The evenings were not very gay at Fernley just now. Miss Sophronia could not keep awake while any one else read aloud; so she took matters into her own hands, and read herself, for an hour by the clock. Her voice was high and thin, and kept Mr. Montfort awake; she was apt to emphasise the wrong words, which made Margaret's soul cry out within her; and she stopped every few minutes to chew a cardamom seed with great deliberation. This simple action had the effect of making both her hearers extremely nervous, they could not have explained why. Also, she was afflicted with a sniff, which recurred at regular intervals, generally in the middle of a sentence. Altogether the reading was a chastened pleasure nowadays; and this particular evening it was certainly a relief when she declared, before the hour was quite over, that she was hoarse, and must stop before the end of the chapter. On the whole, she thought it might be better for her to go to bed early, and take some warm drink. "It would never do for me to be laid up, with these children coming to be seen after!" she declared. So she departed, and Margaret and her uncle sat down to a game of backgammon, and played slowly and peacefully, lingering over their moves as long as they pleased, and tasting the pleasure of having no one say that they should play this or that, "of course!"
The game over, Mr. Montfort leaned back in his chair, with an air of content.
"This is pleasant!" he said, slowly. "Margaret, my dear, this is very pleasant!" Margaret smiled at him, but made no reply. None was needed: the uncle and niece were so much alike in tastes and feelings, that they hardly needed speech, sometimes, to know each other's thoughts. Both were content to sit now silent, in the soft, cheerful candle-light, looking about on the books and pictures that they loved, and feeling the silence like a cordial.
Suddenly Mr. Montfort's air of cheerful meditation changed. He sat upright, and leaned slightly forward. He seemed to listen for something. Then suddenly, softly, he rose, and with silent step crossed the room and stood a moment beside the wall. It was a very different face that he turned to Margaret the next instant.
"My dear," he said, "there is some one in my study."
"In your study, Uncle John? What do you mean? That is,—how can you tell, uncle?"
"Come here, and listen!" said her uncle. Margaret stole to his side, and listened, her head, like his, near the wall. She heard the crackling of paper; the sound of a drawer pulled softly out; the clank, muffled, but unmistakable, of brass handles. What did it mean? She looked to her uncle for explanation. He shook his head and motioned her to be silent. Then, taking her hand in his, he led her softly from the room. Margaret followed, greatly wondering, across the wide hall; through the low door that led to the White Rooms, now her own; into her own sitting-room, or Aunt Faith's room, as she still loved to call it. Here Mr. Montfort released her hand, and again motioned her to be silent.
"I will explain by and by, my dear," he said. "Follow me, now, and learn another lesson in Fernley geography; I was keeping it for a surprise some day, but never mind. Where is this place?"
Margaret noticed, in all her confusion of surprise, that the great white chair was pushed away from its usual place. Her uncle stepped in behind the table near which it always stood, and passed his hand along the smooth white panel of the wall. Noiselessly it swung open, revealing a dark space. Margaret obeyed his gesture, and following, found herself in a narrow passage, carpeted with felt, on which her feet made no sound. They went forward some way; it was quite dark, but she followed her uncle's guidance, and he trod as surely as if it were broad daylight. Presently he stopped, and, with a pressure of the hand, bade her listen again. The rustling of paper sounded very clear now; there was another rustle, too, the rustle of silk. Suddenly, light flashed upon them; Margaret felt herself drawn swiftly forward; there was a smothered exclamation in her uncle's voice, followed by a scream from another.
They were standing in Mr. Montfort's study. The room was lighted by a single candle, that stood on the writing-table; beside this table, backed against it in an attitude of terror and surprise, stood Miss Sophronia Montfort, her hands full of documents, her eyes glaring. There was a moment of silence, and Margaret counted her heart-beats. Then—