Wild Margaret

"Oh, no, no!" she murmured, with deep agitation. "Do not say that, prince, for it can never be, never! never! Even if my rank equaled your own; even if – " she paused.

"Even if you loved me! Is that what you were going to say?" he inquired, his voice tremulous with suppressed passion. "Ah, say it, dearest! Let me hear the sweet words from your lips! You shall love me! Yes, for I will win your love from you, even against yourself," and he made to draw her near to him, but Margaret drew back, her eyes regarding him pleadingly and sorrowfully.

"No, prince," she said, almost inaudibly. "Even if I loved you I could not be your wife."

He waited while she gained strength to go on, waited with that chivalrous delicacy and patience which distinguished him.

"It is impossible, prince. Think what it is you do. You are asking me to share your rank, your noble name, one who is a stranger to you, of whom you know nothing" – she paused – "who may be anything that is base and unworthy – "

"Oh, stop!" he said, pleadingly; "do I not know that you are all that is good, and true, and pure? Have I not lived in the same house with you, listened to your voice? A man blind to all else could not but see that you are worthy to be the wife of any one, be he whom he may."

"No," she murmured; "it cannot be. Let me go, prince. I will go away, far from Florence, from Italy – "

He stopped her with a sudden gesture, a glance of fear and dread.

"You – you are married?" he said.

Margaret started, then she shook her head.

"I am not married, prince; but there is a dark shadow in my life, a sorrow and a shame."

Her voice faltered and broke, and her hand closed on his with a convulsive grasp.

"Shame?" he breathed.

"Yes," she said, nerving herself; "shame! Now, prince, you know why it is that I cannot be your wife. Spare me, and let me go."

He stood, white as the marble faces looking down at him, his eyes fixed on her face, yet scarcely seeming to see her.

"Shame!" he repeated, like a man who speaks during some horrible dream.

Margaret tried to shrink from him, but his hand held hers in a clasp of steel.

"Shame and – you!" he said at last. "You! Oh, it is impossible." Then he looked in her face, bent low and humbly, like a drooping lily, and he uttered a faint cry. It was the cry of a man who has been mortally wounded.

There was silence for a moment, then he let her hand fall, and turned – not to forsake her, but to hide his face from her. Margaret waited a second, then crept closer to him.

"Will you – can you forgive me, prince?" she murmured brokenly. "I should not have come here, but – but I was sorely tempted. I was alone – alone, and craving for sympathy and love – and your mother and sister gave them to me. I had no right to enter their presence, much less to accept their love, but – ah, if you knew all!" and a sigh choked her voice.

"Tell me all," he said, turning to her almost sternly; "tell me all – all! The name of the man – " He stopped, and his hands clinched tightly at his side.

Margaret shrank back with a look of fear.

"No, no!" she gasped; "not a word. It is all past and – and buried. I am as one that is dead to the world, and he – he is forgiven."

"Forgiven!" he echoed. "Ay, by an angel; but we are not all angels. No; some of us are men."

His face was so awful in its wrath and craving for vengeance that Margaret sprung to him and seized his arm.

"Prince, what would you do?"

He took her hand and dropped it from his arm with a little shudder, as if her touch had stung him; then, half mad with love, half frenzied by the passionate desire for vengeance on her behalf and his own, he took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

"I understand!" he said hoarsely; "oh, yes; I understand! He has wronged you – but you love him still!"

Margaret shrunk back, and covered her face with her hands.

"Yes," he muttered: "you love him still. Heaven help me!"

Margaret's heart was wrung by the agony in that cry of a strong man mortally stricken, and in her anguish and pity she fell at his feet, sobbing bitterly.

He looked down at her for a moment, all his soul speaking in his white, working face, then he raised her and gently led her to a door leading to one of the staircases, and held back the curtain that she might pass through.

"Good-bye!" he said. "Do not be afraid that – that I shall torture you with my presence. You spoke of leaving the villa. Do not. I ask that much of you. Grant it to me."

With bowed head, Margaret passed through, and, letting the curtain fall, he stood for awhile like one of the statues surrounding him; then, with a gesture terrible in its intensity, he raised one hand toward heaven, and vowed that he would know no rest till he had avenged her.

