined to share. The shawl would add greatly to the comfort of their rather delicate mother, who needed one which would combine warmth with extreme lightness, and who had begged the girls to send one from London with as little delay as possible.
Edith insisted that in such roasting hot weather, the shawl could not be of any consequence. Lizzie's great desire was to execute her mother's commission, and to keep her promise.
Again the girl reminded her elder sister of her own moneyless condition. "However the cash has gone, Edith, it is gone, and I suppose the railway people will not give me a ticket for nothing. You must spare me something in the shape of a coin. I will do with as little as possible. I can pay the cabman from my money at home."
"The fare is only fourpence," said Edith, taking out her purse and abstracting the only small coin in it. "I suppose this sixpence will do. By the bye, it is my train that goes at the quarter; yours is at the half-hour, so you will have to wait by yourself."
A moment after the first train glided in, and, after a brief pause, carried Edith away with it.
In spite of the heat, Lizzie, who had only lunched after a very mild fashion at a confectioner's, and who had the vigorous appetite of a healthy girl, began to feel excessively hungry. It seemed impossible for her to endure another quarter of an hour at the station and the short railway journey and cab drive without having something in the shape of food to sustain her.
So, taking up her load, she moved towards a refreshment room and procured a bun. A wistful little face, with hollow eyes, was peering at her through the open doorway and gazing longingly at the food.
Ever sensitive to the call of need, the warm-hearted girl rose and handed the untasted bun to the famished-looking lad, who had hardly time to make a rude nod and utter thank ye' before one of the porters gave him a gentle push, and said, "Come, youngster, get out o' this. We can't do with beggars in the station."
The child, only too glad to escape, was off like an arrow, and Lizzie sat down to discuss another bun in the place of the one she had given away. She then paid her twopence, and was going out of the refreshment room with a very unsatisfied feeling when she suddenly remembered that she had just another penny loose in a small outside jacket pocket. This time she chose a different kind of bun, and when she had eaten it found, to her horror, that the price of it was twopence, and that when it was paid for she would not have sufficient money left to purchase her railway-ticket.
Lizzie picked up her parcels and went out of the refreshment room, feeling half-perplexed, half-amused at the position in which she found herself. "What would mamma think if she knew that I was wandering about here at a railway-station in London, and with only three-pence in my pocket? Actually unable to go on my way for want of a penny. What shall I do for two more halfpennies? Poor mamma! She would fancy all kinds of horrors—that I should be kidnapped, perhaps, for she seemed to think that Edith ought to keep me close at her side under all circumstances. Five minutes to train time. Something must be done."
What Lizzie did was to indulge in a hearty laugh first of all, and whilst these thoughts were passing through her mind. The next thing was to go towards the window, at which a boy-clerk was giving out tickets. The boy was looking excessively cross, and he did his work in a morose fashion, without uttering a word, unless compelled to reply to a question, which he did as briefly as possible. The fact was he had made a mistake in giving change to a passenger early in the day, and had been obliged to make up the deficiency out of his own pocket, in accordance with rules.