Faithful Margaret: A Novel
coquettish half-hour of farewell at the station with Colonel Brand, who
was lounging there casually, did as much mischief as she could to
Margaret's cause, and went back to London, her head full of new
ambitions.
And that was the end of Margaret's experiment.
It was some time after Lady Julie's useless visit, and Margaret was
walking on the Waaste with Mrs. Chetwode.
She had discontinued her solitary walks since the evening by the mere,
and invariably begged the housekeeper's company, or had a man-servant to
keep her in sight whenever she took the air.
They wandered aimlessly over the frosty snow, side by side, and scarce
speaking a word, a lowering sky overhead, and a bleak wind in their
faces.
Margaret had mused over her next step until her thoughts were madness to
her; and, as yet, no solution had come of the way out of her position.
She had not gathered bravery enough to set another snare for her enemy,
and had nervously avoided seeing him since her last discomfiture; and,
too, she had heard that he was away in London, basking in the smiles of
Lady Juliana. But, while revolving the next step to be taken, she was
doomed to meet her enemy face to face at a time she imagined him in
London.
At a turn of the path the two women came full upon the colonel,
shuffling along, with his head bent, and his eyes on a book.
He thrust it hastily in a breast-pocket of his overcoat, and accosted
them with an insolent leer.
"How is the fair lady after her week's seclusion?" snarled he.
"Nothing bettered by this interruption to it," returned she, coming to a
dead stop from sheer inability to support herself.
"Permit me," said the colonel, forcing Margaret to lean upon his arm,
"this attack of agitation is so severe that I who have caused it should
render my poor services in removing it."
He bent with an ogreish smile to look into her eyes.
"Leave me," breathed the wretched girl, attempting to wrench her hand
from his grasp. "How dare you molest me sir?"
"Dear Margaret," sneered the man, bending near her dead white face, "why
will you hold your slave at such a distance? I who hope to be co-heir of
that goodly pile beyond us before this year is out? Ten days, my
dearest--only ten days to wait, and then the month is out."
She could only look at him silently; her lips moved in haughty protest,
but no words came to her aid; she walked by his side dumb as death.
The good old housekeeper kept by her other side and held her passive
hand, comforting her in her kindly fashion by patting and pressing it,
or the poor girl's terror would have overcome her altogether.
Suddenly Margaret ceased the struggle of attempting to draw her hand
from his arm, and turned her averted face toward him.
Her eyes stole over him attentively, she marked his dress and his manner
with a fixed intensity--an idea bad taken possession of her which she
could not drive away.
Again and again her eye returned to its scrutiny of the man, and the
hand which Mrs. Chetwode was caressing, closed itself convulsively as if
it held something it must keep, come life or come death. Her hand which
lay upon his arm quivered against his heart as if there was something
there she longed to seize.
When they reached the griffins now squatting on their snow-covered
pedestals, Margaret broke her bitter silence by a forced request.
"Honor me by an interview, sir."
"Whom have I to meet this time?" he asked, with a boding smile.
"No one sir. Are you afraid of meeting strangers, Colonel Brand?"
He bowed sardonically, and followed her into the hall.
John came forward to relieve the colonel of his overcoat, and Margaret
remained for some moments giving some directions to the housekeeper.
When the visitor was ready she accompanied him into the library, where
before a glowing fire the lonely girl was accustomed to read through the
long evenings, and bade him wait her return from her chamber.
"What a home-paradise we shall have," said Colonel Brand with ironical
gallantry; "I know I shall be delighted by some new and strange side of
my charmer's character. I always am."
"You may," answered Margaret with a strange look.
She went out, shutting the door carefully between her and the colonel,
and looking round about the vast old hall.
There stood John, still hanging up the hat, cane, and coat of the
visitor.
"Carry this light up to the third hall," said Margaret, pointing to a
lamp in a bracket.
He took the lamp and ascended out of view. What a transformation came
over the girl's countenance then.
Her eyes lit up with triumph--she sprang to the overcoat and thrust her
eager hand into the breast-pocket.
She was right. The book she had seen him reading was the green morocco
note-book he had referred to when she had tried to trip him in his
knowledge of St. Udo Brand's letter to her--and she had it in her hand
now.
She drew it forth, and fled like a phantom to her room, just as Colonel
Brand, recalling his blunder, started up and hurried to remove the
damning evidence of his own imposture.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MARGARET'S PERIL.
Margaret double-locked her door, and stood listening with the book
clutched fast in her hand.
Drop by drop her blood gurgled from her heart--her hair bristled.
What had she done?
She had thrown the gauntlet at him; henceforth there should be no
quarter.
She thought it all out in that breathless watch for the result. She knew
that she had given herself over to his sworn vengeance; that she would
be cut down from his path like a noxious weed; that the battle which was
coming would be a _battle for her life_.
Yes, her day of grace was past--even now her enemy knew his loss. She
had--oh, galling thought!--outwitted him.
He searched his pockets--all of them; he shook the coat--in vain. His
eyes stole up the staircase with the green glare of murder in their
tawny depths; his lean face grew chalk-white; his hand hid itself in his
bosom and griped something there. Alas, for reckless Margaret!
And yet the wretch stood scheming--scheming, wary as his own blood
thirsty sleuth-hound.
