CONCLUSION
After that events moved very quickly. When a few minutes later Mr.
Anstruther returned in a cab, he was met on the doorstep by most of the
members of the family, who crowded round him and shouted out the good
news that his granddaughter was found.
"Margaret at Wrexley Park!" he said, when he had alighted from the cab
and could make his voice heard. "How exceedingly strange that she should
have found her way there!"
"Well, I don't know," said Geoffrey. "If one shot by Windy Gap, which is
what she must have done in the darkness, she had only to keep on and on
and she would be bound to strike Wrexley next. You see, sir, it lies
right under the lee of the downs."
"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Anstruther patiently. "But when I
commented on the singularity of the circumstance which had directed the
steps of my granddaughter towards Wrexley, I was not referring so much to
the relative geographical positions of Windy Gap and Wrexley, with which
indeed I am unacquainted, but----"
"You were thinking how funny it was that she should have fetched up at
her own aunt's house in the end," broke in Maud, for which unceremonious
interruption she received a glance of reproof from Mr. Anstruther, and
scant thanks afterwards from the other members of the family who had been
hanging delightedly on Mr. Anstruther's careful phraseology, and who had
all wanted to hear him finish his remark for himself.
Then Mr. Anstruther went up to Eleanor, who was standing a little apart
from all the others, and after subjecting her to a moment's severe
scrutiny, spoke abruptly:--
"I am glad your anxiety is at an end. I think you have been sufficiently
punished."
Eleanor smiled a little tremulously. The punishment had indeed been
sharp, although it had been nothing but the voice of her own conscience.
"Can you forgive me?" she said.
"Yes," he answered, in his cold, precise accents, "I can now. Though I
make no secret of the fact that, had my just resentment against you not
been softened by the anxiety we have shared in common, my reply to that
question would have been in the negative."
Then the motor from Wrexley having arrived, Mr. Anstruther made his
formal farewells and drove away, followed, it must be confessed, by a
sigh of universal relief at his departure.
When he had gone Eleanor became conscious that her position in the house
was rather a peculiar one. She had been dumped there, she reflected, just
as if she had been a bale of goods, and the person who had brought her
had neglected to remove her again. But, at any rate, she could remove
herself, and that she would do as speedily as possible, and she was on
the point of saying good-bye to Mrs. Danvers when the sound of wheels was
heard on the gravel, and up drove Mrs. Murray in her pony carriage.
She had arrived to fetch Miss Carson, she said, when Geoffrey, who had
become very friendly with her during his nightly visits, went out to her.
No, she would not alight. Yes, she had heard the good news about Miss
Anstruther. Could Miss Carson come at once, as Punch and Judy were
already very cross at having been taken out at that hour in the morning,
and would not stand.
The ponies' bad behaviour spared Eleanor the embarrassment of prolonged
farewells, nor had she even the chance of making the apology to Mrs.
Danvers, which she knew she owed her, but hastily flinging on her hat and
coat, she ran out at once and took her seat beside Mrs. Murray, and the
next minute they were bowling at a smart trot down the drive. Eleanor was
touched to the quick by this act of kindness on Mrs. Murray's part.
"But you should not have come out so early in the morning after you have
been in the house for so many days," she said.
"My dear," said Mrs. Murray, "it will have done me no harm. I wanted to
come and fetch you back myself."
Except for those two remarks the drive was accomplished almost in
silence. And Eleanor was only too glad not to have to speak. The reaction
after the long strain of the night was beginning to tell at length on her
and she was almost too tired to keep her eyes open.
She wondered if Mrs. Murray would let her go to bed when they got to Rose
Cottage, or if she must pack her box and take her departure then and
there. But Mrs. Murray set her doubts on that point at rest directly they
reached home by telling her to go straight to bed. "And sleep as long as
you can," she added.
"But," said Eleanor, hanging back as Mrs. Murray gave her a gentle little
push towards the staircase, "if I sleep too late I shan't be able to
leave to-night."
"I will wake you in time to catch the train I wish you to catch," Mrs.
Murray said. And Eleanor said no more, but stumbled wearily upstairs,
thinking as she went that, of course, she had not expected that Mrs.
Murray would let her stay even to the end of the holidays, now some eight
or ten days distant, but she had not guessed that she would be turned out
of the house quite so summarily and even have her train chosen for her.
However, the thought just passed through her mind; she was far too weary
to dwell upon it, and in less than five minutes she was in bed and fast
asleep.
