"'Good! and join the army,' says our captain, with a war-glance which sweeps the horizon and sees coming fame, 'and win glory, since I am stripped of my fortune.'
"'Will you go, then?' pursues Monsieur Mortlake.
"'I'll think of it,' says Captain Brand.
"And he does think of it, and to such purpose that in an hour he has left Regis and is posting back to London.
"Monsieur Mortlake comes to me and tells me all this.
"'Calembours, I have a job for you,' says my friend. His language is never refined.Ouf!how can it be? But I laugh, amused, and I applaud, for my perception is swifter than Monsieur's tongue; it has skipped on a mile of the plan, and turned to meet the tardy wit of my Mortlake.
"'So be it,' I cry, with smiles. 'You want me to put you in those cavalry boots of Captain Brand, that you may win his castle and his Marguerite.'
"To my surprise my friend writhes with anger—half chokes over this:
"'His castle and his Marguerite? Hang him! I have a better right than he to them.'
"And becomes immediately mysterious, close as a mute.
"When we reach London, and find that Monsieur le Capitaine is really selling his commission in the Guards, and going to America, my Mortlake reveals his well-considered plot to me.
"'Calembours, you are such a plausible rogue,' says my coarse friend, 'that you might be a great help to me in the plan I've thought of.'
"'Dear friend, you flatter me,' I, smiling, reply. 'Command me.'
"'This fellow is in love with some woman of rank here in London,' pursues my Mortlake. 'I can't find out her name, he's such a proud fellow; but that's the reason why he throws off the woman at Castle Brand and forswears the fortune. Now, d'ye see, Calembours, how we can turn his tomfoolery to account?'
"I bow; I am interested, but not admiring.
"He can go off to the war, and somebody can go off with him, to keep an eye on him that he doesn't balk, and to worm himself into all the fellow's secrets and past history. Somebody gentlemanly and taking, and with plenty of confounded jabber about 'em. You'd do first rate, Calembours.'
"'So flattered,' I smile. 'The good opinion of my dear M. Mortlake is so consoling.'
"'You could creep round him so nicely,' observed my friend; 'you could get anything you liked out of him, you've got such an innocent look, you dog; while I can't become the polished gentleman without practice, fact being that I've forgotten the talk. I was once as swell as any of 'em—was in the army, bedad! an artillery officer; but luck changed, curse it! and my company wasn't so high-flying, though we were a jolly pack for all that, especially after the day's duties were over.'
"'Was monsieur a soldier or a knight of the pen?' I ask.
"He shows his long teeth in a snarling smile.
"'I was in a government office—served my country,' he replies; 'and, getting home on furlough, I might as well feather my nest while I have a chance, and then slip the cable on 'em. Pay isn't very good there, nor victuals very plenty.'
"'Eh! prison fare?' I ask, scenting the jest.
"He scowls like an ogre at me.
"'You're a fool!' he growls. 'No; I was a Road Commissioner. Come, now, will you go with Brand, and win some cool thousands by the speculation?'
"'What are my duties?' I cautiously reply.
"'To keep close by him through all his windings, until—'
"My Mortlake stops.
"'Until?' I venture.
"'Until the dog is killed,' whispers monsieur.
"I start back—I wave the vile insinuation from me.
"'Pardieu!' I scream; 'I amchevalier d'honneur! I pride myself upon my illustrious reputation. Monsieur must seek another colleague.'
"'Idiot!' he roars, 'did I ask you to have anything to do with that? Do I suspectyouof enough pluck to crush a snake? No, you fool, I don't. The man will be killed in battle. All I want of you is to hear his private business, so that you can post me up. If you want to make your fortune, say so.'
"Mademoiselle, my dearest wish has always been to make my fortune.Ma foi!shall I refuse it when it comes begging at my door?
"'So be it.Vive l'Amerique!' I cry. 'Give me my instructions.'
"And monsieur does give me my instructions.
"I am to be hand and glove with Monsieur le Capitaine; I am to learn his history off by heart and write it down for my Mortlake to study; and when he falls in battle I am to win my reward, but not till then. I am encouraged by every inducement to be the assassin myself. I am assured that if Captain Brand does not die in the course of twelve months, Monsieur Mortlake can do nothing for me; and I laugh to myself, and say:
"'I shall watch my Mortlake.'
"'And what will monsieur do until I return to England?' I say.
"'I'll pigeon the green hands in the gambling saloons,' he tells me, 'and have a neat little sum to carry us through the plot.'
"So we make up our plans, and I follow Captain Brand to Liverpool.
"The last act of friendship which my principal does for me is to send after me a servant to attend me.
"'A trusty fellow,' writes M. Mortlake, 'who will help you with the captain. He is an unscrupulous chap, and might do that little job for you. Thoms is a cute fellow, and won't betray us.'
"Monsieur Mortlake has changed his mind at the last moment; he doubts the villainy of his accomplice; he comes himself, in Thoms' disguise, to watch how the game goes.
"He says to himself, 'Calembours may betray my plot to Captain Brand, or, not betraying it, may fail to see him killed, and he may turn up again when I am least prepared for him; then letmeaccompany the pair as Thoms, the valet; and Thoms shall remind Calembours of his duty; and Calembours shall commission Thoms to deal the death-blow, if chance withholds it in battle, and Calembours shall ever after be tied hand and foot by that command of his to Thoms, and shall never dare to betray the cunning Mortlake. Then when Brand is dead, Thoms shall disappear; Calembours shall return to England with his report; Mortlake shall pay him much or little, as he likes, and Calembours shall be gagged for life with his share in the murder of Brand. Thus shall Mortlake cover up his traces, and win fortune without one fear of discovery. And if Calembours proves unfaithful in his compact, why then Thoms shall only have to use his dagger twice instead of once, and perhaps that would be the best way after all.'
