MARGARET'S RETURN.
For some minutes Clement Austin lingered in the porch at Maudesley
Abbey, utterly at a loss as to what he should do next.
Margaret had left the Abbey an hour ago, according to the footman's
statement; but, in that case, where had she gone? Clement had been
walking up and down the road before the iron gates of the park, and
they had not been opened once during the hours in which he had waited
outside them. Margaret could not have left the park, therefore, by the
principal entrance. If she had gone away at all, she must have gone out
by one of the smaller gates—by the lodge-gate upon the Lisford Road,
perhaps, and thus back to Shorncliffe.
But then, why, in Heaven's name, had Margaret set out to walk home
when the fly was waiting for her at the gates; when her lover was also
waiting for her, full of anxiety to know the result of the step she had
taken?
"She forgot that I was waiting for her, perhaps," Clement thought to
himself. "She may have forgotten all about me, in the fearful
excitement of this night's work."
The young man was by no means pleased by this idea.
"Margaret can love me very little, in that case," he said to himself.
"My first thought, in any great crisis of my life, would be to go to
her, and tell her all that had happened to me."
There were no less than four different means of exit from the park.
Clement Austin knew this, and he knew that it would take him upwards of
two hours to go to all four of them.
"I'll make inquiries at the gate upon the Lisford Road," he said to
himself; "and if I find Margaret has left by that way, I can get the
fly round there, and pick her up between this and Shorncliffe. Poor
girl, in her ignorance of this neighbourhood, she has no idea of the
distance she will have to walk!"
Mr. Austin could not help feeling vexed by Margaret's conduct; but he
did all he could to save the girl from the fatigue she was likely to
entail upon herself through her own folly. He ran to the lodge upon the
Lisford Road, and asked the woman who kept it, if a lady had gone out
about an hour before.
The woman told him that a young lady had gone out an hour and a half
before.
This was enough. Clement ran across the park to the western entrance,
got into the fly, and told the man to drive back to Shorncliffe, by the
Lisford Road, as fast as he could go, and to look out on the way for
the young lady whom he had driven to Maudesley Abbey that afternoon.
"You watch the left side of the road, I'll watch the right," Clement
said.
The driver was cold and cross, but he was anxious to get back to
Shorncliffe, and he drove very fast.
Clement sat with the window down, and the frosty wind blowing full upon
his face as he looked out for Margaret.
But he reached Shorncliffe without having overtaken her, and the fly
crawled under the ponderous archway beneath which the dashing
mail-coaches had rolled in the days that were for ever gone.
"She must have got home before me," the cashier thought; "I shall find
her up-stairs with my mother."
He went up to the large room with the bow-window. The table in the
centre of the room was laid for dinner, and Mrs. Austin was nodding in
a great arm-chair near the fire, with the county newspaper in her lap.
The wax-candles were lighted, the crimson curtains were drawn before
the bow-window, and the room looked altogether very comfortable: but
there was no Margaret.
The widow started up at the sound of the opening of the door and her
son's hurried footsteps.
"Why, Clement," she cried, "how late you are! I seem to have been
sitting dozing here for full two hours; and the fire has been
replenished three times since the cloth was laid for dinner. What have
you been doing, my dear boy?"
Clement looked about him before he answered.
"Yes, I am very late, mother, I know," he said; "but where's Margaret?"
Mrs. Austin stared aghast at her son's question.
"Why, Margaret is with you, is she not?" she exclaimed.
"No, mother; I expected to find her here."
"Did you leave her, then?"
"No, not exactly; that is to say, I——"
Clement did not finish the sentence. He walked slowly up and down the
room thinking, whilst his mother watched him very anxiously.
"My dear Clement," Mrs. Austin exclaimed at last, "you really quite
alarm me. You set out this afternoon upon some mysterious expedition
with Margaret; and though I ask you both where you are going, you both
refuse to satisfy my very natural curiosity, and look as solemn as if
you were about to attend a funeral. Then, after ordering dinner for
seven o'clock, you keep it waiting nearly two hours; and you come in
without Margaret, and seem alarmed at not seeing her here. What does it
all mean, Clement?"
