Laburnum Villa, in the suburb of Clapham, was, in the new Mrs. Martin’s eyes, quite a delightful place. She had never appreciated her first husband, Professor Howland, but she thoroughly appreciated Bo-peep, and after her own fashion was fond of him. He gave her comforts. She had lived so long without comforts that she appreciated these good things of life to the full. She had never really been much attached to Maggie, who was too like her own father and too unlike herself to allow of the existence of any sympathy between them. Maggie, even before Mrs. Howland met Martin the Shepherd’s Bush grocer, had been more or less a thorn in the flesh to her mother.

Laburnum Villa was furnished, as James Martin expressed it, with an eye to comfort. There were solid arm-chairs with deep seats and good springs, and these were covered with maroon-colored leather. There were thick, maroon-colored curtains to the dining-room windows, and all the furniture of the room was of solid oak. There was a rich Turkey carpet on the floor, and prints of different hunting scenes – by no means bad in their way – hanging on the walls. The paint-work of the room was of dull red, and the paper was of the same tone. It was a small room, and the furniture was large and heavy, but it represented in Martin’s eyes the very essence of comfort. The fireplace was modern, and when it was piled up with goodly lumps of coal it caused a warmth to pervade the whole room which, as Mrs. Martin expressed it, was very stimulating. The house had electric light, which both Mr. and Mrs. Martin considered distinguished.

They spent most of their time in the dining-room, although Mrs. Martin, with some faint instinct still left of her own life, would have preferred to use the drawing-room in the evenings; but when she suggested this Bo-peep said, “No, no, Little-sing; I can smoke here and sit by the fire, and enjoy the rest which I have rightly earned. I hate rooms full of fal-lals. You can keep your drawing-room for the time when I am out, Little-sing.”

Mrs. Martin knew better than to oppose her husband. She recognized her own weakness, and knew that against his fiat she could no more exercise her puny strength than a babbling stream can disturb a great rock. She used her drawing-room when Bo-peep was out, and regarded it with intense satisfaction. It is true that the colors were crude, for James Martin would have screamed at any Liberty tints. But the carpet was good of its kind, the pictures on the walls not too atrocious. Although they were in gilt frames, the large mirrors over the mantelpiece and at one end of the room were first rate; in short, the drawing-room was fairly presentable, and Mrs. Martin had some traces of her old life still lingering about her which gave a look of domesticity and even repose to the place. Her little work-basket, with its embroidery, was home-like and pleasant. She had forgotten how to play, but she always kept the piano open. Bo-peep suggested buying a pianola, and Mrs. Martin thought it would be a good idea.

“We’ll have all the comic operas on it,” said Bo-peep; “nothing of the classic order for me – nothing over-my-head, but the popular tunes, plenty of them – no stint. What do you say, Little-sing?”

Little-sing replied that it would be charming; but in her heart she somewhat shuddered, and was glad that the pianola was still a thing to be purchased.

Tildy had been turned into a very presentable little parlor-maid. There was also a first-rate cook, for Martin was fond of the pleasures of the table. On the whole, the little household was comfortable, and Mrs. Martin enjoyed her life. She had some cards printed with her new name and address, and the notification that she was “at home” on the third, fourth, and fifth of each month. Tildy was very much excited about these At Home days; but the first month after Mrs. Martin’s marriage passed without a single individual calling upon her.

Mrs. Martin had been settled for over six weeks, and the day of Queen Maggie’s great reception at the school in Kensington was drawing on apace. Mrs. Martin was in a state of subdued excitement. She was dressed in her best. Her best consisted of a light fawn-colored silk with velvet trimmings of the same. The silk rustled as she walked. On her fingers were many rings of much brilliancy, and she wore a small diamond brooch at her throat. The reason of all this festive attire was a simple one, a good one, a domestic one. James Martin was coming home. He had been in Liverpool, engaged on special business, for the greater part of a week; but he was now returning to his beloved Little-sing, who had missed him, and he was pleased to feel that he would be with her again. She knew his tastes to a nicety, and had desired the cook to prepare a very special dinner for his delectation.

“Beef-steak pudding, cook,” she said, “with mutton kidneys, and plenty of oysters; and be sure the crust is very light.”

