"Up into the tree of cherry,Who should climb but little Jerry?"
"Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Montfort. "What are cherries for except to eat, I should like toknow? Yes, you have all been good children, and it is true that I promised—something. Sit down now, all of you, and I will tell you the story of the Lost Casket."
The young people clustered about him, sitting on the floor, on cushions and footstools, on anything rather than the prosaic seat of an ordinary chair. Mr. Montfort looked around on their bright, eager faces. Margaret sat next him, his own Margaret, fair and sweet in her white dress, with the bright, joyous look that had grown so habitual to her of late. Next to her was Gerald Merryweather; it struck Mr. Montfort suddenly that Gerald Merryweather usually was beside Margaret. Beyond them again, Peggy and Jean, with Phil between them; Phil, who as yet preferred his sister Gertrude's society to that of any girl he had ever seen. At the other side of the ring, Grace Wolfe, sitting a little apart, with the curious air of solitariness that seemed to surround her even in company. Hugh Montfort was not far off, though, and his deep brown eyes were gazing at her intently.
"Once upon a time," Mr. Montfort began, and was greeted with a chorus of disappointment."Oh, Uncle John! You said it was true."
"Not a fairy story this time, sir, please; give us the real thing!"
"Will you be quiet, you impetuous creatures?" asked Uncle John. "It is true, so far as I know. And if you interrupt me again—"
"We will not!"
"Hear us swear!" cried the young people.
"Once upon a time, then, some hundred and fifty years ago, there lived here at Fernley Mr. Peter Montfort, the great-great-grandfather of some of you. He was a worthy gentleman, with a pretty taste for engravings; that Raphael Morghen print of the Transfiguration, Margaret, that you are so fond of, is from his collection. He travelled about Europe a good deal, buying engravings; that is the only thing I know about him, except the fact that he married twice; and on this marrying twice hangs our story. Listen now, and you shall hear. His first wife (she was a Miss Rhinefels) died, leaving him with an only daughter, Christina Montfort. The only time the name Christina appears, I believe, in the family annals. At the timeof her mother's death Christina was a woman grown; a handsome person, to judge from her miniature, and of strong feelings. She kept house for her father, and expected to do so all her days, as an early disappointment had disinclined her for marriage. When, after a couple of years, her father, being then a man of seventy, brought home a wife of twenty-five, Christina was, not unnaturally, incensed. She refused to speak to the newcomer, shut herself up in her own apartments, and had a special servant to wait upon her. This uncomfortable state of things continued for some time, when she sickened of some acute distemper, and died in a short time. She possessed some fine jewels, which she had inherited from her mother, and she was heard to say repeatedly that her stepmother should never lay a finger on one of them. It is supposed that she, or her servant acting under her orders, hid the casket containing these jewels somewhere in this house; at all events, they were never found after her death, and have never, it is said, been seen to this day."
"Oh, Uncle John! but has any one looked for them?"
"My dear Peggy, every one has looked for them. I cannot tell you how many Montfort ladies, in all these generations, have fretted their nerves and worn out their finger-nails, hunting for this Lost Casket. I specially requested your Aunt Faith, Margaret, not to mention it to you or your cousins when you were here together. I had seen so many vain searches, and heard of so many heart-burnings, in connection with it, that I thought it best to defer the information till—till later. This, however, seems a very favorable time. You are all too sensible, girls, to be unhappy if you do not find it. To tell the truth, I used to hunt for it when I was a boy. But you can have a grand game of hide and seek, with an object, imaginary or actual, at the end of it; and I wish you a merry game, young people, and I return to my conversation with the Sieur de Montaigne."
He was surrounded in an instant, kissed, caressed, and thanked till he declared his life was in danger, and threatened to take up the hearth-broom in self-defence; finally they trooped off, to hold a consultation in the hall.
"ON THE SECOND LANDING THEY PAUSED TO SALUTE THE OLD PORTRAITS.""ON THE SECOND LANDING THEY PAUSED TO SALUTE THE OLD PORTRAITS."
"Shall we divide our forces and go in small parties?" inquired Hugh, looking at Grace.
"I say we go just as it happens," said Peggy. "I think that will be much more exciting."
"Perhaps it will," said Hugh, becoming resigned, as he saw Peggy link her arm in Grace's. "Come on, then, girls and boys! Suppose we begin with the garret; Margaret has been promising to show me its wonders ever since I came."
On the second landing they paused to salute the old portraits, and Hugh must point out this or that one that had a familiar look.
"This might be Margaret's self, I always think, Miss Wolfe; this sweet-faced lady in the silvery green gown. See! she has the same clear, quiet, true eyes, and her hair is the same shade of soft brown. A lovely face."
"Are you looking at the Sea-green Me?" asked Margaret over his shoulder. "Our dear Rita liked it, and used to call it her Sea-green Margaret. But come now and look at the glorious Regina, who actually has a look of Rita herself. And I want Grace to see Hugo, too."
She passed on, and Grace was about to follow, but Hugh detained her. "Just one moment," he said, speaking low. "This is a fine collection, Miss Wolfe, but I see no portrait of the Wood-nymph."
"The Wood-nymph?"
"Yes. Do you not know that a dryad haunts this garden of Fernley? Sometimes she is not seen, only heard in the dusk, singing magical songs, that fill whoever hears them with a strange feeling akin to madness. But sometimes—sometimes she leaves her tree, and comes out in the moonlight, and—dances—"
He paused. Grace had started, and now looked up at him with a curious expression, in which anger, mirth, and fear seemed struggling for the upper hand. Before she could reply, a terrific scream rang through the gallery, startling the whole party. Turning, they saw Jean, who had run on before the rest in her eagerness to explore, standing at the farther end of the corridor, with open mouth and staring eyes, the very image of terror.
"My dear child," cried Margaret, running toward her, "what is it? Are you hurt?"
"What is it, Jeanie?" said Peggy, who was the first to reach her sister, and already had her in her arms. "Jean, don't gasp so! You have seen something; is that it? Margaret, what did I always tell you?"
Jean nodded, still gasping, and clung to Peggy with eager, trembling hands. "Oh!" she moaned. "Peggy, save me! take me away! the closet; oh, the closet!"
"What closet, dear? This one? Why, this is the broom closet. There is nothing here to frighten you, Jean."
"The woman!" murmured Jean. "The dreadful dead woman! Peggy, I saw her eyes, and her long hair. Oh, I shall die, I know I shall!"
"Oh, you poor lamb!" cried Margaret, laughing in spite of her compassion. She hurried to the closet and flung the door wide open. "It is only Mrs. Body!" she said. "Come and look again, Jean; it is the lay-figure, dear, nothing else in the world."
"Lay figure?" faltered Jean, still trembling and hanging back.
"Yes, the model. Grandmother Montfortused to paint a great deal, and she had this creature made to stand for the figure. Come and look at it, dear child."
Gently and persuasively she drew the trembling girl forward; the others all pressed behind her.
There on the floor of the closet lay a figure which might at the first glance have alarmed a stouter heart than fifteen-year-old Jean's,—the figure of a woman, scantily draped in white. The arms were stretched out stiffly, the face, with its staring eyeballs, over which fell some lank wisps of hair, was turned toward the door. No wonder Jean was terrified.
