Chapter 21 The School Queens by L. T. Meade
TILDY’S MESSAGE
Nothing ever kept Mrs. Martin awake; and, notwithstanding her anxiety with regard to Maggie, she slept soundly that night. Bo-peep was his own delightful self. His jokes were really too good for anything! She regarded him as the wittiest man of her acquaintance. She laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. He told her that he would take her to the theater on the following evening, and further said that he would engage a cook himself in town, send her out in the course of the morning, and that Horniman could go.
Horniman came up to interview her mistress soon after Martin’s departure. She was penitent now, and willing to stay; but nothing would induce Martin himself to forgive her, and, in consequence, Mrs. Martin did not dare to do so. The woman was paid her wages in full, and dismissed. Then it occurred to Mrs. Martin that here was her opportunity to send a short note of warning to Maggie. Why she did not send it by post it is hard to ascertain; but she thought that it would go more swiftly and surely if Tildy were the messenger.
Accordingly she sent for Tildy and told her what she expected her to do.
“Matilda,” she said, “cook has gone, and I shall be quite content with tea and toast and a lightly boiled egg for my lunch. After lunch you can take the train to London and convey a message from me to Miss Maggie.”
“Oh mum, ’ow beauteous!” said Tildy.
“I will have a letter ready which you are, if possible, to put into her own hands.”
“Yes, ’um; and don’t I long to see ’er, jest!”
“Well, this is the address,” said Mrs. Martin. “Get everything cosy and comfortable in the house, and bring me my tea by one o’clock. A train will take you to Victoria at half-past one, which you ought to catch. You can easily be back here between four and five; by that time the new cook will have arrived.”
“Things ain’t dull a bit to-day’,” said Tildy. “They’re much more Shepherd’s Bushy, and I like ’em a sight better than I did.”
“Well, go now, and attend to your business,” said Mrs. Martin.
Having secured a messenger, Mrs. Martin next prepared to write to poor Maggie:
“My dear Child, – Most unfortunately your father has discovered the letter you wrote to me. He doesn’t say much, but I can see that he is furiously angry. He intends to take me with him to call on you next Saturday – I presume, some time in the afternoon. I will try to make him dress in as gentlemanly a manner as possible, and also will endeavor to prevent his talking about the shop. You must make the very best of things you can, dear; for there’s no possible way of keeping him from Aylmer House. – Your affectionate mother,
“Victoria Martin.”
When the letter was finished Mrs. Martin put it into an envelope, addressed to Miss Maggie Howland, Aylmer House, Randal Square, South Kensington, and put it into Tildy’s care. Tildy caught her train all in good time, arrived at Victoria, and took a bus to South Kensington. A very little inquiry enabled her to find Randal Square, and at about half-past two she was standing on the steps of that most refined and genteel home, Aylmer House. The look of the place impressed her, but did not give her any sense of intimidation. When the door was opened to her modest ring, and the pleasant, bright-looking parlor-maid answered her summons, Tildy gazed at her with great interest but without a scrap of shyness.
“I’ve come from ’er ’ome to see Miss Maggie ’Owland,” said Tildy; “and I’ve a message for ’er from ’er ma.”
The girl, whose name was Agnes, stared for a minute at Tildy. She recognized her “sort” in a moment. Tildy belonged to the lodging-house sort of girl. What she could have to do with one of Agnes’s young ladies puzzled that young person considerably. It was the rule, however, at Aylmer House that no one, however poor or humble, should be treated with rudeness, and certainly a person bringing a message to one of the young ladies was entitled to respect. Agnes said, therefore, in a polite and superior tone, “Step in, will you, miss? and I will find out if Miss Howland is in.”
Tildy stepped into the hall, feeling, as she expressed it, “dream-like and queer all over.” She did not dare to sit down, but stood on the mat, gazing with her bright, inquisitive eyes at the various things in this new world in which she found herself.
“How beauteous!” she kept repeating at intervals. “Why, Laburnum Villa ain’t a patch on this. How very beauteous! No wonder Miss Maggie ’ave the hair of a queen.”
