“Is anyone here?” she asked, trying to pierce the gloom. “Can I help you?”
A very young and scared voice answered: “Please go away.”
By now Miss Grantham’s eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, and she was able to discern a pale form huddled in a chair against the far wall. She made her way to this ghost-like figure, and said kindly: “But, my dear, indeed I cannot go away and leave you in such unhappiness! Come, can I not be of assistance?”
There was a tense pause; then the voice said desolately: “No one can help me! I wish I were dead!”
“Oh dear, is it as bad as that?” Miss Grantham asked, sitting down beside the pale figure, and drawing it into her arms. “Won’t you tell me what it is?”
Instead of complying with this request, the figure laid it head upon her shoulder, and burst into tears.
While Miss Grantham was endeavouring to soothe his grief, Lord Mablethorpe had unhooked one of the coloured lanterns from its stand outside the summer-house, and brought it inside. Its roseate light illuminated the figure in Miss Grantham’s arms, a woebegone face was turned towards his lord ship, and he saw that it belonged to the fair child in Lady Laxton’s box.
“Why, you must be Miss Laxton!” he exclaimed.
Miss Laxton was one of the fortunate few whom tears did not much disfigure. They sparkled on the ends of her lashes and drowned her blue eyes, but they made no unsightly blotches on her fair skin, and did not turn the tip of her little nose red. She said, with a catch in her voice: “Yes, I am Phoebe Laxton. Who are you, please?”
“I’m Mablethorpe,” responded his lordship, setting his Ian tern down on a rustic table, and drawing nearer. “I am a little acquainted with your brothers. I wish you will tell us how we may help you!”