Go! Frances, who had been at Fernley twenty years; for whom the new kitchen, now only fifteen years old, had been planned and arranged! Margaret was struck dumb for a moment; but recovering herself, she tried to soothe the angry lady, assuring her that Frances could not have meant to be disrespectful; that she had a quick temper, but was so good and faithful, and so attached to Uncle John; and so on. In another moment, to her great discomfiture, Miss Sophronia burst into tears, declared that she was alone in the world, that no one loved her or wanted her, and that she was the most unhappy of women. Filled with remorseful pity, Margaret bent over her, begging her not to cry. She brought a smelling-bottle, and Miss Sophronia clutched it, sobbing, and told Margaret she was an angelic child. "This—this is—a Vanderdecken vinaigrette!" she said, between her sobs. "Did Eliza Vanderdecken give you this, too? Very singular of Eliza! But she never had any sense of fitness. Thank you my dear! I suffer—no living creature knows what I suffer with my nerves. I—shall be better soon. Don't mind anything I said; I must suffer, but it shall always be in silence, I always maintain that. No one shall know; I never speak of it; I am the grave, for silence. Do not—do not tell your uncle, Margaret, how you have seen me suffer. Do not betray my momentary weakness!"
"Certainly not!" said Margaret, heartily. "I will not say a word, Cousin Sophronia, of course!"
"He would wish to know!" said Miss Sophronia, smothering a sob into a sigh. "John Montfort would be furious if he thought I was ill-treated, and we were concealing it from him. He is a lion when once roused. Ah! I should be sorry for that woman. But forgiveness is a duty, my dear, and I forgive. See! I am myself again. Quite—" with a hysterical giggle—"quite myself! I—I will take the vinaigrette to my room with me, I think, my dear. Thank you! Dear Margaret! cherub child! how you have comforted me!" She went, and Margaret heard her sniffing along the entry; heard, and told herself she had no business to notice such things; and went back rather ruefully to her buttonholes.
CHAPTER V.
A NEW TYPE.
"My child, I thought you were never coming again!" said Mrs. Peyton. "Do you know that it is a week since I have seen you? I have been destroyed,—positively destroyed, with solitude."
"I am so sorry," said Margaret. "I could not come before; truly I could not, Mrs. Peyton. And how have you been?"
Mrs. Peyton leaned back on her pillows, with a little laugh. "Who cares how I have been?" she said, lightly. "What does it matter how I have been? Tell me some news, Margaret. I must have news. You are alive, you move, and have your being; tell me something that will make me feel alive, too."
Margaret looked at the lady, and thought she looked very much alive. She was a vision of rose colour, from the silk jacket fluttering with ribbons, to the pink satin that shimmered through the lace bed-spread. The rosy colour almost tinted her cheeks, which were generally the hue of warm ivory. Her hair, like crisped threads of gold, was brought down low on her forehead, hiding any lines that might have been seen there; it was crowned by a bit of cobweb lace, that seemed too slight to support the pink ribbon that held it together. The lady's hands were small, and exquisitely formed, and she wore several rings of great value; her eyes were blue and limpid, her features delicate and regular. Evidently, this had been a great beauty. To Margaret, gazing at her in honest admiration, she was still one of the most beautiful creatures that could be seen.