“You will have to take it in the right spirit, my dear,” said her mother. “I can’t stand this life any longer. I want money, and comforts, and devotion, and the love of a faithful husband, and Mr. Martin will give me all these things. He is willing to adopt you too. He said so. He has no children of his own. I mean, when I say that, that his first family are all settled in life, and he says that he wouldn’t object at all to a pleasant, lively girl in the house. He wants you to leave school.”
“Leave Aylmer House!” said Maggie. “Oh no, mother!”
“I knew you’d make a fuss about it,” said Mrs. Howland. “He has a great dislike to what he calls fine folks. He speaks of them as daisies, and he hates daisies.”
“But, mother—mother dear—before he comes, tell me something about him. Where did you meet him? Who is he? A clergyman—a barrister? What is he, mother?”
Mrs. Howland remained silent for a minute. Then she pressed her hand to her heart. Then she gave way to a burst of hysterical laughter.
“Just consider for a minute, Maggie,” she said, “what utter nonsense you are talking. Where should I be likely to meet a clergyman or a barrister? Do clergymen or barristers or people in any profession come to houses like this? Do talk sense when you’re about it.”
“Well, tell me what he is, at least.”
“He is in—I am by no means ashamed of it—in trade.”
Now, it so happened that it had been duly impressed upon Maggie’s mind that Mr. Cardew of Meredith Manor was also, so to speak, in trade; that is, he was the sleeping partner in one of the largest and wealthiest businesses in London. Maggie therefore, for a minute, had a glittering vision of a great country-house equal in splendor to Meredith Manor, where she and her mother could live together. But the next minute Mrs. Howland killed these glowing hopes even in the moment of their birth.
“I want to conceal nothing from you,” she said. “Mr. 82 Martin keeps the grocer’s shop at the corner. I may as well say that I met him when I went to that shop to get the small articles of grocery which I required for my own consumption. He has served me often across the counter. Then one day I was taken rather weak and ill in the shop, and he took me into his back-parlor, a very comfortable room, and gave me a glass of excellent old port; and since then, somehow, we have been friends. He is a widower, I a widow. His children have gone into the world, and each one of them is doing well. My child is seldom or never with her mother. It is about a week ago since he asked me if I would accept him and plenty, instead of staying as I am—a genteel widow with so little money that I am half-starved. His only objection to our marriage is the thought of you, Maggie; for he said that I was bringing you up as a fine lady, with no provision whatever for the future. He hates fine ladies, as he calls them; in fact, he is dead nuts against the aristocracy.”