Cook replied that if she did not know how to make beef-steak pudding she ought immediately to leave her “perfession.” She was a stout, red-faced woman, and had a way of frightening Mrs. Martin, who generally retreated from the kitchen premises as quickly as possible.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Martin; “I am glad you quite understand. You know that my husband is very particular. Then we’ll have potatoes and fried mushrooms, and I think afterwards apple-tart and cream.”

The cook, whose name was Horniman, condescended to signify her willingness to provide this dinner, and Mrs. Martin went up to the drawing-room.

“You had better light a fire here, Matilda,” she said. “It’s going to be a very cold day.”

“I’d a sight rayther you called me Tildy, mum. It seems like as though a lump o’ ice got on my ’eart when you say Mat-tilda.”

“‘Matilda’ is more refined and suitable,” said Mrs. Martin with dignity.

“Oh yes, ’um – ’course, ’um. When ’ull Miss Maggie be comin’ to see us, ’um?”

“Not before Christmas, you silly girl. Miss Maggie is at school.”

“So I ’ave ’eard,” said Matilda. “You ’aven’t give me no ’olidays, ’um, sence I come to yer; and it were understood, sure-

, that I were to ’ave my day out once a month.”

“You shall go out to-morrow, Matilda. I haven’t the slightest wish to keep you indoors against your will.”

“To-morrer’s cook’s day, ’um.”

“Well, then, you shall go the next day.”

“Thank you, ’um. I thought I’d go and see Miss Maggie ef you’d give me her address.”

“Well, now, that’s a very good idea,” said Mrs. Martin. “I could write her a little note, and you could take it to her. That’s very thoughtful of you, Tilda. Yes, I should like you to go and bring me word how she is.”

“It’s longin’ I am to lay eyes on ’er, mum. She’s a bee-utiful way with ’er,” said Matilda.

When she was quite alone Mrs. Martin took that letter of Maggie’s, which she had received during her husband’s absence, from her pocket. She was terrified lest Bo-peep should read it. The letter had offended her. Maggie had written with great fire and distress: “You must not let him come here. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school. For the sake of my own father, keep him from Aylmer House.”

Mrs. Martin slipped it back into her pocket, and then sat by her comfortable drawing-room fire waiting for the arrival of the good Bo-peep. He was a very playful creature. His one idea of happiness consisted in endless jokes – practical jokes or otherwise, just as it suited him at the moment.

He had done a very successful stroke of business in Liverpool, and was returning to Laburnum Villa in the highest spirits. While he was in the train he was planning how he could most effectively announce his return. To ring at his own hall-door, or to open it with a latch-key, or to walk in in the ordinary fashion of the master of the house did not content him at all. He must invent a more novel manner of return than that. He was really fond of Little-sing. She suited him to perfection. What he called her “fine-lady airs,” when they were displayed to any one but himself, pleased him mightily. He thought of her as pretty and gracious and sweet. He really loved her after his own fashion, and would do anything in his power to make her happy. But he must, as he expressed it, have his joke.

Mrs. Martin was seated by the fire in the drawing-room. It was getting late – nearly four o’clock; but, according to an expressed wish of Bo-peep, the window-blinds had not yet been drawn down. He liked, as he said, to see his home before he entered it. Mrs. Martin, therefore, with the electric light on, was perfectly visible from the road. Mr. Martin guessed that this would be the case, and he stopped the cab at a little distance from the house, paid the fare, shouldered his bag, and walked softly down the street. He went and stood outside the window. He looked in. The street was a quiet one, and at that moment there were no passers-by. Mrs. Martin was seated in her smart dress which he had given her, with her profile towards him. He thought her very beautiful indeed. His heart swelled with pride. She belonged to him. He hated fine ladies, as a rule; but a fine lady who was his very own was a different matter. He even felt romantic.

She was reading a letter. Who could have been writing to Little-sing? Suddenly it occurred to him to slip down the area steps and stand close under the window. He did so, to the terror of cook and Tildy. Cook was about to scream, “Burglars!” but Tildy recognized her master.

“It’s his joke,” she said. “’E’s a wonderful man for jokes. Don’t let on to Mrs. Martin that ’e’s ’ere for your life. ’E’ll do something so comic in a minute.”

