Wild Margaret

Margaret was tired and excited, though there was no trace of it in the sweet, pale face, and she was glad of a few minutes' rest.

The prince led her to a seat placed amidst a cluster of ferns and exotics, and, taking up a fan, gently fanned her.

"I spoke truly, you see, Miss Leslie," he said. "I cannot tell you with what joy and pride – yes, pride! – Signor Alfero's words filled me. But we will not speak of them again to-night; though I trust they have made you as happy as they have made me."

There was something in his voice which half frightened Margaret, and, as she looked up to reply, she found his eyes fixed upon her with a light in them which caused hers to droop, though why she knew not.

"The signor – every one – has been too good to me," she said.

"No," he said, with a suppressed earnestness. "That no one who knows you could be."

He was silent a moment, then he looked round.

"Ah, how glad I am to be at home!" but as he spoke his eyes returned to her face.

"And they are all glad to have you, prince," said Margaret.

"All?" he said. "May I include you, Miss Leslie?"

A faint flush rose to Margaret's face, then it grew pale again.

"I?" she said. "Oh, yes, I am glad!"

"You make me very glad to hear you say that," he said in a low voice, bending down so that he almost whispered the words in her ears. "I have thought of you very often while I have been away, Miss Leslie, wondering, and hoping that you might be happy here at the villa, and longing to get back that I might see you again."

Margaret's heart beat fast.

She told herself that it was only the language of courtly kindness; warmer than an Englishman would use, but meaning no more than usual.

"What beautiful flowers!" she said, looking at a bunch of camellias before her.

He glanced at her dress, unadorned by a single article of jewelry, then crossing the conservatory, picked a snow-white blossom and brought it to her.

"Will you accept this?" he said.

"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret. "How lovely it is," and she held it in her hand.

"Will you wear it?" he asked, and his voice grew low and almost tremulous.

Margaret started and her face went white.

They were almost the very words Blair had spoken in the little garden at Leyton Court that never-to-be-forgotten night, and they brought back the past and her own position with a lurid distinctness.

"No, no!" she breathed, scarcely knowing what she said, and she let the flower drop into her lap.

The prince's face grew grave and pained.

"Have – have I offended you? – have I been too presumptuous?" he asked, humbly.

"No, no!" she said, again. Then she looked up. "Presumptuous, your highness? You! to me! The presumption would be mine if I – if I were to accept – " she paused.

"Do I understand you?" he said, drawing nearer, his handsome, patrician face flushing, his eyes seeking hers with an eager intentness. "Miss Leslie, my poor flower would be honored by the touch of your hand; will you honor me also by wearing it? Miss Leslie – " he paused a moment, then went on – "I do not think you understand. Shall I tell you now, or are you too tired and wearied? I think you must know what I would say. Such love as mine will break through all guards, try as we will to hide it, and proclaim itself to the beloved one – "

Margaret started to her feet with a wild horror in her eyes.

"Do not – speak another word!" she breathed. "I – I cannot listen! I – take me back, please, your highness!"

The prince's face paled, and his lips shut tightly; but with the courtly grace which could not forsake him, even at such a moment, he took her hand and drew it through his arm.

"Your lightest word is law to me," he murmured. "I will say no more – to-night; but I must speak sooner or later. But no more to-night! Not one word, be assured. You may trust me, if you will not do more!"

Margaret was speechless, her heart throbbing with a dreadful amazement and horror. That he – the great prince – should have spoken to her – to her upon whose life rested so dark a shame, almost maddened her.

In silence he led her into the salon. As he did so, a certain noble lady, an old schoolfellow of his mother, who was sitting beside her, looked up at them, then turned to the signora.

"This is a very beautiful girl, signora!"

The old lady glanced at Margaret and smiled placidly.

"Miss Leslie? – yes."

"Very," said the countess. "There is something sad and spirituelle about her which renders her loveliness something higher than the ordinary beauty of which one sees so much nowadays."

"Yes," said the signora. "I fear she has passed through some great sorrow. There is a look in her eyes when she is silent and thinking, which makes one tempted to get up and kiss her."

"A dangerous charm, that," remarked the countess dryly.