"I am so sorry!" said Margaret. "The children, Basil and Susan D., found her in the garret last winter. They begged to be allowed to have her for a plaything, so they kept her in here, and had great fun with her. Her name is Mrs. Body, but she can take any part, from Ophelia to Simple Susan. She took tea with us once, when Uncle John was away, and she behaved beautifully; so you see you really must not mind her, Jean, dear."
"It's no wonder she was frightened, though,"said Gerald. "My right arm cleaves to the roof of my mouth, even now that I know who she is. Mrs. Body, my respects to you, ma'am, and I desire you of less acquaintance."
While they were all laughing over Mrs. Body, and commenting upon her various points, Gerald slipped round to Margaret's side.
"Miss Montfort," he said, speaking in a low tone, "do you remember the roarer?"
"Indeed I do, Mr. Merryweather. Do you know, you never showed me the place. You had to go away the next day, you remember."
"That is just what I was thinking," said Gerald. "I have never forgotten that burning moment when Mrs. Cook and I foregathered in the dark. I was thinking, what if the Lost Casket should happen to be somewhere about that place in the wall? and anyhow, it would be fun to explore it, and I promised to show it to you, and I like to keep my promises, because virtue is my only joy. Won't you come with me now, and let the rest go on? Awfully nice in the garret, I am sure, but—won't you come, please?"
"Oh," said Margaret, "that would be delightful! But—it is quite dark, isn't it? and they have all the candles."
"All except this," said Gerald, drawing a slender cylinder from his pocket. "Electric candle; you have seen them, of course. I brought it with me, intending some such exploration, if permitted. I ran up and got it, at Mr. Montfort's first word of this search. Come! the down-stairs hall. This way; oh, please, this way."
Margaret hesitated, looking doubtfully at him. "I—don't know if I ought," she said. "I should like it of all things, if I thought—"
"Don't think!" said Gerald, hastily. "Great mistake to think; wastes the tissues awfully. Action first, thought afterward! aphorism! Or if you must indulge in the baneful pursuit, think how much poor Jerry wants you. Poor Jerry! child of misfortune!"
"Is that the way you get everything you want?" said Margaret, laughing, as she followed him half-reluctantly down-stairs.
"One way; there are others. This is thebest, since it procures me your company. See, now! in this niche here, behind the big picture!"
He passed his hand along a panel; it swung back, revealing blackness.
Margaret stared. "I never knew that was a door!" she said. "Mr. Merryweather, do you know, I think the person who built this house must have been a smuggler, a magician, and a detective, all in one."
"Fine combination!" said Gerald. "I should like to have known the old codg—I mean gentleman. No deep mystery here, though, beyond the secret door. He did love secret doors, that ancestor of yours. He may have been an architect, and have thought door-handles unsightly, as they are. But see!"
They were now standing in a deep recess, and he waved his candle to and fro. "This would appear to have been originally used as a kind of store-room, or drying-room. See those hooks; probably for hams—if not for hanging," he added. "If you prefer tragedy, Miss Montfort, you shall have it. There is room for ten persons to hang here, without touching. Theirghastly upturned faces, their blood-stained robes, glimmering spectral white in the—"
"Oh, don't!" said Margaret. "You really frighten me. Yes, they must be for hams; now I think of it, I have heard Frances speak of the drying-closet. This wall is warm; it must be close against the kitchen chimney."
"Jerusalem!" exclaimed Gerald. "Here are steps, Miss Montfort. Stone steps, leading down to a trap-door. Shall I help you down, or—no, I will go alone. When I open the door, a hollow groan will be heard, and the clank of iron fetters. Would you rather have me descend to Hades with a loud squeak, or shall a headless spectre arise, grinning and—beg pardon! anatomy at fault; grinning requires a head. That's the way! my genius is always checked in its soaring flight, and pulled back to earth by idiot facts."
Running on thus, Gerald descended the stone steps, Margaret following to their top, timidly. Sure enough, there was a trap-door at the bottom, with a ring in it; a perfectly orthodox trap-door, suitable for the Arabian Nights or anything else. Gerald took hold of the ring,prepared for a vigorous pull; then paused, and looked at his companion. "I hear voices!" he said. "Hark!"
They listened. A low murmur came up from below; the voices were muffled, by distance or intervening substances, and could not be distinguished.
"Oh, do you think we'd better open it?" said Margaret, who had such a wholesome awe of the Mysteries of Fernley that she was prepared for anything in the way of the marvellous.
"That is what I think!" said Gerald, cheerfully. "That's what it was made for, you see. A door that does not fulfil its destiny might just as well be something else, skittles, or a pump, or—other things. Now this—"
As he spoke, he gave a vigorous pull; the door lifted, but at the same instant the candle slipped from his hand, and fell rattling into some unseen depth below, leaving them in blank darkness. Margaret uttered a cry of alarm. "Don't fall! Oh, pray be careful, Mr. Merryweather!"
"All right!" said Gerald. "Stay just whereyou are, for a moment, while I explore this—aperture. Ha! the steps continue. You don't mind if I leave you in the dark for just a minute, Miss Montfort?"
Margaret did not mind, once assured that her companion was not engaged in the congenial pursuit of breaking his neck. She began feeling about her in the darkness, darkness so thick it was like black velvet, she said to herself. She found the wall; it was warm, as she said; she began passing her hand mechanically along the bricks, counting them.
A cheerful voice came up from below: "I have found the doughnuts—good ones!—and the—seem to be—yes! sweet pickles. Corking! And—now you've done it, my son! Jam, by all that's adhesive! Put my whole hand in. Jerusalem and Mad—"
At this instant there was a sound as of a door thrown violently open; a flood of light filled the place; light, and an angry voice.
"Who's this here in my pantry? Come out of that, ye rascal, before I set the dogs on ye!"
Gerald Merryweather uttered a yell of delight."Destiny!" he shouted. "My fate cries out. Quits, Mrs. Cook, quits! Come to my arms!"
And Margaret, peeping fearfully down through the trap-door, beheld her guest waving one hand, a crimson one, in the air, and with the other embracing the ample form of Frances the cook; while behind them the grave Elizabeth looked wide-eyed, shading her candle with her hand.
"For shame, sir!" said Frances. "Do behave, now, Mr. Gerald! I never see such a bold boy since born I was."
"No, no! not bold; don't say bold, Mrs. Cook! Witness my blushing eyes, my tearful cheek, my stammering nose! Hush, listen, there's a good soul. Your doughnuts are food for the gods; also for Jerry. Poor Jerry; never had enough doughnuts in his life. You weep for him; let him dry the starting tear!"
Drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, he gravely applied it to Frances's eyes and went on. "We are looking for the Lost Casket, Miss Montfort and I. If you can help us to it, Mrs. Cook,—
"I'll dress thee all in pongo silk,And crown thee with a bowl of milk;And hail thee, till my last breath passes,The queen of sugar and molasses.
A poet, as you observe. Nothing to what I can do, give me time and a yard measure. Now tell me—"
Margaret's voice from above interrupted him.
"Mr. Merryweather, there is a loose brick here. I can pull it quite out; and—yes—there is a space behind it, and—oh, can you bring the light?"
To snatch the lamp from Frances's hand, blow her a kiss, and scramble up the steps again, was the work of an instant with Gerald. He found Margaret pale, with shining eyes, holding something in her hands.
