UNEXPECTED MEETING.
Margaret Walsingham kept her own state-room so exclusively that the passengers, many of whom had heard of the heroine of Castle Brand, had no opportunity of meeting her; and to all their overtures she responded with the same timid reserve, until it became a sort of ambition with the ladies to become the friends of so retiring a creature.
Her state-room became a morning resort of such of the fair dames as were impervious to sea-sickness; all kind, officious, and eager to be considered her intimates.
They found nothing very singular, however, in the quiet, sweet-faced girl to furnish an index of that bravery of which she had become celebrated, but they all agreed that they felt more charmed by her modesty and gentleness of demeanor than if she had the dash of an Amazonian queen.
There was one young lady who came in frequently with a talkative old dowager, and was wont to regard Margaret with keen but silent interest.
This young person, who was called "Dora dear," by old Mrs. de Courcy, and "Lady Dora," by the other ladies, was a peculiarly blooming, black-haired young damsel, whose eyes black as sloes, examined Margaret for several interviews with an eager and scarcely friendly scrutiny. But in the fourth visit Lady Dora threw off her reserve, and constituted herself Margaret's chosen friend.
The day before their arrival at New York she came into Margaret's room, and calmly shut the door as a hint to the stream of ladies who were following her down the narrow passage.
"There, that's done!" she said laughing genially, "and now maybe I'll be having you all to myself for a while without even a gossiping prig to be the wiser of what we say. So now, Miss Walsingham dear, give me room on the sofa there beside you, and well have a snug little chat together."
Margaret looked up at the pleasant, honest face, and made room as requested.
"Of course you don't know what this friendly move of mine is meaning at all. I'm an embassy from——no, that's wrong end first. There's a young man on board the steamer who is desperately in love with you, and, poor fellow, he's so worn to skin and bone about you that just to keep the body and soul of him together I've come to plead his case.
"He says to tell you that it's not unmanly of him to hanker after you now, seeing that circumstances have thrown you together without any of his seeking, and it looks as if this thing was foreordained to be. I'm afraid you'll say you're not, but don't if there's the ghost of a chance when I ask you—are you open to offers?"
"What does all this mean?" inquired Margaret, whose hands were being vehemently squeezed and patted by her Irish friend; "I have not even seen any gentleman since I came on board except my friend Mr. Davenport, and one occasion Colonel Calembours, who certainly did not appear to be reduced by any visible passion."
"Pooh! little beast, he's gambling all the time. No, it's not he; it's a brother of mine—there I've let the cat out of the bag, and I wasn't to do it. We'll drop that and begin at the other end. I understand all about your position in the Brand will, and I know exactly that you want to do the thing that's generous, and I hear that you are on your way to lay the whole of the fortune that you've been named heir for at the feet of St. Udo Brand, and then you'll turn round and earn your bread. Now, I say that that isn't the fate for a woman like you, and I'm here to tell this message. Give every spick and span of the property to Colonel Brand and then put these two dear hands in the outstretched hands of this lover of yours, and say you will be his since he loves you still—that's the message."
The warm-hearted girl threw her arms round Margaret and hugged her with equal strength and warmth.
"Who is this generous man?" asked Margaret, much touched.
"Wait until I set his excellencies fair and square before you. In the first place he's as steady a boy as ever put foot to ground, which nobody ever said of St. Udo Brand."
"Why compare him with St. Udo Brand?" asked Margaret, with a sudden flush overspreading her cheeks, vivid as carmine.
"Sure and is it St. Udo Brand I would compare with the likes of him!" exclaimed Lady Dora scornfully, "and is it you, mavourneen, that I see with the blush of shame on account of him? You don't mean to be so insane as to marry him, Miss Walsingham, darling?"
"I don't expect to marry him," answered Margaret, gravely.
"He's not worthy of you," cried Lady Dora, holding her off at arm's length and looking at her with dubious eyes. "I'll grant that he was a gallant soldier and a handsome man but he's old in sin, and it's not for you, my white dove, to nestle in the vulture's nest, and you won't—you won't!" snatching her to her bosom and straining her close.
"I will hear nothing against St. Udo Brand," said Margaret, withdrawing herself and standing erect so that the generous fire in her face and voice invested her splendid figure with a dignity most queen-like; "I cannot expect the world to believe in the true nobility of his character, but I know it. Desperate he may have been—reckless, scorning, but the crisis of his sinning has passed, and the man is noble still; and Heaven will bless immeasurably the woman who marries him."
She clasped her hands in her generous excitement, and stood, a resistless and passionate conqueror, confessing the greatness of her forgiveness for the first time.
"Faith, I see how it is that you haven't a thought for poor Alfred," sighed Lady Dora, looking at her with tears in her bright black eyes; "because of the fellow's misfortunes and on account of keeping his castle for him from another impostor who was worse than himself, you have fallen in love with St. Udo Brand in spite of his evil reputation."
