Faithful Margaret: A Novel
with the black eyes; see how she does pounce upon our duke and walk him
away. Aha, you don't like it, _miladi_, do you? Would you not love to
pull the eyes out of Mademoiselle Marguerite with those pretty _leetle_
nails?"
CHAPTER XXVII.
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
Arrived in New York, the three travelers speedily were located in a
hotel, and the chevalier proposed going to the military hospital in
which he left Colonel Brand, for news of him.
"There will not be the shadow of a doubt, my dear mademoiselle," said
the sanguine little man, "that our hero is still in the same domicile,
convalescing, we shall say, by this time, but still unable to resume his
deeds of valor, as six weeks only have passed since I parted from him."
But Margaret by this time was in such a state of excitement and
suspense, that they decided that all three should repair to the hospital
with as little delay as possible.
Dashing rapidly through the snow-beaten streets, they paused at last
before a stately building, and Margaret lifted her famished eyes in a
long, a yearning gaze, from window to window, as if, perchance, she
might see the man whose face had never beamed upon her the smile of
kindness.
She sat immovable while Davenport and Calembours were in the hospital,
and her heart rose in the wild triumph of conviction that he was there,
they staid so long.
When they reappeared Margaret clutched her hands tightly, and waited
until they should come close--something had happened; the chevalier
never wore a grave face when a smiling one would do better.
"Do not tell me," gasped Margaret, with white lips, "do not tell me that
he is dead!"
"No, no, _m'amie_, it is not so bad as that; but it is almost as bad. He
has gone away from the hospital a week ago, recruited they say, but not
quite; and whither he has gone, not one of the doctors or attendants can
tell, with their skulls empty as their own skeletons."
Margaret set her teeth hard, that she should utter no cry, and sank back
in her seat. All the light of tenderness died out of her eyes; all the
bloom of hope faded from her cheeks; a pitiful grayish pallor deadened
the brilliance which joy had lent to her; the pale, fixed look of
melancholy stole into her eyes and hardened her mouth.
It came to her with a dull sense of conviction that this thing was not
to be; that she was never to install St. Udo Brand within his rights;
that she was truly the Marplot who had ruined him. They would meet never
more on the golden sands of time, that she might point to him the better
way, and be his joy. Oh! vain dream, and harshly wakened from.
She uttered not a word, but turned from her now silent companions, and
covered her face.
When they reached the hotel Margaret retired to her room, and the lawyer
and the illustrious chevalier commenced a systematic search for the
English colonel, which, to judge from its success, seemed likely to last
forever.
And poor Margaret wore the days away in sick dismay over her suddenly
clouded fairy-dream; and her strange face grew thinner, sharper, more
unearthly in its transparency than ever; and her superb form passing so
often drearily to and fro in the walled-up hotel garden among the
snow-laden shrubs and trees, arrested many a curious eye at the hotel
windows to dwell upon the lonely British lady, with compassionate
interest.
Some weeks after their arrival, Margaret noted a new face at the hotel
table.
Not that new faces were much of a novelty in that everchanging scene,
but the face of this woman was so attractive that every eye round the
lunch-table fastened on her as she sauntered in, dressed in a driving
habit, and seated herself _vis a vis_ to Margaret.
"_Mon Dieu!_ that's a fine creature!" muttered the chevalier in his
beard; "what a glorious head she has--by gar!"
"Humph," grumbled Davenport, at Margaret's other side; "bad egg."
Margaret met the full gaze of a pair of fascinating eyes, green-tinged,
and yet chameleon-like, changing with every ripple of the soul from
green to flashing black, or tender gray, or handsome brown.
The small and well-shaped head which had awakened such rapturous
admiration from the chevalier, was poised delicately upon a neck round
and white and bending as a swan's. The hair, a light, gold-brown, shone
sometimes molten in the sunlight, sometimes flaxen. It seemed to possess
the chameleon-powers of the eyes, and took to itself all shapes and
tinges, as the bird-like creature flashed a look from side to side; and
one long snake-like tress floated carelessly beneath her vail down her
back, and was suffered to ripple and twist itself into tiny ringlets, or
waves, or coils, just as its willful nature impelled it.
Margaret looked once and fully into the beautiful stranger's face, and
she was forced to admit to herself that with all her fascinating
blithesomeness and would-be innocence and frankness--she did not like
it.
"She hides a history!" was her conclusion.
But the chevalier seemed actually entranced; he bowed profoundly, the
instant their eyes met, and listened with eagerness to every low-toned
direction she gave to the waiter, and with great gallantry passed
whatever she required over to her, for which attention the fair woman
only bowed with the most distant, though the prettiest air imaginable.
She often looked at Margaret, however, as if anxious to make her out,
and paused in her dainty nibbling whenever Davenport spoke to his ward,
with her ear bent to catch the reply; and at the last she contrived to
meet Margaret's eyes, and to smile in a sweet, engaging manner, as if
she longed to make her acquaintance; and Margaret, without in the least
knowing why, crimsoned and dropped her eyes instead of responding to the
overture.
The lady did not finish her lobster-salad, but soon rose and swept to
the door, which the gallant chevalier sprang to open.
Scarcely acknowledging his politeness, she cast a glance over her
shoulder at Margaret which haunted her all the afternoon.