"Was it not a wonderful plot, mademoiselle?
"So complete, so obscure, so complicated!
"And to think that I should not have been the first to conceive it!
"Bah! I told you that Monsieur Mortlake could cheat me atrouge-et-noir; he was my mental superior.
"Mine was the intellect quick, daring, creative; but his was the sure, silent, and wily brain that could view a scheme in all its bearings, and twist it as he willed.
"Enough; Monsieur Mortlake accompanied us to the seat of war as Thoms, and not once did I suspect the villain of being other than he seemed.
"Bah! to think of being served by such a worm!
"Mademoiselle, the soul of the knight of honor rises in wrath as he recalls these days of foolish deception, when the brother colonels, sitting by the camp-fire, laugh over poor old Thoms, and say, 'He's mad.' Mademoiselle, the blood of an honest man boils as he recalls the dastard pranks of his valet; when he rifles the pockets of brave Colonel Brand; and sitting behind us, mimics the gestures of my friend, rehearsing for his future character; and shoots at Brand and me from behind our tent, and missing fire, stabs the innocent Confederate envoy, who might betray him.
"When I forget my compact with Monsieur Mortlake, and show my affection for the great colonel, Thoms is there to menace me with meaning looks; and when I defy his hints and refuse to spy any longer upon my colonel's life, a letter comes from Mortlake quickening me by threats and promises. 'Tis penned, of course, by Thoms, and I never know it then.
"The history of those days you have discovered for yourself, mademoiselle, in that important note-book, which you seized with such high courage.
"Admirable woman! I bend the knee to you, for you rival in valor Joan of Arc. Without your heart of steel and hand of silk, the wary, lying fox might never have been lured from his hole and crushed; and the noble Colonel Brand might have lain forgotten and unavenged.
"Thus I come to the middle of the volume. The stories have met; I take up the ends of them; I twine them together, and,voila!aneclaircissement! When I have run my little race in the ungrateful republic, I come home to England.
"I am free. I have money, health; I have a sacred duty to perform, an insult to avenge; I hasten into England, and seek my principal.
"Ouais!are not the journals teeming with great news? 'The Great Castle Brand Plotmeets my astonished eyes in every journal. The vile imposture is divulged, the daring murderer is condemned; his serpentine guile is held up; and with passion I read that my valet Thoms and my employer Mortlake are one. I foam, I sweat with rage and shame, that he should have cheated me.
"Oh,mon Dieu!that I should live to be cheated byThoms! Why did I not saber him in those days in Virginia?
"I swear that I will have honorable satisfaction; the dog shall die for his treachery to a knight whose honor is more valued than his life.
"I know the old disguise of my Mortlake. I remember his haunts, I say. England, I will find your criminal for you, but I shall have my little account settled with him before I pass him over to you.
"I hasten to Canterbury, where I have seen him first, and in his old haunt, plying his modest profession as gambler, I find my bird-of-the-jail, with the eye upon Paris when tracked to Canterbury, there to hide from angry England.
"I penetrate to hiscafe, where he consorts with blacklegs, sharpers, and barmaids, and I gain a private audience of the great man in his exile.
"I snap the fingers in his face.Tonnere!how white it grows! I cry:
"'Monsieur, you are no gentleman—you areun fripon, a rogue, a speaking cur! Monsieur, I spit upon you for a cur! Will you have pistols or sabers?'
"'Calembours, by all the devils!' groans my rat in the trap. 'Why, man, I thought you were dead long ago. If I hadn't thought so, I should have had you to help me through with that accursed plot, and paid you well for it, too——'
"'Liar!' I cry, 'I don't believe you! You are Thoms, and Thoms was a traitor.Allons, monsieur, will you meet me in the court out there?'
"'Calembours,' whines the slave, 'why need you trample on a down man? Nobody knows me here, and I'll give you my purse, my jewels, and a fine blood-horse which I have out there in the stable, if you'll let me escape to Dover to-night.'
"I weigh the purse, not so light, considering; the jewels—par la messe!a million francs would not purchase them.
"But I do not falter; he has cheated me with a paltry trick, he has practiced upon my credulity—my credulity, mademoiselle, and achevalier d'honneurnever forgives that.
"'Dog! you think to buy me!' I screamed, in my high indignation—'you, who have played your vile trick upon me, who have laughed under the hood at me.You, Thoms! Never, Monsieur Mortlake; but I will have your blood! Fox! beast! you shall be honored for the first time in your plebeian life—you shall fight with Calembours!'
"The slave recoils, for he knows the accuracy of the chevalier's aim, he knows the perfection of the chevalier's passes; he loathes pistol and saber as a means of settling the dispute.
"Glaring at me, eye to eye, he casts about in his wily brain how to cheat me to my face—he was ever my superior in juggling tricks, although he had no bravery, except what paid him.
"But he is late in achieving his last throw for freedom—angry England has tracked the fugitive. A posse ofgens d'armes—what you call police—pour into monsieur's private saloon, and advance to take my Mortlake.
"He glares at them with eyes of horror, gathers himself for a tiger's bound through their midst, and nearly gains the door.
"But he is caught—mid air; he is hurled to the floor; the shackles are on his wrists, the gyves are on his feet, and, with foam on his lips and murder in his eyes, he looks up at his captors.
"'Ha, ha! my bird!' jests agen d'armes; 'you're caged at last. Your ticket of leave won't do any longer—it's out many a month ago; and, since you don't go in for road-work, in Tasmania, you can try the shortest road to glory.'
"The convict says never a word, but shuts his eyes and succumbs; and so they carry him away, and I have bade my last adieu to Monsieur Mortlake.