"No!" cried Gerald. "I say, you haven't—you have! eccentric Jiminy, you have found it!"
"I think I have!" said Margaret, who was fairly trembling with excitement. "Look! the letters on the lid! oh, Mr. Merryweather!"
The object she held was a box some eight inches square, of ebony or some other darkwood, banded with silver. On the lid were inlaid, also in silver, the letters C. M.
"Christina Montfort!" said Margaret. "Oh, to think of my being the one to find it!"
"I should like to know who else had the right to find it!" said Gerald. "Punch their—I mean, of course, if they were fellows; I beg your pardon, Miss Montfort."
"It is locked," said Margaret. "We must wait, and try some of Uncle John's keys."
"Take care!" exclaimed Gerald. "The bottom is dropping out. Hold your hand under it!"
As he spoke, the bottom of the box, which was of some soft wood and had rotted through, dropped, and something rolled out and fell into Margaret's hand. She held it up to the light. It was a hawk's egg, neatly blown.
"Why, yes!" said Mr. Montfort. "It is my egg, certainly."
"Oh, Uncle John!"
"Well, sir, then—"
"Then you know all the—"
"Was it—"
"Did you—"
"Tell am what—"
Mr. Montfort put his hands resolutely over his ears, and shut his eyes. "When you are still," he said, "I will tell you all about it; till then I am a blind deaf-mute, with no benefit of modern instruction."
A swift rustle, followed by dead silence. Cautiously opening his eyes, Mr. Montfort saw the whole company seated on the floor around his chair, gazing at him with imploring eyes, butmotionless and mute. He laughed heartily, and threw himself back in his chair.
"I promised you a merry game," he said. "Have you had it?"
The young people nodded like mandarins, but uttered no sound.
"I promised you nothing more. In fact, I warned you not to expect anything more. On your own heads be egg and emptiness.
"Well, well!" he added, "since you are so good and dutiful, you shall have the whole truth. I found the box some forty years ago, when I first stumbled on that closet. My dear mother was timid, and had a great dread of the Mysteries of Fernley, imagining a secret staircase in every wall, and an oubliette under every floor. Somebody had frightened her when she came here as a child, by showing her I forget what dark passage or closet. So we were never officially told of the various pleasant places devised by the eccentric old ancestor, Peter, who, I have always believed, was a smuggler before he was a patriot, and hid kegs as well as commanders in his smoke-closet. You know the story of General Blankley and thehams, Hugh? Remind me to tell you some day. Well, this being so, of course we youngsters were keen set on discovery; and we formed a league, called the Hovering Hawks. Each of us had his private totem or sign; and when he made a discovery, he left a totem to tell that he had been there. Jim's was an oyster-shell, because he considered the world his oyster; Dick's was a ship, because he always meant to be a sailor; Roger's was a book, of course, for obvious reasons; and mine was an egg, Columbus's egg, because I meant to find things out. You see there was no overstock of modesty among us, more than there is among most healthy boys. We were ready for anything and everything. I dare say some of you may have found oyster-shells about, in various inaccessible places?"
Grace started, and blushed; then hung her head. "I—I found one," she admitted. "It was in a cubbyhole in the parapet of the roof. I thought of bringing it away, but it seemed as if some one had wanted to leave it there, so I didn't touch it."
"Jim's Retreat," said Mr. Montfort. "Hestayed up there two days once, in a fit of sulks, and frightened my poor dear mother almost into an illness. Father Montfort was away from home the first day; the second day he came home, and went up after Master James. He was a powerful man, Father Montfort, and an excellent climber. Yes, poor old Jim! he did not climb again for several days. Well, as I was saying, after all this very egotistical digression, I found the box in question some forty years ago. I withdrew the—a—contents—and substituted for them my totem. The contents I put—elsewhere."
He looked round the circle, smiling. Margaret, gazing earnestly at him, saw his face, for the second time since she had known him, change from that of a grave, thoughtful man into that of a mischievous boy, the eager eyes alight with fun, the lips twitching with laughter.
"Wouldn't—you—like—to—know?" he began slowly, his eyes turning from one to the other. Suddenly he broke off.
"There! the play is over, children. Margaret, you found the casket, you shall find the—runyour hand along the back of my chair here, my dear; where it feels cold, press downward."
Margaret obeyed. A long narrow box or drawer shot out from the rolling back of the great mahogany chair. Obeying Mr. Montfort's gesture, Margaret lifted out of the nest of silky cotton something that sparkled and glittered in the firelight. There was a long-drawn sigh from the girls, a grunt of surprise from the men, but still no one spoke.
"The pearls are for you, Margaret. I always meant them for you, my dear. I have taken them out every birthday and Christmas and looked at them, but there was always something else I wanted to give you just then, so I put the pretty playthings back again. Peggy, these pink topazes were made expressly for you, even if they have been waiting some time. No earrings, thank heaven! I could not see my girls in earrings. The diamonds I sent to Rita as a wedding present; you remember them, Margaret. Deceitful, was I, not to tell you their history? My child, I said they were family jewels, and so they were. The turquoises must beJean's; put them on at once, little girl! Very pretty; very becoming. Now,—any more? It seems to me I remember one more article—ah!"
Margaret drew out a long, delicate, glittering chain. At sight of it, Grace uttered a low cry of delight. "What is it?" she said. "I never saw anything so beautiful. Water and moonlight? What are the stones, Mr. Montfort, please?"
"Aquamarine," said Mr. Montfort. "They are beautiful, though not of great value. Now what shall I do with this last trinket, I wonder?"
"There is only one person who can possibly wear it," said Hugh, under his breath. His uncle heard him, and shot a keen, quizzical glance at him, which caused the philosopher to retire suddenly behind the shadow of the curtain. Margaret glided to her uncle's side, and whispered in his ear. Mr. Montfort nodded, smiling. "Just what I was thinking, Margaret," he said. "You read my thoughts accurately. My dear Miss Grace—by the way, isn't it time for me to leave off the 'Miss,' consideringmy age, and how well we know each other? 'Miss Grace' suggests 'disgrace,' which can have no possible connection with you. My dear Grace, then, as Margaret and others have said, there is only one person present who ought to wear this chain, and that person is yourself. Will you accept it as a little gift from Margaret and me, and from Cousin Christina?"
Grace drew back, her eyebrows coming together in a look Peggy knew well. "I—You must excuse me," she began; but Mr. Montfort, going to her, took her hand kindly: "My child, do not refuse me this little pleasure. You surely do not expect me to wear the chain myself? and Margaret has more trumpery than is good for her already. Besides, as I said, the thing was manifestly made for you, and for you alone. And, besides, again, Grace,"—he drew her nearer, and spoke low,—"besides, again, you are an explorer, too; if you had lived twenty-five years ago, we should have had great excursions together. Take it, my dear, if for no other reason, because it is the gift of the boy who put the egg in the box!"
"How strange it seems without the boys!" said Jean.
"And Uncle John!" said Margaret.
"And Hugh!" said Peggy. "I wish they hadn't gone."
"Oh, no, you don't, Peggy!" said Margaret. "It was such a great chance, to have the day on that wonderful yacht. Just think what a good time they are having! I only wish you could have gone too, but it is a bachelor party, you see."
