The Rebellion of Margaret Part 11

Mrs. Danvers was so evidently well pleased with herself for having given a mere holiday governess the best bedroom in her house that Margaret hastened to admire it.

It was indeed a luxuriously furnished room, perfect in all its appointments, and its handsome solid old mahogany furniture looked well against the dull blue Axminster carpet and the blue silk hangings of the big double bed. The walls were blue also.

"Yes, I think you will be comfortable," Mrs. Danvers said, glancing round. "You see there is a sofa and an armchair and a writing-table, so that if at any time you want to get away from the noisy young folk downstairs you have got a nice retreat to come to. They have unstrapped your trunk I see; but as Collins, the head housemaid, is out to-night, your unpacking has not been done for you."

"Oh, but thank you very much, I can do that myself," said Margaret hastily, wondering within herself as she spoke what would have happened supposing Collins had not been out, and had insisted upon unpacking her things, and had seen that all her linen was marked with a name quite different to the one she had come in. The thought of the danger she had escaped made her turn quite pale. This sudden pallor was not lost upon Mrs. Danvers who, attributed it, not unnaturally, to extreme fatigue, and who thereupon hastened her own departure from the room, with a kindly expressed wish as she left, that Margaret would sleep well.

But tired though Margaret was, she felt that she could not go to bed until she had removed her own name from every article of her underlinen, and so having unpacked her trunk she took a pair of scissors and set to work. Fortunately for her purpose, her things had not been marked in ink but with tapes bearing her name in woven letters, and these she carefully ripped off one by one, and making a little pile of them burned them all in the grate. Then, if any maid saw them before Margaret had time to remark them with the ink and tapes that she meant to buy, the most she would feel would be a mild wonder that any young lady having such nice undergarments as Miss Carson had, should risk losing them at the wash by having no name upon them.

CHAPTER IX

THE DANVERS FAMILY

In spite of her settled conviction that, weary though she was, she was far too miserable to close an eye that night. Margaret's slumbers were sound. A vigorous banging on a door in the near neighbourhood of her own, a banging which was answered by a sleepy and irritable yell, roused her about six o'clock the next morning. Otherwise she could have slept on for another hour or more. But once awake further sleep was impossible.

Not only were her neighbours exceedingly noisy--from s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation shouted across the pa.s.sage as they dressed, Margaret gathered that most of the junior members of the house were going down to the sea to bathe--but her own thoughts were of themselves sufficient to keep her awake. She had fallen asleep the night before with the dismal thought in her mind that though her long desired wish to stay in a house full of young people had been most unexpectedly realised, the very first thing she had done was to declare enmity with all of them, and the depressing fact came vividly before her mind the instant she awoke. She found herself wishing most fervently that she had been content to remain Margaret Anstruther, and had never met Eleanor Carson, or conceived the mad idea of changing places with her. However, as it was obviously too late to entertain reflections of that sort now, she made an effort to dismiss that unprofitable wish from her mind, and in order to divert her thoughts the more effectually, resolved, early though it was, to get up.

As soon as the sound of many feet clattering noisily downstairs told her that the coast was clear, she found her way to the bathroom, and having bathed and dressed felt more courage to face the trials of the day that lay before her.

There was no one about as she went downstairs, and she pa.s.sed out through the open front door and went into the garden.

The Cedars--described by the local house agents as one of the finest residential mansions in Seabourne--stood in about three acres of ground, which, though to Margaret accustomed to the big gardens of the country, seemed a small enough piece of land to belong to such an imposing looking house as The Cedars, was in reality unusually large for a town where property was so valuable and ground rents as enormous as they were in Seabourne. The grounds had been laid out to the utmost advantage. A wide lawn, planted here and there with clumps of flowering shrubs, sloped slightly away from the front of the house, and at the bottom of it lay two sunk tennis courts surrounded by high wire-netting. On the other side of the drive were kitchen and fruit gardens.

