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.