"Of course! Oh, I want them to have the fun, and it was very good of Captain Storm to let Uncle John take them all. Yes, they will have a glorious time; only—well, we miss them so horribly. Dear me, Margaret, isn't it strange that you should get to know people so well in such a short time? Why, I seem toknow Gerald and Phil as well—better, in some ways, than I know Hugh. But then, I never feel as if I understood Hugh, he is so—he knows so much. Margaret, dear, it makes me happy all through to have you and Hugh know each other, and be such friends."
"Indeed, it cannot make you so happy as it does me, Peggy," said Margaret, smiling. "He is a wonderful person, that brother of yours. Yes, he does know a most amazing amount, but he never makes one uncomfortable with his knowledge, as some clever people do. He is like a delightful book, that you can read when you want to, and when you don't it stays quiet on its shelf. When I want to know about anything, and Uncle John is somewhere else, or is busy, I just turn over a page of Hugh, and there I have it. Oh, by the bye, Grace, what was that stanza he was quoting to you this morning, just before he went away? Don't you remember? we were coming through the orchard, he and I, and we met you, and he said this. I have been trying all day to recall it."
"Keats!" said Grace, briefly.
"Yes, I know that; it was from 'La BelleDame sans Merci,' but I cannot get the whole stanza. Won't you repeat it? I know you have almost the whole of Keats by heart."
Grace hesitated, and murmured something about "a time for everything," but finally, half-reluctantly, she repeated the stanza:
"'I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful, a fairy's child;Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.'"
"Yes," said Margaret. "Well—thank you, Grace! I just wanted to hear it in your voice; what I was thinking of was, that Hugh always knows just what to say about everything and everybody. He has the whole Golden Treasury in his head, and he always turns the right page. Do you remember the other day, when Michael was so stupid!"
"Michael is always stupid!" said Jean.
"Poor Michael! He is not very clever." (Michael was the stable-boy at Fernley, a new importation from Ireland, with a good deal of peat-bog still sticking to his brains.) "Well, the other day he was more stupid than usual,for he was sent in town to get some rolled oats that Frances wanted. Well, he brought back just plain oats; and when Frances wanted to know what he meant by that, he said, 'Sure, it's meself can rowl 'em about for yez, as well as that feller in the white jacket.' Frances explained the situation to him with more force than amiability. She was in a perfect storm, and poor Michael stood meekly, feeling of his ear as if she had actually boxed it, though really she only threatened to, and wondering what it was all about. Well, Hugh and I came along, and Hugh just looked at him, and said:
"'The ass upon the pivot of his skullTurned round a long left ear!'
There is no other quotation in the English language that would have fitted the case so perfectly."
"You and Grace seem to know Hugh about a hundred times as well as Peggy and I do," said Jean, pouting a little.
"Because they are clever, my dear, and we are not," said Peggy, cheerfully. "If you would learn things, Jean, English literature and allthat, you might be able to talk to Hugh. As it is—"
"Well, I think Phil and Gerald are ever so much more fun, anyhow!" said Jean, saucily. "Hugh is poky!"
Seeing an elder-sisterly cloud gathering on Peggy's brow, Margaret hastened to interfere. "Girls," she said, "I have a confession to make. I was just going to make it, when the quotations turned me off the track. You know what Peggy was saying, about our all getting to know each other so well from staying in the house together. That reminded me of something, something I am very much ashamed of; and I think it would be good for my soul to confess it. But you must promise never to tell."
"We promise! We promise!" cried all the girls.
"Margaret," said Grace, "I have been looking for your sins ever since I came, but you were too clever for me; now I shall learn."
"Not my fault," said Margaret, merrily, "if you are a bat as well as a dozen other animals, my dear. Well, girls—oh, I am ashamed, and it really is most astonishingly virtuous of me totell you about it. Peggy, just before you came, I was very blue; deeply, darkly, most unbeautifully blue!"
"Margaret! you, blue?"
"Hear Peggy making rhymes! Yes, I, blue. You see, the children were gone, and I did miss them so, I hardly knew how to bear it. It is impossible for any one to have any idea, girls, how children, children that are little enough to need one's care, you know, and—and watching, and thinking about, and all—how they get inside your heart and just live there, all curled up in it, bless them! and these particular children are the very dearest ones that ever lived, I do believe. Well, so they were gone, and my heart seemed empty; wickedly and abominably empty, for there was my own dearest uncle, and there were you, my own Peggy, coming to spend the whole summer with me, and as if that were not joy enough for three people, let alone one, I made all kinds of plans, about studying, and teaching you housekeeping, and embroidery, and all kinds of things. We were going to read so many hours a day, and work so many hours,—my poor Peggy! you would have had anunmerciful kind of time!—and everything was going to be quiet and regular and cheerful; I never got beyond cheerfulness in my brightest dreams of the summer. But even the cheerfulness was far ahead, and just then—before you came—I really had difficulty sometimes in keeping a cheerful face for Uncle John when he came in. Why—must I tell the whole?"
"Yes, Margaret, every word!"
"I used to go up to Susan D.'s room and cry over her little pinafores and things. As for my pincushion, I fairly soaked it with tears when I first found it. I told you about the pincushion, didn't I? Why, that little lamb, for days before she went, was working away at something, she would not let me see what. After she was gone, I went up to my room for a quiet cry, and there was a gorgeous new pincushion, and 'I love you,' on it in pins. My dear little girl! Well, girls, so—that was the way I felt, and the way I acted, most absurdly; and then—all this happened. First Hugh dropped from the skies; and then Uncle proposed the house party, and you came, Jean, and the Merryweathers; and then you, Peggy;and we discovered our dear Grace; and so, instead of a quiet, rather humdrum summer, I am having the most enchanting, Arabian-nights kind of time that ever was. And how do you think I feel?"
"Phil would say 'like thirty cents!'" said Jean, who was certainly a little inclined to be pert.
"If I hear you say anything of the kind, young one, I'll swat—"
"Peggy, dearest!" murmured Margaret, softly.
"I'll speak to you very severely. I am ashamed of you, Kidderminster!"
"Look here, Peggy, I won't stand that!" said Jean. "You promised me, when I first came, that you wouldn't call me that."
"Then don't behave like a kid!" retorted Peggy. "There, that's enough. Yes, Margaret, it has all been perfectly delightful and fairy-like; and then the Mysteries, too, and the hunting, and the Silver Closet, and all. Oh, I am so glad we didn't find out everything that first summer. I suppose Uncle John thought we were too young and silly then; not thatyou were ever silly, you dear darling thing. But, Margaret, there is one thing wanting to it all, and only you and I know what that is."
Margaret nodded. "Yes," she said, with a little sigh. "We want our Princess, Peggy. Oh, Grace, if you only knew our Rita! How you and she would love each other! Peggy, you said that just at the right moment, for I have her last letter in my pocket, on purpose to read to you, and I am sure the others would like to hear it, too. Would you, girls?"