"A charm; yes, that is the word," assented the signora, smiling. "She has charmed the heart out of Florence, and has crept into mine, poor girl."

"Poor girl!" echoed the countess, dryly; then, as it seemed abruptly and inconsequentially, she said, "How handsome Ferdinand has grown!"

The signora let her eyes linger upon him with all a mother's pride and tenderness.

"Yes; has he not? He is like his father."

"And his mother," said the countess. "He is a great favorite at court, my dear. There is a career before him if there should happen to be a war, as I suppose there will be."

"I could do without a career for him if the price is to be a war," said the signora, sighing.

"He seems very attentive to Miss Leslie," remarked the countess, looking at the two young people as they crossed the room.

The prince had found a seat for Margaret, but still remained by her side, bending over her with that rapt attention which distinguished him.

"Oh yes," assented the signora, placidly. "He thinks a great deal of her. I imagine that he is very pleased at the success of her picture. Ferdinand is devoted to art; and says that the villa is renowned as the birthplace of so great a picture as Miss Leslie has painted."

"Hem!" said the countess; then, with a frown, she said, "Don't you think that the charm you speak of may exert itself over Ferdinand?"

"Over Ferdinand?" the signora glanced across at them with a serene smile.

"Yes, over Ferdinand," repeated the old countess, almost impatiently, "or do you think that the male heart is less susceptible than the female. Do you suppose that Ferdinand is blind to Miss Leslie's loveliness, and that it is only revealed to you and Florence?"

"What do you mean?" asked the signora.

"What do I mean? Why, my dear Lucille, aren't you afraid that, to speak plainly, Ferdinand may – fall in love with Miss Leslie?"

The old princess looked at her for a moment with a mild surprise, then she drew her slight figure up to its full height and smiled with placid hauteur.

"Ferdinand will not fall in love with Miss Leslie," she said, with an air of calm conviction.

"Oh," said the countess, dryly. "Does he wear an amulet warranted to protect him from such eyes as hers, such beauty as hers?"

"Yes," said the mother. "Ferdinand wears such an amulet. It is the consciousness of his rank and all its duties and responsibilities. Miss Leslie is a most charming girl, and Florence and I are attached to her; but Ferdinand – " she paused and smiled. "I know Ferdinand very well, I think, my dear, so well, that if you were to hint that he was likely to fall in love with one of the maid-servants I should be as little alarmed."

The countess looked at her with a strange smile, then glanced at the prince and Margaret.

"My dear Lucille," she said, "I beg your pardon. Of course, you are quite right, and there is no danger. There has never been an instance of one of our rank marrying beneath him, has there?" and she laughed ironically.

The signora smiled and shook her head.

"My dear," she said, "there isn't a prouder man in Italy than Ferdinand. I am not at all uneasy."

CHAPTER XXII

I do not think I have at any time held up Lord Blair Leyton as an example to youth, and I am less likely than ever to do so now, now that he has reached an epoch in his life when, like a vessel without a rudder, he drifts to and fro on life's troubled sea, heedless of his course, and perilously near the rocks of utter ruin and destruction. But at any rate, I can claim one quality for our hero – he was thorough.

A wilder man than Blair, before he fell in love with Margaret, it would be difficult to imagine; it would be harder to find a better one, or one with better intentions, than he was during his short married life; and, alas, no wilder and more reckless being existed than poor Blair, after Margaret's supposed death.

He was quiet enough while he was ill, for he was too weak to do anything but sit still all day and brood.

He would sit for hours staring moodily at the dim line where sea and sky meet, without uttering a word – all his thoughts fixed upon his great loss, the sweet, lovable, lovely girl whom he had called wife for a few short weeks.

He never mentioned Margaret's name, and Austin Ambrose was too wise to disobey his injunction as regards silence. He made no further inquiries, and even if he had been desirous of doing so, there was no one of whom to make inquiries, for the Days had left Appleford, and no one knew anything more of Margaret than the common record, that she had been seen on the rock, and then – not seen!

Emaciated and haggard, Lord Blair sat day after day waiting for the renewal of strength, his sole employment that bitterest of all bitter amusements – recalling the past!

Austin Ambrose was his only companion, Austin leaving him only for short intervals, which he spent in town.

