Wild Margaret

"I beg your pardon; I thought you were alone, Austin," he said.

"Don't go," said Austin Ambrose. "This is the earl, Mr. Snowdon; this is Mr. Snowdon, the detective, Blair."

The gentlemanly man rose and bowed respectfully, and remained standing until Blair motioned him to resume his seat.

"Mr. Snowdon has come to report on his inquiries respecting Miss Margaret Hale," said Austin Ambrose, quickly but fluently, and giving the man no chance to speak. "He simply confirms Tyler & Driver's letter. No trace of Miss Hale can be found, unfortunately; that is so, I think, Mr. Snowdon?"

"Quite so," assented the detective, respectfully.

Blair stood with his hand pressed on the table, his face white and drawn.

"Thank you!" he said. "Yes, yes."

He stood silently for a moment, and then left the room without another word.

Austin Ambrose rose and slipped the bolt in the door.

"You were mad to come down here!" he exclaimed in a low and angry voice.

"I am very sorry," said the detective, humbly; "but you told me to let you know immediately if I got a clew, and I don't like writing; there's no knowing where a piece of paper will go to."

"Well – well!" said Austin Ambrose. "Now tell me as quickly as you can," and he sank into the chair with an affectation of indifference which the close compression of his hands and the glint of his dark eyes belied.

The detective took a note-book from his pocket.

"First of all, sir, I've to admit that you were right and I was wrong. The young lady was not drowned on that rock, and you were right in supposing that the Days had a hand in getting her away – not that I got any information from them; I'll do them that credit. Close as wax, both of 'em. I traced them down to Cardiff, and lodged in their house for a fortnight; but if I'd stayed twenty years, I don't believe I'd have got any light on the matter. If it hadn't been for an accident I'm afraid I should still be in the dark. If it hadn't been for spending the evening with the second mate of the Rose of Devon, I shouldn't have earned my money, Mr. Ambrose. I've had some tough business to do for you now and again, but this was the very toughest I ever had in hand."

Austin Ambrose sat perfectly still, and apparently patient, but his hands closed and unclosed with a spasmodic movement.

"From this sailor I discovered that the Rose had picked up the Days and a young lady one night, off the Devon coast, and an extra glass of brandy induced him to admit that she'd sailed in the Rose to Brest. At Brest I found that my man was correct. The Rose did have a lady on board. Two persons saw her land, and noticed her, as French people will! One of them, the harbor master, could even give me a description of her. There it is; you'll know best whether there can be any doubt!"

Austin Ambrose did not snatch the paper out of his hand, but let it lie on the table for a second or two, then he took it up and read it, and, self-possessed as he was, could not help an exclamation of triumph.

"It is she! She is alive! Well?" he demanded, quietly; "go on!"

"Well, sir," said the detective, "having made certain of the young lady's being still in the land of the living, I posted straight off for England. Your instructions were, Mr. Ambrose, that I was to come to you the moment I found out that she was alive. I could have traced her from Brest easily enough – "

"I know! I know!" interrupted Austin Ambrose. "You have carried out my instructions! A French mouchard will do the rest. She landed there – she did not go aboard again, you say?"

The detective hesitated for a second. As a matter of fact, he was not certain on the point; but your detective never likes to admit that he does not know everything, so, after the imperceptible hesitation, he said, glibly enough:

"No, Mr. Ambrose, she went straight on by land. She's in France, most likely Paris – for certain. Large cities are generally chosen by people who want to hide securely; every child knows that."

"Yes, yes," muttered Austin Ambrose, "she is in Paris."

He rose and took out his pocketbook.

"I am much obliged to you, Snowdon. The matter can rest here now. I wanted to be certain of the young lady's existence, and for the rest, well, I dare say I can find her if I should require her, which at present I do not. There is the sum I promised you, and there is a bonus. You will find it in your interest to deserve my confidence; and now make yourself scarce as quickly and quietly as possible."

"If you will kindly open that window, sir," said the detective, quietly, "I need not disturb any of the servants. I can find my way across the park," and with a respectful farewell he passed out.

Austin Ambrose stood and mused, his sharp brain turning the situation this way and that. Then he looked up and smiled at his own face reflected in the mirror over the mantel.

