"Dear Margaret:"I find a telegram here which obliges me to run on to Philadelphia at once. I may be away all the week; do as well as you can, dear child, and don't let B., M., and S. D. tear you to pieces. I forgot to tell you that the young man in charge of the bog-draining turns out to be the son of an old friend of mine, Miles Merryweather. I asked him to come up to the house; if he should come while I am away, you will be good to him. I will let you know by telegraph when to expect me."Always affectionately yours,"John Montfort."
"I find a telegram here which obliges me to run on to Philadelphia at once. I may be away all the week; do as well as you can, dear child, and don't let B., M., and S. D. tear you to pieces. I forgot to tell you that the young man in charge of the bog-draining turns out to be the son of an old friend of mine, Miles Merryweather. I asked him to come up to the house; if he should come while I am away, you will be good to him. I will let you know by telegraph when to expect me.
"Always affectionately yours,"John Montfort."
Margaret read this brief letter with a sinking heart. How was she to keep up without Uncle John? How was she to cope with all the difficulties that beset her path like sharp-thorned briers? If she had but Aunt Faith—if she had but some one to turn to! She had tried to take counsel with Mrs. Peyton, but the beautiful woman was still, at fifty, a spoiled child, far younger in many ways than Margaret herself; she would only laugh, and advise her to get rid of Miss Sophronia by some trick, or practical joke.
"Freeze her out, my dear! Get rid of her, somehow! That is all the advice I can give you. And bring the young barbarians to see me; I am sure they will amuse me."
Margaret had just been acting on this last request. She had taken the two boys to see the invalid, and had left them there now, coming away with a sore and angry heart. Mrs. Peyton had been drawing the children out, laughing at their remarks about their cousin, and paying no regard to Margaret's entreaties. At length Margaret had simply come away, with no more than a brief "Good afternoon!" feeling that she could not trust herself to say more. Emily Peyton only laughed; she had full confidence in her charm, and thought she could bring back her puritanical little friend whenever she chose to smile in a particularway; meanwhile, the children were a new toy, and amused her.
But Margaret felt that she had had almost enough of Mrs. Peyton. Beauty was a great deal, charm and grace were a great deal more; but they did not take the place of heart. No, there was no one to help her! Well, then she must help herself, that was all!
She stood still, her mind full of this new thought. She was eighteen years old; she was well and strong, and possessed of average intelligence. "Look here!" she said suddenly, aloud. "If you cannot manage those children, why, I am ashamed of you. Do you hear?"
The other self, the timid one, did hear, and took heart. The girl felt new strength coming to her. The world had changed, somehow; the giants,—were they only windmills, after all? Up, lance, and at them!
In this changed mood she went on, humming a little song to herself. As she drew near the wood that skirted the bog, the song was answered by another, trolled in a cheerful bass voice:
"The lady was pleased for to see him so bold;She gave him her glove that was flowered with gold;She said she had found it while walking around,As she was a-hunting with her dog and her gun."
The "blue boy," as she mentally called him, came dancing out of the wood, throwing up his cap, and singing as he came. At sight of Margaret he paused, in some confusion, cap in hand.
"I—I beg your pardon," he said. "I trust I did not disturb you with my carol? There isn't generally any one here, you know; I get rather to feel as if it all belonged to me. I hope the little chap is all right to-day, Miss—Is it Miss Montfort?"
"Oh, yes! Certainly!" said Margaret, blushing in her turn. "I ought to have said, of course—yes, thank you, Mr. Merryweather, Merton is quite well to-day; and I really think he has had a lesson, for he has not run away since, and it is two or three days ago. I—my uncle has been suddenly called away on business, but he asked me to say—that is, we shall be very glad to see you at the house any day; Miss Montfort, his cousin,—my uncle'scousin,—is there with me and the children."
"Thanks awfully," murmured Gerald. "I'd like to come ever so much, some day; but I keep all in a mess so—" he glanced down ruefully at his blue clothes, and finding them quite respectably clean, brightened visibly. "My father was at school with Mr. Montfort; Miles Merryweather, perhaps he told you, Miss Montfort?"
"Yes, he told me. I—I always think Uncle John must have been such a delightful boy. I am sure they must have had good times together."
"So was the Pater, no end; I mean, my father was an agreeable youth also." Gerald stopped short, and glanced sidelong at the young girl. He was well used to girls, having sisters and cousins; but they were used to him, too, and he somehow felt that this sweet, serious-looking maiden was not accustomed to young men, and that he must, as he silently put it to himself, "consider the prudent P, and the quaintly quiggling Q."
"And Uncle John must have been a brilliant scholar!" Margaret went on, warming to her subject. She had never, as it happened, walked and talked with a lad before in her quiet life; she did not know quite how to do it, but so long as she talked about Uncle John, she could not go wrong. "He knows so much,—so much that he must have learned early, because it is so a part of him. Wasn't he head of his class most of the time? He never will talk about it, but I am sure he must have been."
"I am not so sure about that," Gerald admitted; "I know he was the best wrestler, and that he and my father were generally neck and neck in all the running races. He was a better high kick, because his legs were longer, don't you know, but the Pater was ahead in boxing."
Margaret was bewildered. Was this scholarship? Was this the record that brilliant boys left behind them? She gave a little sigh; the mention of long legs brought her back to Basil again. Dear Basil! he had only one pair of knickerbockers left that was fit to be seen. She ought to be mending thecorduroys this moment, in case he should come home all in pieces, as he was apt to do.
"Have you any little brothers, Mr. Merryweather?" she asked, following the thread of her thought.