And so sprung into existence a foe to Blair more deadly than he had ever known, a foe spurred, not by personal hate, but by the passionate desire to wreak vengeance on behalf of the woman of whose love he had been robbed, whose life this unknown man had stained with shame.

And on that day, miles away, at Leyton Court, lay the great Earl of Ferrers – dying.

"What is the use of being a king if one must die?" exclaimed the Emperor Nero, who had caused death to others too often not to know what it meant.

The great earl, with half a dozen titles to his name, and half a county owning his sway, lay upon a couch in his sitting-room, upon which flickered the rays of the setting sun, fitly typifying his own approaching withdrawal beneath the horizon of life.

At his side sat Violet Graham, who had been sent for in haste some few days back, and who had remained in close attention upon the old man.

Near as he was to that grim door through which all mortality passes never to return, the earl still bore himself as a patrician should. The face was drawn and lined, the white hands were gray and transparent, but the eyes still shone calmly and resolutely.

"Has he come, my dear?" he asked.

"Not yet, my lord," said Violet Graham, starting slightly and flushing faintly. "It is scarcely time, I think."

"I suppose he will come," said the earl, dryly, "or will he find himself unable to leave the gaming-table and his other pursuits for a few hours?"

"I – I do not think Blair plays much now, my lord," she said, in a low voice.

"You do not know," he said, grimly. "No one knows. His life is a mystery. Why has he not been near me – when did you see him last?"

Her face paled as she remembered the night Blair had come to Park Lane and kissed her.

"Not – not very lately, sir. Not for some weeks."

"Then he may be abroad – at Monte Carlo or some other congenial place?"

"No," she said, in a low voice; "he has not left London."

He looked at her with the shrewdness of old age.

"You keep yourself informed of his movements; you care for him still, Violet?"

She did not answer, but her keen eyes met his for a moment, and her small, restless fingers plucked at the edge of the silk shawl which she had thrown over him.

The earl sighed.

"The love of women!" he muttered. "It passes all comprehension. My poor girl!"

"Do not pity me, sir," she said. "Perhaps – " she stopped.

"You think all may yet be well?" he said, with suppressed eagerness, and with a sudden flash of light in his eyes.

She did not reply, but he read her answer in her downcast face.

"It would save him!" he murmured. "But would it make you happy? My poor Violet – "

"If not, then nothing else will," she said, a deep red covering her face.

Before he could make any response, the door opened and a servant announced Viscount Leyton.

Violet Graham turned pale, and rising, passed out of the room by one door as Blair entered by the other.

The earl held out his hand; Blair, advancing quietly, took it, and the two men, the great earl and the one who would so soon take his place, looked at each other; then the earl let Blair's hand drop, and sighed.

"Great heavens!" he said, in the low and feeble voice, "judging by countenances we might well change places!" and he looked at Blair's haggard but still handsome face.

Blair smiled grimly.

"What have you been doing? But no need to ask. Have you been trying to kill yourself?"

Blair smiled again, and then sank into a chair.

"Never mind me, sir," he said, gently, and his voice, for it was as soft as a woman's when he was moved, made the old man wince; "I am of no account. I did not know you were so ill until I got your letter – or rather Violet Graham's. Are you better? I trust so."

"Oh, yes, I am better. I shall soon be quite well – if there is any truth in the pleasant things good people tell us of the other land. But I did not ask you to exchange sickroom commonplaces with a dying man – "

Blair laid his still strong hand upon the thin, shriveled one.

"Don't talk of dying, sir! Please Heaven there are many years before you yet! You have not squandered your strength, as – as some of us have."

"Lord Leyton, for instance," said the earl, with a smile. "No, I won't talk of dying. We will talk of something more profitable. Blair, you will be the Earl of Ferrers presently; a few days, weeks, perhaps, and you will be the master of the Court. I have done my best for you, although you have done the worst for yourself."

"The very worst, sir," assented Blair, with the smile which, grim as it was, was still pleasant to see.

"The very worst! But it is not too late yet."

Blair looked hard at the carpet.

"Not too late! Blair, all your own property is gone, they tell me?"