It seemed to say as plainly as if the lady had spoken it:
"You do not like me, but I am determined to win you over in spite of
yourself."
And in spite of herself, her thoughts wandered toward the lovely
stranger for hours, and she grew quite impatient for the dinner hour to
arrive, that she might see her again.
When it came, Mr. Davenport being absent, receiving or sending some
telegrams to a village near the seat of war, in which there seemed some
reason to believe the missing colonel was with a detachment of
Vermonters, the chevalier, with great politeness, appeared at Margaret's
door to escort her to the dining-room.
Poor Margaret was by this time so inured to petty and daily
disappointments, that when her friends returned at night rarely asked
what success they had had in their search, though she clung with a fond
belief to the chevalier's often vaunted integrity, and would not allow
the lawyer's suspicions to enter her mind.
"Did you notice the pretty madam, your _vis-a-vis_ at _dejeuner_?" asked
Calembours, as they descended together.
"Oh, yes, I have been thinking of her all the afternoon."
"_Ma foi!_ and so have I! General Legrange, who knows everybody, tells
me she is Madame Hesslein, a young widow, whose husband was
Plenipotentiary from the French Court to Austria; and I have been
fortunate enough to find out also that she is a Frenchwoman--by gar! she
is a Venus di Medicis! Ah!" roughly aspirated monsieur, and became
silent with admiration.
There under the blazing gasalier, whose strong light might have brought
into too bold relief the imperfections of other women, sat the fair
stranger, serenely pecking at her viands, and seemingly unconscious of
the general sensation which her beauty created, in fact, so absorbed in
thought that she paid no heed to anything outside of the small circle
formed by her own plate.
She was dressed in a dark green velvet evening dress, whose white lace
bertha was carelessly pinned with a magnificent solitaire.
Her hair was combed out like a fleecy vail down her back, and glittered
with diamond powder until it resembled the gorgeous plumage of a
tropical bird.
She formed so bright a center to the room that every eye instinctively
wandered that way to admire her glittering clothing and fascinating
face; and yet again, Margaret took her seat opposite with some uneasy
feeling weighing upon her now which had weighed upon her before.
Almost immediately the extraordinary green orbs were lifted from their
meditative study, and Madame Hesslein bowed her recognition, and smiled
with honeyed sweetness.
"She has some special purpose in making my acquaintance!" thought
Margaret.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
NEWS OF ST. UDO BRAND.
Dinner over, the ladies scattered, some to their rooms, some to go
walking--Margaret and Madame Hesslein simultaneously entered the
drawing-room. They turned to each other, the glittering bird of
Paradise, and the gentle ring-dove, with a resistless impulse of
attraction, and each examined the other keenly.
"You are Miss Margaret Walsingham, a celebrity, even in America," quoth
madame, blandly. "Your colonel was much talked of here for his bravery.
I am quite delighted to meet the woman who has fought so spiritedly for
the colonel's rights."
Margaret gazed earnestly at her; she was reading that artful simplicity
of madame with regret, and pitying the fine woman whom the world had
spoiled.
"Your praise is very disinterested, Madame Hesslein," returned she,
simply. "I thank you for it. I am very strange here, and can't tell what
the people say about my affairs. I had hoped that they knew nothing
about me."
"Pshaw! my good lady, you can't expect to pass through life with your
history and not excite remark," retorted Madame Hesslein, with a flirt
of the jeweled fan. "No heroine does, be she a good or a bad one. Men
must talk--give them something to talk about."
Margaret watched her spirited face with secret fascination.
"You are reading me," laughed madame, clanking her golden bracelet on
her dainty wrist. "You are wondering what a woman of the world like me
wants with a saint like yourself, are you not?"
"I am thinking that no doubt you have a purpose in view," said Margaret,
struck by the unlovely shrewdness of the lady's speech.
Madame Hesslein waved her dainty hands in graceful protest.
"Quite wrong, Miss Walsingham," she cried. "I have no purpose as yet,
save the pleasant one of studying a nature which I cannot imitate. I
have been celebrated in my day, but not as you; women are your
worshippers; women cry, 'Noble, generous creature!' Women only envied
me, and presumed to criticise; 'twas men who gave me homage."
"Don't jest, madame, upon my history; it may yet end in a tragedy!" said
Margaret.
"Ah, ah!" breathed madame, warningly, "you are one of those great
hearted, soft souled women who suffer affairs of the heart to trouble
them. Don't suffer affairs of the heart to trouble you. Griselda the
patient. When one hope dies, pursue another, and have a new one every
day. Ha! ha! Joliffe (my husband) used to say, 'Honoria sees no trouble,
for her heart is never at home to grant an interview.'"
"Your husband is dead?" asked Margaret, coldly.
"Yes, and no. Dead to me these five years, though. Fact is, Miss
Walsingham--don't feel horror-stricken--that Joliffe was intolerably
prosy; we had a quarrel, and I ran off. Why not? Since then we have got
comfortably divorced, and I can marry as soon as I like again. Joliffe
was so jealous. I must not drive to the general's, I must not walk with
a senator, I must eschew the military, and the best wits of the day are
military men. Horrors! I must devote myself to Joliffe, and he only on
the embassy at Washington."