Faithful Margaret: A Novel

A woman floated down the staircase and approached the door. Her demeanor was expressive of the wildest emotion. She clung to the door-handle, half-fainting, and listened breathlessly to the chevalier's song. She seemed a vision of wonderful grace, with her rich dressing-robe huddled up in her arms, and her long, light tresses sweeping over her shoulders, and, with her soul standing in her passion-darkened eyes, and her scarlet lips apart, she embodied the spirit of a Sabrina listening to the voice of the gods. Suddenly the fire died out of her face, and a weary change came over it--fear, anger, and doubt struggled for the mastery--and at last she dropped her hand, wrung it in its lovely fellow, and swiftly fled up stairs again. "Now, who is this woman?" mused St. Udo, "and what does she know of my friend, the chevalier? Shall I interfere? No--I think he would scarcely brook my meddling. In his place, I should not." He made no remark, therefore; and when the chevalier's song came to an end, Madam Estvan entered the room. What a transformation! St. Udo stood in speechless surprise. A woman with a stout figure, keen, dark face, and pale, green eyes. Where were the graceful, lissome figure, the dainty complexion, the passion-darkened eyes. And madam's hair was gray as Thoms' grizzly locks--no waving tresses of serpentine gold saw he. Madam's lips were blue with fright, no longer thin, scarlet beauty-lines with a string of pearls between. Madam was old, awkward, and spoke nothing but French. Puzzled in the extreme, St. Udo was obliged to content himself by watching the next incident of interest, Madam Estvan's behavior to Colonel Calembours. They met--he with round, suspicious eyes snapping with eagerness, she with downcast lids and brassy brow, and each performed a charming obeisance. "Le Chevalier de Calembours," says he. "Madam Estvan, at your service, messieurs," returns she. They bow again, retire a pace, their eyes meet--they both smile a little; but Calembours' color fades to a sickly yellow, and madam's face reddens under the brown. "We are forced to request your house for a temporary hospital," remarks St. Udo, breaking the utter silence. The spell dissolves--they both turn to him, and both become natural, and that is all St. Udo can discover in the meeting. Madam Estvan immediately set her house at their disposal. Nothing would give her more gratification than to be of use to the Federal soldiers, for that she was not of the South they both must see. She led them through the whole house, assisting them with charming graciousness to select the most suitable apartments, and bewailing the meagerness of her domestic force which would compel the soldiers to wait upon themselves. But do what she would, St. Udo could not divest himself of the conviction that she and the fair Sabrina figure were identical. At last they returned to the lower hall and essayed to depart. Madam Estvan accompanied them to the door with bland courtesy. St. Udo was already opening the door, when a rattle of shot against the roof of the piazza startled him, and a cannon-ball immediately followed and crashed in the side of the doorway. A fearful shriek burst from Madam Estvan; she rushed forward and clung to the little chevalier's arm. "_Mon Dieu!_ woman, let me go!" hissed he, with an ominous scowl. "No, no, Ladislaus, save me, your poor Alice, who ever loved you! Don't desert me again!" wailed the woman, frantically. Her voice rang out pure and flute-like in the English language; her terror tore aside the cunning mask, and plainly revealed to St. Udo the lovely vision he had seen before. "_Sacre!_ I suspected as much!" swore the chevalier, shaking her roughly off. "Away, traitress!" He sprang across the piazza, followed by St. Udo, and the wretched woman sank, a helpless heap, upon the floor. Looking back, each from his post, at the fairy palace, the two colonels saw a stream of fire running along the piazza roof, licking the airy balconies up, creeping serpent-like around the pillars, and so through smoking portico to the senseless woman lying on the hall floor where she had fallen. CHAPTER VI. ST. UDO BRAND'S FIANCEE. The last train from London brought a physician to Lynthorpe, dispatched by the Marquis of Ducie to attend his daughter, who brought a polite message from his lordship to Miss Blair, that an important engagement prevented his accompanying Dr. Trewin, but that he would be at Lynthorpe by the morning train. The physician examined his patient and pronounced her severely but not dangerously injured, and proceeded to make her as comfortable as circumstances would permit, after which she ate a little, and fell into a placid slumber--Margaret keeping faithful watch, while Dr. Trewin dozed in his chair. At ten o'clock next morning a carriage and four drew up before John Doane's humble house, and two gentlemen, a man servant, a busy-eyed young woman, a coachman and groom in magnificent liveries of gray and bronze, appeared upon the scene. These were the Marquis of Ducie, an extra physician in case Trewin should not understand his duty, a valet, my lady's maid, and the servants. His lordship asked where his daughter was stowed, and was forthwith ushered into the bed-closet where she lay, by Margaret Walsingham. "Haw! By Jove, this is very awkward _faux pas_! Might have been killed by these rascally railway managers! Confoundedly awkward mistake! Howdo, Julie?" "Oh! bad enough, papa!" responded the patient, receiving the careless paternal embrace as indifferently as it was given. "I might have died ten times over before you would come. Why didn't you come to me immediately, papa?" "Couldn't, my dear--was at Millecolonne's to meet Prince Protocoli--a political dinner which could not be avoided--sent Trewin