“She is not quite well, and has gone to bed,” said Aneta. “She does not wish to be disturbed until the morning.”
Aneta’s words had a curious effect upon every one who heard her speak. It was as though she had, for the first time in her life, absolutely taken Maggie’s part. Her eyes, when she spoke of Maggie, were full of affection. The girls were puzzled; but Merry, as they turned away, suddenly ran back to Aneta, swept her arm round the girl’s neck, and said, “Oh Neta, I do love you!”
Aneta pressed Merry’s hand. For the first time these two understood each other.
Meanwhile poor Maggie was living through one of the most dreadful periods of her life. Her mother’s intimation that she and her stepfather were coming without fail to Aylmer House on Saturday—the day, the glorious day when Maggie and her friends were to entertain Mrs. Ward and the rest of the school—drove the girl nearly wild. Aneta had discovered her secret, and Aneta had urged, as the one way out, the painful but salutary road of confession. Maggie writhed at the thought, but she writhed far more terribly at the news which her mother’s letter contained.
The girl said to herself, “I cannot stand it! I will run away! He has destroyed my last chance. I will run away and hide. I will go to-night. There is no use in waiting. Aneta is kind; she is far kinder than I could ever have given her credit for. She would, I believe, help me; and dear Mrs. Ward would help me—I am sure of that. And I don’t really mind now that it comes to the point of losing my position in the school as queen; but for all the school—for the Tristrams, for Merry Cardew, for Kathleen—to see that man is beyond my power of endurance. He will call here, and he will bring poor mother, but as I won’t be here I won’t feel anything. I will go to-night. I’ll slip downstairs and let myself out. I have some money—thank goodness for that!—and I have my father’s treasures. I can take them out of the tin box and wear them on my person, and I can sell them one by one. Yes, I will run away. There’s no help for it.”
Maggie, at Aneta’s suggestion, had got into bed, but even to think of sleep was beyond her power. She got up again presently, dressed, and sat by the foggy window. The fog was worse; it was so thick now that you could not see your way even as far as the trees in the middle of the square. There were fog-signals sounding from time to time, and cabs going very slowly, and boys carrying torches to light belated and lost passengers. 157
Maggie was safe enough in her room, which had, like all the other bedrooms at Aylmer House, a small fire burning in the grate. By-and-by some one tapped at the door. Maggie said, “Don’t come in”; but her words were unheeded. The door was opened an inch or two, and Merry Cardew entered.
“Oh Merry, you—of all people!” said Maggie.
“And why not?” said Merry. “I am your friend—your own very, very great friend. What is the matter, Mags? You were so jolly at tea; what can have happened since?”
“Something most dreadful,” said Maggie; “but you will know on Saturday.”