Now, it so happened that Maggie Howland was out, and would not be back for some time. This was the day when she and the other girls belonging to her kingdom had gone forth to purchase all sorts of good things for the coming feast. Maggie, as queen, had put a whole sovereign into the bag. There would, therefore, be no stint of first-class provisions. Every sort of eatable that was not usually permitted at Aylmer House was to grace the board – jelly, meringues, frosted cake, tipsy cake, as well as chickens garnished in the most exquisite way and prepared specially by a confectioner round the corner; also different dainties in aspic jellies were to be ordered. Then flowers were to be secured in advance, so as to make the table really very beautiful.
Maggie, Kathleen O’Donnell, and Janet were the people selected to arrange about the supper. Not a single thing was to be cooked in the establishment; this would give extra trouble to the servants, and was therefore not to be permitted. The girls would make their own sandwiches; and, oh, what troublesome thoughts they had over these! Maggie was in the highest spirits, and left the house with her companions – Miss Johnson, of course, in close attendance – half-an-hour before Tildy with her ominous letter appeared on the scene.
Now, it so happened that Agnes knew nothing at all of the absence of the young ladies. They usually went out by a side-door which had been specially assigned to their use when the house was turned into a school. As Agnes was going upstairs, however, in order to try to find Maggie, she met Aneta coming down.
“Oh miss,” she said, “can you tell me if Miss Howland is in?”
“No,” said Aneta, “I happen to know that she is out, and I don’t think she will be in for some little time.”
“Very well, miss; the young person will be sorry, I expect.”
“What young person?” asked Aneta, eager in her turn to find out why Maggie was inquired for.
“A girl, miss, who has called, and has asked very particularly to see Miss Howland. She’s rather a common sort of girl, miss, although I dare say she means well.”
“I will go and see her myself,” said Aneta; “perhaps I can convey a message from her to Miss Howland, for I know she won’t be back for some little time.”
Agnes, quite relieved in her mind, turned down the back-stairs and went to attend to her numerous duties. A few minutes after, Aneta, in all her slim grace, stood in the hall and confronted Tildy. Aneta was herself going out; she was going out with Mademoiselle Laplage. They had some commissions to execute. The day was a foggy one, and they were both rather in a hurry. Nevertheless, Aneta stopped to say a kind word to Tildy. Tildy gazed at her with open-eyed admiration. Beautiful as the house was, this young lady was indeed a radiant and dazzling vision.
“She made me sort o’ choky,” said Tildy as she related the circumstance afterwards to Mrs. Martin. “There was a hair about her. Well, much as I loves our Miss Maggie, she ain’t got the hair o’ that beauteous young lady, with ’er eyes as blue as the sky, and ’er walk so very distinguishified.”
“What can I do for you?” said Aneta now, in a kind tone.
Tildy dropped an awkward curtsy. “I’ve come, miss,” she said, “to see our Miss Maggie.”
“Miss Howland is out,” said Aneta.
“Oh, miss!” replied Tildy, the corners of her mouth beginning to droop, “that’s crool ’ard on me. Do you think, miss, if I may make so bold as to inquire, that Miss Maggie ’ll be in soon?”
“I do not think so,” replied Aneta; “but I can convey any message you like to her, if you will trust me.”
“Oh miss,” said Tildy, worshipping Aneta on the spot, “who wouldn’t trust one like you?”
“Well, what is it? What can I do for you?”
“I was maid, miss – maid-of-all-work – at Shepherd’s Bush when Miss Maggie and ’er ma used to live there; and when Mrs. ’Owland married Martin the grocer they was that kind they took me to live at Laburnum Villa. It’s a very rich and comfortable ’ouse, miss; and the way they two goes on is most excitin’. It’s joke, joke, and play, play, from morn till night – that’s the ma and steppa of Miss Maggie. I’ve brought a letter from Mrs. Martin to be delivered straight to Miss Maggie.”