"I would give up anything—my life—to make amends to Colonel Brand for the misfortunes I have brought upon him," said Margaret, with burning cheeks and distressed eyes, "but I never expect, or wish him to prize my love. I owe him much, for being the marplot of his life"—she paused, and the tears rolled sadly down her cheeks—"but I never dreamed—not once, that he would care for my love!"
"A better man cares for your love then," retorted Lady Dora, "and it's not throwing yourself away you would be if you gave it. Now, Miss Walsingham, darling, won't you take a friend's advice and wear a ducal coronet? Won't you have me for a sister?"
"Your brother does me too much honor to propose such a thing," returned Margaret, simply.
"Not a bit of it! I'll tell you candidly I thought so myself at first, and that's why I was so long in making up to you, for a simpleton as I was, and poor Alfred tearing at me every day. But I couldn't help liking you at the last, mavourneen, and I'd be the happiest woman in the three kingdoms to call you the Duchess of Piermont, and—there, it's out!"
Margaret gazed in considerable surprise at her enthusiastic friend.
"I had not heard that the Duke of Piermont had a sister," she faltered; "I am altogether astonished that you should advocate such a union—of course you are aware that I have not a drop of noble blood in my veins."
"Alfred says you have?" rejoined the lady, laughing enjoyably at her evident astonishment; "he has told me as often as there are legs on a centipede that you're the noblest woman he ever met in all his born days. And you must know that Alfred is a boy of penetration; he has been years on years traveling and doing every London season, (he's got rid of his Irish tongue entirely—more shame to him)! and he has had plenty to choose from. And I'm quite willing to take his taste in the matter of the duchess of our house, dear, so you can't ever fling up to me that I didn't welcome you body and bones, mavourneen."
"Is his grace on board then?"
"Yes. The boy has been in shockingly low spirits for some time, and I made him shut up bonny Glenfarron House, and take me out to America for a tour; and sure I found that we had left the old sod and its troubles, to accompany the trouble across the water. We hadn't been a day on board until he was thrown into lockjaw, or fits, by that little vision of a Chevalier, or whatever they call him, jabbering about Miss Walsingham; and since then it's a queer life I've led walking the deck, under the stars, with him, for all the world as if he was my lover, only that his talk's about you. I'll tell you what it is, Miss Margaret, darling! he's bound to you, body and soul, and I'll think it a burning shame if you turn from him to any other man that breathes."
"I thank you both for this generous proposal," murmured Margaret. "But what I told him before, I can only repeat now—our paths lie in different directions, and cannot be brought together. Let him keep to his higher station, as I intend to keep to my lower one."
"A fig for all the stations in Christendom! The boy doesn't care that for them," snapping her fingers. "He wouldn't look at Lady Juliana Ducie, although she was as good as offered to him by the old marquis two or three times. But Alfred is a boy of old-fashioned notions, and won't look at a pretty face, though backed by lands and titles, that can't show him something better than that. Faith! I thought the boy was demented when he told me that the lovely Juliana Ducie, that everybody was so pleased at, was a 'false-tongued, smooth-faced hypocrite, who would ruin her best friend for her own advantage.' I was sure enough he'd have to eat his own words some time, but sure, now, what will ye say to hear that he was right?
"Didn't the minx, thinking the impostor who went to Seven-Oak was the colonel, try to renew her engagement, and did it, too. And didn't the old marquis come home from yachting, at Southampton, to find my lady in receipt of a letter from the jail-bird, which he insisted on seeing, as she was in hysterics over it? And wasn't my fine gentleman bidding his 'dear little Julie' good-by, as circumstances over which he had no control—an unavoidable engagement—had sent him to the Canterbury jail for a season. And if she still entertained the idea of an elopement, would she meet him on board the convict-ship which took him back to Tasmania? Or, failing that, had she any objections to come and see his hanging, which was the only entertainment of a public character he could ever hope to afford her?'
"Fancy my dainty lady's feelings at getting a letter like that! And from the man whom she was so anxious to marry! Why, everybody's laughing at her folly; and her father is so angry that he has carried her off to Hautville Park for the rest of the winter, to hide her until he is less ashamed of her.
"Now, don't you see how penetrating Alfred was, to find her shallowness out when she was trying her best to captivate him? He's the best brother in the world—the wisest and the kindest; and I wish you agreed with me, my darling, and would send me to the poor, quaking fellow with the word he longs to hear."
"He deserves the love of a good wife," answered Margaret, with tears in her eyes. "But, dear Lady Dora, indeed I cannot marry him. Had all other things been equal, I do not love him as well as he ought to be loved."
"That's enough, then," rejoined Lady Dora, rising wrathfully; "and if it's for the reason that ye've stated ye find it in your heart to be so hard, I'll not be grieving for me boy's sake, but for your own, with what's before ye, whether ye know it or not, with a man that'll find a way to break your heart for ye, hard as it is."