It was a woman not easily brushed aside; He must be very cautious with
his dark revenge, and creep with sheathed claws toward his purpose.
John, coming down stairs empty-handed, met the gaze of a face looking at
him, which he thought at first was that of the arch enemy of mankind.
"Where has your mistress gone, my man?"
"To her room, your honor."
"Have you been meddling with the pockets of this coat?"
"No, indeed, sir; I hope you'll believe me, sir. I just had but hung it
up when I was sent with a lamp to the upper hall. Please ask Miss
Walsingham if it wasn't so, yer honor."
"Then, by Heaven! I've been robbed!"
He turned on his heel, and carried his livid face into the library, as
spotted as if he had been smitten with a white plague, rummaged without
ceremony until he had got himself pen, and ink, and paper, and wrote a
_billet-doux_ to his lady-love.
Five minutes after Margaret's whirlwind rush to her room, there came a
knocking at the door.
"Who is it?"
"It's me. Miss Margaret, dear."
"Oh, Mrs. Chetwode! what is it."
"A letter from the colonel, Miss Margaret."
"Push it under the door."
"Dear me, it won't go."
"Make it go."
Presently a slip of white appeared, caught on the edge of the carpet.
She seized and pulled it through.
It had got rid of its envelope in the rough transit, and came followed
by fluttering rags, held together by a great wax seal, like a scarlet
beacon of danger.
Still kneeling, she read it, fiercely bit her lip, and pondered.
"I give five minutes to retract your mistake. A few pencil-scrawls are
not worth a life. Only five minutes, my dear Miss Walsingham."
"If I yielded, would I be safer than if I was obstinate?" she thought,
crushing the scraps in her hand. "No, what are _his_ assurances? Lies to
lull me to sleep. Let me drive my foe to open enmity--let me goad him to
his ruin, or mine, if God so forgets me, but I will never give up this
evidence of his guilt." She held aloft, with wild triumph, the green
note-book. "Do your worst to Margaret Walsingham, you monster, but you
will not get St. Udo's right out of her faithful hands. My five minutes
of grace are slipping away, and I am going to defy him. I will pray
Heaven to protect me, and--I will do my duty."
She bowed her head on her hands, and, as second by second slipped by,
her thoughts went up to Heaven and to God, and, with the love of a
servant tried and true, to Ethel Brand.
"Mrs. Chetwode?"
"I am waiting here, miss, for the answer."
"Tell Colonel Brand that the five minutes are past, and _I defy him_."
"Oh, Miss Margaret, dearie, them same words?"
"Exactly. Change nothing."
The housekeeper went with lagging feet and this message to the snarling
hound in the library, who cursed her heartily and shut the door in her
face.
Margaret remained with her head sunk on her knees in that sort of trance
with which the wretch awaits the too sure sentence of death. It came; a
dull tremor through the massive walls--the great door was shut--Colonel
Brand had left the house.
Now she knew that she was sentenced to death; no remedy--no drawing
back.
A cold ooze broke over her; her natural womanly fears became rampant;
her fancy pictured the form of murder which the crawling wretch she had
to deal with would most surely employ. At once the dull waves of the
pool where she had encountered the sleuth-hound and his monster occurred
to her; its cold chill waters enveloped her heart; the weeds and mud
chocked her even more than the fancied hand at her throat; that gleaming
stiletto seemed driven into her bosom; for a time she lived through the
agonies of actual death.
But she was naturally a brave woman, notwithstanding all her timidity;
yes, a dauntless creature, whose generous blood was sure to rise before
wrong and danger.
She shook of the slavish terror which threatened to overcome her
altogether, and set herself to her next course of action.
"And now for my night's work," she said, glancing round the room, where
a fire burned redly in the grate, and the ghostly December day faded
from point to point.
She quietly made arrangements against being interrupted; rang the bell,
and called to the maid through the door that she had retired for the
night, and did not wish any dinner, except a cup of strong coffee, which
should be brought to her by the housekeeper.
Then she carefully locked her window, and closed the massive mahogany
shutters, lit her candles, drew her writing-table before the fire, swept
the hearth, and saw that she had a supply of candles, matches, and pens.
By the time these arrangements were completed, the housekeeper was
knocking at the door with the edge of a lunch-tray.
"Has Colonel Brand left the house?" called Margaret.
"Yes, miss, some time ago."
"Are you sure he's not lurking about your back, Mrs. Chetwode?"
"Holy mercy! I hope not."
Sounds of the tray being dumped on a hall-table ensued, and the hurried
tread of the old woman showed that she was looking into various empty
rooms.
"What made you think such a queer thing, dearie?" whispered she,
presently, through the key-hole. "I seen him go out, plain as plain can
be."
Margaret opened the door, and held out her hands for the tray.
"What did he say to my message?"
The housekeeper gave an expressive shudder.
"Ugh! He swore like a blasphemer at me, Miss Margaret, dear."
"Keep watch lest any of the doors be left open to-night, Mrs. Chetwode."
"Oh, yes, miss--though I'm sure Purcell is very careful. My goody! Miss
Margaret, how wild you look! Surely you can't be well?"
"Oh, yes. Do not let any one disturb me to-night again, if you please.
Good-night."