There seemed no possible doubt on the subject. All the girls gathered about Margaret, sitting on the floor, as they liked best to do. Margaret herself took possession of her favorite low chair, and drawing the letter from her pocket, began to read:
"Beloved Marguerite:—I am of return only yesterday from an expedition to the hills, and I find your precious letter waiting for me. No need to tell you that I pressed it to my heart, covered it with kisses. Jack says your letters are the sole thing of which he is jealous. I grieve to hear that you must lose those little ones whom you love so well, even for a short time; but courage,Margarita mia;there are other flowers besides roses, and summer is a pleasant time. You will havePeggy with you, dear Peggy! She sends me a photograph, which shows her little changed in the face; still the dimples, still the soft roundness of cheek and chin. Best of Peggys; if I had her here, what great joy! But I must tell you of our ride. We went, Jack and I, up to the hill camp, where we went last year, after the terrible ride you know of. There we spent three happy days, camping in the green hollow among the hills, with only Juan to cook for us and care for the horses. Ah, Marguerite, what a time was that! We visited every spot made sacred to us by our love. The hiding-place, near poor Don Annunzio's house, where I first saw my hero, swinging in his hammock. Have I told you that I thought him a skulker, a coward hiding to escape warfare? How often we have laughed over that! Then we passed along the road, so peaceful now, so wild and horrent then (how is this word, 'horrent,' Marguerite? I find it in a poem, it seems to me noble; I tell Jack, he laughs, and says something like 'high falu—' I cannot tell what!). We paused to weep over the gray heap where once smiled theresidencia, where that kind old woman and her good vast husband sheltered the wandering maiden, protected her at the risk of their own lives, and—one of them, as you know—died to save her and others. Then farther, to Carlos's old camp, where Manuela and I lived, and where I first learned to be of a little use in the world. Ah, the memories, how they came crowding back! I have told you that Manuela is married to Pepe? Yes; two months ago. The wedding was charming! I gave her her wedding-gown, of finest muslin, suitable to her condition,with plenty of lace and ribbons, which the poor child values highly, and I dressed her hair (poor Manuela! She would have done it far better herself; she has a wonderful gift. My present maid is a poor creature, but Manuela is to give her lessons), and arranged the veil and wreath. She was a vision of enchantment, and really thrown away on poor Pepe, who never looked at either dress or veil. Jack says 'neither did he.' My dear, these men! To what purpose do we adorn ourselves, exhaust the treasure of our souls, in efforts to please them? But I wander from my story. My child, this expedition, carrying back heart as well as body to the scenes of before our marriage, has told me over again the story of my happiness. Marguerite, how to deserve it, this wonderful bliss? I study, I try, the dear Saint teaches me always many things—in vain! I am debtor to the whole world, and how much more to the gracious Power above worlds! But enough of this, my Pearl! Your time will come; till then you know nothing of it. I pant for your awakening, I burn, Marguerite, but I am powerless. If I had you here, there is a friend of ours, a paladin, a Roland, second only to my Jack—no! This makes you laugh, I feel it, I see your cool, pearly smile. I am angry with you for laughing, yet I laugh, too. So! now of other things. I think of you always; Jack also; I have told him so much, he assassinates himself with desire to see you all. The time will come! Marguerite—no matter! One word only! Our beloved Uncle's birthday; I remember the day, the Fourteenth. You will honor it, I know, as such a day should be honored, the day which blessed the earth with the best man—exceptone—that breathes mortal breath. Marguerite, if on that day a trifle should come from the far-away cousins, you will receive it kindly? Ah, how well I know the answer! Bless you, my treasure! I must go to my housekeeping. Dear Donito Miguelito is staying with us now; you can fancy the joy of tending this saintly old man in his feebleness. I prepare myself the little dishes that please him; it is a sacred task; it is like feeding a holy butterfly."Adios, my Marguerite!"Ever and ever your devoted"Rita."You ask of Concepcion. She is married to Diego Moreno, and, as I hear, is very unhappy. Poor woman, I compassionate her!"
"Beloved Marguerite:—I am of return only yesterday from an expedition to the hills, and I find your precious letter waiting for me. No need to tell you that I pressed it to my heart, covered it with kisses. Jack says your letters are the sole thing of which he is jealous. I grieve to hear that you must lose those little ones whom you love so well, even for a short time; but courage,Margarita mia;there are other flowers besides roses, and summer is a pleasant time. You will havePeggy with you, dear Peggy! She sends me a photograph, which shows her little changed in the face; still the dimples, still the soft roundness of cheek and chin. Best of Peggys; if I had her here, what great joy! But I must tell you of our ride. We went, Jack and I, up to the hill camp, where we went last year, after the terrible ride you know of. There we spent three happy days, camping in the green hollow among the hills, with only Juan to cook for us and care for the horses. Ah, Marguerite, what a time was that! We visited every spot made sacred to us by our love. The hiding-place, near poor Don Annunzio's house, where I first saw my hero, swinging in his hammock. Have I told you that I thought him a skulker, a coward hiding to escape warfare? How often we have laughed over that! Then we passed along the road, so peaceful now, so wild and horrent then (how is this word, 'horrent,' Marguerite? I find it in a poem, it seems to me noble; I tell Jack, he laughs, and says something like 'high falu—' I cannot tell what!). We paused to weep over the gray heap where once smiled theresidencia, where that kind old woman and her good vast husband sheltered the wandering maiden, protected her at the risk of their own lives, and—one of them, as you know—died to save her and others. Then farther, to Carlos's old camp, where Manuela and I lived, and where I first learned to be of a little use in the world. Ah, the memories, how they came crowding back! I have told you that Manuela is married to Pepe? Yes; two months ago. The wedding was charming! I gave her her wedding-gown, of finest muslin, suitable to her condition,with plenty of lace and ribbons, which the poor child values highly, and I dressed her hair (poor Manuela! She would have done it far better herself; she has a wonderful gift. My present maid is a poor creature, but Manuela is to give her lessons), and arranged the veil and wreath. She was a vision of enchantment, and really thrown away on poor Pepe, who never looked at either dress or veil. Jack says 'neither did he.' My dear, these men! To what purpose do we adorn ourselves, exhaust the treasure of our souls, in efforts to please them? But I wander from my story. My child, this expedition, carrying back heart as well as body to the scenes of before our marriage, has told me over again the story of my happiness. Marguerite, how to deserve it, this wonderful bliss? I study, I try, the dear Saint teaches me always many things—in vain! I am debtor to the whole world, and how much more to the gracious Power above worlds! But enough of this, my Pearl! Your time will come; till then you know nothing of it. I pant for your awakening, I burn, Marguerite, but I am powerless. If I had you here, there is a friend of ours, a paladin, a Roland, second only to my Jack—no! This makes you laugh, I feel it, I see your cool, pearly smile. I am angry with you for laughing, yet I laugh, too. So! now of other things. I think of you always; Jack also; I have told him so much, he assassinates himself with desire to see you all. The time will come! Marguerite—no matter! One word only! Our beloved Uncle's birthday; I remember the day, the Fourteenth. You will honor it, I know, as such a day should be honored, the day which blessed the earth with the best man—exceptone—that breathes mortal breath. Marguerite, if on that day a trifle should come from the far-away cousins, you will receive it kindly? Ah, how well I know the answer! Bless you, my treasure! I must go to my housekeeping. Dear Donito Miguelito is staying with us now; you can fancy the joy of tending this saintly old man in his feebleness. I prepare myself the little dishes that please him; it is a sacred task; it is like feeding a holy butterfly.
"Adios, my Marguerite!"Ever and ever your devoted"Rita.
