"Very well, dear," said Lucy, who was too kind not to be good to any girl in the school; "only be quick, Maggie," she said, "for you know you are breaking the rules."

"Yes! oh yes!" said Maggie; "and I will never do it again."

Miss Johnson left her, and Maggie flew back to bend over her paper and continue her writing:

"Darling, you must not let him come here. He threatens to come, but you must keep him away. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school. I beseech of you have a little mercy on me. For the sake of my own father, keep him--do keep him--from Aylmer House.--Your distracted daughter,

"MAGGIE HOWLAND."

This letter was addressed to Mrs. Martin (spelt this time with an "i"), Laburnum Villa, Clapham. Maggie stamped it, and, flying downstairs, popped it into the box which held the letters.

CHAPTER XX.

THE VILLA.

Laburnum Villa, in the suburb of Clapham, was, in the new Mrs.

Martin's eyes, quite a delightful place. She had never appreciated her first husband, Professor Howland, but she thoroughly appreciated Bo-peep, and after her own fashion was fond of him. He gave her comforts. She had lived so long without comforts that she appreciated these good things of life to the full. She had never really been much attached to Maggie, who was too like her own father and too unlike herself to allow of the existence of any sympathy between them.

Maggie, even before Mrs. Howland met Martin the Shepherd's Bush grocer, had been more or less a thorn in the flesh to her mother.

Laburnum Villa was furnished, as James Martin expressed it, with an eye to comfort. There were solid arm-chairs with deep seats and good springs, and these were covered with maroon-colored leather. There were thick, maroon-colored curtains to the dining-room windows, and all the furniture of the room was of solid oak. There was a rich Turkey carpet on the floor, and prints of different hunting scenes--by no means bad in their way--hanging on the walls. The paint-work of the room was of dull red, and the paper was of the same tone. It was a small room, and the furniture was large and heavy, but it represented in Martin's eyes the very essence of comfort. The fireplace was modern, and when it was piled up with goodly lumps of coal it caused a warmth to pervade the whole room which, as Mrs. Martin expressed it, was very stimulating. The house had electric light, which both Mr. and Mrs. Martin considered distinguished.

They spent most of their time in the dining-room, although Mrs.

Martin, with some faint instinct still left of her own life, would have preferred to use the drawing-room in the evenings; but when she suggested this Bo-peep said, "No, no, Little-sing; I can smoke here and sit by the fire, and enjoy the rest which I have rightly earned. I hate rooms full of fal-lals. You can keep your drawing-room for the time when I am out, Little-sing."

Mrs. Martin knew better than to oppose her husband. She recognized her own weakness, and knew that against his fiat she could no more exercise her puny strength than a babbling stream can disturb a great rock. She used her drawing-room when Bo-peep was out, and regarded it with intense satisfaction. It is true that the colors were crude, for James Martin would have screamed at any Liberty tints. But the carpet was good of its kind, the pictures on the walls not too atrocious.

Although they were in gilt frames, the large mirrors over the mantelpiece and at one end of the room were first rate; in short, the drawing-room was fairly presentable, and Mrs. Martin had some traces of her old life still lingering about her which gave a look of domesticity and even repose to the place. Her little work-basket, with its embroidery, was home-like and pleasant. She had forgotten how to play, but she always kept the piano open. Bo-peep suggested buying a pianola, and Mrs. Martin thought it would be a good idea.

"We'll have all the comic operas on it," said Bo-peep; "nothing of the cla.s.sic order for me--nothing over-my-head, but the popular tunes, plenty of them--no stint. What do you say, Little-sing?"

Little-sing replied that it would be charming; but in her heart she somewhat shuddered, and was glad that the pianola was still a thing to be purchased.

Tildy had been turned into a very presentable little parlor-maid.

There was also a first-rate cook, for Martin was fond of the pleasures of the table. On the whole, the little household was comfortable, and Mrs. Martin enjoyed her life. She had some cards printed with her new name and address, and the notification that she was "at home" on the third, fourth, and fifth of each month. Tildy was very much excited about these At Home days; but the first month after Mrs. Martin's marriage pa.s.sed without a single individual calling upon her.

Mrs. Martin had been settled for over six weeks, and the day of Queen Maggie's great reception at the school in Kensington was drawing on apace. Mrs. Martin was in a state of subdued excitement. She was dressed in her best. Her best consisted of a light fawn-colored silk with velvet tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of the same. The silk rustled as she walked. On her fingers were many rings of much brilliancy, and she wore a small diamond brooch at her throat. The reason of all this festive attire was a simple one, a good one, a domestic one. James Martin was coming home. He had been in Liverpool, engaged on special business, for the greater part of a week; but he was now returning to his beloved Little-sing, who had missed him, and he was pleased to feel that he would be with her again. She knew his tastes to a nicety, and had desired the cook to prepare a very special dinner for his delectation.