“I can give it to her,” said Aneta in her calm voice.
“You’ll per’aps mention, miss,” said Tildy, taking the letter from her pocket, “as I called, and as I love our dear Miss Maggie as much as I ever did. You’ll per’aps say, miss, with my dutiful respects, that my ’eart is ’ers, and always will be.”
“I will give her a kind message,” said Aneta, “and safely deliver her mother’s letter to her. I am afraid there’s no use in asking you to stay, as Miss Howland is very much occupied just now.”
“Very well, miss, I’ve delivered my message faithful.”
“You have.”
As Aneta spoke she herself opened the hall-door.
“Good-day, miss,” said Tildy, dropping another curtsy, “and I wishes you well.”
“Good-day,” replied Aneta.
Tildy’s little form was swallowed up in the fog, which was growing thicker each moment, and at that instant Mademoiselle Laplage, profuse in apologies for her brief delay, entered the hall.
“Pardon me, ma chère, that I have caused you to wait. I was just ready to descend, when – see! the lace of my shoe was broken. But what will you? You will go out in this dreadful fog?”
Aneta replied in French that she did not think the fog was too thick, and the French governess and the girl went out together into the street. But all the time Aneta Lysle was thinking hard. She was in possession of Maggie’s secret. Her stepfather, instead of being related to the Martyns of The Meadows, was a grocer! Aneta belonged to that class of persons who think a great deal of good birth. She did not mind Tildy in the least, for Tildy was so far below her as to be after a fashion quite companionable; but – a grocer! Nevertheless, Aneta had a heart. She thought of Maggie, and the more she thought of her the more pitiful she felt towards her. She did not want to crush or humiliate her schoolfellow. She felt almost glad that the secret of Maggie’s unhappiness had been made known to her. She might at last gain a true influence over the girl.
Her walk, therefore, with Mademoiselle Laplage took place almost in silence. They hastily executed their commissions, and presently found themselves in Pearce’s shop, where Aneta had taken a brooch a day or two ago to have a pin put on.
The shopman, as he handed her the mended brooch, said at the same time, “If you will excuse me, miss, you are one of the young ladies who live at Aylmer House?”
“Yes,” said Aneta, “that is true.”
“Then I wonder, miss, if”–He paused a minute, looked hard at the girl, and then continued, “Might my brother speak to you for a minute, miss?”
“But it make so cold!” said mademoiselle, who knew very little of the English tongue, “and behold – zee fog! I have such fear of it. It is not to joke when it fogs in your country, ma chère. Il faute bien dépêcher.”
“I shall be quite ready to come back with you in a minute or two,” said Aneta.
Just then the man who had bought the brooch from Maggie appeared. “I am very sorry, miss,” he said, “but I thought that, instead of writing to Miss Howland, I might send her a message; otherwise I should have to see Mrs. Ward on the matter.”
“But what matter is it?” said Aneta. “You want to see Miss Howland, or you want me to take her a message?”
“Well, miss, it’s no special secret; only my brother and I cannot afford to buy the brooch which she sold us the other day.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Aneta. “Miss Howland sold you a brooch? Then if she sold it, you did buy it.”
“The fact is, miss,” said young Pearce, coloring rather deeply, “I was not myself quite aware of its value at the time, and I gave the young lady much too small a sum of money for it. I want her to return me the money, and I will give her back the brooch. My brother and I have been talking it over, and we cannot do an injustice to one of the ladies at Aylmer House – it is quite impossible.”
“I will give your message,” said Aneta coldly. “Please do not purchase anything else from Miss Howland. She will doubtless call to see you to-morrow.”
“Thank you, miss; then that is all right,” said the man, looking much relieved.
Aneta hastened home. She felt perplexed and alarmed. She must see Maggie, and as soon as possible. It was a strange fact that while Maggie was in no danger at all, while everything seemed to be going right with her, and as long as she held an undeniable position in the school as one of the queens, Aneta could scarcely endure her; that now that Maggie Howland, was, so to speak, at her mercy, this girl, whose nature was fine and brave and good, felt a strong desire to help her.
