“I want Miss Marlett,” answered Maitland.
There was some hesitation. Then the porter appeared to reflect that a burglar would not arrive in a cab, and that a surreptitious lover would not ask for the schoolmistress.
The portals were at length unbarred and lugged apart over the gravel, and Maitland followed the cook (for she was no one less) and the candle up to the front door. He gave his card, and was ushered into the chamber reserved for interviews with parents and guardians. The drawing-room had the air and faint smell of a room very seldom occupied. All the chairs were so elegantly and cunningly constructed that they tilted up at intervals, and threw out the unwary male who trusted himself to their hospitality. Their backs were decorated with antimacassars wrought with glass beads, and these, in the light of one dip, shone fitfully with a frosty lustre. On the round table in the middle were volumes of “The Mothers of England,” “The Grandmothers of the Bible,” Blair “On the Grave,” and “The Epic of Hades,” the latter copiously and appropriately illustrated. In addition to these cheerful volumes there were large tomes of lake and river scenery, with gilt edges and faded magenta bindings, shrouded from the garish light of day in drab paper covers.
The walls, of a very faint lilac tint, were hung with prize sketches, in water colors or in pencil, by young ladies who had left. In the former works of art, distant nature was represented as, on the whole, of a mauve hue, while the foreground was mainly composed of burnt-umber rocks, touched up with orange. The shadows in the pencil drawings had an agreeably brilliant polish, like that which, when conferred on fenders by Somebody’s Patent Dome-Blacklead, “increases the attractions of the fireside,” according to the advertisements. Maitland knew all the blacklead caves, broad-hatted brigands, and pea-green trees. They were old acquaintances, and as he fidgeted about the room he became very impatient.
At last the door opened, and Miss Marlett appeared, rustling in silks, very stiff, and with an air of extreme astonishment.
“Mr. Maitland?” she said, in an interrogative tone.
“Didn’t you expect me? Didn’t you get my telegram?” asked Maitland.
It occurred to him that the storm might have injured the wires, that his message might never have arrived, and that he might be obliged to explain everything, and break his bad news in person.
“Yes, certainly. I got both your telegrams. But why have you come here?”
“Why, to see Margaret Shields, of course, and consult you about her. But what do you mean by both my telegrams?”