The Rebellion of Margaret | Page 4

you something else to do. What is it that you ought to
be doing at this hour?"
"Three to four. Take exercise," said Margaret in the tone of a child
repeating a lesson.
"And this is the way in which you take it? By sitting and dreaming
away your time in nonsense and folly and in making up silly, idle
conversations with idiotic creatures of your own imagination. I gave
even you, Margaret, credit for more sense. Aren't you ashamed of
yourself?"

Now, if Margaret had murmured the meek affirmative reply that was
obviously expected of her, the whole course of her life might have been
different. Her grandfather would probably have delivered himself of a
few more harsh strictures, and then Margaret would have been
dismissed to the house, with orders to double her morrow's lessons.
But though she winced at the scorn with which he spoke to her, it did
not cut so deep as the ridicule he poured on what he contemptuously
termed the idiotic creatures of her own imagination, and oddly enough,
though she would never have summoned up enough courage to justify
her own actions to him, she could not remain silent when the
intelligence of her shadowy friend was derided.
"No;" she said slowly, thoughtfully, and quite as much amazed at her
own temerity as Mr. Anstruther was; "I don't think I am ashamed,
grandfather. You see, I am very fond of Eleanor Humphreys. She has
been a very great comfort to me."
Sheer amazement held Mr. Anstruther silent. He would probably have
been less surprised if the kitchen cat had entered into conversation with
him.
"When I am lonely she comes and talks to me. She is not always alone,
like me, but is one of a large family of brothers and sisters. They have
such good times together. They play tennis, and go to parties and
dances, and sometimes I go with them; but when I cannot go Eleanor
comes here afterwards and tells me all she has been doing, and then it is
just as though I had been to the parties also."
But at that point Margaret pulled herself up in a sudden breathless
manner. It was always like that she thought confusedly. Either she had
not courage to open her lips to her grandfather, or else she was led into
saying all manner of things which a moment's calm reflection would
have told her must on no account pass her lips.
But at any rate, as she realised with a queer little thrill of excitement,
she had not been disloyal enough to say that she was ashamed of her
affection for Eleanor. And she had had to derive as much comfort from

that thought as possible, for it required no great discernment to see that
her grandfather was terribly angry with her. Yet, when he spoke, his
voice was as cold and as even, his diction as precise, as usual.
"I wonder, Margaret," he said, "if you are mad, or merely pretending to
be mad. In either case, I have listened to you long enough. Kindly go
into the house, seat yourself at the piano, and practise scales for two
hours. The sound at this hour of the day will not be a pleasing one; but
hearing it I shall trust that the manual exercise is keeping your mind
from dwelling further on this folly."
Margaret required no second bidding to leave him, but retreated from
the spot at the fastest walk she could manage. To have run from his
presence would have been considered both disrespectful and
unlady-like, and would not have been permitted for a moment.
When the trees had swallowed her up from his sight, Mr. Anstruther
turned and walked in the other direction. And there was a perturbed
look on his face.
CHAPTER II
MARGARET OVERHEARS A CONVERSATION
Margaret's parents had died when she was in her infancy, and she had
been brought up entirely by her grandfather. As far as she knew, she
had no other relatives. Certainly he had never spoken to her of any.
When she grew old enough to begin lessons, Mr. Anstruther had
engaged an excellent governess to reside at Greystones, and at her
hands Margaret had received a careful, sound education. No nun in a
convent ever led a more regular existence than Margaret had led from
the time she was five years old until a few weeks before this story
opens. Certainly no girl was ever expected to lead so quiet and
monotonous an existence.
Every morning, winter and summer alike, she entered the schoolroom
punctually at seven and practised on the piano for an hour and a half.
At half-past eight she and Miss Bidwell breakfasted together. Nine to

eleven were lesson hours. Eleven to one were exercise hours. At