Having finished with some tearful quaverings, she rushed out of the state-room, and the conference was at an end.
Poor Margaret, with her usual humility felt much distressed at this unexpected episode, and cast about anxiously in her mind how she could best soothe the wounded feelings of the young duke and his warm-hearted sister. But she did not meet them until the next day, as they were steaming up the Narrows within sight of New York.
While Margaret, with Davenport by her side, stood on the crowded quarter-deck, gazing at the beautiful city which was now the shrine of her devotion, the Duke of Piermont stood not far away among the throng of passengers, gazing, with his yearning love plainly speaking in his eyes, at the woman who had decreed to him his fate.
He did not attempt to come near her, nor did he yield to the wrathful twitch of Lady Dora, who wished to keep him away from such a stony-hearted enslaver; but, with envious looks, watched the changes come and go on that face, which seemed to him purer and more lofty than he had ever beheld on earth.
"Sacre!" rasped Calembours, touching Davenport's elbow. "There is a man who must be, as you call it, 'smashed,' by your ward. They say he is the young duke, par dieu. I hope he will not be the fiance of mademoiselle, instead of my camarade."
The next moment Margaret, glancing for a moment that way, saw his grace, and started forward, with a frank look of pleasure beaming in her eyes.
"I would have regretted deeply missing this pleasure," she said, meeting the brother and sister half way. "You have both been so kind to me—so kind!"—with a look of deep and gentle gratitude toward his grace—"that I can scarcely express my sense and appreciation of it."
A mortal pallor had overspread the young man's face. His hand trembled as it touched hers, and his tongue trembled, too, when he essayed to speak.
"I would have known Miss Walsingham among a thousand, and yet illness and trials have robbed her even of the delicate roses she possessed. I—I think she is more frail than, perhaps, she is apt to imagine."
"Your grace is considerably changed, too. Have you been ill?"
He turned and looked imploringly at his sister, who was wringing Margaret's hand, and patting it in a very ardent manner.
"You don't deserve me to speak to you," said Lady Dora, in a vehement sotto voce. "So I'll be looking for my opera-glass down below, while you have a chat with the boy."
Away she tripped with all haste, leaving Margaret standing silent by the side of her admirer.
"Will you honor me with a word or two?" faltered his grace. "Perhaps you will not object to walking with me where there is less of a crowd."
"I pray you not to enter again upon a subject which I thought was at an end," murmured Margaret, reluctantly pacing the long deck with him, followed by the chevalier's jealous eyes.
"Circumstances have thrown us together again so strangely," returned the young man, leaning in a dejected attitude across the taffrail, "that I could not resist the hope that entered my mind of being more successful this time. You wished me not to seek you out, and I have been firm in obeying you, hard as it was to avoid your vicinity while all these extraordinary trials were besetting you. Oh, Miss Walsingham, how I have longed to take you away from the miserable position in which that will has plunged you, and to guard you with my name and love from what you have suffered! But I did not seek you because you had exacted from me a promise to leave you unmolested. But, now, has not heaven thrown us together in the most marked manner by sending us three thousand miles across the sea in the same steamer? It seems as if we were destined for each other, does it not? And that Providence is pointing out, for the second time, the path we ought to pursue?"
"There is one obstacle to your grace's rather superstitious fancy," rejoined Margaret, "one which Providence is not likely to overlook. I do not entertain for your grace that regard which Heaven has decreed should be between husband and wife, and if Lady Dora has rightly reported our interview of yesterday, you know that such a regard is out of the question."
Piermont bowed his head on his hands and bore his disappointment in silence.
"I am glad that I have had this opportunity," resumed Margaret, in a gentle voice, "of thanking you again for the generous love you offer me—a love which the noblest lady would be richly honored in receiving, and though I must refuse it, it is with a keen appreciation of its value. I shall always remember your grace with gratitude—ay, with affectionate solicitude, and your whole-souled sister also."
"I wish you every happiness," muttered the young man, lifting his haggard face and trying to smile; "and may your love be placed upon a man worthy to receive it. But, beloved Miss Walsingham, if ever circumstances throw you free and untrammeled upon the world, and if you can send one thought of affection to me, give me a chance to try my fate a third time."
He pressed her hand for a moment to his fond and foolish heart, which was throbbing like to burst for the simple girl before him, and then he went away.
"By gar!" ejaculated the chevalier, plucking Davenport's sleeve, "the tete-a-tete has broken its neck off short—so, in the middle. Here comes a man all ready for a dose of prussic acid, or a duel with his rival. Bravo, mademoiselle! You are one trump to stick to the colonel, and to send the coronet away. And there is the charmante demoiselle with the black eyes; see how she does pounce upon our duke and walk him away. Aha, you don't like it, miladi, do you? Would you not love to pull the eyes out of Mademoiselle Marguerite with those pretty leetle nails?"