Her tour of the grounds finished, Margaret conceived the idea of going on to the downs, the foot of which were scarcely a stone's throw away from the gate, and seeing if she could discover in which direction Windy Gap lay. It was still quite early and she had plenty of time at her disposal before breakfast. It was a stiff climb to the top of the downs and took longer than she had thought, even though she left the white road that went zigzagging to the summit and took a short cut up an exceedingly steep footpath. But the view that she got when she reached the top brought a little cry of amazed wonder to her lips, and she felt amply repaid for her long, toilsome climb. Accustomed as she had been all her life to the flat, tame scenery that surrounded her native village, she had had no idea that anything as lovely as this could exist. Never had she seen anything like it. The wide downs appeared to stretch away for miles and miles in front of her forming undulating hills and valleys.

Below, at the foot of the high white cliffs that now rose to a dizzy height sheer above the water, and now dipped almost to its level, lay the sea glittering and sparkling in the sunlight. For the most part the downs were bare and wind-swept, but in the hollows small villages nestled with here and there a square grey tower rising through the trees that surrounded the tiny hamlets. One of these she felt sure must be Windy Gap, because looking eastwards she could see the flat, marshy ground through which the train had taken them the day before, and though of this she could not be certain, for a light mist veiled the distant view, she even thought she could descry the long white road leading upwards to the downs from the plain beneath them.

Somewhere over there, then, Eleanor was at that moment, and whatever else she might be doing she was not roaming at her own sweet will on the hillside as she, Margaret, was at that moment doing. And her intense satisfaction at the thought of her own freedom swept away the few uncomfortable doubts and fears that had been hara.s.sing her ever since she awoke that morning. Come what might, she would enjoy herself she thought determinedly.

But as a matter of fact the invigorating, bracing air, the brilliant sunshine pouring down on land and sea, had already acted like a tonic upon Margaret's spirits, her troubles seemed to roll away of their own accord and she felt that it would be impossible not to be happy at The Cedars.

So, much the better for her walk, she presently climbed down the hill again, and turned into the road that led homewards. The windows of the dining-room looked on to the drive, and as she pa.s.sed them she saw that every one was seated at breakfast, and it was with an inward and very rapid sinking of the heart that she realised that she would have to go in late and face the entire a.s.sembled party.

An access of terrible shyness rushed over her at the thought, and to delay the evil moment as much as possible she went up to her room and took off her hat and smoothed her hair. But she could not linger over that operation indefinitely, especially as a housemaid who had already arrived to do her room volunteered the information that the breakfast gong had sounded nearly a quarter of an hour ago. With slow, reluctant feet that halted at every step Margaret went down the wide, shallow stairs. If any one had told her three days ago that she would go thus laggingly to resume acquaintance with a room full of young people she would have found difficulty in believing them. A buzz of talk and laughter struck loudly on her ear as she pushed the door open and went in.

Every member of the family, except Mrs. Danvers who never came down to breakfast, were a.s.sembled in the room, and, or so at least it seemed to Margaret as she hung for a moment unperceived in a hesitating manner on the threshold, they were all talking together.

In addition, Maud, who presumably occupied her mother's place at the head of the table, but who had vacated it for the time being, was balancing herself on the fender reading out sc.r.a.ps of news from a letter she held in her hand.

One of the two cadets had evidently only just made his appearance at breakfast, for he was standing at the sideboard, complaining, as he lifted the covers and inspected the contents of the hot dishes, that not a single thing worth eating had been left for him.

"You shouldn't be such a lazy person then," called a girl who was seated near Geoffrey. "Of course, the early birds get all the worms."

"I am sorry, Miss Joan, that you liken our good food to worms," said the boy, as, having pa.s.sed the contents of all the dishes in review, he slid a couple of poached eggs and a few rashers of bacon on to his plate, and took his seat beside the girl who had called out the remark.

"I was speaking comparatively," she said in a condescending tone, as she tilted her nose in the air. "I have heard before that one should not speak comparatively to boys of your age, and now I know."