"Ma chère, there are ups in this world, and there are downs; I have seen both—I have been elevated to the highest pinnacle of fortune, and again thrown under fortune's wheel—but, mademoiselle, my honor has never been impugned, for it was above reproach.
"Yet this dog of a Mortlake had ventured to amuse himself at my expense—had outwitted me in my own game; can the depths of misfortune be too profound for such a traitor?Pardieu!no, a thousand times no!
"So that when my Mortlake was dragged to prison, I, the insulted man of honesty, felt only joy that there was a rogue less to find.
"Most illustrious heroine, shall I resume the chronicles?
"Your face answers with eloquence: 'Yes, my friend, and be brief;' but your great heart trembles, and shrinks from the deep cup of vengeance which I offer, although you long have sought to taste it.
"No? you deny the imputation? But, mademoiselle, you tremble and are pale as the winter moon; wherefore? Ah, you apprehend my halting meaning; you perceive the mists of possibility with those keen eyes, and you urge, 'Haste, haste, and assure me of the truth!'
"Eh, bien!you shall taste of a cup more mellow than this one of revenge. I hasten to hold it to the lips of Margaretla Fidele!
"I learn as much of my Mortlake's history as my interest in him prompts me to search out.
"I hear that he was banished to Tasmania twelve years ago for a daring act of forgery; that he has come back with a ticket of leave two years since, and, seizing the first opportunity, has presented himself with freedom, and escaped from the espionage of the law.
"That the detectives sent on the track of Roland Mortlake have met the detectives on the track of the fugitive ticket of leave man, and that O'Grady has confessed that they are identical.
"O'Grady, being a companion-convict, and having shared in that enterprise for freedom, is well qualified to put the detectives upon his track, and does so. Thus our friend Mortlake vanishes from the scene; one month ago the prosperous heir of Castle Brand—to-day, the convict waiting sentence for the murder of the true heir of Castle Brand.
"But, mademoiselle, the little tale is not complete without theeclaircissement; permit me to draw aside the curtain from my secret.
"You shall give the word that draws the bolt, and drop out Mortlake into a murderer's grave; or you shall raise the warning hand that stays the doom upon the felon's platform, and waves him back to Tasmania for life in the chain-gang.
"How you have that power is my secret, mademoiselle; shall I tell it you for one thousand pounds?"
Grave, keen, penetrating, the Chevalier de Calembours bent forward and waited breathlessly the answer to this momentous question.
The great eyes of Margaret Walsingham still met his in a fascinated gaze; her electric face kept its spell-bound attention. With lips apart and bosom heaving she waited for the end of the story.
"Mademoiselle, shall I tell it you for one thousand pounds, or shall I go back to America, and bury the secret in oblivion?" asked the chevalier.
"Tell me all," breathed Margaret, faintly.
"Mademoiselle will remember my modest request?"
"Yes, yes, monsieur, I will pay you what you ask!" she cried, hysterically; "go on to the end."
"Milles mercis!" cried he, cheerfully, "mademoiselle is magnificent! Mademoiselle does not wish M. Mortlake to escape with his life?"
"No," shuddered Margaret, "he must not live."
"So perfidious!" aspirated the chevalier; "he stole St. Udo's history, he stole his identity, and then he stole his life. Fiendish Mortlake!"
"He shall die, monsieur, be content," groaned Margaret.
"Even if he had not succeeded in killing St. Udo, his intention would make him worthy of death," remarked the chevalier.
"Ah, yes, worthy of twenty deaths!" cried Margaret, wringing her hands.
"Mademoiselle loves the brave man who was murdered?" insinuated the chevalier, in softest accents.
She grew white as death, and the great tears rushed from her eyes.
"What does it matter now?" she moaned. "I do love him—ah, I do love him!"
Then did the little man rise and expand with warm enthusiasm—then did his handsome face glow with rapture and with pride.
He put on a smile of most gracious benevolence, he drank in the rich love-light upon her eloquent countenance, and then he cried, joyfully:
"Incomparable mademoiselle! you deserve good news. We shall hang the dog, and then resurrect the master; for,Viola! Colonel Brand is not dead yet!"
The chevalier paused with dramaticempressementto enjoy the effect of his announcement. But the pale woman who was sitting before him made little sign of her emotions.
With the tears still upon her cheeks, and hands clasped in her lap, she had gone a wild trip into fairyland, and its brilliant fantasies were whirling round her in all manner of rainbow tints presaging hopes of joy; and the little chevalier, glossy-bearded, pleased, and triumphant, seemed to dance round her in the many-tinted flare, like the good geni of the fairy tale.
Save the added wildness to these resistless gray eyes, and the sudden aurora gleam over brow and cheek, the demonstrative Frenchman might have doubted if she believed him.
"Admirable mademoiselle," aspired he, after a due pause; "she is brave as the Spartan boy with his more disagreeable burden, the wolf. She will not let the surprise show so much as the tip of his nose—ah, you British know how to shut the teeth.Mais Voila, you shall say, 'Go on,mon ami, and accept your thousand pounds,' or shall I say no more of my colonel, and let the naughty convict go hang?"
"He is alive—go on," breathed Margaret to the pirouetting geni of her fairy-tale.
"What! and loose monsieur's neck-cloth, which was to strangle him?"
"Yes yes; tell me of St. Udo Brand, that we may bring him home to his own."
"Mademoiselle is magnificent. She forgives like an angel, and pays like an empress. I bow before so grand a demoiselle, the effulgence of her nature dazzles me, andVoila!I, also touched with enthusiasm, emulate her in magnificence. For the poor sum of one thousand pounds I give to mademoiselle the hero of her heart, and happiness, and to me darkness, after the blinding study of her perfection. Nay more, I have a turn for necromancy—I may not read man's destiny in the stars, but woman's future in her ownpetitehand I have often seen, and I see this hand, which is a lovely hand, holding out the fortune of St. Udo, my fine colonel, to him, and being taken, fortune and all, for its own open kindness; and I behold myself (in the future of thispetitehand) placing by the revelation I am about to make, my noble heroine in the arms of another—for only one thousand pounds.