There were, however, very strict rules at Aylmer House, and one of them was that no girl on any account whatsoever was to sell any of her possessions in order to make money. This was one of the unwritten rules of the school; but the idea of an Aylmer House girl really requiring to do such a thing was never contemplated for an instant. There were broad lines of conduct, however, which no girl was expected to pass. Liberty was allowed to a great extent at Aylmer House; but it was a liberty which only those who struggle to walk in the right path can fully enjoy. Crooked ways, underhand dealings, could not be permitted in the school.
Maggie had done quite enough to cause her to be expelled. There had been times when Aneta almost wished for this; when she had felt deep down in her heart that Maggie Howland was the one adverse influence in the school; when she had been certain that if Maggie Howland were removed all the other girls would come more or less under her own gentle sway, and she would be queen, not of the greater number of the girls at Aylmer House, but of all the girls, and very gentle, very loving, very sympathetic would be her rule. Her subjects should feel her sympathy, but at the same time they should acknowledge her power. Maggie’s was a counter-influence; and now there was a chance of putting a stop to it.
Aneta knew well that, kind as Mrs. Ward was to Maggie, she did not in her heart absolutely trust her. Therefore, if Maggie left it would also be a relief to Mrs. Ward. Miss Johnson might be sorry, and one or two of the girls might be sorry; in particular, dear little Merry. Aneta had a great love for Merry, and was deeply sorry to feel that Merry was under Maggie’s spell; that was the case, although she did not openly belong to Maggie’s party. So Merry too would be saved if Maggie left the school. Oh! it was most desirable, and Aneta held the key of the position in her hand. She also had in her pocket Mrs. Martin’s letter. That did not perhaps so greatly matter, for Maggie’s father, whatever her mother had done, was himself a gentleman; but the fact of Maggie’s slipping out of doors alone to sell an ornament was a sufficiently grave offense to banish her from such a school as Aylmer House.
Yes, Aneta could send her away, but it might be managed dexterously. Maggie might stay till the end of the present term and then go, knowing herself that she would never return, whereas the girls would know nothing about it until the beginning of the next term, when they would no longer see her familiar face or hear her pleasant voice. A few of them might be sorry, but they would quickly forget. The school would be the better for her absence. The thing could be done, and it would be done, if Aneta used that knowledge which she now possessed.
The girls all met at tea, and Maggie was in the highest spirits. She knew nothing whatever of all the information which Aneta had gathered in her absence. She knew nothing of Tildy’s arrival, of Tildy’s departure, nor of the letter which Aneta had put into one of her drawers. Still less did she know anything of Pearce and his betrayal of her. She and her companions had had a very pleasant time, and immediately after tea, in the “leisure hours,” they were to meet in the girl’s private sitting-room to discuss matters officially.
The Aneta girls had, by common consent, given up the room to them during these last important days. There were plenty of nooks and corners all over the cheerful house where they could amuse themselves and talk secrets, and have that sort of confidence which schoolgirls delight in.
As soon as tea was over Maggie jumped up and said, “Now, Kitty” – she turned to Kathleen O’Donnell as she spoke – “you and I, and Rosamond and Jane, and Matty and Clara, and the Tristrams will get through our work as quickly as possible. – I suppose, girls” – here she glanced at Aneta in particular – “you will let us have the sitting-room as usual during the leisure hours?”
“Of course we will,” said Sylvia St. John in her gentle tone; but she had scarcely uttered the words before Aneta rose.
“Of course you can have the sitting-room,” she said; “but I want to talk to you, Maggie.”
“You can’t, I am afraid, just now,” said Maggie. “I am much too busy. – We have to go into accounts, girls,” she added. “There are no end of things to be done, besides, at the rehearsal.” Here she dropped her voice slightly.
“The rest of you can go to the sitting-room and do what is necessary,” continued Aneta. “I want you, Maggie, and you had better come with me.” She spoke very firmly.
