Faithful Margaret: A Novel
"You mean by that, I suppose, that you will submit to the conditions of
the will?"
"I mean nothing of the kind, my good sir. To the infernal shades I
consign your scheming adventuress."
He rose from his lounging attitude with another of those bitter and
cynical bursts of laughter, and dashing open the glass door, stepped out
upon the gravel walk to saunter, his hands behind him, past the old
moss-grown fish-pool, into the shrubbery.
The sun shone on the stately form and on his purple black hair. It
wavered between leafy banners on his angry face, so dark with ominous
clouds, and merciless with the dance of inward passions.
And yet it was a grand picture of desolation, that lofty countenance in
its wrath. The fires of a thousand passions had graved these deep curves
of bitterness, and marred the once genial mouth with the never absent
sneer, and perverted an intellect once pure and stately.
No wonder that the two men, who were watching him in silence as he
deliberately slashed down lilies with his cane, shuddered when they
thought of the poor girl who stood between him and Castle Brand.
Margaret sat in her room, dumbly enduring the first humiliation of her
life. Her humble soul had been outraged--disgraced. That cruel,
insulting laugh still rang in her ears. Her cheeks flamed with shame;
her eyes were suffused with hot tears. She could do nothing but sit in a
trance, and busy-brained, revolve it over and over until she trembled
with the agony of wounded pride.
Her sense of womanly honor had been trampled upon; her unapproachable
self-respect had been bandied about by impure hands. Margaret felt that
she was forever disgraced. To have been thrown at his feet, to suffer
his eyes to scorn her, to see the wicked mouth sneer--the reckless head
thrown back--to hear the muttered "Ye gods! what a Medusa!" to be
stunned by the loud "ha! ha!" to be consorted with a monster of
dissipation, such as he was--and to be scorned. Oh, cruel Ethel Brand:
to force a friendless girl into such a position! Why had she not rather
turned her from these castle doors, four years ago, than reserve her for
such a fate as this?
Margaret began to see that she was terribly in Captain Brand's
power--that if he were rascal enough to propose to her, she could
scarcely in honor refuse him, and keep him out of his property. She also
saw, with vague, prophetic eyes, a vision in the distance, of _stealthy
hands stretching toward her life in either case_.
The ruddy sun, slipping down behind the cliffs two hours later, looked
in at Margaret, who, with her door securely locked, sped about with
motions of nervous energy, packing a small valise of clothes to take
with her upon a sudden journey.
She had determined to blot herself by her own act out of Ethel Brand's
will, by disappearing alike from friend and enemy, and hiding herself in
some far distant corner of England, until Captain Brand had stepped into
secure possession of Castle Brand.
She believed her life to be in danger, for she had wit enough to know
that there were a thousand ways of quietly putting her out of the way
before the twelve months were over, provided that St. Udo Brand was
villain enough to avail himself of them, and of that she had little
doubt; so she made all haste to leave him master of the field.
At ten o'clock of the night she flitted down the broad oak and walnut
stairs, with her valise under her cloak, and stole out of the library
glass door, under the very nose of sleepy Symonds, the footman, and
under the night shades of the Norman oaks.
A man met her on the broad Waaste, where the somber pines stood one by
one like specters, and Margaret sharply screamed when he came close to
her and peered into her face.
"I think this is Miss Walsingham?"
"Oh, yes."
He was the letter-carrier from Regis, and held a white missive in his
hand.
"Special, it says, miss, so I took it over to-night, instead of waiting
for to-morrow's batch, for, says I to myself, 'Young wimmen likes to get
their letters.' Night, miss."
"Good-night, Mr. Wells. Thank you for taking so much trouble this dark
night."
She stood listening to his retreating footsteps, and fingering the
embossed seal of the letter. It seemed to be the Brand coat of arms; and
yet who would use this crest when all the Brands were dead but one?
A light still burned in the lodge, down by the great gates, and she hung
her valise on the iron railing and lifted the latch.
"Let me come in a moment?" she asked, putting in her pale, disturbed
face.
"Lord! is that you, Miss Margaret!" cried the lodge-keeper, pushing his
horn glasses upon his forehead to look at her with his watery eyes.
"Come in, and welcome."
"I was out walking, and met the letter-carrier, he gave me a letter,
which I cannot wait longer to read. Let me read it here?"
She sat down, with the tallow candle between her and these bleared old
eyes, and opened her letter. Yes, it bore the Brand crest with its
fierce inscription. There was but one surviving Brand in the world, and
his name signed Margaret's letter:
"MADAM:--Accept, with my profound congratulations, Ethel
Brand's bequest of Seven-Oak Waaste, and all acres attached,
and my bequest of your own choice of a master to the place
mentioned. I have withstood the exquisite temptation of sharing
your bliss, lest I should revive the pretty drama of 'Paolo
Osini,' who strangled his wife in his first embrace; and with a
pious blessing on the manes of poor Madam Brand, who likely
enough got choked by a parasite, I depart to a land where
oracles do say there are no fortune-hunters.
"Yours, admiringly,
"ST. UDO BRAND."
With this second bitter insult crushed in her hand, and terrified tears
washing her cheeks, Margaret Walsingham went back, in the surging night
wind, to Seven-Oak Waaste.
CHAPTER III.
EVIL FOREBODINGS.
Mid-ocean, a steamer was laboring on her way, beneath a sky like
glittering pearl, arching over a waste of phosphorescent billows, and
with a crispy breeze behind her.
