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.
CHAPTER XXII.
ANETA’S PLAN
The girls downstairs wondered why Maggie Howland did not appear. After an hour of waiting Kathleen O’Donnell took the lead. The accounts were left alone, but the tableaux vivants were diligently rehearsed, the Tristrams and Jane Burns being the three critics; Rosamond Dacre, Kathleen O’Donnell, and Matty and Clara Roache the performers. But, somehow, there was no life in the acting, for the moving spirit was not there; the bright, quick eye was missed, the eager words were lacking, with the pointed and telling criticism. Then there was the scene where Maggie herself was to take a part. It was from The Talisman, and a night-scene, which she was able to render with great precision and even beauty, and the dun light would be in her favor. It was to be the crowning one, and the last of the tableaux. It was expected to bring down the house. But Maggie was not there, and the girls could not help feeling a little disconsolate and a little surprised.
At supper that evening there were eager inquiries with regard to Maggie Howland. All the girls came up to ask Aneta where the other queen was.
“She is not quite well, and has gone to bed,” said Aneta. “She does not wish to be disturbed until the morning.”
Aneta’s words had a curious effect upon every one who heard her speak. It was as though she had, for the first time in her life, absolutely taken Maggie’s part. Her eyes, when she spoke of Maggie, were full of affection. The girls were puzzled; but Merry, as they turned away, suddenly ran back to Aneta, swept her arm round the girl’s neck, and said, “Oh Neta, I do love you!”
Aneta pressed Merry’s hand. For the first time these two understood each other.
Meanwhile poor Maggie was living through one of the most dreadful periods of her life. Her mother’s intimation that she and her stepfather were coming without fail to Aylmer House on Saturday —the day, the glorious day when Maggie and her friends were to entertain Mrs. Ward and the rest of the school – drove the girl nearly wild. Aneta had discovered her secret, and Aneta had urged, as the one way out, the painful but salutary road of confession. Maggie writhed at the thought, but she writhed far more terribly at the news which her mother’s letter contained.
The girl said to herself, “I cannot stand it! I will run away! He has destroyed my last chance. I will run away and hide. I will go to-night. There is no use in waiting. Aneta is kind; she is far kinder than I could ever have given her credit for. She would, I believe, help me; and dear Mrs. Ward would help me – I am sure of that. And I don’t really mind now that it comes to the point of losing my position in the school as queen; but for all the school – for the Tristrams, for Merry Cardew, for Kathleen – to see that man is beyond my power of endurance. He will call here, and he will bring poor mother, but as I won’t be here I won’t feel anything. I will go to-night. I’ll slip downstairs and let myself out. I have some money – thank goodness for that! – and I have my father’s treasures. I can take them out of the tin box and wear them on my person, and I can sell them one by one. Yes, I will run away. There’s no help for it.”
Maggie, at Aneta’s suggestion, had got into bed, but even to think of sleep was beyond her power. She got up again presently, dressed, and sat by the foggy window. The fog was worse; it was so thick now that you could not see your way even as far as the trees in the middle of the square. There were fog-signals sounding from time to time, and cabs going very slowly, and boys carrying torches to light belated and lost passengers.
Maggie was safe enough in her room, which had, like all the other bedrooms at Aylmer House, a small fire burning in the grate. By-and-by some one tapped at the door. Maggie said, “Don’t come in”; but her words were unheeded. The door was opened an inch or two, and Merry Cardew entered.
“Oh Merry, you – of all people!” said Maggie.
“And why not?” said Merry. “I am your friend – your own very, very great friend. What is the matter, Mags? You were so jolly at tea; what can have happened since?”
“Something most dreadful,” said Maggie; “but you will know on Saturday.”
“Oh!” said Merry, coming up to Maggie and dropping on her knees and fondling one of the girl’s cold hands, “why should I wait till Saturday? Why should I not know now?”
“I can’t talk of it, Merry. I am glad you – you —loved me. You won’t love me in the future. But kiss me just this once.”
“I am not going to leave you like this,” said Merry.
“You must, dear; yes, you must. Please, please go! And – please, be quick. Some one will see us together. Lucy Johnson will come in. Oh! don’t make matters worse for me. Good-night, Merry, good-night.”
Maggie seemed so anxious that Merry should go that the girl felt hurt and rose to her feet.
“Good-night, Merry dear,” said Maggie as Merry was walking towards the door. Then she added, in a semi-whisper which Merry did not catch, “And good-bye, Merry dear; we shall never meet again.”
Merry left the room, feeling full of apprehension. She thought for a minute as she stood outside. Then she went and knocked at Aneta’s door.
“Aneta, may I come in?”
“Of course, dear. What is the matter?” said her cousin.
Merry entered at once.
“I have been to see Maggie. She is awfully queer. Oh, I know I broke the rules. I must tell Miss Johnson in the morning.”
“I did beg of you, Merry, not to go to her,” said Aneta.
“Yes, I know you did; but I could not help thinking and thinking about her. She is very queer. Her eyes look so strange.”
“I hoped she was in bed and asleep,” said Aneta.
“In bed!” said Merry. “Not a bit of it. She was up and sitting by the window gazing at the fog.”
“I will go and see her myself,” said Aneta.
“Will you, Neta? And you will be kind to her?”
“Yes, darling, of course.”
“Somehow, she used to think that – that you didn’t love her,” said Merry.
“Nor did I,” said Aneta. “But I will be kind to her; don’t be afraid. I think I can guess what is the matter.”
“It is all very queer,” said Merry. “She was in such splendid spirits to-day; all the girls said so when they were out preparing for our party, and now she looks years older and utterly miserable.”