"One; Willy. That is, he's not so very little now, but he's a good bit younger than Phil and I; Phil is my twin. Willy—oh, I suppose he must be fourteen, or somewhere about there, to a field or two."
"Basil is twelve," said Margaret, thoughtfully. "And does he—or did he, two years ago,—I suppose a boy develops very quickly,—did he want to be climbing and jumping and runningallthe time?"
"Let me see!" said Gerald, gravely. "Why—yes, I should say so, Miss Montfort. Of course he stops now and then to eat; and then there's the time that he's asleep, you know; you have to take out that. But otherwise,—yes, I should say you had described Willy's existence pretty well."
"And climbing on roofs?" Margaret went on. "And tumbling into bogs, and turning somersaults? Whatcanbe the pleasure ofturning oneself wrong side up and getting the blood into one's head?"
Margaret stopped suddenly, and the colour rushed into her face; no need of somersaults in her case. For had not this young man been turning somersaults the first time she saw him? And turning them in the same senseless way, just for the joy of it, apparently? She glanced at him, and he was blushing too; but he met her look of distress with one so comic in its quizzical appeal, that she laughed in spite of herself.
"I love to turn somersaults!" he murmured. "'Twas the charm of my chirping childhood; it is now the solace of my age. Don't be severe, Miss Montfort. I turn them now, sometimes; I will not deceive you."
"Oh! oh, yes, I know!" said Margaret, timidly, but still laughing in spite of herself. "I—I saw you the other day, Mr. Merryweather. I thought—you seemed to be enjoying yourself very much."
"No! Did you, though?" cried Gerald. "I say! Where was it? I never meant to do it when people were round. I'm awfully sorry."
"Oh, no!" said Margaret, confused. "Why shouldn't you? It—it was by the edge of the bog. I had come round that way, and you were leaping with a pole about the bog, and I—stayed to watch you. I hope you don't mind;" this foolish girl was blushing again furiously, which was most unnecessary; "and—I thought you must be a foreigner; I don't know why. And—and then you came out, and turned a somersault, and—I wondered why, that was all. You see, I never had a brother, and I have never known any boys in all my life till now. I don't mean that you are a boy, of course!"
"Oh, but Iam!" cried Gerald. "What else am I but a boy? I wish they could hear you at home. Why, I'm just Jerry, you know, and—and I've always been that kind of boy, I'm afraid; just like Willy, only a good deal worse. And now—well, I've been through college, and now I'm in the School of Mines, and I'm twenty-one, and all that, but I can't seem to make myself feel any older, don't you know. I don't know what's going to become of me. Hilda says I won't grow up till I fall—oh! you don't know Hilda, do you, Miss Montfort?"
"Hilda?" repeated Margaret. "I only know Hilda in the 'Marble Faun.'"
"Hildegarde Merryweather; Hildegarde Grahame she used to be. I thought you might possibly have—well, she's my aunt according to the flesh. I wish you did know her!"
"Your aunt? Is she—is she about Uncle John's age? I know so few people, you see. I have lived a very quiet life."
"Oh, no! She—well, I suppose she's a little older than you, but not very much. She married Roger, don't you know. He's my half-uncle all right, but he's ever so many years younger than the Pater, nearer our age, you might almost say; and Hildegarde and the girls, my sisters,—I say! I wish you knew them all, Miss Montfort."
"I wish I did," said Margaret, simply. "There are no girls of my own age near here. Last year I had my cousins, and I miss them so much!"
"Of course you must!" said sympatheticGerald. "Girls are no end—I—I mean, I like them too, ever so much." He paused, and wished he knew the right thing to say. How pretty and sweet she was! Not like Hilda, of course (Hilda was this young man's ideal of what a girl should be), but with a little quiet way of her own that was very nice. She must have no end of a time of it with these youngsters! He spoke his thought aloud. They were nearing Fernley, and he must leave her soon. "You must be having some difficulty with those youngsters, Miss Montfort. If I could help you any time, I wish you'd let me know. There have always been such a lot of us at home, I'm used to most kinds of children, you see; and I should be ever so glad—"
"'Won't you come in?'""'Won't you come in?'"
"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret, gratefully. "I am sure you are very kind; and if you would advise me sometimes—now that Uncle John is away—I should be most grateful. But—I ought to be able to manage them myself, it seems to me, without help. If I can only make them love me!" She looked straight at Gerald, and her dark grayeyes were very wistful in their unconscious appeal.
"I'd like to see 'em not!" said the young man, straightway. "Little beggars! They couldn't help themselves!" He was about to add that he would thrash them handsomely if they did not love her, but pulled himself together, and blushed to his ears, and was only comforted by seeing out of the tail of his eye that the girl was wholly unconscious of his blushes. After all, there was some sense in freckles and sunburn.
But here they were now at the gates of Fernley. "Won't you come in?" said Margaret. But Gerald, becoming once more conscious of his working-clothes, which he had entirely forgotten, excused himself. If he might come some evening soon? Yes, he might, and should. He lingered still a moment, and Margaret, after a moment's shyness, held out her hand frankly. "I am so glad to know you!" she said, simply. "Uncle John—Mr. Montfort said I was to be good to you, and I will try."
"I'm sure you couldn't be anything else!"said Gerald, with fervour. "Thanks, awfully, Miss Montfort. Good-bye!" Lifting his cap, the young man turned away, feeling homesick, and yet cheerful. Passing round the corner of the house, and finding himself well out of sight of the young girl, he relieved his feelings by turning a handspring; and on coming to his feet again, encountered the awful gaze of two greenish eyes, bent upon him from an upper window of the house.