An hour afterward he re-entered the drawing-room, with his usual placid smile, and all his plans made.

Lying on the couch was the countess. Her fingers were picking restlessly at the edge of the Indian shawl, a habit she had, and as she looked up he saw her face was pale and troubled.

He bent over the head of the couch, murmuring softly: "Not in bed yet? You ladies are as dissipated as we men."

"Yes, this is dreadful dissipation, is it not?" she retorted, ironically.

"You look tired," he said. "Violet, I don't think this air suits you – "

She laughed sarcastically.

"Really you are too transparent. Blair has been telling you I want a change and you can't summon up courage to tell me so openly! What cowards men are!"

"Blair has not been speaking to me," he said. "But, all the same, I think you should go away, both of you. He looks bored, don't you think; rather off tone – "

"No, I don't think – I am sure," she retorted.

"Leyton never is very good in the winter, I believe," he said, hastily. "What do you say to – Naples for instance?"

"What do you say?" she responded, her keen eyes seeking his fixed steadily upon some point above her head. "That is the question, because whatever place you say, will doubtless be the one selected. I wonder why you take such an interest in us both?" and her eyes grew hard as steel. "You can say that I am pining for it, that it is the one desire of my heart, that I shall die if I'm not taken there at once – "

"Don't jest on such a grewsome topic," he said. "Joking apart, I will venture to prophesy that you will be happier at Naples than you have ever been in your life. It is so warm there."

"Even that will not be wonderful," she retorted; then suddenly her voice changed, and she looked up at him almost fiercely. "Do you think it will be warm enough to thaw Blair's heart? Austin, will he never forget that girl? Oh, Heaven! how I hate her."

"Hush!" he said, in a low voice: "you forget – the dead!"

"No," she retorted, the two bright spots burning fiercely on her cheeks, her eyes glittering like dagger-points; "I hate her more now she is dead, for if she had lived he would have tired of her, but now she comes between us like a ghost; and you cannot get rid of that for me, even you, clever as you are, Austin!"

CHAPTER XXVI

A month later, the sun, which in England was shining with a sickly affectation of geniality, was pouring a flood of warmth and light on every house and street in Naples. Color, warmth, brightness were all there, not in niggardly patches, but in lavish profusion, and in no spot of the enchanted city more profuse than in the palace in which resided the Earl and Countess of Ferrers; for to Naples they had come, and, needless to say, Mr. Austin with them.

But though he had prophesied that Violet should be happier there than she had ever been, his prophecy had not yet fulfilled itself, for even the Naples' sun could not thaw Blair's heart, and, as in England, there was still that weary, absent expression in his face which proclaims the man to whom life has become joyless and hopeless.

Of all the noble palaces which the Neapolitans so cheerfully let to the English visitors, the palace Austin Ambrose had chosen was the most sumptuous; and if rooms which emperors might have dwelt in, and surroundings which would have inspired a poet, could have made a woman happy, then Violet Countess of Ferrers should have been the most beatified of her sex. But on this glorious evening in spring, she was lying on her couch on the balcony overlooking the bay with the same restless fire in her eyes, the old red fever spots on her cheeks. Leaning over the balcony was Mr. Austin Ambrose attired in a spotless linen suit, with a cigar between his lips, and his eyes keenly noting the passers-by in the street beneath him.

"What are you staring at? Have you become suddenly dumb?" exclaimed Lady Violet, with irritability.

"I was looking at the beggars," he said, with a patience in a marked contrast to her impatience. "Naples is the paradise of the mendicant. Shall I wheel you nearer the balcony? – you would find them very amusing."

She looked over listlessly.

"They are not amusing," she complained, shrugging her shoulders.

"At any rate they are a study," he said. "There are beggars of every nationality under the sun, I should think. Strange how easy it is to distinguish them, even through their rags. There is the Neapolitan, for instance, that old man there with the boy; and there is a Spaniard, and there are two Frenchmen, and there is an English girl – " He stopped suddenly, and let his cigar fall to the ground.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"The matter?" he said, turning with a smile, though his face wore a strange expression. "What do you mean?"

"Why you start as if you had seen a ghost?"