At that there arose a delighted shout of laughter, and Maud called across from the fireplace that little girls should not use words they could not understand. "You meant figuratively, my dear Joan," she said.

Joan, who looked about sixteen, tossed the long, fair pigtail in which she wore her hair over her shoulder and began readily enough to join in the laughter to which her mistake had just given rise. But all of a sudden her countenance changed, and appearing to fly into a violent pa.s.sion she started up from her chair, and stamped her foot and cried out:--

"I won't be laughed at, I won't, I won't! I hate you all!"

And burying her face in her handkerchief, she raced across the room, and dashed full tilt into Margaret who was still hesitating unperceived in the doorway.

At that a sound like a little gasp went up from the others, and though the gasp was in some cases followed by a little giggle, to their credit be it said most of the young faces wore a look of concern that Margaret should have made her appearance just in time to hear her outburst of the night before mimicked for the general amus.e.m.e.nt. Would she get angry again, or would she burst out crying? From what they had seen of her the night before, she was quite as likely to do one as the other. But to the general surprise she did neither, and for the simple reason that she had failed to grasp the fact that Joan's grief was all a sham, and that it was she herself who was being made game of. Joan, after one swift glimpse to see against whom it was she had so violently cannoned, turned away, and dropping her face in her handkerchief, again appeared to cry violently. Margaret felt quite sorry for her, and forgetting all her shyness tried to comfort her.

"I know how unpleasant it is to be laughed at," she whispered in her ear; "but if you pretend not to mind and laugh back you will not mind it so much."

But Margaret's sympathy, far from making Joan ashamed of herself, amused her immensely, and keeping her face turned away from Margaret, she looked up out of her handkerchief and winked at the others and giggled. But when she found that no one else was laughing, her own giggles died away, and she began to sidle uncomfortably towards her chair.

Though none of the others had heard what Margaret had whispered to her, they had guessed, from the sympathetic expression of her face, that she had taken Joan's pretence of rage for a real outburst, and was comforting her; and that in spite of that, Joan should still wish to make game of her seemed to them horribly unfair. Geoffrey was the first to show his disapproval of Joan's conduct. A joke was a joke, he thought, but his young cousin must be taught that she could not make game of a fellow guest--not without their sanction, at any rate. So getting up and coming round the table, he shook hands with Margaret, wished her good morning, and found a place for her next him.

"Come back to the table and do your duty, Maud," he said, as his sister showed no signs of moving from the fireplace; "or if you want to go off, let Hilary take your place. There are several of us wanting more tea.

Will you have tea or coffee, Miss Carson?"

"I'll pour out for you, Maud," Hilary said, starting up.

"No, you won't, my dear," Maud said, coming back to her place. "I haven't half finished my brekker. But I thought you had had breakfast ages ago, Miss Carson, with the kids in the nursery."

"Oh, ought I to have had my breakfast there?" Margaret said uncomfortably, letting the fork she had just taken up fall with a clatter on to her plate.

Maud shrugged her shoulders. "There is no ought about it," she said carelessly. "But the kids do have their breakfast in the nursery, and I believe the idea was that you should have yours there with them."

"Well, any way, Miss Carson," put in Geoffrey pleasantly, "you show your good taste in preferring our society to theirs. Our manners may leave a good deal to be desired"--though he did not glance at Joan, that young person knew well that her recent behaviour was in his mind, and got very red--"but theirs are worse. Their sense of humour is distinctly inferior, and they think it awfully funny to put salt in your tea, and to mix mustard with your pudding when you aren't looking, and things of that sort, you know."

No one knew better than her brother that Maud's remark had not been intended to convey a hint that Miss Carson's place as governess was with her young charges. The disagreeable habit of implying things was not one of Maud's faults. Innuendos were beneath her--what she wanted to say she said outright. But sometimes, as in this case, her brother wished she was not so utterly indifferent to the effect her bluntness produced. It was because he had seen Margaret wince under it that he had exerted himself to remove any unpleasant impression that her words might have left on the holiday governess's mind.

