Maggie flew up the steep, badly carpeted stairs to the hideous drawing-room. Her spirits had been very low; but, somehow, Tildy had managed to revive them. Tildy was plain, and very much lower than Maggie in the social scale; but Tildy admired her, and because of that admiration made her life more or less endurable in the fusty, musty lodgings. She had always cultivated Tildy’s good will, and she thought of the girl now with a strange sense of pity. 79
“Compared to her, I suppose I am well off,” thought Maggie. “I have only five weeks at the most to endure this misery; then there will be Aylmer House.”
She opened the drawing-room door and entered. Mrs. Howland was lying on a sofa, which was covered with faded rep and had a broken spring. She had a handkerchief wrung out of aromatic vinegar over her forehead. Her eyes were shut, and her exceedingly thin face was very pale. When her daughter entered the room she opened a pair of faded eyes and looked at her, but no sense of pleasure crossed Mrs. Howland’s shallow face. On the contrary, she looked much worried, and said, in a cross tone, “I wish you would not be so noisy, Maggie. Didn’t Tildy tell you that I had an acute headache?”
“Yes, mother; and I didn’t know I was noisy,” replied Maggie. “I came upstairs as softly as possible. That door”—she pointed to the door by which she had entered—“creaks horribly. That is not my fault.”
“Excusing yourself, as usual,” said Mrs. Howland.
“Well, mother,” said Maggie after a pause, “may I kiss you now that I have come back against my will?”
“I knew you’d be horribly discontented,” said Mrs. Howland; “but of course you may kiss me.”
Maggie bent down and touched her mother’s cheek with her young lips.
“I was having a beautiful time,” she said, “and you don’t seem glad now that I have come back. What is the matter?”
“I have something to communicate to you,” said Mrs. Howland. “I did not think I could write it; therefore I was obliged to have you with me. But we won’t talk of it for a little. Have you ordered tea?”