"Your aunt? Is she--is she about Uncle John's age? I know so few people, you see. I have lived a very quiet life."

"Oh, no! She--well, I suppose she's a little older than you, but not very much. She married Roger, don't you know. He's my half-uncle all right, but he's ever so many years younger than the Pater, nearer our age, you might almost say; and Hildegarde and the girls, my sisters,--I say! I wish you knew them all, Miss Montfort."

"I wish I did," said Margaret, simply. "There are no girls of my own age near here. Last year I had my cousins, and I miss them so much!"

"Of course you must!" said sympathetic Gerald. "Girls are no end--I--I mean, I like them too, ever so much." He paused, and wished he knew the right thing to say. How pretty and sweet she was! Not like Hilda, of course (Hilda was this young man's ideal of what a girl should be), but with a little quiet way of her own that was very nice. She must have no end of a time of it with these youngsters! He spoke his thought aloud.

They were nearing Fernley, and he must leave her soon. "You must be having some difficulty with those youngsters, Miss Montfort. If I could help you any time, I wish you'd let me know. There have always been such a lot of us at home, I'm used to most kinds of children, you see; and I should be ever so glad--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Won't you come in?'"]

"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret, gratefully. "I am sure you are very kind; and if you would advise me sometimes--now that Uncle John is away--I should be most grateful. But--I ought to be able to manage them myself, it seems to me, without help. If I can only make them love me!"

She looked straight at Gerald, and her dark gray eyes were very wistful in their unconscious appeal.

"I'd like to see 'em not!" said the young man, straightway. "Little beggars! They couldn't help themselves!" He was about to add that he would thrash them handsomely if they did not love her, but pulled himself together, and blushed to his ears, and was only comforted by seeing out of the tail of his eye that the girl was wholly unconscious of his blushes. After all, there was some sense in freckles and sunburn.

But here they were now at the gates of Fernley. "Won't you come in?"

said Margaret. But Gerald, becoming once more conscious of his working-clothes, which he had entirely forgotten, excused himself. If he might come some evening soon? Yes, he might, and should. He lingered still a moment, and Margaret, after a moment's shyness, held out her hand frankly. "I am so glad to know you!" she said, simply. "Uncle John--Mr. Montfort said I was to be good to you, and I will try."

"I'm sure you couldn't be anything else!" said Gerald, with fervour.

"Thanks, awfully, Miss Montfort. Good-bye!" Lifting his cap, the young man turned away, feeling homesick, and yet cheerful. Pa.s.sing round the corner of the house, and finding himself well out of sight of the young girl, he relieved his feelings by turning a handspring; and on coming to his feet again, encountered the awful gaze of two greenish eyes, bent upon him from an upper window of the house.

"Now I've done it!" said the youth, brushing himself, and a.s.suming all the dignity of which he was master. "Wonder who that is? Housekeeper, perhaps? Quite the Gorgon, whoever it is. Wish I didn't turn over so easily."

Margaret went into the house singing, with a lighter heart than she had felt since Uncle John's letter came. Perhaps she had made a friend; at any rate, a pleasant acquaintance. What a frank, nice, gentlemanly--boy!

"For he is a boy, just as he says!" she acknowledged to herself. And what kind, honest eyes he had; and how thoughtful to offer to help her with the children!

Her pleasant meditations were harshly interrupted. Miss Sophronia came down-stairs, with her brown and yellow shawl drawn over her shoulders; this, Margaret had learned, was a bad sign.

"Margaret, who was that young man? I saw you! There is no use in attempting to conceal anything from me, my dear. I saw you talking with a young man at the gate."

"Why should I conceal it?" asked Margaret, wondering. "It was Mr.

Merryweather, Cousin Sophronia. He was a schoolmate of Uncle John's,--I mean his father was."

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the lady, sharply. "Don't tell me anything of the kind, miss. He was a common workman, a day-labourer. I tell you I saw him! Do you suppose I have no eyes in my head? I shall consider it my duty to tell your uncle as soon as he comes home. I am surprised at you, Margaret. I thought at least you were discreet. William's daughters would no more think of talking with such a person--but that comes of leaving a young person alone here with servants. My dear, I shall make it a point henceforward--"

She stopped; for the gentle Margaret turned upon her with eyes of fire.

"Cousin Sophronia, I cannot listen to this; I will not listen! I am a gentlewoman, and must be spoken to as a gentlewoman. I am eighteen years old, and am accountable to no one except Uncle John for my behaviour.

Let me pa.s.s, please! I want to go to my room."

The girl swept by, her head high, her cheeks burning with righteous wrath. Miss Sophronia gazed after her speechless; it was as if a dove had ruffled its wings and flown in her face. "Ungrateful girl!" said the lady to herself. "I never meet with anything but ingrat.i.tude wherever I go. She is as bad as those girls of William's, for all her soft looks.