“Go to bed, Merry, and leave your friend in my care.”
“Then you don’t think it wrong of me to be very fond of her?”
“I do not, Merry. There was a time when I hoped you would not care for her; now I earnestly want you to be her true friend. There is a very great deal of good in her, and she has had many sorrows. Pray for her to-night. Don’t be anxious. Everything will come as right as possible.”
“Oh Neta,” said Merry, “you are a darling! And when you talk like that I love you more than I ever did before. You see, dear, I could not help caring for Maggie from the very first, and nothing nor anybody can alter my love.”
Aneta kissed Merry, who left the room. Then Aneta herself, taking up her candle, went out. She was wearing a long white wrapper, and her clouds of golden hair were falling far below her waist. She looked almost like an angel as she went down the corridor as far as Miss Johnson’s room.
Lucy Johnson was just getting into bed when Aneta knocked.
“What is it, Neta?” said the governess in a tone almost of alarm.
“I want to break a rule, Lucy,” said Aneta; “so put me down for punishment to-morrow.”
“Oh, but why? What are you going to do?”
“I am going to do something which I shall be punished for. I am going to spend to-night, if necessary, with Maggie Howland.”
“Is she ill, Neta? Ought we to send for the doctor?”
“Oh no, she is not a bit ill in that way. Good-night, Lucy; I felt I ought to tell you.”
Aneta continued her way until she reached Maggie’s room. It was now past midnight. The quiet and regular household had all retired to bed, and Maggie had feverishly begun to prepare for departure. She knew how to let herself out. Once out of the house, she would be, so she felt, through the worst part of her trouble. She was not unacquainted with the ways of this cruel world, and thought that she might be taken in at some hotel, not too far away, for the night. Early in the morning she would go by train to some seaside place. From there she would embark for the Continent. Beyond that she had made no plans.
Maggie was in the act of removing her father’s treasures from the tin boxes when, without any warning, the room-door was opened, and Aneta, in her pure white dress, with her golden hair surrounding her very fair face, entered the room.
“Oh!” said Maggie, dropping a curiously made cross in her confusion and turning a dull brick-red. “Whatever have you come about?”
Aneta closed the door calmly, and placed her lighted candle on the top of Maggie’s chest of drawers.
“I hoped you were in bed and asleep,” she said; “but instead of that you are up. I have made arrangements to spend the night with you. It is bitterly cold. We must build up the fire.”
Maggie felt wild.
Aneta did not take the slightest notice. She knelt down and put knobs of fresh coal on the fire. Soon it was blazing up merrily. “That’s better,” she said. “Now, don’t you think a cup of cocoa each would be advisable?”
“I don’t want to eat,” said Maggie.
“I should like the cocoa,” said Aneta; “and I have brought it with me. I thought your supply might be out. Here’s your glass of milk which you never drank, and here’s a little saucepan, and there are cups and saucers in your cupboard, and a box of biscuits. Just sit down, won’t you? while I make the cocoa.”
Maggie felt very strange. Her dislike of Aneta was growing less and less moment by moment. Nevertheless, she by no means gave up her primary idea of running away. She felt that she must hoodwink Aneta. Surely she was clever enough for that. The best plan would be to acquiesce in the cocoa scheme, afterwards to pretend that she was sleepy, and go to bed. Then Aneta would, of course, leave her, and there would still be plenty of time to get out of the house and disappear into the foggy world of London. The glowing fire, the beautiful young girl kneeling by it, the preparation for the little meal which she made with such swiftness and dexterity, caused Maggie to gaze at her in speechless amazement.
Maggie drank her delicious cocoa and munched her biscuits with appetite, and afterwards she felt better. The world was not quite so black and desolate, and Aneta looked lovely with her soft eyes glowing and the rose-color in her cheeks.
“Why are you doing all this for me?” said Maggie then.
“Why?” said Aneta. “I think the reason is very simple.” Then she paused for a minute and her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I think it is, Maggie, because quite unexpectedly I have learned to love you.”
“You – to love me – me?” said Maggie.
“Yes.”
Maggie felt herself trembling. She could not reply. She did not understand that she returned the love so suddenly given to her – given to her, too, in her moment of deepest degradation, of her most utter misery. Once again the feeling that she must go, that she could not face confession and the scorn of the school, and the awful words of Bo-peep, and her poor mother as Bo-peep’s wife, overpowered her.
“You are – very kind,” she said in a broken voice; “and the cocoa was good; and, if you don’t mind – I will – go to bed now, and perhaps – sleep a little.”
“What have you been doing with all those lovely curios?” said Aneta.
“I?” said Maggie. “I – oh, I like to look at them.”
“Do pick up that cross which is lying on the floor, and let me examine it.”
Maggie did so rather unwillingly.
“Please bring over all the other things, and let me look at them,” said Aneta then.
Maggie obeyed, but grudgingly, as though she did not care that Aneta should handle them.
“Why have you taken them out of their boxes and put them all in a muddle like this?” said Aneta.
“I – I wanted something to do,” said Maggie. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Was that the only reason – honor bright?” said Aneta.
Maggie dropped her eyes.
Aneta did not question her any further, but she drew her down to a low chair by the fire, and put a hand on her lap, and kept on looking at the treasures: the bracelets, the crosses, the brooches, the quaint designs belonging to a bygone period. After a time she said, “I am not at all sure – I am not a real judge of treasures; but I have an uncle, Sir Charles Lysle, who knows more about these things than any one else in London; and if he thinks what I am inclined to think with regard to the contents of these two boxes, you will be”–She stopped abruptly.