A dogged look came into Maggie’s face. She threw back her head and glanced full at Aneta. “I go with you,” she said, “just because you ask me, forsooth! You forget yourself, Queen Aneta. I also am a queen and have a kingdom.”
“My business with you has something to do with a person who calls herself Tildy,” said Aneta in her gravest voice; and Maggie suddenly felt as though a cold douche had been thrown over her. She colored a vivid red. Then she turned eagerly to Kathleen.
“I won’t be a minute,” she said. “You all go into the sitting-room and get the accounts in order. You might also go over that tableaux with Diana Vernon. – Kathleen, you know that you must put a little more life into your face than you did the other day; and – and – oh dear, how annoying this is! – Yes, of course I will go with you, Aneta. You won’t keep me a minute?”
Maggie and Aneta left the room.
Merry turned to her sister and said in a troubled voice, “I can’t imagine why it is that Aneta doesn’t care for poor Maggie. I love Aneta, of course, for she is our very own cousin; but I cannot understand her want of sympathy for dearest Maggie.”
“I am not altogether quite so fond of Maggie as you are, Merry; and you know that,” said Cicely.
“I know it,” said Merry. “You are altogether taken up with Aneta.”
“Oh, and with school generally,” said Cicely, “it is all so splendid. But come, we are alone in the room, and losing some of our delightful leisure hours.”
The Maggie-girls had meanwhile retired into the sitting-room, where they stood together in groups, talking about the excitement which was to take place on the following Saturday (it was now Thursday), and paying very little heed to Maggie’s injunctions to put the accounts in order.
“Don’t bother about accounts,” said Kitty; “there’s heaps of money left in the bag. Wasn’t it scrumptious of old Mags to put a whole sovereign in? And I know she is not rich, the dear old precious!”
“She is exactly the sort of girl who would do a generous thing,” said Clara Roache, “and of course, as queen, she felt that she must put a little more money into the bag than the rest of us.”
“Well, she needn’t,” said Kathleen. “I’d have loved her just as much if she hadn’t put a penny in. She is a duck, though! I can’t think why I care so much about her, for she’s not beautiful.”
“Strictly speaking, she is plain,” said Janet Burns; “but in a case like Maggie’s plain face doesn’t matter in the least.”
“She has got something inside,” said Matty, “which makes up for her plain features. It’s her soul shining out of her eyes.”
“Yes, of course,” said Kathleen O’Donnell; “and it fills her voice too. She has got power and – what you call charm. She is meant to rule people.”
“I admire her myself more than Aneta Lysle,” said Janet Burns, “although of course all the world would call Aneta beautiful.”
“Yes, that is quite true,” said Kathleen; “but I call Aneta a little stiff, and she is very determined too, and she doesn’t like poor old Mags one single bit. Wasn’t it jolly of Mags to get up this glorious day for us? Won’t we have fun? Aneta may look to her laurels, for it’s my opinion that the Gibsons and the Cardews will both come over to our side after Saturday.”
While this conversation was going on, and Maggie’s absence was deplored, and no business whatever was being done towards the entertainment of Saturday, Maggie found herself seated opposite to Aneta in Aneta’s own bedroom. Maggie felt queer and shaken. She did not quite know what was the matter. Aneta’s face was very quiet.
After a time she drew a letter from her pocket and put it into Maggie’s hand.
“Who brought this?” asked Maggie.
“A person who called herself Tildy.”
Maggie held the letter unopened in her lap.
“Why don’t you read it?” said Aneta.
Maggie took it up and glanced at the handwriting. Then she put it down again.
“It’s from my mother,” she said. “It can keep.”
“I cannot imagine,” said Aneta, “anybody waiting even for one moment to read a letter which one’s own mother has written. My mother is dead, you know.”
She spoke in a low tone, and her pretty eyelashes rested on her softly rounded cheeks.
Maggie looked at her. “Why did you bring me up here, Aneta, away from all the others, away from our important business, to give me this letter?”
