THE TRIALS OF MARGARET.
Margaret woke early the next morning, and lay wondering where she was.
Her eyes were used to opening on rose-flowered walls and mahogany
bed-posts. Here all was soft and white, no spot of colour anywhere. She
came to herself with a start, and yesterday with its happenings came
back to her. She sighed, and a little worried wrinkle came on her smooth
forehead. What a change, in a few short hours! Was all their peaceful,
dreamy life over, the life that suited both her and her uncle so
absolutely? They had been so happy! Was it over indeed? It seemed at
first as if she could not get up and face the cares of the day, under
the new conditions. Indolent by nature, Margaret dreaded change, and
above change unpleasantness; it seemed as if she might have plenty of
both. She rose and dressed in a despondent mood; but when her hair was
pinned up and her collar straight, she took herself to task. "I give you
three minutes!" she said, looking at herself in the glass. "If you can't
look cheerful by that time, you can go to bed again."
[Illustration: "AFTERWARDS SHE SALLIED OUT INTO THE GARDEN."]
The threat, or something else, carried the point, for it was an entirely
cheerful young woman who came into the library, with a rose for Uncle
John's buttonhole. Miss Montfort was already there, and responded with
sad sprightliness to Margaret's greeting. "Thank you, my dear! I was
just telling your uncle, it is a mere matter of form to ask if I have
slept. I seldom sleep, especially if I am up-stairs. The servants over
my head, it may be,--or if not that, I have the feeling of
insecurity,--stairs, you understand, in case of fire. Dear William had
my rooms fitted up on the ground floor. 'Sophronia,' he said, 'you must
sleep!' I suppose it is necessary, but I am so used to lying awake. Such
frightful noises in the walls, my dear John! Rats, I suppose? Has the
wainscoting been examined lately, in the room you have put me in? Not
that it matters in the least; I am the person in the world most easily
suited, I suppose. A cot, a corner, a crust, as William says, and I am
satisfied."
It took several crusts to satisfy Miss Sophronia at breakfast.
Afterwards she sallied out into the garden, where Mr. Montfort was
enjoying his morning cigar, with Margaret at his side. "You dear child,"
said the sprightly lady, "run now and amuse yourself, or attend to any
little duties you may have set yourself. So important, I always say, for
the young to be regular in everything they do. I am sure you agree with
me, dearest John. I will be your uncle's companion, my love; that is my
duty and my pleasure now. I must see your roses, John! No one in the
world loves roses as I do. What do you use for them? I have a recipe for
an infallible wash; I must give it to you, I must indeed."
Margaret went into the house; there was no place for her, for the lady
was leaning on Mr. Montfort's arm, chattering gaily in his ear. Margaret
was conscious of an unpleasant sensation which was entirely new to her.
She had always been with people she liked. Rita had often distressed
her, but still she was most lovable, with all her faults. Cousin
Sophronia was--not--lovable, the girl said to herself.
It was a relief to visit the kitchen, and find Frances beaming over her
bread-pan. The good woman hailed Margaret with delight, and received her
timid suggestions as to dinner with enthusiasm.
"Yes, Miss Margaret, I do think as a chicken-pie would be the very
thing. I've a couple of fowl in the house now, and what would you think
of putting in a bit of ham, miss?"
"Oh!" said Margaret. "Is that what you usually do, Frances? Then I am
sure it will be just right. And about a pudding; what do you think,
Frances? You know so many kinds of puddings, and they are all so good!"
Well, Frances had been thinking that if Miss Margaret should fancy
apple-fritters, Mr. Montfort was fond of them, and they had not had them
this month. And lemon-juice with them, or a little sugar and wine; which
did Miss Margaret think would be best? This was a delightful way of
keeping house; and after praising the bread, which was rising white and
light in the great pan, and poking the bubbles with her little finger,
and begging that she might be allowed to mix it some day soon, Margaret
went back in a better humour to the White Rooms, and sat down resolutely
to her buttonholes. There would be no walk this morning, evidently;
well, when she had done her hour's stint, she would go for a little
stroll by herself. After all, perhaps Uncle John would, when the
strangeness had worn off a little, enjoy having some one of his own age
to talk to; of course she was very young, too young to be much of a
companion. Still,--
Well, she would be cheerful and patient, and try to make things pleasant
so far as she could. And now she could only go and wish Uncle John
good-bye when he started for town, and perhaps walk to the station with
him, if he was going to walk.
While she sat sewing, glancing at the clock from time to time, Cousin
Sophronia came in, work-bag in hand.
"He is gone!" she said, cheerfully. "I saw him off at the gate. Dearest
John! Excellent, sterling John Montfort! Such a pleasure to be with him!
Such a joy to feel that I can make a home for him!"