"Beef-steak pudding, cook," she said, "with mutton kidneys, and plenty of oysters; and be sure the crust is very light."

Cook replied that if she did not know how to make beef-steak pudding she ought immediately to leave her "perfession." She was a stout, red-faced woman, and had a way of frightening Mrs. Martin, who generally retreated from the kitchen premises as quickly as possible.

"Very well," said Mrs. Martin; "I am glad you quite understand. You know that my husband is very particular. Then we'll have potatoes and fried mushrooms, and I think afterwards apple-tart and cream."

The cook, whose name was Horniman, condescended to signify her willingness to provide this dinner, and Mrs. Martin went up to the drawing-room.

"You had better light a fire here, Matilda," she said. "It's going to be a very cold day."

"I'd a sight rayther you called me Tildy, mum. It seems like as though a lump o' ice got on my 'eart when you say Mat-tilda."

"'Matilda' is more refined and suitable," said Mrs. Martin with dignity.

"Oh yes, 'um--'course, 'um. When 'ull Miss Maggie be comin' to see us, 'um?"

"Not before Christmas, you silly girl. Miss Maggie is at school."

"So I 'ave 'eard," said Matilda. "You 'aven't give me no 'olidays, 'um, sence I come to yer; and it were understood, sure-_ly_, that I were to 'ave my day out once a month."

"You shall go out to-morrow, Matilda. I haven't the slightest wish to keep you indoors against your will."

"To-morrer's cook's day, 'um."

"Well, then, you shall go the next day."

"Thank you, 'um. I thought I'd go and see Miss Maggie ef you'd give me her address."

"Well, now, that's a very good idea," said Mrs. Martin. "I could write her a little note, and you could take it to her. That's very thoughtful of you, Tilda. Yes, I should like you to go and bring me word how she is."

"It's longin' I am to lay eyes on 'er, mum. She's a bee-utiful way with 'er," said Matilda.

When she was quite alone Mrs. Martin took that letter of Maggie's, which she had received during her husband's absence, from her pocket.

She was terrified lest Bo-peep should read it. The letter had offended her. Maggie had written with great fire and distress: "You must not let him come here. All will be up with me if he is seen at the school.

For the sake of my own father, keep him from Aylmer House."

Mrs. Martin slipped it back into her pocket, and then sat by her comfortable drawing-room fire waiting for the arrival of the good Bo-peep. He was a very playful creature. His one idea of happiness consisted in endless jokes--practical jokes or otherwise, just as it suited him at the moment.

He had done a very successful stroke of business in Liverpool, and was returning to Laburnum Villa in the highest spirits. While he was in the train he was planning how he could most effectively announce his return. To ring at his own hall-door, or to open it with a latch-key, or to walk in in the ordinary fashion of the master of the house did not content him at all. He must invent a more novel manner of return than that. He was really fond of Little-sing. She suited him to perfection. What he called her "fine-lady airs," when they were displayed to any one but himself, pleased him mightily. He thought of her as pretty and gracious and sweet. He really loved her after his own fashion, and would do anything in his power to make her happy. But he must, as he expressed it, have his joke.

Mrs. Martin was seated by the fire in the drawing-room. It was getting late--nearly four o'clock; but, according to an expressed wish of Bo-peep, the window-blinds had not yet been drawn down. He liked, as he said, to see his home before he entered it. Mrs. Martin, therefore, with the electric light on, was perfectly visible from the road. Mr.

Martin guessed that this would be the case, and he stopped the cab at a little distance from the house, paid the fare, shouldered his bag, and walked softly down the street. He went and stood outside the window. He looked in. The street was a quiet one, and at that moment there were no pa.s.sers-by. Mrs. Martin was seated in her smart dress which he had given her, with her profile towards him. He thought her very beautiful indeed. His heart swelled with pride. She belonged to him. He hated fine ladies, as a rule; but a fine lady who was his very own was a different matter. He even felt romantic.

She was reading a letter. Who could have been writing to Little-sing?

Suddenly it occurred to him to slip down the area steps and stand close under the window. He did so, to the terror of cook and Tildy.

Cook was about to scream, "Burglars!" but Tildy recognized her master.

"It's his joke," she said. "'E's a wonderful man for jokes. Don't let on to Mrs. Martin that 'e's 'ere for your life. 'E'll do something so comic in a minute."

The comicality of Martin consisted, in the present instance, of singing in a harsh baritone the song of the Troubadour:

"Gaily the Troubadour Touched his guitar, When he was hastening Home from the war; Singing, 'From Palestine Hither I come.

Ladye love! ladye love!

Welcome me home.'"

Mrs. Martin gave a shriek. She had the presence of mind to pop her letter into her pocket. Then she approached the window, trembling and blushing. Bo-peep uttered a huge laugh of delight, let himself in by the back way, and ran up the stairs.

"Little-sing!" he said, and clasped his wife in his arms.