"Oh, come; you are fanciful this evening," he retorted laughing.

"But you did start!" she persisted, listlessly.

"I never contradict a lady," he said lightly. "But believe me, the movement was unconscious," and he took out his cigar-case and languidly chose a fresh cigar; but as he did so, he leaned over the balcony, and keenly scrutinized the crowd beneath; for that which had caused him to start, and drop his cigar, was the form of some one who bore a strange likeness to Lottie Belvoir.

Mr. Austin Ambrose looked in the direction the girl had taken, but she had disappeared, probably up one of the narrow streets, and smiling at the fancied resemblance, he smoked on comfortably and devoted his attention to the crowd. Presently a servant came from the room behind them, and handed a card on a salver.

The countess took it languidly.

"What a nuisance people are! Did you say that we were not at home?"

"Yes, my lady," said the footman; "but his highness wrote on the card, my lady."

"His highness!" exclaimed Violet contemptuously. "Every second man one meets in Italy is a count or a prince! What is it he has written, Austin? Your Italian is better, than mine."

Austin Ambrose took the card.

"This is not Italian, it is English," he said. "'Prince Rivani begs the honor of the Earl of Ferrers' presence at a conversazione. Palace Augustus, this evening at ten o'clock.'"

"I thought it was understood that we did not visit?" said Violet languidly. "Why do people bother us? Prince Rivani! This is the second time he has left his card."

"His highness is very attentive, at any rate," said Austin Ambrose. "Shall you go?"

"Seeing that I am not asked," said Violet, "it is not very probable."

"Oh, I expect it is one of those gatherings which these Italians delight in: a little music, a little weak lemonade, and mild tobacco. Blair might like to go."

"Here is Blair to answer for himself," said Violet, as Blair strode on to the balcony.

"What is it?" he said, looking from one to the other.

"Only an invitation," replied Austin Ambrose. "I don't suppose you would care for it. You will be bored to death."

"'Prince Rivani.' He called the other day," said Blair thoughtfully, as he leant over the balcony. "Would you care to go, Violet?"

"I am not invited," she said impatiently. "Don't you see it mentions you only?"

"Ah, yes, a bachelor's party," said Blair. "I may go; it is a lovely day. I have been on the hills, and – Ah!" he exclaimed, and he leant over the balcony with a sudden appearance of interest.

Austin Ambrose glided to his side.

"What is the matter? Is it anything wonderful?" said the countess, and she rose from the couch and looked over.

Blair bit his lip.

"It is nothing," he said, "I thought I saw someone I knew."

"You are like Austin," she said, coiling herself on the couch again; "he started and dropped his cigar just now."

Blair walked out of her hearing, and beckoned Austin Ambrose.

"Do you know whom it was I saw just now?" he said.

"Couldn't guess," replied Austin.

"It was Lottie Belvoir," said Blair.

"Oh, nonsense; it's impossible!" said Austin Ambrose, lightly. "I tell you she is on an English tour at this present moment. How on earth could she be here?"

"I do not know, but I am certain it was she," said Blair, gravely.

"I'll soon convince you," said Austin Ambrose, and he disappeared. He mingled with the crowd for five minutes; then he was back again. "As I thought," he said, with a smile. "She is a Neapolitan girl with a face rather like Lottie's."

"Rather like!" said Blair, with a sigh of relief. "It was an astonishing resemblance, but if you saw the girl closely it is all right."

But the resemblance to Lottie of the girl in rags in the streets of Naples haunted him several times that evening, and on his way to Prince Rivani's rooms, he found himself unconsciously scanning the faces of the women who passed, as if he feared to see the girl.

Of Prince Rivani he had of course heard, but he had not seen him yet, and it was with a languid kind of curiosity that he followed the footman into the salon.

There were about fifteen or twenty gentlemen present, most of them smoking cigarettes, and from their midst a tall, patrician-looking figure came to meet him.

Blair, though he had heard of the prince's popularity and his good looks, was not prepared for so handsome a face; and he was looking at him with interest when he was struck by the expression of the prince's eye. It seemed as if he were regarding Blair with a scrutiny far and away beyond that usual on the part of a host greeting a guest for the first time. The prince's face, too, was pale, and his lips compressed as if by some suppressed emotion. But his courtesy was perfection.

