THE VOICE OF FERNLEY.
From that night, Susan D. was Margaret's friend and true lover.
She followed her round in the hope of being able to do some little
service of love. She brought her flowers, and hunted the fields for the
largest and finest berries for her. At any hour of the day, Margaret
might feel a little hot hand slide into hers and deposit a handful of
warm, moist raspberries or blueberries. Sometimes this bred trouble, as
when Merton waylaid his sister, and wrested the hard-won treasures from
her for his own refreshment; with the result of shrieks and scuffling,
and a final thrashing from his elder brother; or, as when Cousin
Sophronia detected the child sidling along with closed palm, and
demanded to see what she had. Susan D. resisted stoutly, till at
length, yielding to superior strength, she threw the berries on the
floor, and trampled them into the carpet. There was a good deal of this
kind of thing; but still the change was a blessed one, and Margaret,
when she met the beaming look of love in the child's face, and
remembered the suspicious scowl that had greeted her only so few days
ago, was most thankful, and felt it to be worth any amount of trouble,
even to taking the spots out of the carpet, which was a hard thing to
do.
"I told you!" said Basil, smiling superior. "I told you, once you got
inside, you'd find the kid not at all so bad. I say, Cousin Margaret,
you're not a fraidcat, are you?"
"A what, Basil?"
"A fraidcat! Don't you know what a fraidcat is, Cousin Margaret? Seems
to me you didn't learn many modern expressions when you were a little
girl, did you?"
"Really, Basil, I think I learned all that were necessary," said
Margaret, laughing. "I did not learn slang, certainly, nor boy-jargon,
and I don't care to take lessons, thank you. Don't you think good,
plain English is good enough?"
"Oh, well, it sounds all right from you, 'cause you are you, and you
wouldn't match yourself if you didn't talk that way, I suppose. But it
would sound silly for a boy to go on so, don't you see?"
"I am afraid I don't see very well, Basil, but no matter. The things I
am afraid of are spiders and caterpillars and cows! Is that what you
wanted to know?"
"N--not exactly!" said the boy; "but no matter, Cousin Margaret. You
haven't got a ball of twine, have you? Oh, yes, please! Thank you, that
is just exactly what I wanted. You always know where things are, don't
you? That's bully!"
The children had been very good for the last few days; singularly good,
Margaret thought, as she sat on the verandah in the pleasant twilight,
reviewing the day's doings, and wondering what happy day would bring
Uncle John back to her. Certainly, he would find a good deal of
improvement. Merton had not run away since his experience in the bog;
Susan D. was won, and Basil grew more and more helpful and considerate.
More than that, the children, all three of them, seemed to have quieted
down of their own accord. At this hour, they were generally shouting and
screaming, racing over the grass, or tumbling headlong from the trees,
keeping Margaret in a constant state of terror, and Cousin Sophronia in
one of peevish irritation and alarm. But now they had gone of their own
will to the summer-house, saying that they were going to tell stories,
and see how quiet they could be. They were quiet, indeed, for she could
not even hear their voices. Cousin Sophronia, coming out with an
inquiry, became instantly suspicious, and declared she must go and see
what they were about; but Margaret begged her to wait a little. "They
can do no harm in the summer-house!" she said. "And--Uncle John thought
we would better let them alone a good deal, Cousin Sophronia."
"My love," said the lady, seating herself, and folding her hands for a
good talk, "your Uncle John is a babe, simply a babe in these matters.
Even if he knew anything about children,--which he does not,--it would
be my duty, my positive duty, to shield him from all anxieties of this
kind. Why else did I come here, my love, except for this very thing?"
"Did you, then, know that Cousin Anthony wished to send the children?"
asked Margaret, perhaps not without a spice of gentle malice.
"Ahem! No, not precisely, my love! But--but it was my firm resolve to
protect dearest John from every species of annoyance. Every species, my
dear! John Montfort--good gracious! What is that?" She started to her
feet, and Margaret followed her example. A sound seemed to pass them in
the air; a strange sound, something between a sigh and a moan. It
swelled for a moment, then died away among the trees beyond the
verandah. Miss Sophronia clutched Margaret's arm. "You--you made that
noise?" she whispered. "Say it was you, Margaret!"
"Indeed, it was not I, Cousin Sophronia!" said Margaret. "It must have
been a sudden gust of wind. It is gone now; it must surely have been
the wind. Shall I bring you a wrap? Do you feel chilly?"
Miss Sophronia still held her arm. "No, no! Don't go!" she said. "I--I
feel rather nervous to-night, I think. Nerves! Yes, no one knows what I
suffer. If you had any idea what my nights are-- You may be right, my
dear, about the wind. It is a misfortune, I always say, to have such
exquisite sensibility. The expression is not my own, my love, it is
Doctor Soper's. Shall we go into the house, and light the lamps? So much
more cheerful, I always think, than this dreary twilight."