"Now I've done it!" said the youth, brushing himself, and assuming all the dignity of which he was master. "Wonder who that is? Housekeeper, perhaps? Quite the Gorgon, whoever it is. Wish I didn't turn over so easily."
Margaret went into the house singing, with a lighter heart than she had felt since Uncle John's letter came. Perhaps she had made a friend; at any rate, a pleasant acquaintance. What a frank, nice, gentlemanly—boy! "For he is a boy, just as he says!" she acknowledged to herself. And what kind, honest eyes he had; and how thoughtful to offer to help her with the children!
Her pleasant meditations were harshly interrupted. Miss Sophronia came down-stairs, with her brown and yellow shawl drawn over her shoulders; this, Margaret had learned, was a bad sign.
"Margaret, who was that young man? I saw you! There is no use in attempting to conceal anything from me, my dear. I saw you talking with a young man at the gate."
"Why should I conceal it?" asked Margaret, wondering. "It was Mr. Merryweather, Cousin Sophronia. He was a schoolmate of Uncle John's,—I mean his father was."
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the lady, sharply. "Don't tell me anything of the kind, miss. He was a common workman, a day-labourer. I tell you I saw him! Do you suppose I have no eyes in my head? I shall consider it my duty to tell your uncle as soon as he comes home. I am surprised at you, Margaret. I thought at least you were discreet. William's daughters would no more think of talking with such a person—but that comes of leaving a young person alonehere with servants. My dear, I shall make it a point henceforward—"
She stopped; for the gentle Margaret turned upon her with eyes of fire. "Cousin Sophronia, I cannot listen to this; I will not listen! I am a gentlewoman, and must be spoken to as a gentlewoman. I am eighteen years old, and am accountable to no one except Uncle John for my behaviour. Let me pass, please! I want to go to my room."
The girl swept by, her head high, her cheeks burning with righteous wrath. Miss Sophronia gazed after her speechless; it was as if a dove had ruffled its wings and flown in her face. "Ungrateful girl!" said the lady to herself. "I never meet with anything but ingratitude wherever I go. She is as bad as those girls of William's, for all her soft looks. The human heart is very, very depraved. But I shall do my duty, in spite of everything."
The boys came home late for tea that night, bubbling over with joy. Basil declared that they did not want any supper. "Mrs. Peyton gave us some of her supper. I say, Cousin Margaret, isn't she bully?"
"Basil, if youcouldfind another adjective now and then! I cannot imagine anything less appropriate to Mrs. Peyton than—the one you used."
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter! Sheisbully! She had broiled chicken, a whole one, and she just took a little piece off the breast for herself, and then she told Mert and me each to take a leg and run. And we did! And Mert sat down in the china bath-tub with his, and smashed it,—cracked it, at least,—and she said she didn't care."
"And the table-drawer was full of chocolate peppermints," chimed in Merton, "and we ate so many, I don't feel very well now, I think, p'r'aps."
"And she told us lots of things!" cried Basil again; he looked towards Miss Sophronia, with sparkling eyes. "She told us about when she was a little girl, and used to stay here, when Uncle John's puppa and mumma were alive. I say! And you were here, too, she said, Cousin Sophronia. And she said—lots of things!" The boy stopped suddenly, and gave his brother a look of intelligence.
"Ho!" said Merton, "I know what you mean,—you mean about the ghost, that scared—I say! You stop pinching, will you? I'll punch your—"
"Merton!" said Margaret, warningly.
"Well, he was pinching me!" whined Merton. "And it did scare you, didn't it, Cousin Sophronia?"
Miss Sophronia looked disturbed. "Merton, you should speak when you are spoken to!" she said, severely. "I am surprised that Mrs. Peyton should have told you suchthings. There certainly were some very strange occurrences at Fernley, Margaret, when I was a young girl. They never were explained to my satisfaction; indeed, I never heard of their being explained at all. Little boys, if you do not want any supper, you may as well run away. I do not approve of their going to see Emily Peyton, Margaret. I shall make a point of their not doing so in future. She was always malicious."
She seemed much fluttered, and Margaret, wondering, hastened to change the subject. "I wonder where Susan D. can be. I have not seen the child since I came in, and she did not answer when I called her. Elizabeth, do you—"
"Pardon me, Margaret, my love!" Miss Sophronia interposed. "Susan D. is in bed; I sent her to bed an hour ago."
"Oh, Cousin Sophronia! Without her supper? What had she done?"
"She was disobedient, my dear,—disobedient and impertinent. I have no doubt that this will have an excellent effect uponthe child. Basil, what do you want? I told you to go away."
"Cousin Margaret, could I speak to you a moment, please?" asked the boy.
"I will come to you, Basil," said Margaret, quickly. "Will you excuse me, Cousin Sophronia, please? I have quite finished. Now, Basil, what is it?"
She led the boy carefully out of earshot, for thunder and lightning were in his face, and she foresaw an outburst.
"Susan D. is in bed!" cried Basil. "She has had no supper at all; Elizabeth said so. That woman sent her. Cousin Margaret, I won't stand it. I—I'll set fire to her clothes! I'll shoot her! I'll—I'll kill her some way—"
Margaret laid her hand over the boy's mouth. "You will be silent!" she said. "Not a word, not a syllable, till you can speak like a civilised being. We will have no savages here."