"Behold me, then, lift the cloud which has swallowed up the life of our gallant St. Udo Brand from the moment in which the renegade, Thoms, has stabbed him on the battle-field and lo! with the sweep of my magician's wand I place before you the succeeding picture, clear, truthful, and unshadowed.
"My fallen hero finds himself next—not in Heaven, where, by gar, his brave deeds have doubtless bought for him a seat in the dress-circle—but in a villainous ambulance, being jolted over an execrable wood-road in a rain-storm which kindly drenches him with sufficient moisture to keep his wounds flowing. Having ascertained as much, and doubtless feeling disgusted with the lack of courtesy which the jade Fortune has displayed, he absents his spirit once more from his body, going an experimental tour to his future quarters, and leaving that tenement to all appearances 'to let.'
"It is barely possible that his future quarters are not inviting, for the spirit comes back from a blind boxing for a place somewhere, and takes up with the poor, shattered body once more, and St. Udo wakes up to find himself a prisoner of the South, immured in Castle Thunder, Richmond.
"Mademoiselle, I have already narrated to you the trials which I, the foot-ball of the vixen Fortune, endured in Castle Thunder with mycamarade. I pass the time of his deadly illness, when the breath flits forth like a puff, and seems gone forever—when the great wounds fever, and my friend in blue babbles at the charge, and the rally, and shouts of phantom soldiers, or turns to his pillow and whispers of woman's tender hands, when there are but the rough fingers of his faithful Ludovic.Ma foi!but he is a British Napoleon! He triumphs over his desperate wounds, and stifling captivity, and one day my Brand sits up and knows me, whom last he had known as a foe, by the ungracefulcontretempsof war.
"Mon Dieu!but I was glad, and I was sorry! There he is for you—so thin, and so patient—waiting to accept the life that God shall give.
"My heroine, you shall not weep. It is better than the death by treachery, is it not? AndVoila!he shall give you an English hand-grip yet—shall he not? And I shall be there to see and to bless, and to be the goodsorcier. Ah, bravo! or what you call in England, 'Here, here!' we shall all be happy presently.
"But to resume: When I know better this man whom I have yet known as the brave soldier at the head of his company, when I see him in captivity, in trial, in sickness, eating with me the crust, drinking with me the muddy water, bearing cowardly usage from his jailers—all with that grand patience, I find in him a great man, and morally I see myself upon my knees before him to do honor and I whisper in my own ear, 'Ludovic Calembours, tell this, the only man whom you ever loved better than yourself the plot which was made by this wretch, Mortlake, to oust him from his Castle Brand!'
"And I tell him the whole story, by gar! I spare not myself at all, though he scorns me with his hand, and calls me 'blackleg,' and thanks me nothing for my story, but after that he is kinder to me, and rouses himself to scoop with me through our prison floor, with the broken plate—I with the rusty key, and when we stand face to face under the stars beyond the prison bars, his hand so thin, so bleeding, is pointed Northward, his sunken eyes gather fire, and he says:
"'My fortune is on the Federal battle-field; such life as God sends me I shall seek there; I am done forever with England.'
"Mon Dieu!I love my brave St. Udo like a brother. Would I let my brother drop Seven-Oak Waaste through his fingers?
"I say him neither yea nor nay, but traverse with him the dreary swamps, and we go to Washington.
"His wounds and weakness threw him sick into an hospital. I, in my efforts to have a knight of industry properly compensated, am driven with howlings from the savage place, and in the pursuit of a virtuous livelihood in New York, lose sight for a time of my St. Udo.
"Mademoiselle Walsingham, if Dame Fortune had really frowned upon my little secret scheme, which was to punish the dastard Mortlake, and to advance my bravecamarade, she would not have thrown St. Udo in my way so persistently, when with the tears and sorrow I had been forced to part with him, as I feared for the last time, at Washington.
"But look you! In my pursuit of purchasers for my famous war-horses, I find myself in a hospital, where a general—great man—has promised to meet me, and I meet once more my colonel. He has been sent to New York for better attendance than can be got in the overcrowded hospitals of Washington, and I find him weak as a child from wound-fever, and, by gar! I am so overjoyed that I fall upon his neck and forgot to drive my bargain with the general.
"I say to him: 'Mon ami, I devote myself to you. I pledge myself to cancel the past by making up to you a little fortune. Forswear the swordmon frere, and turn it into a pruning-hook as I have done; becamaradewith me once more, and we shall reap a harvest of greenbacks from these patriots, who must every one be officer, and to ride away to battle must every one have a brave war-horse. Letusmount themmon frere—already I have a modest little something made up wholly from the help I have given these patriots. What say you, my Brand?
"Mon Dieu!mademoiselle, he waxes very angry with me, and complains that I am tarnishing his honor with my villainous schemes for self-advancement. I, who am willing to share my purse with him.
"I say: 'But, monsieur, you have not heard me out yet. You have flown at me like your own obstinate bull-dogs, that bark! bark! bark! and will not hear reason. I have yet to finish my plan for your welfare, I would have said had you not interrupted me. And then, when our purses burst with greenbacks, let us go to England and see how Seven-Oak Waaste is getting on with Mortlake for a master, and the companion of thegrand merefor a mistress. You like English fair play, my friend; and it is not English fair play to let Mortlake have Castle Brand.'
