“Mary Esther Brandon.”
Greta gave a little shriek.
“Esther Brandon? Margaret-not really! Oh, Margaret, how thrilling! Weren’t you frightfully, frightfully surprised when you asked me what my name was, and I said it was Esther Brandon? Margaret-is that why you brought me home? Oh, Margaret, do you think we’re relations?”
Margaret had a most curious sense of shock. Greta, with both hands on the desk, leaning towards her, talking nineteen to the dozen-asking if they were relations. She felt afraid. She said quickly,
“You told me you called yourself Esther Brandon because you found a bit of a torn letter with my mother’s signature. It may have been written to your father or mother.”
“It was signed Esther Brandon.”
“That was my mother’s name before she married my father.”
“You said Mary Esther.”
“She never used the Mary.”
“But it was her initial-she was M.E.B.?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But that’s what there was on my desk-there was M.E.B. in gold. This is E.M.B.” she prodded the E with a little vicious dig. “This is E, Margaret-E.M.B. It’s mine that’s M.E.B.-not yours.”
Margaret gave herself a mental shake. It was like a ridiculous argument in a dream. It meant nothing; it could not possibly mean anything. She laughed a little.
“I don’t really know which of her names came first; but these are her initials, and this is her desk.”
“What’s in it?” said Greta.
“It’s empty. I’m going to put it away.”
“Margaret, do open it! I want to see if it’s like mine inside. Mine opened like this.”
She slid the lock to one side, and the lid came up as she pulled at it.
Margaret came round the table.
“There’s really nothing in it, Greta-just a pencil or two.”
The pencils were plain cedar pencils. Only one had been cut. Margaret lifted out the tray.
“You see, there’s nothing more.”
Greta bent closer.
“Mine had a little drawer down here-a little thin drawer, in under the place where the ink goes. That’s where my letter was-the bit with Esther Brandon on it, you know. I shouldn’t have found my little drawer, only I dropped the desk carrying it down, and a bit of the wood broke, and I saw there was a drawer. And I hooked it out with a hairpin, and there was a tiny little scrap of scrooged up paper wedged in under it. It came out when I got the drawer out. Margaret yours has got a drawer there too-I can feel it wobble! Ooh! It’s coming out! Margaret, there’s something in it!”
Margaret pushed her aside. The little drawer had started from its place. There was a folded paper in it. She pulled the drawer right out.
The paper was a long envelope, doubled to fit the drawer. The minute her fingers touched it, the fear came back. She stood looking at the wrong side of the envelope, dreading to turn it around.
“What is it?” said Greta. “Margaret, do look-do look quickly!”
Margaret Langton turned the envelope. It was of thick yellowish paper. It had a long crease down the middle, and three creases running across it. At one end there was an endorsement in a bold, clear hand:
“Our declaration of marriage.
E.S.”
“Oh!” said Greta. She pinched Margaret violently. “Oh, -Margaret! How thrilling!”
Margaret frowned at the bold, clear writing. It was utterly strange to her. Who was E.S.? Esther Brandon had become Esther Langton, and then Esther Pelham. Who was E.S.? It wasn’t her mother’s writing at all. She hardly felt Greta’s clutch on her arm.
“Margaret-Margaret! It’s my father’s writing!”
She said, “Nonsense!” in a deep, loud voice that filled the little room and made an echo there.
Greta let go of Margaret’s arm and snatched the envelope.
“It is! It is! It’s poor Papa’s very own writing. It is really! And it’s his initials too-E.S. for Edward Standing.”
Margaret put a rigid, steady hand on the paper.
“Give it back to me, please.”
“It says ‘Our declaration of marriage.’ Margaret, it’s my father’s writing! Open it-open it quickly! Don’t you see how frightfully important it is? It’s what Mr. Hale was looking for. It really is Papa’s writing. Do-do open it!”
“Hush,” said Margaret.
Greta flung her arms about her; and it was only when those warm arms touched her that Margaret knew how cold was. She was very cold, and very much afraid.
Greta hugged her.
“Oh Margaret darling, it was your mother’s desk! Oh, Margaret, wouldn’t it be thrilling if we were sisters?”
Margaret pushed her away with violence.
“You little fool! Hold your tongue!”
Greta stared, most innocently aggrieved.
“Why, I’d love to be your sister. Do-do open it!”
Margaret lifted the flap of the envelope. It had been stuck down, but only very lightly; the flap came up without tearing.
The envelope was empty.
CHAPTER XXVTI
Margaret, why do you look like that?”
“There’s nothing in it-the envelope’s empty.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look for yourself.”
Greta held the envelope up to the light, turned it over, shook it. There was nothing inside.
“What a funny thing! It is Papa’s writing, you know- and his initials, and-look here! Something’s been rubbed out! Look-under the E.S.! Can’t you see the paper’s all rubbed?”
She pressed against Margaret, pushing the envelope into her hand, pointing with a plump pink finger. Under the initials E.S. the paper was roughened as if it had been scraped-very carefully and lightly scraped.
Margaret held it close under the light. Something had certainly been erased-initials? As she turned the paper, a faint marking just showed here and there. Two letters had been written and then erased. Of the first initial she could make nothing. The second-no, there was nothing to be made of that either. No one could make anything of those faint marks. Why should she think that the second letter was a B?
She went over to the walnut bureau and unlocked one of the drawers. And then, as she stood there with her back to Greta, she had a moment of sudden, vivid memory. The endorsement on the envelope caught her eye, and instantly that flash of memory followed. She was a child of five or six pushing open the door of a room. The door showed the sun streaming in from a long window. The light fell across her mother’s white dress. The picture was quite extraordinarily clear-Esther Langton in a white muslin dress that swept the ground and was edged with little gathered frills; she had a black velvet ribbon at her waist, and a bunch of clove carnations where the muslin fichu crossed her breast; she was bare-headed; the sun shone on her black hair. There was another woman in the room, little and plump, in a lilac dress. They did not see Margaret. She pushed the door, and she heard her mother say, “It was marriage by declaration.” She did not know what the word meant, but she liked the sound of it. She said it to herself like a song, accenting it very much: “Declaration-declaration.” The child’s pleasure in the rhythm came back sharply. Then her mother said, “Lesbia-the child!” and they saw her.
There was no more of the picture than that. It did not come back to her in words, but as a single momentary impression. It came, and went again even as she put the envelope into the drawer and locked it away.
The bell rang, and she turned to find Greta’s attention distracted.
“I expect it’s Archie. He said he’d come round. I was just thinking he wasn’t coming, and wishing he would- only I shan’t tell him that.”
Margaret went to the door. On an impulse she shut the sitting room door behind her and took half a step on to the landing to meet Archie Millar.
“Archie, you have read all sorts of books. I’m being teased by something I don’t know the meaning of-you know how bothering that is. I heard it somewhere, and I want to know what it means.”