Basil said no word,—he knew well enough when he must obey,—but he set his teeth, and clenched his fists; the veins on his temples swelled, his whole childish frameshook with anger. Margaret had never seen any one, not even Rita, in such a passion as this. For a few moments, the two stood motionless, facing each other. Then Margaret took the boy's hand in hers, and led him out into the garden. Still holding his hand, she paced up and down the green walk in silence, Basil following obediently. The evening was falling soft and dusk; the last bird was chirping sleepily; the air was full of the scent of flowers. Behind the dark trees, where the sun had gone down, the sky still glowed with soft, yellow light. "See!" said Margaret, presently. "There is the first star. Let us wish! Oh, Basil dear, let us wish—and pray—for a good thing, for strength to overcome—ourselves."
The boy's hand pressed hers convulsively, but he did not speak at first. Presently he said, almost in a whisper, "She is so little,—and so thin! I told Mother I would take care of her. But—I said—I would try not to let go of myself, too."
Very tenderly Margaret drew the childdown beside her, on a rustic bench that stood under one of the great tulip-trees. In the quiet darkness, she felt his heart open to her even more than it had done yet. In the hour that followed, she learned the story of a wild, faithful nature, full of mischief, full of love. The passionate love for his mother, whom he remembered well; the faithful, scowling devotion to the little sister, whom no one should scold but himself, and whom he shook, and bullied, and protected with a sole eye to her good; all this, and much more, Margaret learned. The two sat hand in hand, and took counsel together. "Oh, it is so good to have some one to talk to," cried Basil.
"Isn't it, dear?" said Margaret. "Now you know how I feel with Uncle John away; and—oh, Basil, before I had Uncle John,—when my father died,—oh, my dear! But you are going to be my brother now, Basil,—my dear, dear little brother, aren't you? And you will tell me how to make Susan D. love me. I think you do love me a little already, don't you, Basil?"
For all answer, Basil threw his arms round her, and gave her such a hug as made her gasp for breath.
"Dear boy," cried Margaret, "don't—kill me! Oh, Basil! I tried to hug Susan D. the other day, and I might as well have hugged the door! She won't even let me kiss her good night; that is, she lets me, but there is no response. Why doesn't she like me, do you think?"
"She does!" said Basil. "Or she will, soon as she can get out of herself. Don't you know what I mean, Cousin Margaret? It's as if she had a dumb spirit, like that fellow in the Bible, don't you know? Nobody but me understands; but you will, just once you get inside."
"Ah, but how shall I ever get inside?" said Margaret.
Basil nodded confidently. "You will!" he said. "I know you will, some time. Oh, Cousin Margaret, mayn't I take her something to eat? She's always hungry, Susan D. is, and I know she won't sleep a mite if she doesn't have anything. I—no, I won't letgo again, but itisthe meanest, hatefullest thing that ever was done in the world! Now isn't it, Cousin Margaret? Don't you think so yourself?"
Sorely puzzled as to the exact path of duty, Margaret tried to explain to the boy how ideas of discipline had changed since Cousin Sophronia was a young girl; how, probably, she had herself been brought up with rigid severity, and, never having married, had kept all the old cast-iron ideas which were now superseded by wider and better knowledge and sympathy. As to this particular point, what should she say? Her whole kind nature revolted against the thought of the hungry child, alone, waking, perhaps weeping, with no one to comfort her; yet how could she, Margaret, possibly interfere with the doings of one old enough to be her mother?
Pondering in anxious perplexity, she chanced to raise her eyes to the house. It was brightly lighted, and, as it happened, the curtains had not been drawn. "Look!" said Margaret, pressing the boy's hand in hers. "Basil, look!"
One long, narrow window looked directly upon the back stairs, which led from the servants' hall to the upper floor. Up these stairs, past the window, a figure was now seen to pass, swiftly and stealthily; a portly figure, carrying something that looked like a heaped up plate; the figure of Frances the cook. It passed, and in a moment more they saw light, as of an opening door, flash into the dark window of the corner room where the little girl slept.
"Do you know, Basil," said Margaret, "I wouldn't worry any more about Susan D.'s being hungry. There is one person in Fernley whom no one, not even Uncle John, can manage; that is Frances."
An hour or so later, Margaret was coming down from the nursery. Merton had announced, as bedtime drew near, that he "felt a pain;" and Margaret had no difficulty in tracing it to Mrs. Peyton's careless indulgence. She stole down quietly to the cheerful back room where Frances and Elizabeth sat with their sewing, and begged for some simple remedy. Frances rose with alacrity. "Checkerberry cordial is what you want, Miss Margaret," she said. "I've made it for thirtyyears, and I hope I know its merits. No wonder the child is sick. If some had their way, everybody in this house 'ud be sick to starvation."
"I am afraid it was the other thing in this case, Frances," said Margaret, meekly. "I'm afraid Master Merton ate too many rich things at Mrs. Peyton's." Now in general, Frances could not abide patiently the mention of Mrs. Peyton; but this time she declared she was glad the child had had enough to eat for once. "'Twill do him no harm!" she said, stoutly. "Give him ten drops of this, Miss Margaret, in a wine-glass of hot water,—wait a minute, dear, and I'll mix it myself,—and he'll turn over and go to sleep like a lamb. Treating children as if they was one half starch and t'other half sticks! Don't tell me!"
Knowing that none of this wrath was directed against herself, Margaret wisely held her tongue, and departed with her glass, leaving Frances still muttering, and Elizabeth with lips pursed up in judicious silence. AndMerton took it and felt better, and was glad enough to be petted a little, and finally to be tucked up with the hot water-bottle for a comforter.
As has been said, Margaret was coming down-stairs after this mission was fulfilled, when she met Miss Sophronia coming up. "All quiet up-stairs, my dear?" said the lady. "I am going to bed myself, Margaret, for I feel a little rheumatic, or I should rather say neuralgic, perhaps. These things are very obscure; the doctor says my case is a very remarkable one; he has never seen another like it. Yes, and now I am going to make sure that this child is all right, and that she does not actually need anything. Duty, Margaret, is a thing I can never neglect."