And she slept the whole day without waking, and while she was thus
occupied Mrs. Murray went down to Wrexley Park and saw the real Margaret,
the girl who should have come to her, but who had elected to do
otherwise.
Fresh from an interview she had just had with her grandfather, in which,
though true to the resolution he had formed not to blame her very
severely, he had been unable to refrain from letting her know how heinous
he considered her conduct, Margaret was too nervous and upset to be at
ease in Mrs. Murray's presence, and that lady, though making every
allowance for her perturbed, conscience-stricken state of mind, could not
help contrasting her constrained, embarrassed manner unfavourably with
Eleanor's frank, bright demeanour. And Mrs. Murray felt convinced that
the real Margaret would never have been as happy with her as her
substitute had been.
In more ways than one that day, the first she had passed for many weeks
under her own name, was a very trying one for Margaret. She would gladly
have spent it in bed, as Eleanor had done, but as the doctor who had come
to see her had pronounced her little the worse for her night in the wood
shed, there had been no excuse for her to stay in bed, and she had been
obliged, about eleven o'clock, to get up to see her grandfather first,
then Mrs. Murray, and later in the morning Mrs. Danvers, and Hilary, who
had been brought out to Wrexley to apologise for her outrageous behaviour
of the day before. Mrs. Danvers had been naturally anxious to know where
Margaret had passed the night while search had been so vainly made for
her, and she could scarcely believe that mere chance had indeed led
Margaret across the downs to Wrexley woods in the darkness. And yet such,
as Geoffrey had surmised, had been the case. Trying to reach Windy Gap
Margaret had passed close by it in the fog and had wandered on and on
until, somewhere about midnight, she had found herself at the entrance to
a small hut in the wood, and, thankful beyond words to be in shelter of
some sort, she had crept into it and, making herself as comfortable as
she could on some dry faggots of sticks, had fallen sound asleep. And she
had been still sleeping when Sir Richard, who usually took a stroll
before breakfast every morning, had come suddenly upon her. But when
Margaret, who said that she freely forgave Hilary--as, indeed, she
did--for all her unkindness and foolish suspicions about her, would have
apologised in her turn for the deception she had practised upon her, that
good-natured lady checked her at once.
"My dear," she said, "I can't see that you did me any harm. You made the
children an excellent holiday governess, and you were always so kind
about winding my wool and picking up my stitches that I shall miss you
dreadfully. So say no more about the wrong you did me. I am quite sure
that I liked you a great deal better than I should have liked the real
Miss Carson, though I dare say she might have got on better with my young
people. You have heard, of course, that it was my two boys, Noel and
Jack, who put all those things in your box. Oh, not with a view to
getting you into trouble, but it was a prank they had played off upon
Colonel Baker. I made them go down and confess to him this morning and
take his property back with them, and, judging from their crestfallen
looks ever since, I fancy they have had a talking-to that they won't
forget in a hurry. So they have been well punished, and Tommy has been
wired to to come home at once, so he has been punished. And Hilary's
punishment here is to come. It will take the form of such endless banter
and chaff from her brothers and sisters that it will be a long time
before she thinks of playing private detective to any one in my house
again."
That Margaret, too, had been punished for her conduct no one knew better
than herself. Not only had she suffered from a troubled conscience for
the last seven weeks, but she had been distinctly unhappy in the
uncongenial surroundings into which she had forced herself, and for that
she had no one but herself to thank. Nevertheless, although she fully
recognised how much she had been to blame in breaking loose as she had
done, she had learned, from seeing the lives of other girls, that her
grandfather's rigorous rule over her was as absurd as it was unjust. She
was eighteen and she was treated as though she were eight. Why, even
Daisy and David had far more liberty of action than she was allowed. She
looked forward with positive dread to the thought of going back to
Greystones and resuming the queer, solitary life she had led there since
Miss Bidwell had left.
But her surprise was unbounded when she learned, as she did later in the
afternoon of the same day, that Greystones was never again to be her
home. "Though, of course, my dear Margaret, Miss Bidwell and I--that is
to say, my future wife and I, for Miss Bidwell is doing me the honour of
becoming my wife on the 9th of next month--will always be pleased to see
you there on very long visits whenever and as often as you like to come."