Margaret hesitated a moment. The evening was very warm, and once in the
house, her cousin would be sure to shut all the windows and draw the
curtains. Still, she must not be selfish--
"If I join you in a few minutes, Cousin Sophronia?" she said. "The
children--I suppose it is time for them to come in. I will just go down
to the summer-house and see--"
The sentence remained unfinished; for at that moment, almost close
beside them, arose the strange moaning sound once more. This time Miss
Sophronia shrieked aloud. "Come!" she cried, dragging Margaret towards
the house. "Come in this moment! It is the Voice! The Voice of Fernley.
I will not stay here; I will not go in alone. Come with me, Margaret!"
She was trembling from head to foot, and even Margaret, who was not
timid about such matters, felt slightly disturbed. Was this some trick
of the children? She must go and hunt them up, naughty little things.
Ah! What was that, moving in the dusk? It was almost entirely dark now,
but something was certainly coming up the gravel walk, something that
glimmered white against the black box-hedges. Miss Sophronia uttered
another piercing shriek, and would have fled, but Margaret detained her.
"Who is that?" said the girl. "Basil, is that you? Where are the other
children?"
The white figure advanced; it was tall and slender, and seemed to have
no head. Miss Sophronia moaned, and cowered down at Margaret's side.
"I beg pardon!" said a deep, cheerful voice. "I hope nothing is wrong.
It is only I, Miss Montfort,--Gerald Merryweather."
Only a tall youth in white flannels; yet, at that moment, no one, save
Uncle John himself, could have been more welcome, Margaret thought. "Oh,
Mr. Merryweather," she said, "I am so glad to see you! No, nothing is
wrong, I hope; that is--won't you come up on the verandah? My
cousin--Cousin Sophronia, let me present Mr. Merryweather."
Mr. Merryweather advanced, bowing politely to the darkness; when, to his
amazement, the person to whom he was to pay his respects sprang forward,
and clutched him violently.
"You--you--you abominable young man!" cried Miss Sophronia, shrilly.
"You made that noise; you know you made it, to annoy me! Don't tell me
you did not! Get away from here this instant, you--you--impostor!"
Margaret was struck dumb for an instant, and before she could speak,
Gerald Merryweather was replying, quietly, as if he had been throttled
every day of his life:
"If choking is your object, madam, you can do it better by pulling the
other way, I would suggest. By pulling in this direction, you see, you
only injure the textile fabric, and leave the _corpus delicti_
comparatively unharmed."
He stood perfectly still; Miss Sophronia still clutched and shook him,
muttering inarticulately; but now Margaret seized and dragged her off by
main force. "Cousin Sophronia!" she cried. "How can you--what can you be
thinking of? This is Mr. Merryweather, I tell you, the son of Uncle
John's old schoolmate. Uncle John asked him to call. I am sure you are
not well, or have made some singular mistake."
"I don't believe a word of it!" said Miss Sophronia. "Not one single
word! What was he making that noise for, I should like to know?"
Mr. Merryweather answered with a calm which he was far from feeling. His
pet necktie was probably ruined, his collar crumpled, very likely his
coat torn. He had taken pains with his toilet, and now he had been set
upon and harried, by some one he had never seen, but whom he felt sure
to be the Gorgon who had glared at him out the window several days
before. This was a horrid old lady; he saw no reason why he should be
attacked in the night by horrid old ladies, when he was behaving
beautifully.
"I am sorry!" he said, rather stiffly. "I was not conscious of speaking
loud. Miss Montfort asked who it was, and I told her. If I have offended
_her_, I am ready to apologise--and withdraw."
This sounded theatrical, it occurred to him; but then, the whole scene
was fit for the variety stage. Poor Margaret felt a moment of despair.
What should she do?
"Mr. Merryweather," she said, aloud, "Miss Montfort has been much
startled. Just before you came, we heard a noise; rather a strange
noise, which we could not account for. I think her nerves are somewhat
shaken. She will be better in a moment. And--and I was just going to the
summer-house, to call the children. Would you come with me, I wonder?"
Miss Sophronia clamoured that she could not be left alone, but for once
Margaret was deaf to her appeals. She was too angry; her guest--that
is, her uncle's guest--to be set upon and shaken, as if he were a
naughty child caught stealing apples,--it was too shameful! He would
think they were all out of their senses.
"Oh, I am so sorry! So sorry!" she found herself saying aloud. "Mr.
Merryweather, I am so mortified, so ashamed! What can I say to you?"
"Say!" said Gerald, his stiffness gone in an instant. "Don't say
anything, Miss Montfort. I--I don't mean that; I mean, there's nothing
_to_ say, don't you know? Why, it wasn't your fault! Who ever thought of
its being your fault?"
"I ought to have recognised you sooner!" said Margaret. "It was pretty
dark, and we had really been startled, and my cousin is very nervous. If
you would _please_ overlook it this time I should be so grateful!"
"Oh, I _say_!" cried the young man. "Miss Montfort, if you go on in this
way, I shall go back and ask the old--and ask the lady to choke me some
more. I--I _like_ being choked! I like anything; only don't go on so!
