"And now I despair of hearing from you, my darling daughter," wrote Mrs. Norland. "You would have written if you could, and I can only suppose that your replies have been suppressed, unknown to yourself. At any rate, you will have heard of me, and rejoiced in my recovery, though the process has been a very slow one. But I am well now, and I expect to reach London not many days after you read this. I am sorry that you can never see your little brother as a baby proper, for he is now turned into a tiny boy, who trots to and fro at will, and is as bright and full of mischief as possible. But you will love little Hugh for his own sake, as well as for mine. He only has his proper share of love. My Meg has hers, and with interest. It only seems to accumulate during absence, and, darling, I trust you, though no line has come from your dear hand to say, 'Mother, I have not changed, I love you always.'"
"I do not ask you to write now, as we shall be travelling slowly homeward, but I shall lose no time in coming to Northbrook and clasping my darling to my heart.—Yours," etc.
With what mingled feelings Margaretta read these words cannot be described. Her joy and thankfulness on the one hand, her indignation at her grandmother's cruelty on the other.
She had no one to speak to at the moment, for Thorley, having just heard the good news that the letter was really from Mrs. Norland, stole back to her mistress's chamber, not daring to wait for particulars.
Margaretta dressed quickly and went down-stairs to the room in which breakfast was generally served. She was standing, lost in thought, with her elbow resting on the mantelpiece and the letter in her other hand, when Thorley entered with a tray to take the materials for her mistress's meal.
"Is my grandmother awake?" she asked. "I must see her as soon as possible. Thorley, she has been very cruel. She has kept back my mother's letters. There have been many before this. How could she do it? She is very hard, but I did not think anyone could have seen me hoping and hoping till my heart sunk within me, for the news which never came. I cannot tell you what dreadful thoughts I have had. Sometimes I have feared that my mother must be dead. Then I have felt that I must have been told if such were the case, and the more awful fear has come that perhaps I was being forgotten in the new cares that the dear baby brought with him, and owing to my mother's ill-health. Oh, Thorley! I have so prayed that I might be kept from doubting my mother, and I have sat down many a time to call her loving words and ways to remembrance, until I have been able to say to myself, 'No, it is impossible. My mother could never cease to love me.' Grandmother could have ended all this with a word, yet she saw me suffer and would not say it."
"She is very old, dear Miss Meg. She has had her own way always, and gone just in one rut through such a long life. I do believe she thinks she has a right to do these things. If they troubled her conscience, she would never rest, and she does sleep as sound as a healthy baby. She is a wonderful old lady."
"She cannot think that deceit is right. I have asked her so often, and she has declared that she did not know where my mother was."
"And perhaps she told the truth. It would be just like your grandmother to keep all those letters unopened, or to burn them without reading a word, so that she could say truly that she did not know."
"She will have to give an answer about them now," said Margaretta firmly.
"Dear Miss Meg, do consider her age. You know about your mamma now, and where will be the use of upsetting the old lady by saying anything? Beside, she is getting fond of you, and talks quite proudly when your back is turned about your pretty singing. Try and keep in with her, dear Miss Meg. It may mean a great deal to you some day."