The comicality of Martin consisted, in the present instance, of singing in a harsh baritone the song of the Troubadour:

“Gaily the Troubadour

Touched his guitar,

When he was hastening

Home from the war;

Singing, ‘From Palestine

Hither I come.

Ladye love! ladye love!

Welcome me home.’”

Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by the back way, and ran up the stairs.

“Little-sing!” he said, and clasped his wife in his arms.

During dinner James Martin was in high good humor, and it was not until dessert was put on the table and he had helped himself liberally to port wine, and was filling his pipe for his evening smoke, that it occurred to him to speak to his wife about Maggie.

“By the way,” he said, “I did a right good turn for that girl of yours, Little-sing, before I left for Liverpool. I sent her a box of clothes – two smart everyday dresses, an evening dress, and no end of fal-lals. She wrote to thank me, I suppose?”

“She wrote to me, dear,” said Mrs. Martin, trembling a good deal. “She was very much obliged to you.”

“And well she ought to be. Did she clearly understand that I sent her the things – that you had nothing to do with them?”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Mrs. Martin. “Won’t you have some coffee, James? I’ll tell Matilda to bring it in.”

“Coffee – fiddlestick!” said Martin; “and you know I hate to be called ‘James.’ Where’s Bo-peep?”

“You are Bo-peep,” said his wife with a funny smile.

“Well, then, no ‘Jamesing’ of me. I think it is very queer of your daughter not to reply to me when I send her expensive and handsome things. What did she say in her letter to you?”

“Oh, she was very grateful, of course, Bo-peep.”

“Well – but – where’s the letter? I may as well see it. There’s stuff in that girl. I don’t despair of her yet. She has a head for business. I wouldn’t have your dear little head muddled with business, but your daughter’s a different person. She has nothing whatever to live on except what I allow her, and unless she is to starve she has got to please me.”

Mrs. Martin might have said, had she not been afraid, that Maggie was certainly entitled to her own father’s money; but it is to be regretted that Little-sing had not much courage.

Matilda came in with the coffee, which caused a slight diversion, more particularly as it was not to Martin’s taste, who desired her to take it away again, and request Horniman to send him something fit to drink. When the door was closed behind Matilda he renewed the subject of the letter.

“I saw you reading something as I came along,” he said. “When I peeped in at the window you had a letter in your hand. Who has been writing to you?”

“Only Maggie.”

“And that is the letter you spoke about?”

“Yes, dear James – I mean Bo-peep – yes. The child is very grateful.”

“She ought to be. I’d like to see the letter. Where is it?”

“I will go upstairs and fetch it,” said Mrs. Martin, who knew well that it was safe in her pocket all the time.

James Martin roused himself and gave her a studied look.

“Do so,” he said. “Bring it back to me at once. If I have to support that girl, and keep her at school, and pay for her clothing, I’ll allow her to have no secrets from me. You understand that, don’t you, Little-sing?”

“Yes. I will fetch the letter,” said Mrs. Martin.

She left the room. Martin was fond of her, but he was no fool. He was certain now that there was something in the letter which his wife did not wish him to see, and his curiosity was instantly aroused. He was determined to read poor Maggie’s letter at any cost. He waited impatiently, drumming his large, fat hand on the highly polished oak table the while. Tildy came in with fresh coffee.

“Please, sir,” she said, “cook wants to see you for a minute.”

“I can’t see her now. Tell her so,” replied Martin.

“Which is no message for a woman of my class,” said Horniman, entering the room and showing a very heated face. “I wishes to give notice that I leave your service this day month.”

“You can go to-morrow,” said Martin.

“As you please, sir; wages in full.”

“You go to-morrow,” said Martin; “and if you say another word you go to-night. Leave the room.”

Tildy breathed a little quickly, felt inclined to pat master on the back, thought better of it, and left the room.

“Whatever is keeping Little-sing?” thought Martin to himself.

He was not going to worry about cook and her whims, but of Little-sing and the letter. He grew a little more suspicious, and consequently a little more angry.

“She has that letter in her pocket; I saw her put it there when I was acting the part of the Troubadour,” he said to himself. “She is destroying it now; but she sha’n’t – not before I get it.”