"'Mortlake!' shouts my invalid, in a passion. 'What have I to do with him, or with Castle Brand, or with Miss Walsingham? Let them make what they like of it: I am not going to soil my fingers dipping into the pot with them. I will never set my foot in England again, I tell you, and be good enough to understand me when I say so!'
"I throw out the hand in disinterested despair at his obstinacy and ask how he is to live.
"'A soldier may always live by his sword,' he says; 'and I don't mind trying if the adage is true. And if ever I meet that sneaking valet of ours, Calembours, I'll horsewhip him for the mark of attention he gave me, and if you have any love-token to entrust me with, I'll faithfully deliver it too.'
"A strange suspicion has been in my mind since ever my colonel told me of the dastardly murder which Thoms attempted upon him, which is that Thoms had been hired by my principal to do the deed after having spied on us to see that I fulfilled my contract. This is so humbling to my pride as a sharp-witted man whose motto is: 'The world loves to be gulled, and I am the one to gull them.' that I breathe nothing of it, but,morbleu! I promise to myself that my Monsieur Mortlake shall hear of this.
"So, generous vengeance firing me, I bid adieu to the valiant colonel, and return to the island of bull-dogs, full of indignation against the cur who will have the loud snarl at me when I pull the bone out of his teeth.
"Andma foi!what do I find? The papers vaunting Mademoiselle Walsingham's courage in unmasking the impostor—her wonderful integrity which refuses to accept Madame Brand's bequest—her cleverness in frustrating the attempt upon her life. Everywhere I read paragraphs pertaining to the 'Castle Brand Plot.' I begin to feel the curiosity grow to see this wonderful Mademoiselle Marguerite.
"I have told you of my meeting at Canterbury of the abject Mortlake. Having seen Him as securely entrapped as his bitterest enemy could wish, I come to you, full of my dreams for the noble Brand, burning to thank you in his name for your bravery.
"I throw my money about like the grand seigneur. I make all haste—I penetrate to your presence and find, not as St. Udo had believed, a cunning adventuress, but empress of love, generosity, soul.
"I wave the hat again, and shriekbrava! bravissamo!for I know that my great news will bring the joy to your great heart, and I see thatlettlecompensation already slipping into my pocket. Eh, mademoiselle?"
Margaret rose and turned her face from the chevalier. As yet she could grasp nothing but the knowledge that St. Udo Brand was alive; and oh, the whirl of joy which danced its wild measure in her heart!
He had risen from his shallow grave to a second life of purity and mayhap of happiness.
"So good and so patient—waiting—waiting to accept the life that God shall give."
Ah! mightshenot hallow to him his resurrection by bands of love?
He was alive! Sweet Heaven! to think that he was alive!
The mighty rush of feeling broke its bands at last—she sank upon a chair, shaken by her sobs, and her heart, quaking at its own great hunger, opened to take in its joy, and all was forgotten save her tumultuous vision of bliss.
But monsieur, the chevalier, had no relish to witness any scene of which he was not the hero; so, after five minutes of decorous silence, he swaggered to her side, with hands thrown up in deprecatory fervor.
"Ma foi!Mademoiselle Marguerite!" he exclaimed, "accept the consolation of your devoted admirer! Command me, your slave!"
"Leave me," murmured Margaret, gently. "Ask a servant to show you—somewhere—the picture-gallery—I will summon you."
Monsieur Calembours protested that her tender heart did his eloquence high honor, and slid, with many obeisances, to the door, leaving the overwrought girl free at last to suffer the burden of her joy, and to throw herself in an attitude of devotion, and to weep such tears as form the specks of celestial blue in the drab cloud of life.
When in half an hour the French gentleman was conveyed back to Miss Walsingham, he found her calm, serene, and happy-eyed, ready to consult with intelligence and spirit equal to his own upon the course she meant to pursue.
"You will scarcely be surprised to hear," she said, greeting him with, a beaming smile, "that I purpose retiring wholly from my position of heiress of Seven-Oak Waaste, and of offering it to Colonel Brand. I am well aware of the pride which impelled him to scorn fighting for his rights with an adventuress, and knowing this, I am sure that no letter from the executors, or myself, would lead him to accept, amicably, his rightful position. So, in order to leave him no room for misunderstanding me, I propose going with one of my advisers to New York and personally urging my determination upon him. He is weak and in bad health, you say"—here the woman's yearning heart spoke out in her glowing eyes—"and I think it in a measure my duty to go and take care of him until he is safe at his own Castle Brand. What do you say to this, sir?"
"Magnificent, Marguerite!" sighed the chevalier; "but, mademoiselle, let me be your counsellor in this little thing. Duty before pleasure."
"What duty chevalier?"
"We must give our convict his dose of oakum sweet,mi ladi, before we dig the murdered man out of his grave."
"No, no!" exclaimed Margaret, with a shudder. "How could you, when St. Udo was not really slain by him?"
"Nothing easier," replied the young man, with a dull shrug. "We know not this thing that Colonel Brand is alive until the murderer is no more, and then we discover our mistake and the heir of Castle Brand at one and the same time. Eh, mademoiselle?"
"Would you cause an innocent man to lose his life?"
"Innocent—pouf!So is the weasel of rats! Hisintentionwas not innocent,m'amie, and it is too well for him that he should have the return trip to Tasmania for nothing, and make some chain-gang miserable for life. Bah! you Thoms, why did I not kick you oftener?Mon Dieu!how blind we are."
"I scarcely suppose you are really in earnest with such a proposition," said Margaret, fixing her clear eyes incredulously upon him, "so I shall proceed with my plans. I hope you will not object to my letting this strange communication which you have made be fully known to the executors, and putting myself wholly under their protection through all my movements? My life has been so cruelly attempted, that, though I have no misgivings with regard to you"—she smiled kindly upon her good fairy—"I have been taught too severe a lesson to desire acting without the express protection of my guardians, Mr. Davenport and Dr. Gay."