For it was in that manner that Mr. Anstruther broke the news to Margaret
of his intended marriage to her late governess. As it had already
transpired in conversation with Mrs. Murray, he had spent the last
fortnight in the little German town where Miss Bidwell was staying with
friends and undergoing treatment for her eyes, and it was because he had
given no directions for his letters to be forwarded that Mrs. Murray had
had no answer to the last two she had written him. It was for the purpose
of telling her and Mrs. Murray that he was shortly to be married to Miss
Bidwell that he had come to Windy Gap the previous day and also to learn
if Mrs. Murray would consent to keep his granddaughter with her for some
months longer. However, as he was at some pains to explain to Mrs. Murray
at the sort of family conclave that was being held that morning at
Wrexley Park, "As she has not been with you at all and seeing in what an
ungrateful spirit she treated your kind invitation to her, I cannot
expect you to be willing to receive her into your house. I must therefore
endeavour to make other arrangements for her. I should like to add that
it is in no spirit of vindictiveness towards her that I wish her now to
make her home elsewhere, but because I am convinced that it would not be
for her happiness to reside permanently at Greystones now that her late
governess will be installed there as mistress. Miss Bidwell is a lady of
very strong character and might continue to look upon Margaret as a child
and to treat her as such." He paused for a moment and then added, "I
realise now that a girl of eighteen requires more liberty of thought and
action than I permitted to Margaret."
That was the only admission Mr. Anstruther was ever heard to make that
perhaps his system of education was not as perfect as he had deemed it,
but coming from him it meant a good deal.
But it was then that Lady Strangways had intervened with a suggestion of
her own.
"Let me have her, Mr. Anstruther," she said, "After all, I am her aunt,
and I should like nothing better than to adopt her as my daughter. I have
taken a great fancy to Margaret and she to me. I fancy I could make her
very happy if she would consent to come to me."
"I think her consent may be taken for granted," said Mr. Anstruther in
his old arbitrary manner and quite forgetting his admission of a few
moments back; "she is still considerably under age and is therefore
subject to my orders until she attains her majority."
"But I should not care in the least for a daughter who was ordered to
love me," said Lady Strangways, smiling.
However, when Margaret was summoned to the library and her aunt's
suggestion made known to her, the radiant look of happiness with which
she received it left no one, least of all Lady Strangways, in doubt of
her willingness to obey this last command of her grandfather's.
And so Margaret's immediate future being satisfactorily settled, Mrs.
Murray went back to Windy Gap. She found Eleanor in her room on her knees
before her open trunk which she was busily engaged in packing.
Very deliberately Mrs. Murray closed the trunk, and, perhaps because all
the available chairs were strewn with Eleanor's clothes, sat down on the
lid.
"Lady Strangways has adopted Margaret," she said.
"Oh," exclaimed Eleanor eagerly, "I am glad! Margaret will like that. She
had already fallen in love with her aunt, and will like nothing better
than to be with her. How is she after last night?"
"Quite well, except for a very bad cold in her head. But I will tell you
all about her adventures presently. It is of you I want to speak now."
Suddenly she bent forward and put her hands on Eleanor's shoulders.
"Eleanor, dear," she said, "will you let me adopt you as Lady Strangways
has adopted Margaret? I would not make the offer, dear, if you had any
relations of your own to go to. A lonely, deaf old woman has not much to
offer to a young girl like you with all her life before her, but it would
be such a pleasure to feel that I had you to live for. Hush, don't answer
yet. Lady Strangways has told me all about you--as much, at least, as she
had learned from Margaret. And I know all about your wonderful voice and
the possibilities that lie in front of you, if you can have proper
training. I am not a wealthy woman, but I have more than enough for both
of us, and if you will stay with me we will go to Paris, Milan, or any
other place that Madame Martelli says you ought to go to. And you shall
have the best teaching in Europe."
What answer Eleanor made to this astoundingly splendid offer neither she
nor Mrs. Murray could ever remember. It is doubtful, indeed, if she made
any in words, for after trying once or twice to speak she gave up the
attempt and cried out of pure joy.
But apparently Mrs. Murray was quite satisfied with this answer, for her
kind old face, which had worn an anxious look while waiting for Eleanor's
reply, took on a most contented expression.
"But your dear little home," Eleanor said presently when her tears were
dry, and being such happy ones they had dried very quickly. "How will you
like to leave that?"
"I am tired of my dear little home," said Mrs. Murray briskly. "I want to
travel. Besides, the doctor has told me that in any case I mustn't spend
another winter here until I get my rheumatism out of my system. And so,
my dear, we will be off as soon as you like."