He softly left the dining-room and crept with catlike steps upstairs. He stopped outside his wife’s bedroom. There was a light burning there. He turned the handle of the door. It was locked.

“Open the door at once,” he said; and Mrs. Martin flew to do so.

“Oh Bo-peep, you gave me a fright!”

“Where is that letter, Victoria?”

“It – it – I can’t find it,” she replied.

“What are those papers lying on the floor?”

Mrs. Martin gave a cry. Mr. Martin was too quick for her. He swept up the pieces of torn letter, collected them in his great hand, and, taking Mrs. Martin with the other hand, returned with her to the dining-room.

“Now, you sit there, Little-sing,” he said, “while I piece the letter together. There is something in it that you want hidden from me; but you’ve quite mistook your man. There are to be no secrets between you and me. I’m not the least bit angry with you, but I am not going to have that girl ruling you. You’re frightened of that girl. Now, let’s see what she has to say.”

Poor Mrs. Martin trembled from head to foot. Suddenly she went on her knees, clasped her hands round Bo-peep’s arm, and looked into his face. “She was naughty. She was a silly child. Oh, forgive her! I ought to have destroyed the letter. I ought not to have kept it until you came back. Please – please, don’t read it!”

“Nonsense, Little-sing,” he replied, restored once more to the height of good humor. “You have roused my curiosity; nothing will induce me not to see every word of the letter now.”

It took Martin some time to piece together poor Maggie’s letter; but at last the greater part of its meaning was made plain to him. Mrs. Martin sat, white as death, looking at her lord and master. What was going to happen? What awful thing lay ahead of her? She felt crushed beyond words. Once again she struggled to get on her knees to implore him, to entreat; but Martin put out his great hand and kept her forcibly in her seat.

When he had quite taken in the meaning of the letter he made no comment whatever, but carefully deposited the torn fragments in his pocket-book. Then he said quietly, “I don’t blame you, Little-sing, not one bit. But we’ve got to punish this girl. To-morrow I shall be busy in town. The day after will be Friday, and I shall be busy then; but on Saturday we’ll take a half-holiday and go to visit Miss Margaret Howland at Aylmer House – you and me together, Little-sing – the grocer and his wife together. Not a word, my love; not a word.”

CHAPTER XXI.

TILDY’S MESSAGE

Nothing ever kept Mrs. Martin awake; and, notwithstanding her anxiety with regard to Maggie, she slept soundly that night. Bo-peep was his own delightful self. His jokes were really too good for anything! She regarded him as the wittiest man of her acquaintance. She laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. He told her that he would take her to the theater on the following evening, and further said that he would engage a cook himself in town, send her out in the course of the morning, and that Horniman could go.

Horniman came up to interview her mistress soon after Martin’s departure. She was penitent now, and willing to stay; but nothing would induce Martin himself to forgive her, and, in consequence, Mrs. Martin did not dare to do so. The woman was paid her wages in full, and dismissed. Then it occurred to Mrs. Martin that here was her opportunity to send a short note of warning to Maggie. Why she did not send it by post it is hard to ascertain; but she thought that it would go more swiftly and surely if Tildy were the messenger.

Accordingly she sent for Tildy and told her what she expected her to do.

“Matilda,” she said, “cook has gone, and I shall be quite content with tea and toast and a lightly boiled egg for my lunch. After lunch you can take the train to London and convey a message from me to Miss Maggie.”

“Oh mum, ’ow beauteous!” said Tildy.

“I will have a letter ready which you are, if possible, to put into her own hands.”

“Yes, ’um; and don’t I long to see ’er, jest!”

“Well, this is the address,” said Mrs. Martin. “Get everything cosy and comfortable in the house, and bring me my tea by one o’clock. A train will take you to Victoria at half-past one, which you ought to catch. You can easily be back here between four and five; by that time the new cook will have arrived.”

“Things ain’t dull a bit to-day’,” said Tildy. “They’re much more Shepherd’s Bushy, and I like ’em a sight better than I did.”

“Well, go now, and attend to your business,” said Mrs. Martin.

Having secured a messenger, Mrs. Martin next prepared to write to poor Maggie:

“My dear Child, – Most unfortunately your father has discovered the letter you wrote to me. He doesn’t say much, but I can see that he is furiously angry. He intends to take 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.”</