"I am honored, Lord Ferrers," he said bowing, as he just touched Blair's hand. "Let me introduce you to some friends of mine," and he led Blair round the room, making him known to one and another. There were some Englishmen there – one meets them everywhere, from Kamtchatka to the plains of Loo! – and he got into conversation with one and another.

Presently, just as he was thinking of taking his leave, the prince came up to him.

"Are you fond of art, Lord Ferrers?" he inquired, in a grave voice.

Blair shook his head.

"I like a good picture, but I don't know anything about it," he said. "You have a very fine collection, have you not?"

The prince shrugged his shoulders.

"Not so fine as that at Leyton Court, Lord Ferrers," he said, with a bow. "But I possess one picture which I value above all the others. I am so attached to it that it travels about with me; it is here, in my writing room. Would you care to see it? I think it will repay you for your trouble."

Blair rose at once.

"I should like to very much," he said.

The prince led the way to a small room on the same floor, and stood before a picture, closely curtained.

"You will want plenty of light," he said, turning up the gas as he spoke, "and if you will sit just there, Lord Ferrers, you will be in the most favorable position."

At the same time he himself took up his stand by the curtain, with his eyes fixed piercingly upon Blair's face.

"Now," he said, "I want you to tell me exactly how this picture strikes you at first sight. You shall examine it closely and criticise it afterward. I ought to tell you that it has made the artist famous."

As he spoke, still keeping his eyes fixed upon Blair's face, he drew the curtain. Blair had not felt much interest in the proceedings, and expected to see some piece of artistic trickery, and so leant back to take it at his ease; when suddenly, as if the veil of the past had been rent asunder, there sprung upon his sight the picture of his Margaret lying on the rocks at Appleford; the exact representation of her death as he had pictured it, alas! how often!

Trembling and almost beside himself, he had forgotten the presence of the prince, who, mute as himself, stood with folded arras regarding him with a stern look.

"Does the picture please you, Lord Ferrers?" he said, and there was something ominous in his voice.

Blair started and turned to him.

"I – I beg your pardon. Yes, it is a marvelous picture. But there is something connected with it; I – " he sank into the chair and covered his face with his hands.

The prince stood regarding him in silence for a moment; then he drew the curtain over the picture and turned to Blair.

"My lord, you will understand why I showed you that picture. There need be not one word spoken between us in reference to it. Your face has told me all I want to know; my actions will explain my motives. Lord Ferrers will understand that if I treat him with discourtesy when we return to the company, that I do it to provide an excuse for our meeting to-morrow morning."

"Our meeting?" said Blair, who had scarcely listened to, and certainly had not understood, the prince's words.

Prince Rivani's face grew black.

"Lord Ferrers prefers to ruin women rather than fight with men! Ah, yes!"

Blair rose at once.

"I don't understand you," he said, quietly; "but if you wish to challenge me you need not be afraid that I shall decline. Why you should want to shoot me I scarcely know – "

"It is a lie!" hissed the prince, driven almost mad by what he considered Blair's prevarication.

"Thanks," said Blair, with a short nod. "At any rate, Prince Rivani, you have made it clear why I should shoot you!"

CHAPTER XXVII

Prince Rivani opened the door with a low bow, and the two men went back to the salon. The prince was pale but perfectly self possessed, and Blair very grave and quiet. The picture still floated before his eyes: the great black rock and the white, wan figure still stretched upon it, almost in the grasp of the cruel waves. His Margaret! Who could have painted it? And the prince had said that the picture had made the artist famous! He must find out that artist and get at the bottom of the mystery.

The salon was fuller than when he had left it, and he went and sat down in a quiet part of the room to wait until the prince had made some excuse for openly giving a reason for the duel of the morrow.

So he sat in his corner, outwardly calm and self-possessed, but thinking a great deal more of Margaret than the duel.

Presently Blair saw a tall, patrician man, with long hair and a beard, and the unmistakable air of an artist, enter the room, and absently noticed that he was instantly surrounded. He caught the name – it was Signor Alfero, the great artist; and scraps of the conversation floated to Blair's corner.

