Miss Marlett turned very pale, and sat down with unexpected suddenness.
“Oh, what will become of the poor girl?” she cried, “and what will become of me? It will get talked about. The parents will hear of it, and I am ruined.”
The unfortunate lady passed her handkerchief over her eyes, to the extreme discomfiture of Maitland. He could not bear to see a woman cry; and that Miss Marlett should cry—Miss Marlett, the least melting, as he had fancied, of her sex—was a circumstance which entirely puzzled and greatly disconcerted him.
He remained silent, looking at a flower in the pattern of the carpet, for at least a minute.
“I came here to consult you, Miss Marlett, about what is to become of the poor girl; but I do not see how the parents of the other young ladies are concerned. Death is common to all; and Margaret’s father, though his life was exposed to criticism, cannot be fairly censured because he has left it And what do you mean, please, by receiving both my telegrams? I only #sent one, to the effect that I would leave town by the 10.30 train, and come straight to you. There must be some mistake somewhere. Can I see Miss Shields?”
“See Miss Shields! Why, she’s gone! She left this morning with your friend,” said Miss Marlett, raising a face at once mournful and alarmed, and looking straight at her visitor.
“She’s gone! She left this morning with my friend!” repeated Maitland. He felt like a man in a dream.
“You said in your first telegram that you would come for her yourself, and in your second that you were detained, and that your friend and her father’s friend, Mr. Lithgow, would call for her by the early train; so she went with him.”
“My friend, Mr. Lithgow! I have no friend, Mr. lithgow,” cried Maitland; “and I sent no second telegram.”
“Then who did send it, sir, if you please? For I will show you both telegrams,” cried Miss Marlett, now on her defence; and rising, she left the room.