Margaret followed her cousin into the room, feeling rather self-reproachful. Perhaps she had been unjust in her judgment. Cousin Sophronia was of course doing the best, or what she thought the best, for this poor wild little girl.
Miss Sophronia advanced towards the bed, holding up her candle. Margaret, looking over her shoulder, saw the child lying fastasleep, her hand under her cheek. Her face was flushed, and her fair hair lay in a tangle on the pillow. Margaret had never seen her look so nearly pretty. There were traces of tears on her face, too, and she sobbed a little, softly, in her sleep.
"Poor little thing!" whispered Margaret; but Miss Sophronia was not looking at Susan D. now. With stiff, outstretched finger she pointed to the floor. "Look at that!" she said, in a penetrating whisper. Indeed, the child had dropped her clothes on the floor all at once, and they lay in an untidy heap, shocking to Margaret's eyes, which loved to see things neatly laid. She shook her head and was about to murmur some extenuation of the offence, when—Miss Sophronia set down the candle on the stand; then, with a quick, decided motion, she pulled the sleeping child out of bed. "Susan D.," she said, "pick up your clothes at once. Never let me find them in this condition again. Shocking!"
The child stood helpless, bewildered, blinking, half awake, at the light, not in the least understanding what was said to her. MissSophronia took her by the shoulder, not unkindly, and repeated her command. "Pick them up at once, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you, never to leave your clothes on the floor again." Still only half comprehending, the child stooped, stumbling as she did so, and picking up the clothes, laid them on the chair as she was directed.
"There!" said Miss Sophronia, in high satisfaction. "Now, my dearest Margaret, you will see that this child will never neglect her clothes again. A lesson promptly administered, on the spot, is worth all the preaching in the world. Get into bed again, Susan D., and go to sleep like a good child. Some day you will be very grateful to your Cousin Sophronia for teaching you these things."
She turned away with the candle. Margaret, standing in the shadow, saw the child still standing in the middle of the room, a forlorn, shivering little figure, silent; the most piteous sight those tender eyes had ever looked upon. Softly the girl closed the door. "Margaret," she heard her cousin say. "Oh, she is gone down-stairs!" and the steps went awayalong the entry. But Margaret groped her way to where Susan D. stood; the next moment she had the child in her arms, and was pressing her close, close. A rocking-chair was by; she had seen it, and knew where to lay her hand to draw it forward. She sank down in it, and rocked to and fro, murmuring inarticulate words of comfort. The night was warm, but still the child shivered; Margaret, groping again, found a shawl, and wrapped it round her. There was no more holding off, no more resistance; the little creature clung around Margaret's neck with a desperate hold, as if she dared not let her go for an instant. Her breast heaved once or twice, silently; then she burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed on her cousin's heart. "I love you!" cried the child. "You are good, and I love you! Don't—don't leave me alone, please don't!"
Margaret held her close in her warm, loving arms. "My lamb!" she said. "My little girl! Indeed I will not leave you. Quiet now, dearie; quiet and don't cry! Oh, Susan D., I have no mother, either, dear; let us loveeach other a great, great deal!" and Susan D. sobbed, and curled closer yet, as if she would wind herself into the very heart that beat so kindly and so tenderly.
So they sat, till the sobs died away into soft, broken breathings. Margaret began to sing, and crooned one after another the old songs that Katy used to sing to her when she was rocked just so on that broad, faithful Irish breast. Susan D. lifted her head a little towards her ear. "What is it?" said Margaret, bending down.
"I—I do like singing!" whispered the child.
Margaret nodded, and sang on. By and by the almost frantic clasp of the small arms loosened; the head sank back gently on her arm; the child was asleep. Margaret rose to lay her down, but instantly she started up again, affrighted, and cried out, and begged not to be left alone. What was to be done? Margaret hesitated; then she bade the child hold fast, and slowly, carefully she made her way down the stairs and through the passage to her own room, and did not pause till thelittle child was lying safe, happy, and wondering, in the white bed, in the wonderful White Room.
"Crowd me?" said Cousin Margaret. "Not a bit of it! There is plenty of room, and in the morning we will have a most lovely cuddle, and tell stories. But now go to sleep this very minute, Susan D., while I do my hair. Good night, little sister!"
"Good night!" said Susan D. "I love you! Good night!"
From that night, Susan D. was Margaret's friend and true lover.
She followed her round in the hope of being able to do some little service of love. She brought her flowers, and hunted the fields for the largest and finest berries for her. At any hour of the day, Margaret might feel a little hot hand slide into hers and deposit a handful of warm, moist raspberries or blueberries. Sometimes this bred trouble, as when Merton waylaid his sister, and wrested the hard-won treasures from her for his own refreshment; with the result of shrieks and scuffling, and a final thrashing from his elder brother; or, as when Cousin Sophronia detected the child sidling along with closed palm, and demanded to see what she had. Susan D. resisted stoutly, till atlength, yielding to superior strength, she threw the berries on the floor, and trampled them into the carpet. There was a good deal of this kind of thing; but still the change was a blessed one, and Margaret, when she met the beaming look of love in the child's face, and remembered the suspicious scowl that had greeted her only so few days ago, was most thankful, and felt it to be worth any amount of trouble, even to taking the spots out of the carpet, which was a hard thing to do.
"I told you!" said Basil, smiling superior. "I told you, once you got inside, you'd find the kid not at all so bad. I say, Cousin Margaret, you're not a fraidcat, are you?"