Vigilant as a lynx, untiring as a sleuthhound, Austin Ambrose kept continual watch and guard. By a series of accidents, Fate had assisted his schemes, and he felt himself the winner almost already. A few turns more of the wheel, and he would have Violet Graham at his feet.

Revenge is a powerful motor, so is the love of money; but when they act together, then the man who harbors them is propelled like a steam engine – swiftly yet carefully, and, therefore, barring accidents, surely.

Gradually the long, absent strength came back to Blair. As the doctor had said, he had a wonderful constitution, and it did more for him than the great Sir Astley or the great "Sir" anybody else could have done, and at last one morning he remarked, in the curt manner which had now become habitual to him:

"I shall go up to town, Austin."

"To town?"' said Austin Ambrose, raising his eyebrows. "Do you think you are fit, my dear Blair?"

"Yes," replied Blair slowly. "I am sick of sitting here day after day, and lying here night after night. I think I could" – he paused, and smothered a sigh – "sleep in London. This place is so infernally quiet – "

"Very well. Only don't run any risks," said Austin Ambrose.

Blair looked at him with a hard smile.

"If I thought I should run any risk, as you call it, I should go all the sooner. Will you wire and tell them at the Albany that I am coming?"

"I'll do better than that," said Austin Ambrose, who did not by any means desire that their whereabouts should be known. "I'll run up and see that things are straight and comfortable for you, old man."

Blair looked at him moodily.

"I don't know why you take so much trouble for me, Austin," he said. "I've no claim upon you; you are not my brother – "

"Wish I were, especially your elder brother!" said Austin Ambrose, smiling, "then I should have all the Leyton property, and be the Earl of Ferrers, shouldn't I? Well, I don't know quite why I fuss over you; I've done it so long that I can't get out of it, I suppose. It is wonderful, the force of bad habit. So you have made up your mind to go to London? Well, heaps of fellows will be very glad. Violet Graham amongst them."

Blair frowned.

"Why should Violet Graham be glad?" he said, coldly. "Why should anybody?"

"Oh, I don't know." Austin replied, carelessly; "but I suppose they will. You always were popular, you know, my dear fellow."

So Mr. Austin Ambrose, impelled by his extreme good-nature and friendship for Lord Blair, ran up to town first, and saw that the chambers were put straight, and the valet, who had been put on board wages, and kept in complete ignorance of his master's movements, warned of Lord Blair's return.

And in the evening, after he had done all this, he went to Park Lane.

Violet Graham was still in London, although like the last Rose of Summer, "all her companions" had gone. She had pressing invitations to county houses in England, Scotland, and Ireland – shooting and fishing parties clamored for the presence of the popular heiress; but in vain. She declared that she hated eating luncheon in wet turnip fields, and that fishing parties were a bore, and intended remaining in London, at any rate, for the present. The truth was that she could not tear herself away while there remained a chance of Blair's return.

Austin Ambrose found her sitting before the fire in the drawing-room, crouching almost, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals as if she were seeking the future in the red light; and she started and sprung up as he entered with an exclamation of surprise:

"Austin!" then she looked beyond him, as if she hoped and expected to see some one else with him, and not seeing him, her face fell.

"Well, Violet," he said, with his slow, calm smile.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, moving her hand toward a chair, "I thought you were dead!"

"I am alive," he answered, "and I have been wandering up and down like the gentleman mentioned in history. You are early with your fire, aren't you? It is quite warm out."

"It is quite cold within," she replied; "at least, I am cold, I always feel cold now. Well?" she added, with abrupt interrogation.

He smiled up at her.

"You want my news?" he said, shortly.

"Yes! Where is he? Where is Blair?" she demanded, and as she spoke his name a red spot burnt in either cheek, and her eyes grew hungry and impatient. "Why does he not come home or write? One would think you were both dead!"

"Blair is alive," he said, holding his hands to the fire, though he had said it was warm, and watching her with a sidelong look under the lowered lids. "He isn't dead, but he has been very nearly."

She uttered a faint cry, and put her hand to her heart.

"I knew it!" she murmured huskily, "I felt that something was wrong with him. Don't laugh at me," she went on fiercely, for the smile had crept into his face again, "I tell you I felt it. It was as if some one had passed over my grave. Blair nearly dead! And you never told me! What brutes men can be!" and the angry tears crowded into her eyes.