"They tell you truly, sir," said poor Blair, gravely.

"But there is still the Court, and there will be my own money! I have saved for years. You will be rich, even as rich men go nowadays. Are you going to fling it all in the gutter, like that which has gone before?"

Blair remained silent. The old man watched the weary, haggard face keenly.

"I see! Ah, well! It will not matter to me, I suppose? But it is rather a pity, is it not? Ours is a good title, not a mushroom affair of yesterday. There are stones in the Court upon which time and history have set their seal, and they are to be flung in the gutter, eh? And with the heart of one of the best girls in England to be broken – "

Blair started. For a second he had thought of Margaret, though he knew it was Violet Graham whom the earl meant.

"Poor girl! What fools men are!" Then his voice grew pathetic in its earnestness and entreaty. "Blair, is it too late? You owe me something, I think; I know you owe something to your name and all that belongs to it. Is it too late? Think! A woman's love, a good woman's heart is too priceless to be spurned with a light laugh. Blair, I, your kinsman, lying here dying, prefer one request. I do not ask you to spare this old roof or the wealth I leave you, but I do ask you to grasp the happiness within your reach. Will you make Violet your wife?"

Blair rose and paced the room. An agitation which seemed utterly beyond reason worked in his face. The old earl watched him in silence for a moment, then he said with a sigh:

"I understand. You refuse?"

"No," said Blair, "I consent. I will marry Violet, if she wishes it, and, please Heaven, I will try and be less unworthy of her."

The earl raised himself on his elbow, and touched a silver bell, and fell back panting on his cushions, and as Blair bent over him, the door opened, and Violet entered.

Her quick eyes glanced at Blair questioningly, but before either of them could speak, the earl took her hand and said:

"Violet, Blair has asked you of me for his wife. What have you to say?"

Her face went pale, then grew crimson, and she steadied herself by the head of the couch.

"Yes," she breathed, then just touching Blair's hand, she glided past him and fled to her own room.

The news spread with marvelous rapidity – for Violet told her maid within ten minutes of the proposal; but the interest that was excited was as nothing to that called forth by the further announcement that the marriage was to take place immediately.

The whims of dying men, especially when they are as great and as mighty as the Earl of Ferrers, must be regarded, and it was the desire of the earl that he should see his nephew, Blair, married to his ward, Violet Graham, before he died.

Under such circumstances it could not be anything but a quiet wedding; but even a quiet wedding between two young persons of their rank requires some preparations, and though these were hastened by the expenditure of large sums of money, a week had elapsed since their betrothal before they stood hand in hand before the altar in the little chapel of the Court.

Never perhaps had Violet looked handsomer. She had loved Blair Leyton for years with a passion of which, fortunately for the general peace, the fair sex alone is capable; and now she had got the desire of her heart, and he was her own. The fullness of her happiness almost frightened her, and as she found courage to glance up once at the pale, handsome face of the bridegroom, a sudden pang shot through her, the pang of a doubt and a dread which she strove to kill even as she felt them.

Would she be able to win his love, or, if after all her striving and its success, should she but own the shadow and semblance of the heart she craved for?

The little chapel was nearly empty, for only a few of the household had been permitted to view the ceremony, and no other guests had been asked.

At the request of Blair himself, an invitation had been sent to Austin Ambrose, but he had declined. It was, therefore, with some surprise, that Blair, as he returned from the altar with his wife – his wife – upon his arm, saw Austin Ambrose's tall, thin figure standing near the door. The sight of him gave Blair a sudden chill, for it recalled that other church in sleepy Sefton, and that other bride whom he had lost forever, but whose image was still enshrined in his heart; but he summoned up a smile, and held put his hand.

"You have come after all, then?" he said.

"Yes," said Austin Ambrose, with his calm smile. "I found that I could not keep away, and so ventured to look in, just to see the ceremony."

Then he turned to Violet Graham, who, rather pale now, had stood silently regarding him.

"One inducement, Lady Leyton," he said, his eyes looking over her head and carefully avoiding hers, "one irresistible inducement was my desire to be among the first to wish your ladyship the happiness and joy you so well deserve!" and he held out his hand.