"Confide everything to your guardians, mademoiselle," rejoined the chevalier, with a flourish of his hands outward, as if he was bailing his heart dry, "and have them both with you if you wish—only do not exclude me from the dear privilege of standing beside to see the hand-grip of reconciliation, and to bless at the proper moment, and to be the goodsorcier."
"You shall accompany me," said Margaret, with bright tears in her eyes, "and perhaps you shall see the reconciliation."
"By gar! you are von angel. Now, my satisfaction would be superb if you would but wait until that leetle game was played out with Monsieur Handcuff, and that I should stand by him at the proper moment to see the noose grip, and the drop, and the juggling trick which turns a villain into a human tassel. Hah!"—rubbing his hand with relish—"I think I see him, the dog!"
"You will go to Mr. Seamore Emersham, who is counsel for the prosecution against Mortlake and tell him, first, that the man has been arrested as a runaway convict; second that his attempt to murder Colonel Brand has proved a failure, and that Colonel Brand is now at New York. Then invite him up to the castle this evening, where you and he will meet the executors, and a consultation can be held upon the subject."
The chevalier seeing that the young lady was quite deaf to his rather swindling plan of vengeance on Mortlake, smothered his inclinations as if they had been expressed in joke, and agreed to her arrangements; and after a very cordial interview they parted.
In due time the executors were put in possession of Calembour's story, and, made wiser by former mistakes, they gave no signs of incredulity to the florid narrator's wildest flight by which to enhance the value of his services, but treated him as a gentleman; and even agreed in the readiest manner to reward his kindness by the gift of a thousand pounds, as soon as they should obtain St. Udo Brand's consent.
As this involved the speedy unearthing of that heroic treasure, the chevalier became proportionally eager for them to start on their journey of recovery.
Mr. Emersham, with almost a hideous knowledge of how deceitful and desperately wicked the human heart can be, refused to give up his case against Roland Mortlake for the murder of St. Udo Brand, until it was proved beyond all doubt that the latter still lived.
One part of the chevalier's story was found to be quite true, namely, the fact of Roland Mortlake's arrest as a runaway convict, at Canterbury; and presently the rest of his story began to crop out in the general press, and became the theme of conversation at every fireside throughout the country; and the gladfurorthat got up among the tenants of Seven-Oak Waaste, and the farmers, and the resident gentry, and the houses of rank, sounded in the ears of Margaret Walsingham, and became to her sweet as music.
A fortnight after the chevalier's first appearance at the castle, Miss Walsingham, accompanied by Davenport and the Frenchman, took passage at Liverpool for New York.
Margaret Walsingham kept her own state-room so exclusively that the passengers, many of whom had heard of the heroine of Castle Brand, had no opportunity of meeting her; and to all their overtures she responded with the same timid reserve, until it became a sort of ambition with the ladies to become the friends of so retiring a creature.
Her state-room became a morning resort of such of the fair dames as were impervious to sea-sickness; all kind, officious, and eager to be considered her intimates.
They found nothing very singular, however, in the quiet, sweet-faced girl to furnish an index of that bravery of which she had become celebrated, but they all agreed that they felt more charmed by her modesty and gentleness of demeanor than if she had the dash of an Amazonian queen.
There was one young lady who came in frequently with a talkative old dowager, and was wont to regard Margaret with keen but silent interest.
This young person, who was called "Dora dear," by old Mrs. de Courcy, and "Lady Dora," by the other ladies, was a peculiarly blooming, black-haired young damsel, whose eyes black as sloes, examined Margaret for several interviews with an eager and scarcely friendly scrutiny. But in the fourth visit Lady Dora threw off her reserve, and constituted herself Margaret's chosen friend.
The day before their arrival at New York she came into Margaret's room, and calmly shut the door as a hint to the stream of ladies who were following her down the narrow passage.
"There, that's done!" she said laughing genially, "and now maybe I'll be having you all to myself for a while without even a gossiping prig to be the wiser of what we say. So now, Miss Walsingham dear, give me room on the sofa there beside you, and well have a snug little chat together."
Margaret looked up at the pleasant, honest face, and made room as requested.
"Of course you don't know what this friendly move of mine is meaning at all. I'm an embassy from——no, that's wrong end first. There's a young man on board the steamer who is desperately in love with you, and, poor fellow, he's so worn to skin and bone about you that just to keep the body and soul of him together I've come to plead his case.
"He says to tell you that it's not unmanly of him to hanker after you now, seeing that circumstances have thrown you together without any of his seeking, and it looks as if this thing was foreordained to be. I'm afraid you'll say you're not, but don't if there's the ghost of a chance when I ask you—are you open to offers?"
"What does all this mean?" inquired Margaret, whose hands were being vehemently squeezed and patted by her Irish friend; "I have not even seen any gentleman since I came on board except my friend Mr. Davenport, and one occasion Colonel Calembours, who certainly did not appear to be reduced by any visible passion."
"Pooh! little beast, he's gambling all the time. No, it's not he; it's a brother of mine—there I've let the cat out of the bag, and I wasn't to do it. We'll drop that and begin at the other end. I understand all about your position in the Brand will, and I know exactly that you want to do the thing that's generous, and I hear that you are on your way to lay the whole of the fortune that you've been named heir for at the feet of St. Udo Brand, and then you'll turn round and earn your bread. Now, I say that that isn't the fate for a woman like you, and I'm here to tell this message. Give every spick and span of the property to Colonel Brand and then put these two dear hands in the outstretched hands of this lover of yours, and say you will be his since he loves you still—that's the message."