"Don't blame me," he said. "It was Blair's fault. I should have written and asked you to help me nurse him, but he wouldn't permit me to tell any one, even the earl."

"But why not?" she demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"As well ask the wind why it blows north instead of south, or east, or west. Blair is whimsical; besides, he hates any fuss, and – forgive me, Violet – but he may have known that you would have made a fuss."

"I would have gone to him to the other end of the world, and have given my life to save his, if you call that making a fuss!" she retorted angrily.

"Exactly," he said; "and that is just what Blair didn't want."

"Where was he, and what was it?" she asked, dashing the tears from her eyes with a gesture that was almost savage.

"He got a fever at Paris," said Mr. Austin Ambrose promptly. "It was a narrow squeak for him; but we pulled him through."

Violet Graham's face went white, and her lips shut tightly.

"'We?' Then – then she was with him? She is with him now?" and her hands clenched so that the nails ran into the soft, pinky palms.

"She was," he answered gravely; "but she is not now."

"Not now!" she echoed, with a quick glance at the calm, set face. "Where is she, then? Has he sent her away? Tell me, quick!"

"He has not sent her away, but she has gone. Violet, prepare yourself for a shock. The poor girl is dead!"

She sprung to her feet, and stood staring at him for a moment, then sank into her chair, a light of relief and joy, almost demoniacal in its intensity, spreading over her face.

"Dead! Dead, Austin?" hoarsely; "you are not – not playing with me?"

"Rather too serious a subject for joking, isn't it?" he responded, coolly. "No, I am telling you the plain truth; the girl is dead!"

"When? How?" she demanded.

He was silent a second or two, then he said:

"Abroad. I don't think we need go into particulars, Violet."

She said nothing while one could count twenty, then she looked round at him with a glance half fearful.

"Did you – had you any hand – " She could not finish the sentence.

He looked her full in the face, then let his eyes drop.

"Better not ask for any of the details, my dear Violet! Take the thing in its bare simplicity. If I had, as you delicately suggested, any hand in bringing about this consummation you so devoutly desired, what would you say? Are you going to overwhelm me with reproaches and cover me with remorse?"

The two spots burnt redly on her cheeks, then, as she turned and faced him, her face went very white.

"No. Do you think I have forgotten what you said? You asked me if I was prepared to separate them at any cost, and I answered 'at any cost.' I have not forgotten. I do not retract my words. I said what I meant – "

"Even if it meant – murder?" he remarked, coolly.

She shuddered, and glanced toward the door fearfully, then she met his gaze defiantly.

"Yes, even if it meant murder!"

He smiled at her thoughtfully.

"You are a wonderful woman, Violet," he said, reflectively. "One would not expect to find a Lady Macbeth in a delicately made little lady like yourself! You don't look the character. But don't be uneasy; there are other ways of disposing of a person who is inconveniently in the way, than the dagger and poison-cup. The way is – "

She put out her hand.

"Don't tell me."

He laughed sardonically.

"I told you that you would not want the details," he said, "and you are wise to let the fact suffice. Margaret Hale is dead, and Blair is free once more."

"Free!" she murmured. "Free!" and she drew a long sigh. "And where is he?"

"On his way to London," he replied. "He will be here to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" and her face flushed.

"Yes," he said, promptly. "But I do not know that he will find his way to Park Lane quite so quickly."

"No?" scornfully.

"No, not just at first. You see, Blair has been through a rather heavy mill, and he is – well, to put it shortly – rather crushed."

"I understand."

"Yes," slowly, "I imagine that he will fight shy of all his acquaintances for a time, women especially. Why, he can scarcely bring himself to say half-a-dozen civil words to me, his best friend."

"'His best friend!'" she murmured.

"His best friend," he repeated, with emphasis. "So that one must not expect too much from him just yet. In a week or two he will come round, and you will find him only too glad to drop in for afternoon tea."

She looked at him quickly, for there seemed a hidden meaning in his words, commonplace as they were.

He nodded.