The human heart is very, very depraved. But I shall do my duty, in spite of everything."

CHAPTER XI.

THE SECOND CONQUEST.

The boys came home late for tea that night, bubbling over with joy.

Basil declared that they did not want any supper. "Mrs. Peyton gave us some of her supper. I say, Cousin Margaret, isn't she bully?"

"Basil, if you _could_ find another adjective now and then! I cannot imagine anything less appropriate to Mrs. Peyton than--the one you used."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter! She _is_ bully! She had broiled chicken, a whole one, and she just took a little piece off the breast for herself, and then she told Mert and me each to take a leg and run. And we did!

And Mert sat down in the china bath-tub with his, and smashed it,--cracked it, at least,--and she said she didn't care."

"And the table-drawer was full of chocolate peppermints," chimed in Merton, "and we ate so many, I don't feel very well now, I think, p'r'aps."

"And she told us lots of things!" cried Basil again; he looked towards Miss Sophronia, with sparkling eyes. "She told us about when she was a little girl, and used to stay here, when Uncle John's puppa and mumma were alive. I say! And you were here, too, she said, Cousin Sophronia.

And she said--lots of things!" The boy stopped suddenly, and gave his brother a look of intelligence.

"Ho!" said Merton, "I know what you mean,--you mean about the ghost, that scared--I say! You stop pinching, will you? I'll punch your--"

"Merton!" said Margaret, warningly.

"Well, he was pinching me!" whined Merton. "And it did scare you, didn't it, Cousin Sophronia?"

Miss Sophronia looked disturbed. "Merton, you should speak when you are spoken to!" she said, severely. "I am surprised that Mrs. Peyton should have told you such things. There certainly were some very strange occurrences at Fernley, Margaret, when I was a young girl. They never were explained to my satisfaction; indeed, I never heard of their being explained at all. Little boys, if you do not want any supper, you may as well run away. I do not approve of their going to see Emily Peyton, Margaret. I shall make a point of their not doing so in future. She was always malicious."

She seemed much fluttered, and Margaret, wondering, hastened to change the subject. "I wonder where Susan D. can be. I have not seen the child since I came in, and she did not answer when I called her. Elizabeth, do you--"

"Pardon me, Margaret, my love!" Miss Sophronia interposed. "Susan D. is in bed; I sent her to bed an hour ago."

"Oh, Cousin Sophronia! Without her supper? What had she done?"

"She was disobedient, my dear,--disobedient and impertinent. I have no doubt that this will have an excellent effect upon the child. Basil, what do you want? I told you to go away."

"Cousin Margaret, could I speak to you a moment, please?" asked the boy.

"I will come to you, Basil," said Margaret, quickly. "Will you excuse me, Cousin Sophronia, please? I have quite finished. Now, Basil, what is it?"

She led the boy carefully out of earshot, for thunder and lightning were in his face, and she foresaw an outburst.

"Susan D. is in bed!" cried Basil. "She has had no supper at all; Elizabeth said so. That woman sent her. Cousin Margaret, I won't stand it. I--I'll set fire to her clothes! I'll shoot her! I'll--I'll kill her some way--"

Margaret laid her hand over the boy's mouth. "You will be silent!" she said. "Not a word, not a syllable, till you can speak like a civilised being. We will have no savages here."

Basil said no word,--he knew well enough when he must obey,--but he set his teeth, and clenched his fists; the veins on his temples swelled, his whole childish frame shook with anger. Margaret had never seen any one, not even Rita, in such a pa.s.sion as this. For a few moments, the two stood motionless, facing each other. Then Margaret took the boy's hand in hers, and led him out into the garden. Still holding his hand, she paced up and down the green walk in silence, Basil following obediently.

The evening was falling soft and dusk; the last bird was chirping sleepily; the air was full of the scent of flowers. Behind the dark trees, where the sun had gone down, the sky still glowed with soft, yellow light. "See!" said Margaret, presently. "There is the first star.

Let us wish! Oh, Basil dear, let us wish--and pray--for a good thing, for strength to overcome--ourselves."

The boy's hand pressed hers convulsively, but he did not speak at first.

Presently he said, almost in a whisper, "She is so little,--and so thin!

I told Mother I would take care of her. But--I said--I would try not to let go of myself, too."

Very tenderly Margaret drew the child down beside her, on a rustic bench that stood under one of the great tulip-trees. In the quiet darkness, she felt his heart open to her even more than it had done yet.

In the hour that followed, she learned the story of a wild, faithful nature, full of mischief, full of love. The pa.s.sionate love for his mother, whom he remembered well; the faithful, scowling devotion to the little sister, whom no one should scold but himself, and whom he shook, and bullied, and protected with a sole eye to her good; all this, and much more, Margaret learned. The two sat hand in hand, and took counsel together. "Oh, it is so good to have some one to talk to," cried Basil.