IN THE NIGHT.
"Quand on conspire, sans frayeur
Il faut se faire conspirateur;
Pour tout le monde il faut avoir
Perruque blonde, et collet noir!"
Peggy's injury proved to be slight, as she herself had declared, but the
jar had been considerable, and her head ached so that she was glad to be
put to bed and nursed by Margaret. Rita hovered about, still very pale,
and apparently much more disturbed by the accident than the actual
sufferer. She put many questions: Would Peggy be well to-morrow?
Probably still weak? Would it be necessary for her to remain in her room
this evening? In that case, what would Margaret do? Would she leave her
to Elizabeth's care, and come down as usual?
"Certainly not!" Margaret replied. "Elizabeth will stay with Peggy at
tea-time, but otherwise I shall not leave her. You don't mind staying
alone, Rita? Of course, there is not much to be done; Peggy is not ill
at all, only weak and tired, but she likes to have me with her. You will
not be lonely?"
No; Rita had letters to write. She should do very well. Desolated, of
course, without the two who were her soul and her existence; but
Margaret understood that she could not bear the sight of sickness; it
had been thus from infancy. Margaret nodded kindly, and went back into
Peggy's room, with an impression that Rita was pleased at having her out
of the way. Out of the way of what? But Margaret could not think about
mysteries now. Peggy wanted to talk, and to have her head stroked, and
to know that Margaret was near her.
"Your hand is so smooth, Margaret. I never felt anything like it; and
the smoothness and coolness seem to go into my head, and stop the
aching. Do you think this is being sick? If it is, I like it."
Margaret saw that the child was excited, and her eyes were overbright.
"No; this is not being sick," she said quietly. "But you ought to be
sleepy by this time, my pussy. Lie still now, like a good child, and I
will sing to you. Will you have the 'Bonny House o' Airlie?'"
But it was long before Peggy could be quieted. She wanted to talk. She
was full of reminiscences of former "croppers" in the lives of the
various members of her family. She wanted to tell how Jim was dragged by
the buffalo bull he was taming; how Pa caught the young grizzly by his
paws, and held him until George came with the rifle; how Brown Billy ran
away with her when she was six years old, and how she held on by his
mane till he lay down and rolled in the creek, and then swam ashore. Her
brain was feverishly excited, and it was not till late in the evening
that Margaret succeeded in singing and soothing the tired girl to sleep.
At length Peggy lay still, and her thoughts began to sink away into soft
dreams, lulled by the soft hand on her brow, and the smooth, sweet voice
in her ears. She opened her eyes to say, "I love you, Margaret; I love
you best, over and over, all the time. If I thought I didn't for a bit,
that was just because I was a stupid, and she--but now I know." And
Peggy smiled, and smiling, fell asleep.
Margaret sat still for a time, listening to the breathing that grew
deeper and more regular as the minutes went on. She had brought her own
bed across the hall, meaning to sleep with Peggy, in case of her waking
in the night; though that was hardly likely. It was ten o'clock now, and
Rita was probably asleep. She would go down for a moment to see that all
was well, and perhaps have a word with Elizabeth, if she were not gone
to bed. She went softly to the door, and turned the handle noiselessly.
The door was locked!
Greatly startled, Margaret stood motionless for a few minutes, thinking
and listening. At first all was still. Footsteps above her
head,--Elizabeth was going to bed; then the familiar creak of the good
woman's bed; then silence again. Rita's room was across the hall, and
she could hear no sound from there. Through the open window came the
soft night noises: the dew dripping from the chestnut leaves, a little
sleepy wind stirring the branches, a nut falling to the ground. How
still!
Hark! did a twig snap then? Was some one moving through the shrubbery,
brushing gently against the leaves? And then, as her heart stood still
to listen, Margaret heard a low, musical whistle. She stole to the
window, and standing in the shadow of the curtain, looked out. A light
was burning in her room, and at first she could see nothing but
blackness outside. Gradually, the outlines of the great chestnut stole
out from the empty darkness, a hard black against the soft gloom of the
night. Then the shrubbery behind; and then--was something moving there?
Were those two figures standing by the tree?
The whistle was repeated; and now Margaret heard the swift rustle of
silk brushing against her door, then fluttering from baluster to
baluster, as Rita sped down the stairs. A door opening softly, and now
three figures stood under the chestnut-tree. Words were whispered,
greetings exchanged; then the three figures stole away into the
blackness.
Margaret felt helpless for a moment. Locked in,--her cousin asleep here,
exhausted if not ill, and needing absolute quiet,--and going on
downstairs--what? She must know! She must call John Strong, and warn
him that her fears were realised, and that unwelcome visitors were
already at the doors of Fernley, perhaps already within. But how was it
possible? She ran to the window and looked down. Full twenty feet! To
jump was impossible; even Peggy could not have done it. Peggy! yes! but
Peggy could get out. Only the other night she had had a climbing frenzy,
and had slid down the gutter-spout, half for the joy of it, half to
tease Margaret, who was in terror till she reached the ground, and then
in greater terror when the young gymnast came "shinning" up again,
shouting and giggling. The spout! Margaret stood looking at it now. For
a moment her courage deserted her, and she wrung her hands and began to
sob under her breath; but this would not do! Her nerves knew the
resolute shake of the shoulders, and shrank into obedience. She set her
lips firmly, and there crept into her face a certain "dour" look that
may have come from her Scottish ancestors. "If a thing has to be done,
why, it must be done!" she said to herself. "Anyhow, there will be
solid ground at the bottom, not a quaking bog."