"You ask of Concepcion. She is married to Diego Moreno, and, as I hear, is very unhappy. Poor woman, I compassionate her!"
After the reading of the letter, Grace slipped away to return to her patient, and the three cousins sat together, talking in low tones of Rita, and of Grace herself. Jean maintained stoutly that Rita could not be so fascinating as Grace. Peggy and Margaret insisted that, though totally different in quality, neither could outdo the other in amount of charm.
"They are both the kind of girls you would do anything for!" said Peggy; "just anything in the world, no matter how foolish, just becausethey wanted you to. It isn't a thing you can describe; it justis, and nobody can help it."
"Well, I should think the difference would be in the kind of thing they would ask you to do," said Jean, with wisdom beyond her years. "Grace wouldn't ask you anything foolish, and I should think Cousin Rita might."
"Grace!" exclaimed Peggy; and then checked herself loyally. "Grace wasn't always so wise as she is now, young one!" she said, simply.
"Well, she's a dear, anyhow; I think Mrs. Peyton might have let her stay all night. It's horribly poky, with Uncle John and the boys and everybody away. Why, Margaret, there isn't a single man about the place, is there? Bannan drove them over, and then he was going to the cattle-show, and so was Michael. Suppose there should be robbers, or anything!"
"Suppose there should!" said Peggy, coolly. "If Frances and I and the dogs could not arrange matters with a robber, it would be a pity. Margaret—what is this queer light? Has everything turned red, all of a sudden?"
"A TALL, SLENDER FIGURE HALF RAN, HALF TOTTERED INTO THE ROOM.""A TALL, SLENDER FIGURE HALF RAN, HALF TOTTERED INTO THE ROOM."
"The moon rises late to-night," said Margaret."I have no idea what time it is now. It seems an hour since Grace went."
"The moon isn't red, anyhow!" said Peggy. "I believe—"
As she spoke, she rose and went to the window. "Girls!" she cried. "There is a fire somewhere near. Come and look!"
Margaret and Jean pressed hastily forward to the window. It was a strange scene on which they looked. All of a sudden, the world seemed turned to red and black. A crimson light suffused the sky; against it the trees stood black as ebony. Even as they looked, a crest of flame sprang up above the tree-tops, wavered, and broke into a shower of sparks; at the same instant their nostrils were filled with the acrid, pungent smell of wood smoke.
"Oh, what is it? Where can it be?" cried Margaret.
"Maybe it's only a bonfire!" said Jean.
Peggy shook her head. "Too big for a bonfire!" she said. "I'll go out and see, Margaret. What a pity the boys should miss it! I'll come back and let you know—mercy! what's this?"
The door opened, and a tall, slender figurehalf ran, half tottered into the room. "Margaret!" cried a wild voice of terror. "Margaret Montfort, save me!"
"Good heavens! Mrs. Peyton!"
"Yes, Emily Peyton. My house is burning. I ran all the way here. I—"
Margaret and Peggy caught her as she fell forward, and laid her on the sofa, and while Jean ran for water and Elizabeth, chafed her hands and her temples, looking the while anxiously at each other.
"Can you tell us what happened?" asked Margaret, trying to keep her voice quiet and even, for Mrs. Peyton was in the wildest agitation. "You escaped, thank Heaven! but—is the fire serious? Who is there now? Where is Grace Wolfe?"
"Don't leave me!" said the sick woman, with a ghastly look. "Margaret, if you leave me I shall die. She—she went back for the jewels. She is in the house now."
The three girls reached the door in the same instant, but Mrs. Peyton followed, and still held Margaret's arm in a desperate clutch.
"Don't leave me!" she repeated. "Margaret, don't leave me to die!"
But Margaret put the clinging hands away. "You are not going to die," she said. "You are going to sit down in this chair, Mrs. Peyton, and be quiet till I come back. See, here is Elizabeth, with water and cologne, and everything comfortable. By and by you shall go up-stairs, but rest here now; nothing can happen to you, and I will come back as soon as I can."
Wondering at her own hardihood, Margaret ran out, shunning the wild pleading of the beautiful eyes which she knew were bent upon her. Jean was waiting for her on the step, but Peggy had disappeared.
"She said we were to go on," said Jean, "and she would catch us up. Which way, Margaret? I don't know the way."
Margaret led the way through the garden, running as she had never run before. They had not gone a hundred yards when Peggy was at their side. She had a coil of rope slung over her arm.
"It may be wanted," she said. "I remembered where it always hung. Oh, if the boys were only here!"
They ran on in silence, Margaret echoing the cry in her heart. At every step the glare grew brighter, the rolling smoke thicker. Margaret noticed, and wondered at herself for noticing, that the under side of some of the leaves above her head shone red like copper, while others were yellow as gold. Every patch of fern and brake, every leaf of box or holly, stood out, clear as at noonday.
On, down the long cedar alley, the dew dripping from the branches as they closed behind them; over the sunk fence, and across the lower garden to the summer-house, Hugh's summer-house. Once Margaret would haveshuddered at the drop into the meadow below, but Grace's climbing lessons had not been given in vain, and, without a moment's hesitation, she followed Peggy down the old willow-tree, landing knee-deep in fern below.
Now they could hear the roar of the flames, the crackling and snapping of burning wood, and, looking up, they saw on the brow of the rise beyond, the flames tossing and beckoning over the dark firs of Silverfield.
Five minutes more, and, breathless with running, they stood on the lawn before the burning house.
The side facing them was already wrapped in flames. Long wavering tongues shot through the open windows, and curled round the woodwork, lapping it; they purred and chuckled like live creatures over their food; they leaped up toward the roof, running along its edge, feeling their way higher and higher, while now and then one sprang aloft, tossing its scarlet crest over the rooftree itself. Evidently the fire had started in the upper story, for in the lower one, though the smoke poured dense and black through the open windows, there were no flamesto be seen yet. Furniture, books, and knick-knacks of every description were scattered about the lawn in wild confusion, and two men, half stifled with smoke, were struggling frantically with a grand piano, one hacking at the window-frame with an axe to widen the opening, the other trying desperately to unscrew the legs, as if that would mend matters. Seven people out of ten, at a fire, will leave untouched pictures and books that can never be replaced, and spend their time and energies in trying to save the piano.
The group of frightened women huddled together on the lawn had made their attempt, too, to save some of their mistress's property. Even in her terror and anguish, Margaret could hardly keep back the thought of a smile at their aspect. One clasped a sofa-pillow, one a pair of vases. A stout woman, evidently the cook, had a porcelain kettle on either arm, and another on her head, while her hands clutched a variety of spoons, ladles, cups, and dippers. She evidently had her wits about her more than the others, and she was scolding the parlor-maid, a trembling, weeping creature, who was holding asmall china bowl in both hands, as if it were a royal treasure.
"She likes her malted milk in it, you know she does, Mary," said the girl. "Only yesterday she was telling me never bring her any bowl except this. It's cruel of you to harry me for trying to save what she likes."
"You green goose! What will she want wid the bowl and you not leaving her a spoon to sup wid! Where is the key of the safe, I'm askin' ye! Maybe James could get it out yet."
"Oh, I don't know! I don't know! I expect I dropped it. I was going to get the silver myself; I'd ha' got all of it, without you telling me, but when I opened the pantry door, the fire leapt out at me, roaring like the pit, and I dropped the key and run. I'm awful sorry, but I've got the bowl, and I do wish you'd let me be."