in my place, and brought Sir Maurice Abercroft with me, so you can't complain for want of medical or paternal attention either." His lordship, after patting her cheek, went out, saying with comfortable imperiousness that she must be ready to start in two hours--Abercroft would set her up for the drive. Forthwith Sir Maurice Abercroft came in and minutely examined Lady Juliana on her injuries. The result was as might have been expected, considering his lordship's wishes, a decision in favor of the proposed removal; and the lady's maid was sent in to do her mistress' toilet. Apparently my lady stood in some little awe of her father, for she submitted without further question, though a petulant cloud was on her beautiful face, as she said, "I would rather stay in this quiet little room, with that solemn Miss Blair, if she would stay, than go home to the Park. This is a new sensation, at the least." Margaret drew nearer and tenderly smoothed the hair back from my lady's brow. "Dear me!" cried Lady Juliana, looking at her, "how pale and exhausted you look, Miss Blair. Why, of course you must feel so--you have been up with me all night, and--good gracious!" becoming suddenly filled with compunction, "how coolly I have taken your great service!" Her ladyship sat upright, flushed by a sudden impulse of gratitude. "Who are your friends?" she asked, with a bright look. "I have none, Lady Juliana. I am looking for some situation by which to be independent of friends." "Oh, how fortunate for me! Would you like--but perhaps you are not qualified. Are you well educated? I think you are." "I have been eight years at a boarding-school, my lady." "Good gracious! I suppose you are as learned as Socrates. I never was at school in all my life! I was kept with Aunt Faulconcourt and beasts of governesses. But here comes papa." The marquis re-entered with a bow, the consolidation of courtly etiquette. "Papa. I was too stupid before to introduce you to Miss Blair. She is the young lady who saved my life. I wish to do something for her." His lordship advanced and held out two fingers. "How can I most suitably thank Miss Blair for her services to my daughter?" "Papa," interposed Lady Juliana, seeing Margaret stand pale and embarrassed before her pseudo-patron, "may she come to Hautville Park instead of Madam Beneant, whom I am so tired of? She would be a more suitable companion than that chattering widow--I am so sick of her flirtations! And I am sure I should be perfectly happy with the generous creature who saved my life." "Shall you consider her ladyship's proposal?" asked the marquis, turning again to Margaret. "Madam Beneant has been my daughter's companion for a year and a half, but she is too old. Her salary was two hundred a year. Yon shall have two hundred and fifty if you decide to come. What do you say?" She stood wavering between conflicting impulses. She longed to go with this dove-like creature whom she had saved from death; her heart clung to her--how could she leave her? But again, would she be concealed from the terrible St. Udo Brand's possible persecutions at the Marquis of Ducie's residence? Who would think to look for her in Lady Juliana's companion? Her heart pleaded. "Stay--oh, stay!" So, all blinded to the future stealing surely on, Margaret flung herself back into the whirlpool which, gradually circling inward, would inevitably bring her face to face with that which she most dreaded. "I will go with you, Lady Juliana," she said. When the bricklayer came home to dinner he found the grand people all gone, after showing but meager gratitude for his kindness. Hautville Park was near Lambeth, within pleasant distance of London; and in due time, in the dying crimson of departed sunlight, the carriage arrived at its stately gates, and Margaret found herself introduced as companion to its spotless mistress, Lady Juliana Ducie. She had not been there more than three weeks, when one day the maid brought in a letter to my lady's boudoir. My lady was lying _a la_ convalescent on her sofa, and Margaret was reading to her. My lady had taken her time to get over her railway fright, and had taxed her companion's strength considerably, by her exactions, but she professed herself very fond of Miss Blair for all her trouble, and they agreed excellently together thus far. "Hand me that letter, Bignetta. No, give it to Miss Blair and go away, she can read it to me." Margaret took the letter, inserted her finger to break the seal; glanced at the seal, and withdrew her finger as if it had been stung, glanced at the writing, and slowly became stern and pale. "Why don't you open it and read its contents?" cried my lady. "Are you tired of reading all the condolence that comes to me, or do you think it is some insolent bill?" "Lady Juliana," said Margaret, "I cannot read this letter. I--I know the writer." She covered her face with her hands. "Why, what can you mean?" exclaimed my lady, getting upon her elbows to possess herself of the letter, and to look curiously at her companion. "Who is it?" She looked at her own name on the back, and gave a delighted cry. "Captain Brand! So he deigns to remember me at last! Ah, won't I make him suffer, for being so derelict in his duty these last three weeks! Careless creature! he never thinks of me, except when he sees me." She laid down the letter and returned to the charge. "How came you, Miss Blair, to be so well informed about Captain Brand's writing?" she demanded. Margaret was eyeing her in speechless consternation. She had thought at first that this missive was an inquiry from the writer concerning herself; she had feared she was found out. But what darker suspicion was this which was entering her mind. "Tell me first, dear lady Julie," she exclaimed, "if Captain Brand is a friend of yours?"