Part 16 (1/2)

Eleanor shook her head. ”You will change your mind again to-morrow,” she said curtly.

Margaret flushed. ”No,” she replied steadily, ”I will not. You may believe me when I say I shall not. You see, Eleanor, when I first wanted so much to be in your place and go to The Cedars I had no idea what was before me. I was disappointed when I found out, and so, of course, my wish was to change back into myself again; and I never thought of the effect my change of purpose would have upon you. But this time I am doing it with my eyes open.”

There was a new ring in Margaret's voice, a look of resolution on her face that was strange to it, and Eleanor, glancing at her in amazement, realised that she was showing a latent strength of purpose that had perhaps for the first time in her sheltered, uneventful life been called out in her. Nevertheless she refused to believe that Margaret really meant what she said.

”But the dishonesty you spoke of just now,” she said. ”What about that; and your dislike to the deception we are both practising? That remains the same.”

”I know,” said Margaret in a low tone, a shadow crossing her face and dimming the look of courageous resolve it wore. ”But that is unavoidable.

It seems to me now that it would be quite as bad, if not worse, to break faith with you.”

Still Eleanor did not give way. Her conscience did not need to speak very loudly for her to hear it telling her that in accepting Margaret's offer she was doing a very wrong thing. In her heart of hearts she had known all along that their plot was inexcusable from every point of view, and that when it came to be known most of the blame would be laid at her door, not only because she was the elder and the more worldly wise of the two, but because most people would consider that she had been the one to profit most by the exchange. But she had been carried away by Margaret's urgent pleadings and persuasions and had finally suppressed her misgivings and consented to the plot. Now, however, the case was altered.

It was only out of a spirit of pure self-sacrifice that Margaret was urging her to continue to bear her name, and she knew that in yielding she would be guilty of great selfishness.

”Think of your singing lessons with Madame Martelli,” said Margaret, who was quietly watching the struggle with herself to which Eleanor's changing face bore eloquent witness.

That clenched the matter. Eleanor gave in; but this time it was she who found it difficult to meet Margaret's eyes.

”Oh, Margaret,” she said, ”if you appeal to my ambition my better self goes under. I accept, then; but you're a brick, a perfect brick, and I feel too mean for words.”

CHAPTER XI

A PRACTICAL JOKE

Three weeks had pa.s.sed since Margaret had paid her first visit to Eleanor at Windy Gap, and during those three weeks she had kept steadily to her word and was impersonating Eleanor as well as she could at The Cedars.

And as the days went by her task grew easier. She seemed to have slipped into her place as a member of the household, and though it was a very insignificant niche indeed that she filled, she did not mind that at all, for she was aware that the more she kept in the background the less chance there was of her secret being discovered. Perhaps on the whole, too, she was happier than she had been during the first three or four days. Of course, as she told herself seriously, she ought not, when once her eyes had been opened to the wrongfulness of the deceit she was practising, to have known a single happy moment, but somehow she found it difficult always to feel ashamed and contrite, especially when she was playing croquet with Edward. For in return for some lessons in French conversation she was giving him he had offered to teach her croquet, and though Margaret had been afraid that she was far too stupid to learn any game, she was making astonis.h.i.+ng progress under his tuition, and Edward was already beginning to boast of the prowess of his pupil. And so, for the first time in her life, Margaret fell under the fascination of a game, and when she had a mallet in her hand it is to be feared that the delinquency of her conduct ceased to trouble her.

Fat, chuckling Nancy, too, who seemed to be always br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with good nature and good spirits, frequently sought her society, and Margaret found it even more impossible to brood secretly over her misdeeds in Nancy's society as when she was playing croquet. Of Maud she saw very little. Sometimes for days together the eldest daughter of the house scarcely spoke to her, vouchsafing her only the most careless and hasty of nods as morning and evening greetings. Maud intended to be neither rude nor unkind. The children's holiday governess simply did not interest her, that was all, and as for going out of her way to amuse or entertain her, Maud's blue eyes stared amazedly at her mother when one day Mrs.

Danvers ventured to suggest that perhaps Maud might take more notice of Miss Carson.

”For I really am afraid she is having a very dull time here,” said Mrs.

Danvers, her tone taking on a rather apologetic note as she encountered the impatient expression on Maud's face. ”I am sure I don't know what she would do if it wasn't for Nancy and Edward.”

”Well, with them to knock around with, and the kids to teach when they come back, she ought not to find time hang heavy,” Maud said carelessly.

”But as for asking me to take her about, why, mother, I simply couldn't.

The day isn't half long enough as it is for me to do all I want to do.

And after all, she wouldn't find it a bit amusing to come about with me.

Fancy her sticking down for hours at the club watching me playing tennis, for that is what I am doing this afternoon, for instance. Besides, she is so dreadfully slow. She bores me awfully.”

”My dear,” said her mother, ”though you all find Miss Carson so slow just because she knows nothing about tennis, or tennis people, or cricket averages, or the difference between Rugby and a.s.sociation football, I think she is a very nice girl indeed, so gentle and so unselfish. David and Daisy just love her, and I know if I want any little thing done for me, a note written, or flowers put in water, or any little things of that sort, I'd sooner ask her to do it for me than either you or Hilary.”

”Well, and so she ought to make herself useful,” said Maud, turning restive at the merest hint of criticism from the mother who usually had nothing but praise for her daughters. ”After all, that is what she is here for. She is paid for that, isn't she?”

”I am paying her nothing,” Mrs. Danvers said.

”Well, she gets her board and lodging, anyhow, and a better time into the bargain than she would be getting grilling away in an empty house at Hampstead,” Maud retorted. ”And I think she ought to be jolly thankful to be here.”