Lady Leyton's face grew even paler as she gave him her hand, but as he grasped hers a shudder ran through her, and her eyes sought his face with a quick glance of alarm, for his hand was so cold that it struck like an icicle even through her glove.

And yet what could harm her? Was she not Blair's wife's, the Viscountess Leyton, the future Countess of Ferrers?

So, with a smile, she passed on.

CHAPTER XXV

Christmas had gone and there was a vague suggestion of spring in the air; but it was cold still, and a huge fire burned in the great drawing-room of Leyton Court. It was after dinner, and the room, though by no means full, contained a fair number of people representing a small house party which had been spending the Christmas with the new earl: for the old earl had died a week after Blair and Violet Graham's wedding, and Blair reigns in his stead. Not only is he in possession of the old title and the estates and the large sum of money bequeathed by the old earl, but he has married one of the wealthiest young women in England, and consequently the world speaks of Lord Blair with bated breath, murmuring, "Lucky beggar!" and sometimes adding, "Just in time, too! Another month and he would have gone under, by George!"

And so they point him out to country cousins as he walks down Pall Mall, and whisper: "The Earl of Ferrers – the famous Lord Leyton, you know," and his county neighbors regard him with awe not far short of adoration, and everybody, great and small, combines to envy him.

Some say that the long course of reckless dissipation has told upon his constitution and the general break up, which is always and inevitably the result of burning the candle at both ends, has arrived. And yet those who are intimate with him have never heard him complain, and it is notorious that there is no harder rider in the hunt, and that the earl can out-walk, out-box, and generally out-do any man of his age and weight, just as he has always done. There is not a stoop, not a sign of weakness in the stalwart, well-knit figure; the face is as handsome, is even more distinguished looking than ever; but there is a strange look upon it, an expression of utter weariness and lassitude, a far-off, preoccupied air which falls upon it whenever he is silent and alone.

And he is very silent of late, and very fond of being alone. Leyton Court is a charming place to visit, it is in very truth Liberty Hall, and so long as a guest does not bore his host or his fellow guests, he may do just what he pleases. And this freedom which is enjoyed by his guests, the earl claims for himself. Sometimes days will pass without his being seen, excepting at the dinner table, or for a few hours afterward in the drawing-room; but while there he is a model of what a host should be. Courteous, attentive, gentle mannered, everything but the smiling and light-hearted Blair who is still remembered in club land as the one man who never had the "blues!"

If he is attentive to his guests, to his wife he seems devoted. It is easy to gratify your wife's desires when you happen to be an earl, and wealthy to boot, but Blair, it would appear, aims at something higher than this – to anticipate the countess' wishes.

"Your rake makes the best husband!" exclaims a character in one of the old comedies, and it would really seem as if the saying were exemplified in Blair. The countess never leaves the room, but he is at the door to open it for her. In these days of sixteen-button gloves, that useful animal, man, has discovered a task suited to his energies, but no man save her husband ever buttons the countess' gloves; it is he who assists her with her pony carriage, rides beside her in her morning gallop, turns her music at the piano, and is ever at hand to perform those hundred and one little offices which render a woman's life so sweet to her.

For the rest, Austin Ambrose is as close a friend of the countess as of the earl, much to the surprise and annoyance of their friends, to whom it is still a mystery what those two young people can see in him.

It is he who assists Blair in the management of his vast estates, interviewing tenants, engaging servants, etc. And it is he who helps Lady Ferrers with her visiting lists, and executes all the little offices which a lady of rank and title is so glad to find some one to undertake.

This evening the countess is seated in her accustomed chair, exquisitely dressed – it is said that she takes Mr. Austin Ambrose's advice on this point also – and playing the part of hostess with admirable tact and judgment; but every now and then the keen observer might see that her eyes turned toward the earl, who leaned against the mantel, his hands folded behind him, his eyes bent on the ground, and that look on his face which had become habitual to it. Presently the tall, thin figure of Austin Ambrose came between her and the earl, and sauntering up, stood beside him.

"Blair," he said, "here are the letters."

There was a late mail, and the special messenger brought the letters from the office to the Court.