“I thought you would rather have it in private,” said Aneta.
“You thought more than that, Aneta.”
“Yes, I thought more than that,” said Aneta in her gentlest tone.
Maggie’s queer, narrow, eyes flashed fire. Suddenly she stood up. “You have something to say. Say it, and be quick, for I must go.”
“I don’t think you must go just yet, Maggie; for what I have to say cannot be said in a minute. You will have to give up your leisure hours to-day.”
“I cannot. Our entertainment is on Saturday.”
“The entertainment must wait,” said Aneta. “It is of no consequence compared to what I have to say to you.”
“Oh, have it out!” said Maggie. “You were always spying and prying on me. You always hated me. I don’t know what I have done to you. I’d have left you alone if you had left me alone; but you have interfered with me and made my life miserable. God knows, I am not too happy” – Maggie struggled with her emotion – “but you have made things twice as bad.”
“Do you really, really think that, Maggie? Please don’t say any more, then, until you hear me out to the end. I will tell you as quickly as possible; I will put you out of suspense. I could have made things very different for you, but at least I will put you out of suspense.”
“Well, go on; I am willing to listen. I hope you will be brief.”
“It is this, Maggie. I will say nothing about your past; I simply tell you what, through no fault of mine, I found out to-day. You gave the girls of this school to understand that your mother’s husband – your stepfather – was a gentleman of old family. The person called Tildy told me about Mr. Martin. He may be a gentleman by nature, but he is not one by profession.”
Maggie clutched one of her hands so tightly that the nails almost pierced her flesh.
“I won’t hurt you, Maggie, by saying much on that subject. Your own father was a gentleman, and you cannot help your mother having married beneath her.”
Maggie gasped. Such words as these from the proud Aneta!
“But there is worse to follow,” continued Aneta. “I happened to go to Pearce’s to-day.”
Maggie, who had half-risen, sank back again in her seat.
“And Pearce wants to see you in order to return a brooch which you sold him. He says that he cannot afford the right price for the brooch. He wants you to give him back the money which he lent you on it, and he wants you to have the brooch again in your possession. You, of course, know, Maggie, that in selling one of your belongings and in going out without leave you broke one of the fundamental rules of Aylmer House. You know that, therefore–Why, what is the matter?”
Maggie’s queer face was working convulsively. After a time slow, big tears gathered in her eyes. Her complexion changed from its usual dull ugliness to a vivid red; it then went white, so ghastly white that the girl might have been going to faint. All this took place in less than a minute. At the end of that time Maggie was her old disdainful, angry self once more.
“You must be very glad,” she said. “You have me in your power at last. My stepfather is a grocer. He keeps a shop at Shepherd’s Bush. He is one of the most horribly vulgar men that ever lived. Had I been at home my mother would not have consented to marry him. But my mother, although pretty and refined-looking, and in herself a lady, has little force of character, and she was quite alone and very poor indeed. You, who don’t know the meaning of the word ‘poor,’ cannot conceive what it meant to her. Little Merry guessed – dear, dear little Merry; but as to you, you think when you subscribe to this charity and the other, you think when you adopt an East End child and write letters to her, and give of your superabundance to benefit her, that you understand the poor. I tell you you don’t! Your wealth is a curse to you, not a blessing. You no more understand what people like mother and like myself have lived through than you understand what the inhabitants of Mars do – the petty shifts, the smallnesses, the queer efforts to make two ends meet! You in your lovely home, and surrounded by lovely things, and your aunt so proud of you – how can you understand what lodgings in the hot weather in Shepherd’s Bush are like? Mother understood – never any fresh air, never any tempting food; Tildy, that poor little faithful girl as servant – slavey was her right name; Tildy at every one’s beck and call, always with a smut on her cheek, and her hair so untidy, and her little person so disreputable; and mother alone, wondering how she could make two ends meet. Talk of your knowing what the poor people in my class go through!”
“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 is to 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. She 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.