"Gone!" echoed Margaret, looking up in dismay. "Why, surely it is not
train time!"
"An early train, my love," the lady explained. "Your dear uncle felt
obliged to start an hour earlier than usual, he explained to me. These
busy men! And how are you occupying yourself, my dear? Ah! buttonholes?
Most necessary! But, my love, you are working these the wrong way!"
"No, I think not," said Margaret. "This is the way I have always made
them, Cousin Sophronia."
"Wrong, my dear! Quite wrong, I assure you. Impossible to get a smooth
edge if you work them that way. Let me--h'm! yes! that is fairly even, I
confess; but the other way is the correct one, you must take my word for
it; and I will show you how, with pleasure. So important, I always say,
to do things just as they should be done!"
In vain Margaret protested that she understood the other way, but
preferred this. She finally, for quiet's sake, yielded, and pricked her
fingers, and made herself hot and cross, working the wrong way.
Miss Sophronia next began to cross-question her about Mrs. Cheriton's
last days. Such a saintly woman! Austere, some thought; perhaps not
always charitable--
"Oh!" cried Margaret, indignant. "Cousin Sophronia, you cannot have
known Aunt Faith at all. She was the very soul of charity; and as for
being austere--but it is evident you did not know her." She tried to
keep down her rising temper, with thoughts of the sweet, serene eyes
that had never met hers without a look of love.
"I knew her before you were born, my dear!" said Miss Sophronia, with a
slightly acid smile. "Oh, yes, I was intimately acquainted with dear
Aunt Faith. I have never thought it right to be blind to people's little
failings, no matter how much we love them. I always tell my brother
William, 'William, do not ask me to be blind! Ask me, expect me, to be
indulgent, to be devoted, to be self-sacrificing,--but not blind;
blindness is contrary to my nature, and you must not expect it.' Yes!
And--what was done with the clothes, my dear?"
"The clothes?" echoed Margaret. "Aunt Faith's clothes, do you mean,
Cousin Sophronia?"
"No. I meant the Montfort clothes; the heirlooms, my dear. But perhaps
you never saw them?"
"Oh, yes, I have seen them often," said Margaret. "They are in the cedar
chest, Cousin Sophronia, where they have always been. It is in the deep
closet there," she nodded towards an alcove at the other end of the
room.
Miss Sophronia rose with alacrity. "Ah! I think I will look them over.
Very valuable, some of those clothes are; quite unsuitable, I have
thought for some years, to have them under the charge of an aged person,
who could not in the course of nature be expected to see to them
properly. I fear I shall find them in a sad condition."
Her hand was already on the door, when Margaret was able to speak.
"Excuse me, Cousin Sophronia; the chest is locked."
"Very proper! Entirely proper!" cried the lady. "And you have the key?
That will not do, will it, my love? Too heavy for these dear young
shoulders, such a weight of responsibility! I will take entire charge of
this; not a word! It will be a pleasure! Where is the key, did you say,
love?"
"Uncle John has the key!" said Margaret, quietly; and blamed herself
severely for the pleasure she felt in saying it.
"Oh!" Miss Montfort paused, her hand on the door; for a moment she
seemed at a loss; but she went on again.
"Right, Margaret! Very right, my love! You felt yourself, or your uncle
felt for you, the unfitness of your having charge of such valuables.
Ahem! I--no doubt dear John will give me the key, as soon as I mention
it. I--I shall not speak of it at once; there is no hurry--except for
the danger of moth. An old house like Fernley is always riddled with
moth. I fear the clothes must be quite eaten away with them. Such a sad
pity! The accumulation of generations!"
Margaret hastened to assure her that the clothes were looked over
regularly once a month, and that no sign of moths had ever been found in
them. Miss Sophronia sighed and shook her head, and crocheted for some
minutes in silence; she was making a brown and yellow shoulder-shawl.
Margaret thought she had never seen a shawl so ugly.
"Has Cousin William Montfort any daughters?" she asked, presently,
thinking it her turn to bear some of the burden of entertainment.
"Four, my dear!" was the prompt reply. "Sweet girls! young, heedless,
perhaps not always considerate; but the sweetest girls in the world.
Amelia is just your age; what a companion she would be for you! Dear
Margaret! I must write to William, I positively must, and suggest his
asking you for a good long visit. Such a pleasure for you and for
Amelia! Not a word, my dear! I shall consider it a duty, a positive
duty! Amelia is thought to resemble me in many ways; she is the image
of what I was at her age. I am forming her; her mother is something of
an invalid, as I think I have told you. The older girls are away from
home just now,--they make a good many visits; I am always there, and
they feel that they can go. If they were at home, I should beg dear John
Montfort to invite Amelia here; such a pleasure for him, to have young
life in the house. But as it is, William must ask you. Consider it
settled, my love. A--what was done with Aunt Faith's jewels, my dear?