"I cannot tell you, mother."
"What! is this business of to-day, then, a part of your secret?"
"It is," answered the cashier. "I can only say again what I said
before, mother—trust me!"
The widow sighed, and shrugged her shoulders with a deprecating
gesture.
"I suppose I _must_ be satisfied, Clem," she said. "But this is the
first time there's ever been anything like a mystery between you and
me."
"It is, mother; and I hope it may be the last."
The elderly waiter, who remembered the coaching days, and pretended to
believe that the Reindeer was not an institution of the past, came in
presently with the first course.
It happened to be one of those days on which fish was to be had in
Shorncliffe; and the first course consisted of a pair of very small
soles and a large cruet-stand. The waiter removed the cover with as
lofty a flourish as if the small soles had been the noblest turbot that
ever made the glory of an aldermannic feast.
Clement seated himself at the dinner-table, in deference to his mother,
and went through the ceremony of dinner; but he scarcely ate half a
dozen mouthfuls. His ears were strained to hear the sound of Margaret's
footstep in the corridor without; and he rejected the waiter's
fish-sauces in a manner that almost wounded the feelings of that
functionary. His mind was racked by anxiety about the missing girl.
Had he passed her on the road? No, that was very improbable; for he had
kept so sharp a watch upon the lonely highway that it was more than
unlikely the familiar figure of her whom he looked for could have
escaped his eager eyes. Had Mr. Dunbar detained her at Maudesley Abbey
against her will? No, no, that was quite impossible; for the footman
had distinctly declared that he had seen his master's visitor leave the
house; and the footman's manner had been innocence itself.
The dinner-table was cleared by-and-by, and Mrs. Austin produced some
coloured wools, and a pair of ivory knitting-needles, and set to work
very quietly by the light of the tall wax-candles; but even she was
beginning to be uneasy at the absence of her son's betrothed wife.
"My dear Clement," she said at last, "I'm really growing quite uneasy
about Madge. How is it that you left her?"
Clement did not answer this question; but he got up and took his hat
from a side-table near the door.
"I'm uneasy about her absence too, mother," he said, "I'll go and look
for her."
He was leaving the room, but his mother called to him.
"Clement!" she cried, "you surely won't go out without your
greatcoat—upon such a bitter night as this, too!"
But Mr. Austin did not stop to listen to his mother's remonstrance; he
hurried out into the corridor, and shut the door of the room behind
him. He wanted to run away and look for Margaret, though he did not
know how or where to seek for her. Quiescence had become intolerable to
him. It was utterly impossible that he should sit calmly by the fire,
waiting for the coming of the girl he loved.
He was hurrying along the corridor, but he stopped abruptly, for a
well-known figure appeared upon the broad landing at the top of the
stairs. There was an archway at the end of the corridor, and a lamp
hung under the archway. By the light of this lamp, Clement Austin saw
Margaret Wilmot coming towards him slowly: as if she dragged herself
along by a painful effort, and would have been well content to sink
upon the carpeted floor and lie there helpless and inert.
Clement ran to meet her, with his face lighted up by that intense
delight which a man feels when some intolerable fear is suddenly lifted
off his mind.
"Margaret!" he cried; "thank God you have returned! Oh, my dear, if you
only knew what misery your conduct has caused me!"
He held out his arms, but, to his unutterable surprise, the girl
recoiled from him. She recoiled from him with a look of horror, and
shrank against the wall, as if her chief desire was to avoid the
slightest contact with her lover.
Clement was startled by the blank whiteness of her face, the fixed
stare of her dilated eyes. The January wind had blown her hair about
her forehead in loose disordered tresses; her shawl and dress were wet
with melted snow; but the cashier scarcely looked at these. He only saw
her face; his gaze was fascinated by the girl's awful pallor, and the
strange expression of her eyes.