The ladies were in their berths, the gentlemen paced the deck, and
beguiled the time by discussions many-themed.
But St. Udo Brand, with his hands behind him and his back to all, gazed
over the sea to the distant horizon line.
A grim satisfaction illuminated his eye, though the ever-present sneer
still marred his lips, as, deep in unaccustomed reverie, he examined his
position on all sides.
"Inscrutable are thy ways, oh, Fortune!" mused the captain. "Thou hast
given Seven-Oaks to the humble, and cast the haughty from Castle Brand
into outer darkness, where there is grinding and gnashing of teeth. Yet,
wherefore, oh, sand-blind Fortune! hast thou rolled the hypocritical
saint in my bank-notes, and hung golden offerings upon her Medusa head,
while I, the honest scoundrel, am stripped naked to supply the ovation?
Well, doubtless, she has worked harder for it than ever I could, poor
devil! Now for a name and fame, and may be fortune, in yon republic
behind the shoulder of this world of waters! And, who knows, I may be
happy yet, with my little white cat, instead of the sorceress of yonder
castle."
Back and forth the groups of promenaders passed the solitary man, who
thus faced his fortunes with satiric stoicism; but no one thought of
interfering with his reverie, for Captain Brand had a name for
exclusiveness on board the Bellerophon. He may have had a name for some
more interesting quality, too, if one might draw conclusions from the
earnest scrutiny which two of his fellow-passengers were just now
bestowing on him.
A little gentleman, wrapped in a cloak, lounged upon the deck, regarding
the captain through his eye-glass with an air at once inquisitive and
complacent; and a little behind him stood a tall, elderly man, in
servant's livery, fixedly regarding the captain also.
At last the little gentleman rolled off the bench upon his little legs,
which were--low be it whispered--somewhat crooked, which is, to say the
least, best adapted to equestrianism, and nimbly tripping up to Captain
Brand, accosted him with the sunniest air imaginable:
"_Bon jour, monsieur_, a ver' good day to you, my friend. Why vill you
turn the back upon our merry company? Throw care to the dogs; so"--with
a flourish of the hands--"now he is gone! Be happy, my good friend!"
Captain Brand gloomed down upon the little intruder.
"If you want anything of me," said he, ironically, "do me the infinite
honor to be plain and brief."
The stranger stepped back, threw up his hands, and became dignified.
"Monsieur, you English are a vulgar people. You English do not know how
to treat gentlemen of the world. _Par la meese!_ You know nothing,
except to drink and keep silence. No, monsieur, I want nothing of you
but courtesy, and since you have it not to give, _pardieu! bon jour_."
With inimitable grace, he bowed his adieu, and was retreating, when the
captain's genial laugh arrested him.
"I beg pardon, sir," cried St. Udo, "for the national want. Pray remain,
that I may study you up. With such a model before them, who could remain
a boor?"
"Monsieur," cried the little man, delightedly, "you are von wag. I like
you, monsieur. I present myself. I am called the Chevalier de
Calembours; to you I am Ludovic--at your service _mon ami_."
"Chevalier," returned the captain, "I return the confidence. I am called
Captain Brand, of the Coldstream Guards--have just sold out, and to all
I am merely St. Udo Brand--at your service."
They shook hands and lit cigars.
The captain felt irresistibly drawn to the little chevalier; he liked
him amazingly from the first.
He was handsome; he had a square brow, brown eyes, ruddy cheeks, firm
mouth, enormous nut-brown mustache, and a full, glossy beard. He was
attractive; there was intelligence in the bold forehead, penetration in
the beaming eye, a purpose in the closely-fitting lips, and withal a
playful, airy, insolent, cheery frankness which illumined nearly the
whole face.
He stood revealed, brisk, and ready for business, the nimble Chevalier
de Calembours.
"You are en route for America? So am I--we will be comrades," quoth the
chevalier.
"With all my heart! Yes, I go to join the army. I shall either find fame
or death in the American war."
"Bah! I go to court the jade Fortune. She has jilted me of late. I would
feed my wrinkled purse with American dollars, _ma foi!_ that purse is
famishing just now."
"You are not pure French?" demanded the captain.
"_Mon Dieu!_ no," rasped monsieur, with a shrug. "I am cosmopolite,
yes."
"Where is your birthplace?"
"The Hungary, _mon ami_. Have been in Vienna, in Geneva, in Turin, and
for the rest--everywheres."
"You omit England?"
"Ah, I did not live in England. I saw it, no more."
"Yet you speak English well."
"I am flattered. I have the habitude of the languages; they count me an
expert. Insisted on giving me the post of Professor of the modern
languages in the University of Berlin."
"But it was not as a knight of the ferule that you won this mark of
distinction?" laughed the captain, touching a fluttering badge which
depended from the chevalier's button-hole.
"_Ma foi! non!_ I am Magyar, and that is to say patriot and warrior in
one. I combat under the gaze of our glorious Kossuth; but there are
times when even valor himself must fly, and the sword of the brave must
change, in the stranger's land, to the plowshare, the pen--anything to
keep the wolf from the door. But the ferule, the pen, the pestle, I
abhor. I hear the blast of the trumpet, I return to my first loves. I
cross to Algiers. I fight my way up till I win my _grade_, and this
bagatelle. Nothing more there to pick. I looked around; the rays of