"A what, Basil?"
"A fraidcat! Don't you know what a fraidcat is, Cousin Margaret? Seems to me you didn't learn many modern expressions when you were a little girl, did you?"
"Really, Basil, I think I learned all that were necessary," said Margaret, laughing. "I did not learn slang, certainly, nor boy-jargon, and I don't care to take lessons,thank you. Don't you think good, plain English is good enough?"
"Oh, well, it sounds all right from you, 'cause you are you, and you wouldn't match yourself if you didn't talk that way, I suppose. But it would sound silly for a boy to go on so, don't you see?"
"I am afraid I don't see very well, Basil, but no matter. The things I am afraid of are spiders and caterpillars and cows! Is that what you wanted to know?"
"N—not exactly!" said the boy; "but no matter, Cousin Margaret. You haven't got a ball of twine, have you? Oh, yes, please! Thank you, that is just exactly what I wanted. You always know where things are, don't you? That's bully!"
The children had been very good for the last few days; singularly good, Margaret thought, as she sat on the verandah in the pleasant twilight, reviewing the day's doings, and wondering what happy day would bring Uncle John back to her. Certainly, he would find a good deal of improvement. Merton had not run away since his experience in thebog; Susan D. was won, and Basil grew more and more helpful and considerate. More than that, the children, all three of them, seemed to have quieted down of their own accord. At this hour, they were generally shouting and screaming, racing over the grass, or tumbling headlong from the trees, keeping Margaret in a constant state of terror, and Cousin Sophronia in one of peevish irritation and alarm. But now they had gone of their own will to the summer-house, saying that they were going to tell stories, and see how quiet they could be. They were quiet, indeed, for she could not even hear their voices. Cousin Sophronia, coming out with an inquiry, became instantly suspicious, and declared she must go and see what they were about; but Margaret begged her to wait a little. "They can do no harm in the summer-house!" she said. "And—Uncle John thought we would better let them alone a good deal, Cousin Sophronia."
"My love," said the lady, seating herself, and folding her hands for a good talk, "your Uncle John is a babe, simply a babe in thesematters. Even if he knew anything about children,—which he does not,—it would be my duty, my positive duty, to shield him from all anxieties of this kind. Why else did I come here, my love, except for this very thing?"
"Did you, then, know that Cousin Anthony wished to send the children?" asked Margaret, perhaps not without a spice of gentle malice.
"Ahem! No, not precisely, my love! But—but it was my firm resolve to protect dearest John from every species of annoyance. Every species, my dear! John Montfort—good gracious! What is that?" She started to her feet, and Margaret followed her example. A sound seemed to pass them in the air; a strange sound, something between a sigh and a moan. It swelled for a moment, then died away among the trees beyond the verandah. Miss Sophronia clutched Margaret's arm. "You—you made that noise?" she whispered. "Say it was you, Margaret!"
"Indeed, it was not I, Cousin Sophronia!" said Margaret. "It must have been asudden gust of wind. It is gone now; it must surely have been the wind. Shall I bring you a wrap? Do you feel chilly?"
Miss Sophronia still held her arm. "No, no! Don't go!" she said. "I—I feel rather nervous to-night, I think. Nerves! Yes, no one knows what I suffer. If you had any idea what my nights are— You may be right, my dear, about the wind. It is a misfortune, I always say, to have such exquisite sensibility. The expression is not my own, my love, it is Doctor Soper's. Shall we go into the house, and light the lamps? So much more cheerful, I always think, than this dreary twilight."
Margaret hesitated a moment. The evening was very warm, and once in the house, her cousin would be sure to shut all the windows and draw the curtains. Still, she must not be selfish—
"If I join you in a few minutes, Cousin Sophronia?" she said. "The children—I suppose it is time for them to come in. I will just go down to the summer-house and see—"
The sentence remained unfinished; for at that moment, almost close beside them, arosethe strange moaning sound once more. This time Miss Sophronia shrieked aloud. "Come!" she cried, dragging Margaret towards the house. "Come in this moment! It is the Voice! The Voice of Fernley. I will not stay here; I will not go in alone. Come with me, Margaret!"
She was trembling from head to foot, and even Margaret, who was not timid about such matters, felt slightly disturbed. Was this some trick of the children? She must go and hunt them up, naughty little things. Ah! What was that, moving in the dusk? It was almost entirely dark now, but something was certainly coming up the gravel walk, something that glimmered white against the black box-hedges. Miss Sophronia uttered another piercing shriek, and would have fled, but Margaret detained her. "Who is that?" said the girl. "Basil, is that you? Where are the other children?"
The white figure advanced; it was tall and slender, and seemed to have no head. Miss Sophronia moaned, and cowered down at Margaret's side.
"I beg pardon!" said a deep, cheerful voice. "I hope nothing is wrong. It is only I, Miss Montfort,—Gerald Merryweather."
Only a tall youth in white flannels; yet, at that moment, no one, save Uncle John himself, could have been more welcome, Margaret thought. "Oh, Mr. Merryweather," she said, "I am so glad to see you! No, nothing is wrong, I hope; that is—won't you come up on the verandah? My cousin—Cousin Sophronia, let me present Mr. Merryweather."
Mr. Merryweather advanced, bowing politely to the darkness; when, to his amazement, the person to whom he was to pay his respects sprang forward, and clutched him violently.
"You—you—you abominable young man!" cried Miss Sophronia, shrilly. "You made that noise; you know you made it, to annoy me! Don't tell me you did not! Get away from here this instant, you—you—impostor!"
