Part 23 (1/2)
”It _is_ a large one,” said Sir Philip, with conviction. ”Shall I take any of the coal off for you? No? Well, as I was saying, I wished to speak to you about your friend, Miss Colwyn.”
”She has lost her father lately, poor thing,” said Margaret, conversationally. ”She has been very unhappy.”
”Yes, and for more reasons than one. You have not seen her, I conclude, since his death?”
”No, he died in August or September, did he not? It is close upon December now--what a long time we have been away! Poor Janetta!--how glad she will be to see me!”
”I am sure she will. But it would be just as well for you to hear beforehand that her father's death has brought great distress upon the family. I have had some talk with friends of his, and I find that he left very little money behind.”
”How sad for them! But--they have not removed?--they are still at their old house: I thought everything was going on as usual,” said Margaret, in a slightly puzzled tone.
”The house belongs to them, so they might as well live in it. Two or three of the family have got situations of some kind--one child is in a charitable inst.i.tution, I believe.”
”Oh, how dreadful! Like Lady Ashley's Orphanage?” said Margaret, shrinking a little.
”No, no; nothing of that kind--an educational establishment, to which he has got a nomination. But the mother and the two or three children are still at home, and I believe that their income is not more than a hundred a year.”
Sir Philip was considerably above the mark. But the mention of even a hundred a year, though not a large income, produced little impression upon Margaret.
”That is not very much, is it?” she said, gently.
”Much! I should think not,” said Sir Philip, driven almost to discourtesy by the difficulty of making her understand. ”Four or five people to live upon it and keep up a position! It is semi-starvation and misery.”
”But, Sir Philip, does not Janetta give lessons? I should have thought she could make a perfect fortune by her music alone. Hasn't she tried to get something to do?”
”Yes, indeed, poor girl, she has. My mother has been making inquiries, and she finds that Miss Colwyn has advertised and done everything she could think of--with very little result. I myself met her three or four days ago, coming away from Miss Morrison's, with tears in her eyes. She had failed to get the post of music-teacher there.”
”But why had she failed? She can sing and play beautifully!”
”Ah, I wanted you to ask me that! She failed--because Miss Morrison was a friend of Miss Polehampton's, and she had heard some garbled and distorted account of Miss Colwyn's dismissal from that school.”
Sir Philip did not look at her as he spoke: he fancied that she would be at once struck with horror and even with shame, and he preferred to avert his eyes during the moment's silence that followed upon his account of Janetta's failure to get work. But, when Margaret spoke, a very slight tone of vexation was the only discoverable trace of any such emotion.
”Why did not Janetta explain?”
Sir Philip's lips moved, but he said nothing.
”That affair cannot be the reason why she has obtained so little work, of course?”
”I am afraid that to some extent it is.”
”Janetta could so easily have explained it!”
”May I ask how she could explain it? Write a letter to the local paper, or pay a series of calls to declare that she had not been to blame? Do you think that any one would have believed her? Besides--you call her your friend: could she exculpate herself without blaming you; and do you think that she would do that?”
”Without blaming _me_?” repeated Margaret. She rose to her full height, letting the fan fall between her hands, and stood silently confronting him. ”But,” she said, slowly--”I--I was not to blame.”
Sir Philip bowed.