A little apart stood Antonia, the French maid, bearing on her outstretched arms a superb tea-gown of violet velvet, embroidered with pearls. On it lay a pile of costly laces, slightly blackened by smoke, but uninjured. Antonia haddone her best, and had saved the treasure of her heart. Margaret ran up to her.
"Antonia, where is Miss Wolfe?"
The woman did not seem to hear the question, but burst into agitated speech. "Oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" she cried. "Ah, the tragedy! of all the robes arrived from Paris last week, but only last week, this only remaining! It was all I could save, all! I tried; I burned myself the hands, mademoiselle, to rescue the others, the blue crape, the adorable lacejacquettes, thesatin rose-thè—in vain, all gone, all devoured!Mon Dieu, and madame had not even had them on! But the lace, Mademoiselle Montfort, the point d'Alençon, the Valenciennes, all, I have it safe. See, mademoiselle, regard for yourself,un peu noirci, a leetle blackened,voilà tout!It is without price, the point d'Alençon, you know, Mademoiselle Marguerite."
"Antonia, do you hear me? What do I care about the laces? Where is Miss Wolfe?"
"She's mazed, miss!" said Mary, the cook. "She can't talk about nothin' but that stuff. Sure Miss Wolfe is at Fernley wid the mistress.It's wondher ye didn't meet them on the way, miss. She went wid Mrs. Peyton, and me and the other girls stopped behind to see what we could save."
"Oh, no!" cried Margaret. "Mrs. Peyton came alone. She said Miss Wolfe came back—for the jewels. She said she was in the house now."
"Lord help her then!" said the parlor-maid. "If she's in the house now, she's as good as dead, and worse, too. The stairs has fallen in; Thomas seen 'em fall. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what an awful time!"
"Be still, Eliza!" said the cook. "Where's Jenny? She was in the sewing-room, next to Miss Wolfe's; maybe she'd know something. Who saw Jenny since we come out? Good Lord, where is the child? I thought she come with me."
"Oh, Jenny's all right!" moaned Eliza. "She'll have gone straight home. She was going home to spend the night anyway, Mary; don't be scaring us worse. It's bad enough to lose Miss Wolfe, poor young lady, and she so bold and daring!"
"Hold your tongue!" said Peggy. "Listen to me, girls, and answer plainly, and not all at once like a flock of foolish sheep. Did any one see Miss Wolfe go into the house?"
"No, miss, no; we see her go with Mrs. Peyton, and we never thought but she was all right."
"She may not be there after all!" said Peggy. "Her room is on the other side, isn't it, Margaret? Come on!"
They ran round to the other side of the house. This was apparently still untouched, though the fiery tongues came darting over the rooftree every now and then, hissing and lapping, and the roof itself was covered with sparks and great patches of burning tinder, fragments of the costly stuffs and tissues that the house-owner had so dearly prized. The windows were closed and silent, but all was bright as day in the red glare of the fire.
"Call, Peggy!" whispered Margaret. "I have no voice."
Even as she spoke, a window in the second story was thrown up, and there stood Grace herself, very pale, but quiet as usual.
"There's a young woman faint here," she said. "Too much smoke. The stairs are gone. Is there a ladder, Peggy? Ah, rope! Much better. Clever child! When I say three—throw!"
Oh, the good days on the Western farm, when little Peggy, on her rough pony, scampered here and there, lassoing the sheep and calves, and getting well scolded in consequence! Oh, the other good days at school, where nerve and muscle learned to follow the quick eye, so that thought and action seemed to flash together!
The rope hissed upward like a flying snake, but a cloud of smoke drove past the window, and the outstretched hands missed it. Again it flew, and this time it was caught, drawn up, and knotted tight inside the window.
"Now if I had a ladder!" muttered Peggy.
"I saw one," cried Margaret; "I am sure I did. Wait!"
She flew off, and returned followed by a boy with a ladder. It proved short by several feet.
"Oh, what shall we do!" cried Margaret.
"Hold the ladder steady!" said Peggy."She'll see to that end, and I can manage this. Hold it!"
Margaret and the boy grasped the ladder; Peggy ran up it, and stood on the top rung, holding the lower end of the rope.
"All ready, Goat!" she called.
"Ay, ay!" said the quiet voice within. "Coming, Innocent!"
The women had followed Margaret and Peggy, and now a cry broke from them.
"She's got her!"
"'Tis Jenny! She was in there all the time!"
"She's dead!"
"She's not; she's living, I see her move. Oh, Mother of Mercy, they'll both be killed before their own eyes!"
What was Grace doing? The form she held in her arms was that of a slight girl of fifteen or so. She was knotting something round her, under arms and over breast; something half sling, half rope; towels, perhaps, tied strongly together. Now she brought the ends over her own shoulders, bending forward.
"Now, Peggy!"
"Now!"
With the unconscious child bound to her back, Grace leaned out and grasped the rope; another moment and she was swinging on it, clinging with hands and feet, the old school way.
Margaret covered her face with her hand and prayed. Peggy, steadying the rope with one hand, held out the other, and waited.
Down, hand over hand! Slender hands, to bear the double burden. Delicate shoulders, to carry the dead weight that hangs on them. Are they elastic steel, those fingers that grip the rope, never slipping, never relaxing their hold?
Down, hand over hand! the hands are bleeding now; no matter! the white dress is black with smoke, and blood drips on it here and there; what of that? it is nearly over.
"Now?" Peggy asked, quietly.
"Now!"
Steadying herself, Peggy left the rope, and received the burden in her arms. Grace, holding the rope with one hand, with the other loosed the knot, and laid the limp arms over Peggy's neck.
"All right?" she said.
"All right!"
"Ainsi long!" and as Peggy carefully slowly descended the ladder, Grace turned and began quickly and steadily to climb the rope again.
"Grace! Grace!" cried Margaret. "For God's sake, what are you about? Come down! There is no time to lose; come down!"
"And behold, all is vanity!" said Grace; and she disappeared inside the burning house.
But Margaret could bear no more. She helped to take the senseless girl from Peggy's arms and lay her on the grass; then the world seemed to slip from her, and she dropped quietly with her head on Jenny's shoulder.
"Are you better?" said Gerald. "Are you truly better, Miss Margaret? I am going to drown myself anyhow in the first bucket I find, and if you don't feel better I shall make it a dipper, and that would be so inconvenient, don't you know?"
Margaret looked at him, only half hearing what he said.
"Yes, I am better; I am very well, thank you. What happened? Did I faint?"
"Yes! you fainted, just as we came up. They wanted to pour water over you, but I always think it's such a shame, in books, to spoil their clothes, and you have such pretty clothes. So I wouldn't let them. It wasn't Peggy, it was a lot of fool cooks and things."
"Did something hurt me?" asked Margaret,vaguely, still feeling that she was somebody else making friendly inquiries about herself.
"Yes, I—I pinched you, you dear, sweet, pretty—at least, I don't mean that! at least I do mean it, every word, only highly improper under the circumstances, but I don't care so long as you are better."
Making a strong effort, Margaret sat up and looked about her. She was still on the Silverfield lawn, but some one had drawn her away from the neighborhood of the burning house, now a shapeless mass, though still burning fiercely, and had pillowed her head on a rolled-up coat. Her companion was in his shirt-sleeves, so it was evident whose coat it was.