The warm-hearted girl threw her arms round Margaret and hugged her with equal strength and warmth.
"Who is this generous man?" asked Margaret, much touched.
"Wait until I set his excellencies fair and square before you. In the first place he's as steady a boy as ever put foot to ground, which nobody ever said of St. Udo Brand."
"Why compare him with St. Udo Brand?" asked Margaret, with a sudden flush overspreading her cheeks, vivid as carmine.
"Sure and is it St. Udo Brand I would compare with the likes of him!" exclaimed Lady Dora scornfully, "and is it you, mavourneen, that I see with the blush of shame on account of him? You don't mean to be so insane as to marry him, Miss Walsingham, darling?"
"I don't expect to marry him," answered Margaret, gravely.
"He's not worthy of you," cried Lady Dora, holding her off at arm's length and looking at her with dubious eyes. "I'll grant that he was a gallant soldier and a handsome man but he's old in sin, and it's not for you, my white dove, to nestle in the vulture's nest, and you won't—you won't!" snatching her to her bosom and straining her close.
"I will hear nothing against St. Udo Brand," said Margaret, withdrawing herself and standing erect so that the generous fire in her face and voice invested her splendid figure with a dignity most queen-like; "I cannot expect the world to believe in the true nobility of his character, but I know it. Desperate he may have been—reckless, scorning, but the crisis of his sinning has passed, and the man is noble still; and Heaven will bless immeasurably the woman who marries him."
She clasped her hands in her generous excitement, and stood, a resistless and passionate conqueror, confessing the greatness of her forgiveness for the first time.
"Faith, I see how it is that you haven't a thought for poor Alfred," sighed Lady Dora, looking at her with tears in her bright black eyes; "because of the fellow's misfortunes and on account of keeping his castle for him from another impostor who was worse than himself, you have fallen in love with St. Udo Brand in spite of his evil reputation."
"I would give up anything—my life—to make amends to Colonel Brand for the misfortunes I have brought upon him," said Margaret, with burning cheeks and distressed eyes, "but I never expect, or wish him to prize my love. I owe him much, for being the marplot of his life"—she paused, and the tears rolled sadly down her cheeks—"but I never dreamed—not once, that he would care for my love!"
"A better man cares for your love then," retorted Lady Dora, "and it's not throwing yourself away you would be if you gave it. Now, Miss Walsingham, darling, won't you take a friend's advice and wear a ducal coronet? Won't you have me for a sister?"
"Your brother does me too much honor to propose such a thing," returned Margaret, simply.
"Not a bit of it! I'll tell you candidly I thought so myself at first, and that's why I was so long in making up to you, for a simpleton as I was, and poor Alfred tearing at me every day. But I couldn't help liking you at the last, mavourneen, and I'd be the happiest woman in the three kingdoms to call you the Duchess of Piermont, and—there, it's out!"
Margaret gazed in considerable surprise at her enthusiastic friend.
"I had not heard that the Duke of Piermont had a sister," she faltered; "I am altogether astonished that you should advocate such a union—of course you are aware that I have not a drop of noble blood in my veins."
"Alfred says you have?" rejoined the lady, laughing enjoyably at her evident astonishment; "he has told me as often as there are legs on a centipede that you're the noblest woman he ever met in all his born days. And you must know that Alfred is a boy of penetration; he has been years on years traveling and doing every London season, (he's got rid of his Irish tongue entirely—more shame to him)! and he has had plenty to choose from. And I'm quite willing to take his taste in the matter of the duchess of our house, dear, so you can't ever fling up to me that I didn't welcome you body and bones, mavourneen."
"Is his grace on board then?"
"Yes. The boy has been in shockingly low spirits for some time, and I made him shut up bonny Glenfarron House, and take me out to America for a tour; and sure I found that we had left the old sod and its troubles, to accompany the trouble across the water. We hadn't been a day on board until he was thrown into lockjaw, or fits, by that little vision of a Chevalier, or whatever they call him, jabbering about Miss Walsingham; and since then it's a queer life I've led walking the deck, under the stars, with him, for all the world as if he was my lover, only that his talk's about you. I'll tell you what it is, Miss Margaret, darling! he's bound to you, body and soul, and I'll think it a burning shame if you turn from him to any other man that breathes."
"I thank you both for this generous proposal," murmured Margaret. "But what I told him before, I can only repeat now—our paths lie in different directions, and cannot be brought together. Let him keep to his higher station, as I intend to keep to my lower one."
"A fig for all the stations in Christendom! The boy doesn't carethatfor them," snapping her fingers. "He wouldn't look at Lady Juliana Ducie, although she was as good as offered to him by the old marquis two or three times. But Alfred is a boy of old-fashioned notions, and won't look at a pretty face, though backed by lands and titles, that can't show him something better than that. Faith! I thought the boy was demented when he told me that the lovely Juliana Ducie, that everybody was so pleased at, was a 'false-tongued, smooth-faced hypocrite, who would ruin her best friend for her own advantage.' I was sure enough he'd have to eat his own words some time, but sure, now, what will ye say to hear that he was right?
"Didn't the minx, thinking the impostor who went to Seven-Oak was the colonel, try to renew her engagement, and did it, too. And didn't the old marquis come home from yachting, at Southampton, to find my lady in receipt of a letter from the jail-bird, which he insisted on seeing, as she was in hysterics over it? And wasn't my fine gentleman bidding his 'dear little Julie' good-by, as circumstances over which he had no control—an unavoidable engagement—had sent him to the Canterbury jail for a season. And if she still entertained the idea of an elopement, would she meet him on board the convict-ship which took him back to Tasmania? Or, failing that, had she any objections to come and see his hanging, which was the only entertainment of a public character he could ever hope to afford her?'
