Soothed and calmed at last, Margaretta told her tale to her humble friend, and concluded by saying, "I have come to you, Nelly. I have kept my promise. I have scarcely any money, for Mrs. Moffat has my last sovereign, and I forgot to mention it before she left."
"Don't name money, dear Miss Meg. I am not without a trifle, and there is Thorley with plenty, who would do anything for you. I will get you a cup of tea and something with it. Then you will be better, for you are faint for want of it."
Nelly busied herself in preparing the tea, and poor Meg thankfully partook of it, and then read, one by one, all the letters written by that dear hand, and now first opened by her own. From them she gathered all the details of her mother's illness and journeyings to and fro, of the tender cares by which she was surrounded; and she read, with tear-moistened eyes, how that dear parent was ever looking forward to meeting her again, and to the time when no one would be able to separate them from each other. In more than one letter money was enclosed, so that Margaretta found she would need no help of this kind.
As she closed the last precious letter she felt more tenderly towards her grandmother. "At least," thought she, "I have been able to read my dear mother's words of love. She might have read them herself and then burned them."
Old Lady Longridge was truly a strange mixture. Too vindictive to give up her daughter-in-law's letters, yet impelled by a certain sense of honour to refrain from reading words only meant for the eyes of her granddaughter, and determined that in saying she knew nothing of Mrs. Norland's movements, the statement should be true.
Thorley had a trying time with her old mistress that day. She found out that Margaretta had left the Hall, but that she had carried nothing away with her, so rightly judged that she had taken refuge at Nelly Corry's. She had no chance of following her thither, for Lady Longridge kept her constantly in sight, and, contrary to custom, remained in her own room all the day.
"I am not well enough to go down," she said. "That girl has upset me with her talk about forgiving. As if I, an old woman of eighty-three, now would ask her pardon. And to talk of Florence! I never could bear the woman! Daughters-in-law and daughters are all alike—at any rate mine were. They cared for themselves, and left me to shift for myself. I am getting old. The girl told the truth there, and somebody must have the money. If I could make a new will—but Melville is away, and I will trust nobody else. He is weak; he wanted me to leave money to my daughters, who had their share long since; but he is true, and can keep his own counsel and my secrets. I wish—"
But the voice became tremulous and quavering, and for a time Lady Longridge ceased to think aloud, and slept in her easy-chair by the fire, while Thorley watched in silence, afraid to move, lest she should arouse her mistress.
Lady Longridge awoke refreshed, but asked no questions about Margaretta. She, however, later in the day gave Thorley the key of a safe which occupied a corner of her bedroom and stood confessed as such, without an attempt at concealment.
"Get out two papers for me," she said. "They are in large envelopes—one blue, the other white, and both are marked alike, 'The last Will and Testament of Dame Sophia Janet Longridge.'"