* * * * *
Eleanor and Margaret only met once before the former started for Italy
with Mrs. Murray. Madame Martelli had recommended a course of study at
Milan, and armed with many introductions to musical people of note, they
were to leave almost immediately for that town.
Margaret had motored up to Rose Cottage with her aunt to say good-bye, and
the two girls had gone out into the garden together. By common consent
their steps led them towards the little summer-house where they had held
so many stolen interviews.
"Strictly speaking," said Eleanor, "neither of us deserve to be as
happy as we are. At least," she added, "I know I don't. We behaved
disgracefully--at least I know I did. And yet, in the end, we have got
everything we wanted."
"Would you do it again?" Margaret asked.
Eleanor shook her head most emphatically. "No," she said, "if I live to
be ninety I shall never forget that long night. I would not go through it
again on any account whatever--at least, I mean, you know that I would
not again risk anything happening to you through me."
"Not even for the sake of your voice?" said Margaret rather wonderingly.
"No," said Eleanor firmly, "not even for the sake of my voice. If you had
been killed that night I should never, never have forgiven myself. I feel
now that it would have served me perfectly right if you had tumbled over
the cliff and been killed. It would have been only what I deserved, for
then I should have been obliged to suffer from a life-long remorse."
"Oh!" said Margaret rather doubtfully. Then she laughed. "Don't you
think," she asked, "that it would have been rather hard on me if you had
been punished like that?"
Eleanor laughed too. "I must say that I wasn't thinking of you at the
moment," she said; "to forget other people's feelings was always a trick
of mine, as you know; however, I really am reforming fast. By the way,
have you seen anything of the Danvers since you left them?"
"I saw Hilary in the town, and she stopped to speak to me. She is
reforming, too," Margaret added, with another smile. "I seem to be having
quite an improving effect upon other people's characters. She told me
that one reason why she took such a dislike to me was because she was
afraid that I would accept her sister's offer to go out to Los Angelos
with her in the spring as her governess, and that she had been jealous of
me because she wanted to go herself. But the funny part is," continued
Margaret, "that now she no longer wants to go either; her latest idea is
to go to Girton, and she is going to read hard with a tutor at home all
this winter so that she can pass the necessary examinations in the
spring."
"And a very good thing for her too," said Eleanor; "if she had had more
to occupy herself with this summer, she wouldn't have busied herself so
disastrously with our affairs. I am afraid she made you very unhappy
while you were there, and I, like a selfish oyster, sat tight here and
kept you out of your rightful place."
"I am very glad you did," said Margaret earnestly, "or perhaps I might
never have gone to live with Aunt Helen."
"You mean, you think that Mrs. Murray would never have given you up
to her," said Eleanor with twinkling eyes. "You need not be afraid,
Margaret, Mrs. Murray likes me much better than she would have ever liked
you; she as good as told me so."
"And Aunt Helen likes me best," retorted Margaret.
"All's well that end's well, then," said Eleanor laughing; "though, mind
you, I must candidly confess that I don't believe that that is a very
moral reflection to apply to the end of our conspiracy. However, as we
have been forgiven all round, and as we really did no one any harm, we
need not be very severe on ourselves.
"But don't forget, Margaret, that I was your first friend; the first
girl, with the exception of your dream-friend Eleanor, that you ever
spoke to. And you will write to me regularly, won't you, dear?"
"Oh yes, I will write," Margaret answered, smiling a little wistfully;
"but I do not believe you will answer many of my letters. You will be so
full of your own interests, and so busy getting famous, that I shall soon
drop out of your remembrance."
"Never!" said Eleanor with a passionate vehemence that fairly startled
Margaret. "Please, please, Margaret, get it out of your head that I am
the selfish, hard sort of person you first knew. I shall never forget the
girl who helped me out of my shallows and miseries and set me afloat on
my full sea. You will only come second in my affections to Mrs. Murray,
to whom I shall simply never be able to repay all her kindness and
goodness, so if you want to hurt me, Margaret, accuse me again of
fickleness and ingratitude."
"But I don't wish to hurt you," Margaret protested. "You know, Eleanor,
I am only too pleased to have you for a friend. Let us always be friends,
Eleanor dear."
"We always will," Eleanor declared. "It is the fashion to laugh at girls'
vows of eternal friendship. I laughed at them myself, you know, for have
I not lived four years in a girls' school! But no one need trouble to
laugh at our vows, Margaret, for I know you to be a faithful little soul,
and I owe you far too much ever to cease to love you."
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Rebellion of Margaret, by Geraldine Mockler