Blair awoke with a little start, and took them and glanced at the addresses indifferently.

"One from Tyler & Driver, isn't there?" said Austin Ambrose.

Blair nodded.

"Yes," he said, listlessly.

"I expect it is about the late earl's will," said Austin Ambrose.

Blair walked into an anteroom, and dropping into a chair, threw the letters on to a writing table.

"See what it is they want, will you, Austin?" he said.

Austin took the letter and opened it.

"It's about that five thousand pounds which the earl left to – "

Blair turned and leaned his head on his hand, so that his face was concealed.

"Well?"

"They say that every effort has been made to discover Miss Hale's whereabouts, by advertising and inquiries, and that they can find no trace of her."

"Ah, no!" said Blair, with a deep sigh.

"And they give the usual advice, that the money should be funded. It is the best plan."

"Yes, unless we tell the truth," said Blair, in a low, sad voice. "Sometimes I think that I have been unwise, Austin, in keeping the story of – of my marriage and my darling's death from Lady Ferrers."

Austin Ambrose watched him closely.

"Take my advice, Blair, and while trouble sleeps let it sleep. The past – that past – is dead and done with. The poor girl is dead, and lost to human ken! Why provide the public prints with sensational paragraphs?

"No, I could not do it, and yet, I feel that it is due to my poor dead Margaret. I will think it over. If it should be done, if it is my duty to do it, I will do it," he added, with mournful firmness. "See what the other letters are about, will you, if it isn't too much trouble."

"Not a bit; it amuses me to flatter myself I am of some use to you," was the prompt reply, as the speaker sat down to the table.

Blair strolled back to the drawing-room. Some one was playing, and the vast room was filled with the music. For a moment Violet seemed left alone, and, with the courtesy which never deserted him, Blair walked across to her and took a chair by hers.

"You look tired, Blair," she said.

"Tired! Do I? I am not in the least," he replied.

"All this bores you, does it not?" she asked, glancing round at the company.

"Not at all," he replied, with a smile. "Why should it? They do not interfere with me – "

"No, nothing is permitted to interfere with you," she broke in, with a sudden bitterness. "So that you are left alone, you are – satisfied. Is that not so, Blair?"

"What do you wish me to do?" he asked, with grave earnestness. "Believe me, Violet, you have only to express a wish – "

"And you will gratify it. I know!" she retorted, with a laugh that seemed hard and cold. "You are the model husband they all declare you, Blair. No, I haven't a wish, excepting, perhaps – but it isn't worth mentioning."

"What is it?" He forced a laugh, and put his hand on her arm with a caress that was gentle enough, if it had no love in it. "Our old selves have a trick of disappearing, Violet," he said, "and once they are gone – " he stopped significantly. "And I think most people would admit that it is a good thing my old self cannot come back!"

"Not I!" she said, in a low, quiet voice. "I would rather have you as you were. Yes; I know! – with all your wildness. I would rather you were unkind to me – struck me! – than as you are."

He half rose, then sank back again with a troubled sigh.

"You are wild enough for us both to-night, Violet," he said, trying to speak lightly. "Have you been reading some of the latest romances, or is it the professor's music that has affected you?"

She looked at him fixedly, and the color died out from her face, leaving it waxen pale.

"Yes, that is it," she said; "it is the music. It always did affect me," and she laughed.

He looked at her anxiously.

"Violet, this place does not suit you," he said. "You are looking pale and ill. It is my fault; I ought to have taken you abroad. You will go, will you not?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Oh, yes, if you like. I am perfectly indifferent. But I am quite well, all the same."

Some one coming up to them, he rose and surrendered the chair, as a matter of course, and a moment or two afterward he heard her laugh as if nothing had passed between them.

He walked about the room for some minutes, absently looking at the pictures, or exchanging a word with one person and another, then sauntered into the anteroom to consult Austin Ambrose as to the best place to take the countess, but that gentleman had left the room; and, ascertaining from a servant that he had gone into the library, Blair went there with the same listless step.

As he opened the library door he heard voices and saw that Austin Ambrose was not alone; a thin, gentlemanly man was seated opposite him, a stranger to Blair, and he stepped back.