"My darling," he said, "come into the parlour. My mother has been
almost as much alarmed as I have been. Come, Margaret; my poor girl, I
can see that this interview has been too much for you. Come, dear."
Once more he approached her, and again she shrank away from him,
dragging herself along against the wall, and with her eyes still fixed
in the same deathlike stare.
"Don't speak to me, Clement Austin," she cried; "don't approach me.
There is contamination in me. I am no fit associate for an honest man.
Don't come near me."
He would have gone to her, to clasp her in his arms, and comfort her
with soothing, tender words; but there was something in her eyes that
held him at bay, as if he had been rooted to the spot on which he
stood.
"Margaret!" he cried.
He followed her, but she still recoiled from him, and, as he held out
his hand to grasp her wrist, she slipped by him suddenly, and rushed
away towards the other end of the corridor.
Clement followed her; but she opened a door at the end of the passage,
and went into Mrs. Austin's room. The cashier heard the key turned
hurriedly in the lock, and he knew that Margaret Wilmot had locked
herself in. The room in which she slept was inside that occupied by
Mrs. Austin.
Clement stood for some moments almost paralyzed by what had happened.
Had he done wrong in seeking to bring about this interview between
Margaret Wilmot and Henry Dunbar? He began to think that he had been
most culpable. This impulsive and sensitive girl had seen her father's
assassin: and the horror of the meeting had been too much for her
impressionable nature, and had produced, for the time at least, a
fearful effect upon her over-wrought brain.
"I must appeal to my mother," Clement thought; "she alone can give me
any help in this business."
He hurried back to the sitting-room, and found his mother still
watching the rapid movements of her ivory knitting-needles. The
Reindeer was a well-built house, solid and old-fashioned, and listeners
lurking in the long passages had small chance of reaping much reward
for their pains unless they found a friendly keyhole.
Mrs. Austin looked up with an expression of surprise as her son
re-entered the room.
"I thought you had gone to look for Margaret," she said.
"There was no occasion to do so, mother; she has returned."
"Thank Heaven for that! I have been quite alarmed by her strange
absence."
"So have I, mother; but I am still more alarmed by her manner, now that
she has returned. I asked you just now to trust me, mother," said
Clement, very gravely. "It is my turn now to confide in you. The
business in which Margaret has been engaged this evening was of a most
painful nature—so painful that I am scarcely surprised by the effect
that it has produced on her sensitive mind. I want you to go to her,
mother. I want you to comfort my poor girl. She has locked herself in
her own room; but she will admit you, no doubt. Go to her, dear mother,
and try and quiet her excitement, while I go for a medical man."
"You think she is ill, then, Clement?"
"I don't know that, mother; but such violent emotion as she has
evidently endured might produce brain-fever. I'll go and look for a
doctor."
Clement hurried down to the hall of the hotel, while his mother went to
seek Margaret. He found the landlord, who directed him to the favourite
Shorncliffe medical man.
Luckily, Mr. Vincent, the surgeon, was at home. He received Clement
very cordially, put on his hat without five minutes delay, and
accompanied Margaret's lover back to the Reindeer.
"It is a case of mental excitement," Clement said. "There may be no
necessity for medical treatment; but I shall feel more comfortable when
you have seen this poor girl."
Clement conducted Mr. Vincent to the sitting-room, which was empty.
"I'll go and see how Miss Wilmot is now," the cashier said. The doctor
gave a scarcely perceptible start as he heard that name of Wilmot. The
murder of Joseph Wilmot had formed the subject of many a long
discussion amongst the towns-people at Shorncliffe, and the familiar
name struck the surgeon's ear.
"But what of that?" thought Mr. Vincent. "The name is not such a very
uncommon one."
Clement went to his mother's room and knocked softly at the door. The
widow came out to him presently.
"How is she now?" Clement asked.
"I can scarcely tell you. Her manner frightens me. She is lying on her
bed as motionless as if she were a corpse, and with her eyes fixed upon
the blank wall opposite to her. When I speak to her, she does not
answer me by so much as a look; but if I go near her she shivers, and
gives a long shuddering sigh. What does it all mean, Clement?"
