The Rebellion of Margaret | Page 6

miss her. Naturally she felt a little lonely at first,
and it was rather strange to look up from her work and not see the thin,

angular form of her governess seated at the head of the table with a
book, at the pages of which she had latterly, at least, not looked much,
open before her, nor to hear the ceaseless click click of her steel
knitting needles. But as soon as the feeling of loneliness and the sense
of almost oppressive silence that now surrounded her wore off
Margaret grew to like her hours of solitary study. The hours that she
found most irksome were those that she was compelled to spend taking
exercise in the grounds. For though she liked being out in the open air,
she soon grew heartily tired of walking about under the shade of the
densely growing elms, and she missed the long country walks with
Miss Bidwell to which she had been accustomed.
Gradually the monotony and exceeding loneliness of her life began to
tell upon her spirits, her appetite failed, she grew paler and thinner, and
her step as she roamed aimlessly about the grounds grew daily more
languid.
But still no thought of rebelling against the queer existence she was
leading entered her mind, for as yet she had scarcely realised how
unhappy she was. It was an intensely hot summer, and she thought that
the unusual heat was responsible for the lack of interest she felt in all
her usual occupations, and for the tired feeling which made her now,
instead of obeying her grandfather's orders to take exercise, deliberately
seek out the shadiest spot among the trees and sit quietly there the
whole afternoon. It was probably the very first deliberate act of
disobedience of which she had ever of set purpose been guilty in her
life, and it was to have consequences of which she little dreamed.
One afternoon, some two or three weeks before the day on which her
grandfather was to come so unexpectedly upon her, she was sitting
there half asleep when the unusual sound of footsteps and voices in the
field below her startled her into complete wakefulness.
Though she was close to the hedge that divided the fields from the
woods, she was so well screened from observation, not only by the
hedge but by a clump of intervening young trees, that she was able to
rise to her feet and look at the speakers as they passed without fear of
detection.

For strangers to be trespassing in her grandfather's fields was an event
rare enough to excite her curiosity, and she was eager to know who the
intrepid people might be.
Somewhat to her surprise, she recognised in one of them the clergyman
of the church five miles distant, to which they always drove every
Sunday morning. It was not their own parish church, for with the rector
of that Mr. Anstruther had quarrelled many years ago, not for any
particular reason except that he was the clergyman of the parish and
therefore to be kept at a distance.
He was walking with a middle-aged little man of kindly aspect in
whom Margaret recognised Dr. Knowles, the doctor who had lately
bought old Dr. Carter's practice, and who had advised Miss Bidwell to
go abroad for her eyesight.
Though nothing was further from Margaret's mind than any intention of
eaves-dropping, she could not help overhearing every word that was
spoken as they passed the spot where she was standing. Mr. Summers,
the clergyman, was speaking.
"Yes, poor girl. It is a great shame. Her grandfather keeps her cooped
up in that gloomy old place and never lets her see a soul. She has
passed a lonely, unloved youth, for I am sure her grandfather has never
shown her any affection, and I am equally sure that her dry stick of a
governess did not, and, poor child, she has never been allowed to
associate with any one else. She has never been allowed to have a
friend or to go to a party or a dance in her life. And she must be nearly
eighteen now. It really is a shame, for youth only comes once."
"What a queer life! What a queer life for a girl to lead!" said the little
doctor in jerky tones. "And is she contented with it?"
"Yes, I think so; but, then, she has no idea what she is missing."
With that reply the two voices passed out of hearing, leaving Margaret
standing motionless under the tree. Of course it was she of whom they
were talking. Was she, then, so greatly to be pitied? The idea was such

a novel one that she could not take it in all at once, but gradually the
truth of what