She had some fine pearls, I remember. Vanderdecken pearls they were
originally; I should hardly suppose Aunt Faith would have felt that she
had more than a life interest in them. And the great amethyst necklace;
did she ever show you her jewels, my love?"
Margaret blushed, and braced herself to meet the shock. "I have them,
Cousin Sophronia!" she said, meekly. "Aunt Faith wanted me to have all
her jewels, and she gave them to me before--before she died." Her voice
failed, and the tears rushed to her eyes. She was thinking of the frail,
white-clad figure bending over the ancient jewel-box, and taking out
the pearls. She heard the soft voice saying, "Your great-grandmother's
pearls, my Margaret; they are yours now. Wear them for me, and let me
have the pleasure of seeing them on your neck. You are my pearl,
Margaret; the only pearl I care for now." Dear, dearest Aunt Faith. Why
was she not here?
Before Miss Sophronia could recover her power of speech, a knock came at
the door.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Margaret!" said Elizabeth, putting her head in,
in answer to Margaret's "Come in!" "The butcher is here, miss, and
Frances thought perhaps, would you come out and see him, miss?"
"Certainly!" said Margaret, rising; but Miss Sophronia was too quick for
her.
"In a moment!" she cried, cheerfully. "Tell Frances I will be there in a
moment, Elizabeth! Altogether too much for you, dear Margaret, to have
so much care. _I_ cannot have too much care! It is what I live for; give
the household matters no further thought, I beg of you. You might be
setting your bureau drawers in order, if you like, while I am seeing
the butcher; I always look over Amelia's drawers once a week--"
She glided away, leaving Margaret white with anger. How was she to
endure this? She was nearly eighteen; she had taken care of herself ever
since she was seven, and had attained, or so she fancied, perfection, in
the matter of bureau-drawers, at the age of twelve. To have her precious
arrangements looked over, her boxes opened, her--oh, there could be,
there _was_ no reason why she should submit to this! She locked the
drawers quietly, one after the other, and put the key in her pocket. She
would be respectful; she would be civil always, and cordial when she
could, but she would not be imposed upon.
By the time Miss Sophronia came back, Margaret was composed, and greeted
her cousin with a pleasant smile; but this time it was the lady who was
agitated. She came hurrying in, her face red, her air perturbed.
"Insufferable!" she cried, as soon as the door was closed. "Margaret,
that woman is insufferable! She must leave at once."
"Woman! what woman, Cousin Sophronia?" asked Margaret, looking up in
amazement.
"That Frances! She--why, she is impertinent, Margaret. She insulted me;
insulted me grossly. I shall speak to John Montfort directly he returns.
She must go; I cannot stay in the house with her."
Go! Frances, who had been at Fernley twenty years; for whom the new
kitchen, now only fifteen years old, had been planned and arranged!
Margaret was struck dumb for a moment; but recovering herself, she tried
to soothe the angry lady, assuring her that Frances could not have meant
to be disrespectful; that she had a quick temper, but was so good and
faithful, and so attached to Uncle John; and so on. In another moment,
to her great discomfiture, Miss Sophronia burst into tears, declared
that she was alone in the world, that no one loved her or wanted her,
and that she was the most unhappy of women. Filled with remorseful pity,
Margaret bent over her, begging her not to cry. She brought a
smelling-bottle, and Miss Sophronia clutched it, sobbing, and told
Margaret she was an angelic child. "This--this is--a Vanderdecken
vinaigrette!" she said, between her sobs. "Did Eliza Vanderdecken give
you this, too? Very singular of Eliza! But she never had any sense of
fitness. Thank you my dear! I suffer--no living creature knows what I
suffer with my nerves. I--shall be better soon. Don't mind anything I
said; I must suffer, but it shall always be in silence, I always
maintain that. No one shall know; I never speak of it; I am the grave,
for silence. Do not--do not tell your uncle, Margaret, how you have seen
me suffer. Do not betray my momentary weakness!"
"Certainly not!" said Margaret, heartily. "I will not say a word, Cousin
Sophronia, of course!"
"He would wish to know!" said Miss Sophronia, smothering a sob into a
sigh. "John Montfort would be furious if he thought I was ill-treated,
and we were concealing it from him. He is a lion when once roused. Ah! I
should be sorry for that woman. But forgiveness is a duty, my dear, and
I forgive. See! I am myself again. Quite--" with a hysterical
giggle--"quite myself! I--I will take the vinaigrette to my room with
me, I think, my dear. Thank you! Dear Margaret! cherub child! how you
have comforted me!" She went, and Margaret heard her sniffing along the
entry; heard, and told herself she had no business to notice such
things; and went back rather ruefully to her buttonholes.