Margaret was struck dumb for an instant, and before she could speak, Gerald Merryweather was replying, quietly, as if he had been throttled every day of his life:
"If choking is your object, madam, you can do it better by pulling the other way, I would suggest. By pulling in this direction, you see, you only injure the textile fabric, and leave thecorpus delicticomparatively unharmed."
He stood perfectly still; Miss Sophronia still clutched and shook him, muttering inarticulately; but now Margaret seized and dragged her off by main force. "Cousin Sophronia!" she cried. "How can you—what can you be thinking of? This is Mr. Merryweather, I tell you, the son of Uncle John's old schoolmate. Uncle John asked him to call. I am sure you are not well, or have made some singular mistake."
"I don't believe a word of it!" said Miss Sophronia. "Not one single word! What was he making that noise for, I should like to know?"
Mr. Merryweather answered with a calm which he was far from feeling. His pet necktie was probably ruined, his collar crumpled, very likely his coat torn. He had taken pains with his toilet, and now he had been set upon and harried, by some one he had never seen,but whom he felt sure to be the Gorgon who had glared at him out the window several days before. This was a horrid old lady; he saw no reason why he should be attacked in the night by horrid old ladies, when he was behaving beautifully.
"I am sorry!" he said, rather stiffly. "I was not conscious of speaking loud. Miss Montfort asked who it was, and I told her. If I have offendedher, I am ready to apologise—and withdraw."
This sounded theatrical, it occurred to him; but then, the whole scene was fit for the variety stage. Poor Margaret felt a moment of despair. What should she do?
"Mr. Merryweather," she said, aloud, "Miss Montfort has been much startled. Just before you came, we heard a noise; rather a strange noise, which we could not account for. I think her nerves are somewhat shaken. She will be better in a moment. And—and I was just going to the summer-house, to call the children. Would you come with me, I wonder?"
Miss Sophronia clamoured that she could not be left alone, but for once Margaret was deafto her appeals. She was too angry; her guest—that is, her uncle's guest—to be set upon and shaken, as if he were a naughty child caught stealing apples,—it was too shameful! He would think they were all out of their senses.
"Oh, I am so sorry! So sorry!" she found herself saying aloud. "Mr. Merryweather, I am so mortified, so ashamed! What can I say to you?"
"Say!" said Gerald, his stiffness gone in an instant. "Don't say anything, Miss Montfort. I—I don't mean that; I mean, there's nothingtosay, don't you know? Why, it wasn't your fault! Who ever thought of its being your fault?"
"I ought to have recognised you sooner!" said Margaret. "It was pretty dark, and we had really been startled, and my cousin is very nervous. If you wouldpleaseoverlook it this time I should be so grateful!"
"Oh, Isay!" cried the young man. "Miss Montfort, if you go on in this way, I shall go back and ask the old—and ask the lady to choke me some more. I—Ilikebeingchoked! I like anything; only don't go on so! Why, it isn't any matter in the world. Perhaps it relieved her feelings a bit; and it didn't do me any harm." He felt of his necktie, and settled his collar as well as he could, thankful for the friendly darkness. "Indeed, I am all right!" he assured her, earnestly. "Trivets aren't a circumstance to me, as far as rightness is concerned. Now if you'll forget all about it, Miss Montfort, please, I shall be as happy as the bounding roe,—or the circumflittergating cockchafer!" he added, as a large June-bug buzzed past him.
"You are very good!" murmured Margaret. "I am sure—but here is the summer-house. Children, are you here? Basil! Susan D.!"
No answer came. The frogs chirped peacefully, the brook at the foot of the garden sent up its soft, bubbling murmur; there was no other sound. It was very dark, for the trees were thick overhead. The fireflies flitted hither and thither, gleaming amid the thickets of honeysuckle and lilac; the young man's figure beside her glimmered faintly in the darkness, but there was no glimpseof Susan D.'s white frock, or Basil's white head.
"Children!" cried Margaret again. "Don't play any tricks, dears! It is bedtime, and after, and you must come in. Susan, Cousin wants you, dear!"
Silence; not a rustle, not a whisper.
"I should suppose they had gone," said Gerald. "Or do you think they are playing hookey? Wait a minute, and I'll hunt around."
But search availed nothing; the children were not in the summer-house, nor near it. "They must have gone back to the house," said Margaret. "Thank you so much, Mr. Merryweather. I am sorry to have given you all this trouble for nothing."
"Oh, trouble!" said Gerald. "This isn't my idea of trouble, Miss Montfort. What a pretty place this is! Awfully—I mean, extremely pretty."
"It is pretty in the daytime. I should hardly think you could see anything now, it is so dark."
"Well, yes, it is dark; but I mean it seemssuch a pleasant place to sit and rest in a little. Hadn't you better sit and rest a minute, Miss Montfort? The children are all right, you may be sure. Gone to bed, most likely, like good little kids. I—I often went to bed, when I was a kid."
Margaret could not help laughing; nevertheless, she turned decidedly towards the house. "I am afraid I cannot be sure of their having gone to bed," she said. "I think I must find them, Mr. Merryweather, but if you are tired, you shall rest on the verandah while I hunt."
Gerald did not want to rest on the verandah, particularly if his recent assailant were still there. He wanted to stay here in the garden. He liked the fireflies, and the frogs; the murmur of the brook, and the soft voice speaking out of the darkness. He thought this was a very nice girl; he wished she would not be so uneasy about those tiresome youngsters. However, as there seemed to be no help for it, he followed Margaret in silence up the gravel walk. She need not hurry so, he thought; it was very early, not half pasteight yet. He wanted to make his call; he couldn't dress up like this every night; and, besides, it was a question whether he could ever wear this shirt again by daylight.