"I--I do like your company best, of course," Margaret said. Then, with a heightening colour, and in a stammering, choked voice which showed what an effort it was to overcome her shyness and speak so that every one could hear, she said, "I beg your pardon for saying last night that I hated you all. Of course, it was not true."

"That is a great weight off our minds," said Maud in a tone of raillery. "Now we can breathe again. We were so afraid that you hadn't--well--exactly taken to us last night."

The light-hearted way in which she spoke quite robbed the words of any sting they might otherwise have conveyed, and Margaret was able to join in the laughter which this very mild way of describing the feeling she had shown the previous night evoked.

She was finding out that very little made the Danvers laugh, and when she came to think it over, she arrived at the right conclusion that she found this surprising, not because they laughed more than other young people, but because she had been used to the society of people who laughed so very much less. But anything seemed to serve with them as a cause for laughter. If the joke were a good one it evoked hearty laughter, if it were a bad one the perpetrator was laughed at; and if fresh jokes, good or bad, ran short, there was seemingly an endless store of old ones to be drawn upon, supplemented by catchwords and phrases from the latest musical comedy. These, of course, were even more unintelligible to Margaret than the rest of the queer, sc.r.a.ppy talk that made up the bulk of their conversation; but as she made no attempt to share in it, the fact that even their most everyday slang expressions were strange to her, pa.s.sed unnoticed. For the most part, however, they were too much occupied with their own affairs to have much attention to spare for her; and it dawned upon Margaret, before even that first meal in their society was ended, that she need not have been afraid that they would bear malice against her for her outburst of the night before. They were really scarcely interested enough in her to do that. Under cover of the brisk chatter that went on round her, she took the opportunity of glancing round the table and studying the various members of the household.

With the exception of herself they numbered eight, and though there had been considerably more young people than that present in the billiard-room last night, she gathered from the conversation that was going on round her that, during the holidays at least, Mrs. Danvers kept a sort of open house for all the friends of her own children.

Opposite Margaret, on Geoffrey's other hand, sat Joan Green. Though she was only fifteen, she looked at least a year older, in spite of the fact that she wore her hair in a long, thick plait down her back. Margaret, who was still under the impression that Joan had been flying from the room in a rage as she came in, and that she had been the means of soothing her back to a better temper, was a little hurt and puzzled at the studious way in which Joan's eyes avoided hers. Once when she had caught their glance for a moment, and had smiled a friendly recognition into them, she had been rewarded by a cold glare that had quite startled her. Next to Joan sat Hilary, and the two girls had seemingly a great deal to say to each other, for though now and again they joined in the general conversation, for the most part they talked together in undertones audible to themselves alone. Hilary's face was a pale likeness of Maud's. Her eyes were not so blue, nor was her complexion so tanned as her sister's, and though her features resembled Maud's sufficiently closely to cause them to be easily recognised as sisters, Hilary's face lacked the look of sparkling vivacity which made Maud's face so attractive. On the other side of Hilary and next to Maud sat Jack, with his brother Noel, the other naval cadet, facing him. Then came Nancy, the girl who had offered Margaret chocolates and advice the previous evening, and when she caught Margaret's eyes now she smiled and nodded as much as to say she quite understood the latter's desire to find out what they were all like.

Nancy was not the only person who had noted the way in which Margaret's eyes had been travelling round the table, for when the turn of the boy next to her came to be inspected, she was startled to hear Geoffrey on the other side of her say:--

"Don't waste time on him, Miss Carson. He's not worth it, I a.s.sure you; that's only Edward--Silly Ned as we call him. You must call him that too; he never answers to any other name."

"Oh!" said Margaret, glancing with some apprehension at the small boy on her left as though she feared that he might think she was really going to call him anything of the sort.

Though he, too, was unmistakably a Danvers, he was more like Hilary than any of the others. He was a small, thin, delicate-looking boy, and he wore spectacles.