Why, it isn't any matter in the world. Perhaps it relieved her feelings
a bit; and it didn't do me any harm." He felt of his necktie, and
settled his collar as well as he could, thankful for the friendly
darkness. "Indeed, I am all right!" he assured her, earnestly. "Trivets
aren't a circumstance to me, as far as rightness is concerned. Now if
you'll forget all about it, Miss Montfort, please, I shall be as happy
as the bounding roe,--or the circumflittergating cockchafer!" he added,
as a large June-bug buzzed past him.
"You are very good!" murmured Margaret. "I am sure--but here is the
summer-house. Children, are you here? Basil! Susan D.!"
No answer came. The frogs chirped peacefully, the brook at the foot of
the garden sent up its soft, bubbling murmur; there was no other sound.
It was very dark, for the trees were thick overhead. The fireflies
flitted hither and thither, gleaming amid the thickets of honeysuckle
and lilac; the young man's figure beside her glimmered faintly in the
darkness, but there was no glimpse of Susan D.'s white frock, or
Basil's white head.
"Children!" cried Margaret again. "Don't play any tricks, dears! It is
bedtime, and after, and you must come in. Susan, Cousin wants you,
dear!"
Silence; not a rustle, not a whisper.
"I should suppose they had gone," said Gerald. "Or do you think they are
playing hookey? Wait a minute, and I'll hunt around."
But search availed nothing; the children were not in the summer-house,
nor near it. "They must have gone back to the house," said Margaret.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Merryweather. I am sorry to have given you all
this trouble for nothing."
"Oh, trouble!" said Gerald. "This isn't my idea of trouble, Miss
Montfort. What a pretty place this is! Awfully--I mean, extremely
pretty."
"It is pretty in the daytime. I should hardly think you could see
anything now, it is so dark."
"Well, yes, it is dark; but I mean it seems such a pleasant place to
sit and rest in a little. Hadn't you better sit and rest a minute, Miss
Montfort? The children are all right, you may be sure. Gone to bed, most
likely, like good little kids. I--I often went to bed, when I was a
kid."
Margaret could not help laughing; nevertheless, she turned decidedly
towards the house. "I am afraid I cannot be sure of their having gone to
bed," she said. "I think I must find them, Mr. Merryweather, but if you
are tired, you shall rest on the verandah while I hunt."
Gerald did not want to rest on the verandah, particularly if his recent
assailant were still there. He wanted to stay here in the garden. He
liked the fireflies, and the frogs; the murmur of the brook, and the
soft voice speaking out of the darkness. He thought this was a very nice
girl; he wished she would not be so uneasy about those tiresome
youngsters. However, as there seemed to be no help for it, he followed
Margaret in silence up the gravel walk. She need not hurry so, he
thought; it was very early, not half past eight yet. He wanted to make
his call; he couldn't dress up like this every night; and, besides, it
was a question whether he could ever wear this shirt again by daylight.
Miss Sophronia was not on the verandah.
"Will you not come in?" asked Margaret at the door; but Gerald felt,
rather than heard, the uneasiness in her voice, and decided, much
against his inclination, that it would be better manners to say good
night and take himself off.
"I think I must be going," he had begun already, when, from the open
door behind them, burst a long, low, melancholy wail. The girl started
violently. The young man bent his ear in swift attention. The voice--the
cry--trembled on the air, swelled to a shriek; then died slowly away
into a dreary whisper, and was gone.
Before either of the young people could speak, the library door was
flung open, and a wild figure came flying out. Miss Sophronia threw
herself once more upon Gerald, and clung to him with the energy of
desperation. "My dear young man!" cried the distracted lady. "Save me!
Protect me! I knew your father! I was at school with your
mother,--Miranda Cheerley. Save me,--hold me! Do not desert me! You are
my only hope!"
It was past nine o'clock when Gerald Merryweather finally took his
departure. The children had been discovered,--in bed, and apparently
asleep. Three neatly folded piles of clothes showed at least that they
had gone to bed in a proper and reasonable manner. Miss Sophronia
Montfort had finally been quieted, by soothing words and promises,
followed up by hot malted milk and checkerberry cordial, the latter
grimly administered by Frances, and so strong that it made the poor lady
sneeze. Margaret was to sleep with her; Gerald was to come the next
morning to see how she was; meanwhile, Frances and Elizabeth, the latter
badly frightened, the former entirely cool and self-possessed, were to
sleep in the front chamber, and be at hand in case of any untoward
event.
There was nothing further to be done save to shake hands warmly with
Margaret, submit to an embrace from Miss Sophronia, and go. Mr.
Merryweather strode slowly down the garden path, looking back now and
then at the house, where already the lights on the lower floor were
being extinguished one by one.
"That's a very nice girl!" he murmured. "Hildegarde would approve of
that girl, I know. But on the other hand, my son, that is a horrid old
lady. I should like--Jerry, my blessed infant, I _should_ like--to make
that old lady run!" He turned for a final glance at the house;
considered the advisability of turning a handspring; remembered his
white flannels, and, with a bow to the corner window, was gone in the
darkness.