"Fancy my dainty lady's feelings at getting a letter like that! And from the man whom she was so anxious to marry! Why, everybody's laughing at her folly; and her father is so angry that he has carried her off to Hautville Park for the rest of the winter, to hide her until he is less ashamed of her.
"Now, don't you see how penetrating Alfred was, to find her shallowness out when she was trying her best to captivate him? He's the best brother in the world—the wisest and the kindest; and I wish you agreed with me, my darling, and would send me to the poor, quaking fellow with the word he longs to hear."
"He deserves the love of a good wife," answered Margaret, with tears in her eyes. "But, dear Lady Dora, indeed I cannot marry him. Had all other things been equal, I do not love him as well as he ought to be loved."
"That's enough, then," rejoined Lady Dora, rising wrathfully; "and if it's for the reason that ye've stated ye find it in your heart to be so hard, I'll not be grieving for me boy's sake, but for your own, with what's before ye, whether ye know it or not, with a man that'll find a way to break your heart for ye, hard as it is."
Having finished with some tearful quaverings, she rushed out of the state-room, and the conference was at an end.
Poor Margaret, with her usual humility felt much distressed at this unexpected episode, and cast about anxiously in her mind how she could best soothe the wounded feelings of the young duke and his warm-hearted sister. But she did not meet them until the next day, as they were steaming up the Narrows within sight of New York.
While Margaret, with Davenport by her side, stood on the crowded quarter-deck, gazing at the beautiful city which was now the shrine of her devotion, the Duke of Piermont stood not far away among the throng of passengers, gazing, with his yearning love plainly speaking in his eyes, at the woman who had decreed to him his fate.
He did not attempt to come near her, nor did he yield to the wrathful twitch of Lady Dora, who wished to keep him away from such a stony-hearted enslaver; but, with envious looks, watched the changes come and go on that face, which seemed to him purer and more lofty than he had ever beheld on earth.
"Sacre!" rasped Calembours, touching Davenport's elbow. "There is a man who must be, as you call it, 'smashed,' by your ward. They say he is the young duke,par dieu. I hope he will not be thefianceof mademoiselle, instead of mycamarade."
The next moment Margaret, glancing for a moment that way, saw his grace, and started forward, with a frank look of pleasure beaming in her eyes.
"I would have regretted deeply missing this pleasure," she said, meeting the brother and sister half way. "You have both been so kind to me—so kind!"—with a look of deep and gentle gratitude toward his grace—"that I can scarcely express my sense and appreciation of it."
A mortal pallor had overspread the young man's face. His hand trembled as it touched hers, and his tongue trembled, too, when he essayed to speak.
"I would have known Miss Walsingham among a thousand, and yet illness and trials have robbed her even of the delicate roses she possessed. I—I think she is more frail than, perhaps, she is apt to imagine."
"Your grace is considerably changed, too. Have you been ill?"
He turned and looked imploringly at his sister, who was wringing Margaret's hand, and patting it in a very ardent manner.
"You don't deserve me to speak to you," said Lady Dora, in a vehementsotto voce. "So I'll be looking for my opera-glass down below, while you have a chat with the boy."
Away she tripped with all haste, leaving Margaret standing silent by the side of her admirer.
"Will you honor me with a word or two?" faltered his grace. "Perhaps you will not object to walking with me where there is less of a crowd."
"I pray you not to enter again upon a subject which I thought was at an end," murmured Margaret, reluctantly pacing the long deck with him, followed by the chevalier's jealous eyes.
"Circumstances have thrown us together again so strangely," returned the young man, leaning in a dejected attitude across the taffrail, "that I could not resist the hope that entered my mind of being more successful this time. You wished me not to seek you out, and I have been firm in obeying you, hard as it was to avoid your vicinity while all these extraordinary trials were besetting you. Oh, Miss Walsingham, how I have longed to take you away from the miserable position in which that will has plunged you, and to guard you with my name and love from what you have suffered! But I did not seek you because you had exacted from me a promise to leave you unmolested. But, now, has not heaven thrown us together in the most marked manner by sending us three thousand miles across the sea in the same steamer? It seems as if we were destined for each other, does it not? And that Providence is pointing out, for the second time, the path we ought to pursue?"
"There is one obstacle to your grace's rather superstitious fancy," rejoined Margaret, "one which Providence is not likely to overlook. I do not entertain for your grace that regard which Heaven has decreed should be between husband and wife, and if Lady Dora has rightly reported our interview of yesterday, you know that such a regard is out of the question."
Piermont bowed his head on his hands and bore his disappointment in silence.
"I am glad that I have had this opportunity," resumed Margaret, in a gentle voice, "of thanking you again for the generous love you offer me—a love which the noblest lady would be richly honored in receiving, and though I must refuse it, it is with a keen appreciation of its value. I shall always remember your grace with gratitude—ay, with affectionate solicitude, and your whole-souled sister also."
"I wish you every happiness," muttered the young man, lifting his haggard face and trying to smile; "and may your love be placed upon a man worthy to receive it. But, beloved Miss Walsingham, if ever circumstances throw you free and untrammeled upon the world, and if you can send one thought of affection to me, give me a chance to try my fate a third time."
He pressed her hand for a moment to his fond and foolish heart, which was throbbing like to burst for the simple girl before him, and then he went away.
"By gar!" ejaculated the chevalier, plucking Davenport's sleeve, "thetete-a-tetehas broken its neck off short—so, in the middle. Here comes a man all ready for a dose of prussic acid, or a duel with his rival. Bravo, mademoiselle! You are one trump to stick to the colonel, and to send the coronet away. And there is thecharmantedemoiselle 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 prettyleetlenails?"
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 herselfvis a visto 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, yourvis-a-visatdejeuner?" 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.