Margaret took Peggy's hand without a word, and they went out; but Peggy cried till dinner-time, and would not be comforted.
CHAPTER XII.
IN THE SADDLE.
| "To witch the world with noble horsemanship." |
Rita's "story" was not the first thing to rouse suspicion in Margaret's mind. It was rather the concluding word of a sentence that had been forming in her mind during the last ten days.
Something was on foot; some mystery hung about; she had felt thus much, and had felt, too, that it was connected with Rita; but all had been vague, uncertain.
Rita had been receiving many letters with the New York postmark; but what of that? It was not Margaret's business to take notice of her cousin's letters. She had met Rita once or twice at the foot of the garret stairs, evidently returning from a visit to that place of shadowy delight. What of that? Rita had said each time that she had been looking for such and such a costume; that she was planning a charade, a new tableau, that would be sure to ravish her cousins; and in the evening she would produce the charade or the tableau, and sure enough, it would be enchanting, and they were delighted, and most grateful to her for the pains she took to amuse them. And yet—and yet—had she been at these pains until lately? Had not Margaret herself been the one who must think of the evening's amusement, plan the game, the reading, or singing, which should keep the three various natures in harmonious accord? So it had surely been, until these last ten days; and now—
But how hateful to suspect, when it might be that Rita was merely feeling that perhaps she had not done her share, and had realised that with her great talent and her lovely voice and presence, she was the one to plan and execute their little entertainments? And what should Margaret suspect? It was not her nature to be anything but trustful of those around her; and yet—and yet—