Suddenly he started. They were talking of the picture; he leaned forward and listened intently.

"What have you done with the masterpiece, prince?" Blair heard him ask.

"It is in my writing-room," said Prince Rivani.

"Oh, that is a pity! You should not deprive the world of a sight of its great treasures, mon prince."

"You still think as highly of Miss Leslie's picture, then, signor?" asked a gentleman.

"As highly? – more!" said the old man, turning promptly. "The more I see of it, the greater my astonishment grows that a woman so young could have painted a picture so old."

"So old?"

"Yes. We measure the age of a picture by the age of the thought it contains. There is a lifetime of suffering, and love, and despair in the face of the girl on that rock. Miss Leslie must have felt all that – ay, every heart-pang of it – before she could have painted it. It is – I repeat my verdict – a marvelous picture! She will, I trust, live to paint many other great ones; but never one that will go straighter to the heart than this."

"Where is Miss Leslie now?" asked another gentleman. "One sees and hears nothing of her."

"Because you do not go where she goes, signor. Miss Leslie is never seen in the promenade; you may drink your afternoon tea in all the palaces of Naples and not meet with her. But I venture to prophesy that if you will penetrate the slums of the city, the fever haunts, in which our poorest of the poor are awaiting the peace bringer, Death, you will find the great artist in their midst."

There was silence for a moment.

"Miss Leslie is a – philanthropist, then?" said the gentleman.

"She is a ministering angel," responded Signor Alfero, simply.

The prince stood by, white to the lips.

"What time she can spare from her work – and she works as hard as any seamstress in the city! – she spends amongst the poor. There is not a beggar in our streets who does not know her; not a blind man whose ears do not eagerly greet her footfall; not a sick child whose face does not 'lighten' at the sight of her smile. She is an artist – and an angel!" and the old man's lips quivered.

As if he could bear it no longer, the prince stood upright and approached Blair, his face white and set with the effort to suppress his thirst for vengeance.

"Referring to our discussion, Lord Ferrers," he said significantly, "are you still of opinion that we Italians have taken but a low place in the scale of nations?"

Blair started and looked up at him in surprise, then, understanding that the prince was going to make pretense of a quarrel, he replied:

"I cannot alter my opinion, even for so distinguished an Italian as Prince Rivani."

"That means that, as an Englishman, you regard us with contempt, my lord?"

Blair shrugged his shoulders.

"Your highness is at liberty to place any construction upon my words you please," he said.

"Thanks, my lord. Even if I assume that you charge us with cowardice?"

"Choose your own signification, prince," said Blair, beginning to grow warm, though it was only pretense.

"A nation of cowards!" said Prince Rivani, his eyes glittering at the success of the play. "That is a brave assertion; has the Earl of Ferrers courage to maintain it by the only consistent and appropriate argument?"

"I can maintain it at the sword's point, if necessary," said Blair, rising to his full height, and meeting the prince's deadly gaze with a steady, calm regard.

The prince bowed low, then turning slightly to the rest, said in a low, clear voice:

"Gentlemen, I call you to witness that the cause of quarrel is mine! Lord Ferrers has accused my country-men of a base and vile cowardice. I shall have the honor of defending them. As the Earl of Ferrers says, the argument is not one for words, but weapons! Is that so, my lord?"

"Your highness interprets me correctly," said Blair.

"Good! My friend, General Tralini, will have the honor of waiting upon your lordship at a later hour."

The prince drew him apart.

Blair got his crush hat and cloak, and approaching the prince, bowed low, then, with a general salutation, he left the room.

It was a lovely night, and the air blew upon his brow refreshingly, after the heat of the salon.

He paused outside the great doorway, and stood looking up at the sky – it was probable that it was the last time he would have the opportunity of seeing the stars.

Then he drew his cloak round him, and was going onward, when a woman, who had been coming down the street with her head bent and her face almost hidden in the thin shawl she hugged round her, stopped, and seeing him, held out her hand, murmuring something in broken Italian.

Blair stopped and looked at her absently; then he started, and taking her arm, drew her near a lamp.

"Lottie!" he said.

She flung her hands before her face and bent her head, almost as if she expected him to strike her.