"Yes, just that. He will drop in some afternoon and you will, of course, greet him as if you had parted from him only the night before. Make a fuss over him, and he will be off like a frightened hare, and you will lose him. But just receive him with the politeness due to an ordinary acquaintance, and he will not be alarmed. He will get accustomed to dropping in and – and – " he smiled significantly – "any further hint would be superfluous."

She sat silently regarding the fire, with this new hope, the news of Margaret's death, shining softly in her eyes, and he sat watching her.

"What fools women are!" she murmured, at last.

"I would rather you said that than I," and he laughed softly.

"We are like children," she went on. "The one thing denied to us, that is the thing we must have and cry our eyes out for! I wish – I wish that I were dead or had no heart!"

"The two things are synonymous," he said. "Without a heart one, indeed, might as well be dead."

She looked at him with momentary interest and curiosity.

"They say that you have no heart, Austin."

"But you know that I have," he responded at once. "But we won't talk about my heart, it is a matter of such little consequence, isn't it? And now I think I will go. I have come like the messenger with good tidings, and my presence is now superfluous. You will see Blair shortly. I need scarcely hint that not a word of the past should escape your lips."

He spoke as carelessly and coolly as usual, but his eyes watched hers closely as he waited for her answer.

"No, no," she said; "I will say nothing about – her," and she shuddered.

"Certainly not. Take care you do not. It is grewsome work raising specters, and I warn you that to speak of Margaret Hale to Blair would be to raise a specter which will send him from your side at once."

She sighed and bit her lips.

"He – he cared for her so much?" she murmured huskily.

Austin Ambrose shrugged his shoulders.

"Who can tell? I suppose so. Certainly, he raved about her enough. But all that is past, you know; the girl is dead, and Time – which, so they say, will wipe out anything save an I O U – will erase her from his memory!"

He got his hat, and stood looking down at her slight figure as she sat leaning forward over the fire.

Then she glanced up and caught his eyes.

With a little start, she rose and held out her hand.

"I – I do not know what to say to you, Austin," she said, falteringly. "To speak of gratitude seems a mere formal way of expressing what I feel. You have done me a great service – " She stopped and hesitated, embarrassed by his steadfast gaze. "If there is anything I can do – "

He shook his head.

"No," he said, with a smile, "there is nothing you can do for me, thanks, except win the day and be happy."

"And – and yet you spoke of – hinted at – some possible reward?" she said, wondering whether she should offer him money.

"Are you dying to make me a present of, say, a thousand pounds?" he said, laughing softly. "I am sorry to balk your generous intentions, but I do not want money – at present. I am not rich, excepting in the sense that the man whose requirements are small is never poor. No, I do not want your money, Violet. Some day I may – I only say I may – come to you and remind you of my share in this little business. Perhaps I may never do so; but at any rate, your bare 'I thank you' will reward me sufficiently now."

"Then, I thank you!" she said.

He pressed her hand, looked into her eyes with the same half-comical smile, and then left her.

CHAPTER XXIII

Blair came back to town, thin, and pale, and haggard, with only one desire in his heart: to forget the past and kill the present! He had been wild and reckless as a youth, and it had only been his love for Margaret that had checked him in his road to ruin.

If she had still been by his side, he would have swung round and become one of the steadiest of men – she would have been his saving and guardian angel. But he had lost her, and with her all that had made his life worth living.

So he came back to the old life in London, hating it with a weariness bitter as death, and yet not knowing of any other way in which to kill time and escape from the past.

As Austin Ambrose had said, his friends were glad to see him, but they were aghast at the change which a few weeks had wrought in the old light-hearted Blair; and the pace he was going alarmed even the most reckless of them.

They dared not ask him any questions, for there was something about him, a touch of savageness and smothered bitterness in his manner which warned them that any display of curiosity would be resented.

"I can't make Blair out," said Lord Aldmere to Colonel Floyd. It was at a well-known club which does not open its doors until well-regulated people have gone to bed. "What he has been doing, Heaven only knows; but I never saw a man so changed. Why it was only this summer that he was in the best of form bright as a – a star, don't you know, and now – look at him!" he concluded, glancing across the room at Blair, as he sat moodily over the fire, a big cigar in his mouth, his haggard face drooping on his breast, his sad eyes fixed gloomily on the ground. "Never saw such a change in a man in all my life."