"Heaven knows, mother. I can only tell you that she has gone through a
meeting which was certainly calculated to have considerable effect upon
her mind. But I had no idea that the effect would be anything like
this. Can the doctor come?"
"Yes; he had better come at once."
Clement returned to the sitting-room, and remained there while Mr.
Vincent went to see Margaret. To Poor Clement it seemed as if the
surgeon was absent nearly an hour, so intolerable was the anguish of
that interval of suspense.
At last, however, the creaking footstep of the medical man sounded in
the corridor. Clement hurried to the door to meet him.
"Well!" he cried, eagerly.
Mr. Vincent shook his head.
"It is a case in which my services can be of very little avail," he
said; "the young lady is suffering from some mental uneasiness, which
she refuses to communicate to her friends. If you could get her to talk
to you, she would no doubt be very much benefited. If she were an
ordinary person, she would cry, and the relief of tears would have a
most advantageous effect upon her mind. Our patient is by no means an
ordinary person She has a very strong will."
"Margaret has a strong will!" exclaimed Clement, with a look of
surprise; "why, she is gentleness itself."
"Very likely; but she has a will of iron, nevertheless. I implored her
to speak to me just now; the tone of her voice would have helped to
some slight diagnosis of her state; but I might as well have implored a
statue. She only shook her head slowly, and she never once looked at
me. However, I will send her a sedative draught, which had better be
taken immediately, and I'll look round in the morning."
Mr. Vincent left the Reindeer, and Clement went to his mother's room.
That loving mother was ready to sympathize with every trouble that
affected her only son. She came out of Margaret's room and went to meet
Clement.
"Is she still the same, mother?" he asked.
"Yes, quite the same. Would you like to see her?"
"Very much."
Mrs. Austin and her son went into the adjoining chamber. Margaret was
lying, dressed in the damp, draggled gown which she had worn that
afternoon, upon the outside of the bed. The dull stony look of her face
filled Clement's mind with an awful terror. He began to fear that she
was going mad.
He sat down upon a chair close by the bed, and watched her for some
moments in silence, while his mother stood by, scarcely less anxious
than himself.
Margaret's arm hung loosely by her side as lifeless in its attitude as
if it had belonged to the dead. Clement took the slender hand in his.
He had expected to find it dry and burning with feverish heat; but, to
his surprise, it was cold as ice.
"Margaret," he said, in a low earnest voice, "you know how dearly I
have loved and do love you; you know how entirely my happiness depends
upon yours; surely, my dear one, you will not refuse—you cannot be so
cruel as to keep your sorrow a secret from him who has so good a right
to share it? Speak to me, my darling. Remember what suffering you are
inflicting upon me by this cruel silence."
At last the hazel eyes lost their fixed look, and wandered for a moment
to Clement Austin's face.
"Have pity upon me," the girl said, in a hoarse unnatural voice; "have
compassion upon me, for I need man's mercy as well as the mercy of God.
Have some pity upon me, Clement Austin, and leave me; I will talk to
you to-morrow."
"You will tell me all that has happened?"
"I will talk to you to-morrow," answered Margaret, looking at her lover
with a white, inflexible face; "but leave me now; leave me, or I will
run out of this room, and away from this house. I shall go mad if I am
not left alone!"
Clement Austin rose from his seat near the bedside.
"I am going, Margaret," he said, in a tone of wounded feeling; "but I
leave you with a heavy heart. I did not think there would ever come a
time in which you would reject my sympathy."
"I will talk to you to-morrow," Margaret said, for the second time.
She spoke in a strange mechanical way, as if this had been a set speech
which she had arranged for herself.
Clement stood looking at her for some little time; but there was no
change either in her face or attitude, and the young man went slowly
and sorrowfully from the room.
"I leave her in your hands, mother," he said. "I know how tender and
true a friend she has in you; I leave her in your care, under
Providence. May Heaven have pity upon her and me!"