As she gazed at the blazing ruins, memory came back in a flood.
"Grace!" she cried, wildly. "Where is Grace?"
"Safe," said Gerald, quickly. "Safe and sound. Not a hair singed, though it sounds impossible. Most astonishing person I ever saw in my life. Came down the rope like a foretopman, hung all over with jewels: brooches, chains, and owches, you know,—Scripture,—kindof rope-walking Tiffany. You never saw such a thing in your life. Hadn't much more than touched the ground, when the roof fell in. Standing luck of the British Army, I call that!"
"Oh, thank God! thank God! but where is she? where are they all?"
"Mostly gone to take the fainted girl home. She didn't come to just right; choked with the smoke, Hugh thought. Phil and Peggy are carrying her, and Miss Wolfe giving moral support. Hugh has gone for the nearest doctor. The fool cooks have gone in search of their wits, I suppose; they didn't seem to be anywhere round here."
"And—Jean? she was here too; is she all right?"
Gerald hung his head. "She was left to take care of you," he said. "I told her I was a medical man, which is strictly untrue, and asked her to go back to Fernley to get something, cologne, or rum, or mustard,—I forget what I did say. The women bothered and made a noise, so I advised them to proceed in the direction of Jericho. Great place, Jericho!They went—there or elsewhere. Don't get up yet, please don't! it's always better to lie still after a fire, or a faint; how much more after both combined!"
"Oh, I must!" said Margaret. "I must go home at once, Mr. Merryweather, truly. Oh, thank you, but I can get up perfectly well—only my head is queer still. I wish—why did you send Jean away?"
"I didn't want her," said Gerald, meekly. "You looked so pretty—"
"Please don't talk nonsense!"
"I'm not. It's my truthful nature. It comes out in spots, like measles, in spite of me. When I was only six years old, I told my nurse she was a hideous old squunt, and she was. Fact, or at least justifiable fiction. If you must get up, won't you take poor Jerry's arm? just once, before he drowns himself? it's your last chance!"
"Whatdoyou mean? Why should you drown yourself?"
"Because I missed all the fun, and let you faint, and Miss Wolfe get nearly burned up, and Miss Peggy a sight to behold with smoke andwater, and Hugh all tied up in t l k's, and all for a day's yachting. Not that it wasn't great yachting, but there is a sense of proportion."
"What are t l k's?" asked Margaret, smiling faintly. She was recovering her composure, and Gerald noted with inward thankfulness her returning color. His running fire of nonsense, kept up in the hope of rousing her to interest, covered an anxious heart, but he gave no sign.
"T l k's? true lover's knots! none of my business, of course, but the professor appears to be interested in the fair acrobat—acrobatess—acrobatia—what you will! Give you my word, when he came round the corner and saw her coming down that rope, I thought he would curl up into knots himself. Jolly stunt! when I first came I was awfully afraid—" Gerald pulled himself up suddenly, and blushed scarlet.
"Afraid?" said Margaret, innocently. "Afraid of what?"
"Of bats! When they squeak, I desire to pass away."
"Mr. Merryweather!"
"If you call me Mr. Merryweather any more, Ishallpass away, without benefit of buckets.Say Gerald! just try it, and see how pretty it sounds. Gerald! 'tis a melting mouthful! Sentimental, if you will, but what then?"
Margaret laughed in spite of herself. "I must say, as Frances did, I never see such a bold boy since born I was!" she said. "Well, Gerald, then; and now, Gerald, here we are at the house, and would you please go round the north way, and not come into the library just now? Thank you ever so much for helping me! No, I must go in, I truly must."
Mrs. Peyton was sitting bolt upright on the sofa on which they had laid her. Her face was absolutely colorless; it might have been an ivory statue, but for the ghastly look of the blue eyes. She fixed her eyes on Margaret, but said nothing. Margaret ran to her, and put her arms round her. "Oh, how could they leave you alone?" she cried. "She is safe; every one is safe, dear Mrs. Peyton. No one hurt, only Jenny overcome with the smoke a little. I thought Jean would have told you."
The ivory figure began to tremble. With shaking hands she tried to put Margaret awayfrom her; then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she clung to her and burst into tears.
"I sent them away!" she whispered through her sobs. "I would not have them look at me. Margaret—are you sure? that girl, is she truly safe?"
"Truly and honestly, dear Mrs. Peyton. It was a most marvellous escape, but she is absolutely unharmed, and she saved another life beside her own. But for Grace, poor little Jenny must have been lost. She is a heroine, our Grace!"
"I did not mean to kill her!" said the poor woman. "I did not realize what it meant. I said, 'My jewels! my jewels!' and I don't know what other nonsense. She never said a word, just turned and went back. Then—oh! then, when you were all gone, I understood, I saw, that I had sent her to her death for those—those horrible things. Never—never let me see them again! I have been sitting here—years, it seems to me—waiting to hear that she was dead; perhaps to see her body brought in, all—"
"Oh, hush, hush, Mrs. Peyton! You will make yourself ill. You are only distressingyourself beyond all need. She is safe, I tell you. In a few moments you will see for yourself—"
At this moment the door opened, and Grace stood before them. She was a strange figure indeed. Black with smoke, her fair hair gray with ashes, her dress torn and discolored; but sparkling with jewels as never was any ballroom belle. Superb necklaces of diamond and emerald hung around her neck; her arms glittered with bracelets, her fingers were loaded with rings, while ropes of amethyst and pearl were wound around her head and even about her waist.
"All the way over," said Grace, "I have been pitying the robber who didn't meet me, and so lost the great chance of his life. So sad for him!"
Margaret recalled Gerald's expression, "a rope-walking Tiffany," and could not help smiling in spite of her anxiety; but Mrs. Peyton hid her face in her hands.
"Take them away!" she said. "Take them off, Grace! I never want to see them again. Horrible things, all blood and flame! who knowshow many other lives they have cost? and it is no fault of mine that they have not cost yours. No fault of mine!"
This was so true, that neither Grace nor Margaret spoke. Mrs. Peyton rose, and moved restlessly about the room.
"Incidentally," she said, "I have got well."
Grace glanced at Margaret, but still neither spoke. Mrs. Peyton gave Grace a strange look. "You didn't set fire to the house deliberately, I suppose?" she said.
"I did not!" said Grace, bluntly. "To be honest, I have thought of it—thought, I mean, of the effect it might produce; but it isn't a thing one does in general society."
"I remember!" said Mrs. Peyton, dreamily. "I remember. I did it myself."
"Did it yourself?" cried Margaret, aghast. Grace was silent.
"I threw the candle down. I had been looking in the glass, and I found a new wrinkle, a horrible one. I threw the candle down, and it fell on a roll of cotton wool. How it went! I can hear the sound now, and see the fire run—run!"
"I wouldn't talk about it any more," said Grace, quietly.
"I must. I must tell it all. She—Grace, there—found me; it had caught my bed, and the curtains were blazing. She carried me out of the room and down the stairs herself. What is she made of? She isn't so tall as I. Then—at the door—she set me down and told me to run, and I ran. We ran together, till the devil brought these things into my mind, and I sent her back to be burned up for my vanity."