Could she do it? She had never climbed in her life. She had been wont to
grow dizzy on any great height; and here she reflected that she had
inwardly laughed at Rita, a few hours before, for growing dizzy at the
sight of blood. "But I have to learn so many lessons!" said poor
Margaret, and with that she laid her hand on the spout. A moment longer
she waited, but no longer in hesitation,--she was simply asking for
strength from One who had never refused it yet; then she clasped the
pipe with both hands, swung herself out as she had seen Peggy do, and
slid down, down, down.
Her hands were torn and bleeding, but she reached the ground in safety,
falling several feet, but escaping with a few bruises which she did not
feel at the time. She ran round the house toward the east wing, where
the gardener's room was, but stopped half-way. The door of the
ground-floor room, her uncle's private room, was open; a light was
burning inside. Possibly John Strong was himself on the watch, and she
need go no farther. Margaret turned hastily, entered the room,--and was
confronted by two young gentlemen in Spanish cloaks and broad-brimmed
hats.
Margaret's first impulse was to run away; her second, to stand and wait,
feeling that she was at a play, and that the next scene was going to be
very thrilling; but the third impulse was the right one, and she stepped
forward, holding out her hand.
"You are my Cousin Carlos, I am sure!" she said, addressing the taller
of the two lads (for they were only lads, she saw to her unspeakable
relief; the elder could not be more than twenty). "I am Margaret
Montfort. You--you have seen Rita?"
Don Carlos Montfort gasped and bowed, hat in hand. He and his companion
were evidently new to their role of conspirators, for they were
piteously ill at ease, and their dark eyes roamed about as if in search
of retreat; but he managed to say something about the distinguished
honour--a spare hour to visit his sister--delight at making the
acquaintance of a relative so charming,--here he stopped and looked over
his shoulder, for footsteps were heard, and he hoped Rita was coming.
Already he and his comrade were cursing themselves for having been asses
enough to be drawn into this scrape; why had they attended to a foolish
girl instead of going their own way? Now they were in a trap--was that
Rita coming?
The door of the secret staircase was open, showing which way the girl
had gone. But the steps that were now descending were heavy, though
quiet,--far different from the rush of an excited bird that had gone up
a moment before Margaret's appearance. They were to follow Rita,--she
went to light a candle. Ah! what was this?
The young men recoiled, and their dark eyes opened to their fullest
width; Margaret's hands came together with a violent clasp. Down the
narrow stair and into the room came a man in a black velvet jacket; a
tall man, with bright, dark eyes and a grave face. He held a candle in
his hand; he set it down, and turned to the two disconcerted Spaniards.
"My nephew," said Mr. Montfort, "I am glad to welcome you and your
friend to Fernley House. I am your Uncle John!"
Margaret was not conscious of any surprise. It seemed part of the play,
and as if she had known it all along, but had not been allowed to
realise it, for some dramatic reason. She saw John Strong--John
Montfort--shaking hands with the two unhappy young men, and trying to
put them at their ease by speaking of the bad roads and the poor
conveyances that were undoubtedly to blame for their arriving so late.
She saw and heard, but still as in a dream. Her real thought was for
Rita; what would she do? What desperate step might follow this
disconcerting of her cherished plan?
Unconsciously Margaret had moved forward, till now she stood the nearest
to the foot of the stairs. She looked up into the darkness, with some
thought of going to her cousin, telling her gently what had happened,
and quieting her so that she might come down and face the situation, and
meet her uncle. All at once, from that darkness above, a bright light
sprang up, and the same instant there rang out a wild and terrible
shriek.
"Help! Carlos, help! I burn!"
The three men started forward, but they were not the first. Margaret
was conscious of but a single movement as she flew up the stairs, never
stumbling, lighted by that fearful glare above. To spring into the
garret, to drag down the heavy old cloak--the same that once had
frightened the three girls on their first visit--that hung close by the
stairway, to fling herself upon Rita, throwing her down, muffling her,
smothering and beating out the flames that were leaping up toward the
girl's white, wild face,--all this was done in one breath, it seemed to
her. She knew nothing in the world but the fire she was fighting, the
little flames that, choked down in one place, came creeping out at her
from another, playing a dreadful hide-and-seek among the folds of the
cloak, starting up under her very hands; but Margaret caught them in her
hands, and strangled the life out of them, and fought on. It was but a
moment, in reality. Another second or two and the flames would have had
the mastery; but Margaret's swift rush had been in time, and the good
heavy cloak--oh, the blessed weight and closeness of its fabric!--had
shut out the air, so that by the time the last of the three anxious
pursuers had reached the garret, the fire was out, and only smoke and
charred woollen remained to tell of the terrible danger. Only these--and
the two hands, burned and blistered, that Margaret was holding out to
her uncle, as he bent anxiously over her.
"Don't be angry with her, Uncle!" cried the girl. And she knew nothing
more.