Miss Sophronia was not on the verandah.
"Will you not come in?" asked Margaret at the door; but Gerald felt, rather than heard, the uneasiness in her voice, and decided, much against his inclination, that it would be better manners to say good night and take himself off.
"I think I must be going," he had begun already, when, from the open door behind them, burst a long, low, melancholy wail. The girl started violently. The young man bent his ear in swift attention. The voice—the cry—trembled on the air, swelled to a shriek; then died slowly away into a dreary whisper, and was gone.
Before either of the young people could speak, the library door was flung open, and a wild figure came flying out. Miss Sophronia threw herself once more upon Gerald, and clung to him with the energy of desperation. "My dear young man!" cried the distractedlady. "Save me! Protect me! I knew your father! I was at school with your mother,—Miranda Cheerley. Save me,—hold me! Do not desert me! You are my only hope!"
It was past nine o'clock when Gerald Merryweather finally took his departure. The children had been discovered,—in bed, and apparently asleep. Three neatly folded piles of clothes showed at least that they had gone to bed in a proper and reasonable manner. Miss Sophronia Montfort had finally been quieted, by soothing words and promises, followed up by hot malted milk and checkerberry cordial, the latter grimly administered by Frances, and so strong that it made the poor lady sneeze. Margaret was to sleep with her; Gerald was to come the next morning to see how she was; meanwhile, Frances and Elizabeth, the latter badly frightened, the former entirely cool and self-possessed, were to sleep in the front chamber, and be at hand in case of any untoward event.
There was nothing further to be done save to shake hands warmly with Margaret, submit to an embrace from Miss Sophronia, and go.Mr. Merryweather strode slowly down the garden path, looking back now and then at the house, where already the lights on the lower floor were being extinguished one by one.
"That's a very nice girl!" he murmured. "Hildegarde would approve of that girl, I know. But on the other hand, my son, that is a horrid old lady. I should like—Jerry, my blessed infant, Ishouldlike—to make that old lady run!" He turned for a final glance at the house; considered the advisability of turning a handspring; remembered his white flannels, and, with a bow to the corner window, was gone in the darkness.
"Frightened, was she?" said Mrs. Peyton. "How sad! Margaret, you are not looking at my bed-spread. This is the first day I have used it, and I put it on expressly for you. What is the use of my having pretty things, if no one will look at them?"
"Indeed, it is very beautiful!" said Margaret. "Everything you have is beautiful, Mrs. Peyton."
"It is Honiton!" said Mrs. Peyton. "It ought to be handsome. But you do not care, Margaret, it is perfectly easy to see that. You don't care about any of my things any more. I was simply a new toy to you in the beginning, and you liked to look at me because I was pretty. Now you have new toys,—Sophronia Montfort, I suppose, and a sweet plaything she is! and you pay no further attention to me. Deny it if you can!"
Margaret did not attempt to deny it; she was too absolutely truthful not to feel a certain grain of fact in the lady's accusation. Life was opening fuller and broader upon her every day; how could she think of lace bed-spreads, with three children constantly in her mind, to think and plan and puzzle for? To say nothing of Uncle John and all the rest. And as to the "new toy" aspect, Margaret knew that she might well enough turn the accusation upon her lovely friend herself; but this she was too kind and too compassionate to do. Would not any one want toys, perhaps, if forced to spend one's life between four walls?
So she simply stroked the exquisite hand that lay like a piece of carved ivory on the splendid coverlet, and smiled, and waited for the next remark.
"I knew you would not deny it!" the lady said. "You couldn't, you see. Well, it doesn't matter! I shall be dead some day, I hope and trust. So Sophronia was frightened? Tell me more about it!"
"She was very much frightened!" saidMargaret. "Mrs. Peyton, I wanted to ask you—when the children came home yesterday, they said something about your having told them some story of old times here; of a ghost, or some such thing. I never heard of anything of the sort. Do you—do you remember what it was? I ought not to torment you!" she added, remorsefully; for Mrs. Peyton put her hand to her head, and her brow contracted slightly, as if with pain.
"Only my head, dear, it is rather troublesome to-day; I suppose I ought not to talk very much! Yes, there was a ghost, or something like one, in old times, when I was a child. I wasn't at Fernley at the time, but I heard about it; Sophronia was there, and I remember she was frightened into fits, just as you describe her last night."
"What—do you remember anything about it? It isn't that old story of Hugo Montfort, is it, the man who looks for papers?"
"Oh, no, nothing so interesting as that! I always longed to see Hugo. No, this is just a voice that comes and goes, wails about the rooms and the gardens. It is one of theMontfort women, I believe, the one who cut up her wedding-gown and then went mad."
"Penelope?"
"That's it! Penelope Montfort. Once in a while they see her, but very rarely, I believe."
"Mrs. Peyton, you are making fun of me. Aunt Faith told me there was no ghost except that of Hugo Montfort; of course I don't mean that there is really that; but no ghost that people had ever fancied."
"Ah, well, my dear, all this was before Mrs. Cheriton came to Fernley! Before such a piece of perfection as she was, no wandering ghost would have ventured to appear. Now don't stiffen into stone, Margaret Montfort! I know she was a saint, but she never liked me, and I am not a saint, you see. I was always a sinner, and I expect to remain one. And certainly, there was a white figure seen about Fernley, at that time I was speaking of; and no one ever found out what it was; and if you want to know any more, you must ask John Montfort. There, now my head is confused, and I shall not have a straight thought again to-day!"
The lady turned her head fretfully on the pillow. Margaret, who knew her ways well, sat silent for some minutes, and then began to sing softly: