MAGGIE HAD BEEN disappointed by her failure to speak privately with Miss Haversham all the day on Sunday, and the departure of the guests being set for early on the following day, she had not much hopes of another tête-à-tête before her friend left Essex. Determined to try to get her alone, however, she rose early on Monday, and by eight o’clock was dressed and going down the stairs. She saw at once that Blanche Haversham was occupied variously by her patient and the patient’s sister, endeavoring to satisfy the demands of one, and fending off the ineffectual assistance of the other. But Blanche had the matter equally in her own mind, and glanced up at Maggie as she came into the breakfast room as if to say—“Only wait a little, if you will. I shall soon have done here, and then we shall be alone for a moment.”
Time passed, however, without an opening, and the carriages were driven up before the door. Ladies and gentlemen, exclaiming at some forgotten item or rushing back and forth to say their farewells, were soon disposed within, and the last of the guests were filing out of the doorway when Miss Haversham at last drew Maggie aside.
“Shall you be in London soon?” she inquired softly, with a gloved hand upon the other’s arm.
“Within a week, I believe—but that depends upon Lady Ramblay’s mood!” responded Maggie.
“Oh, indeed—never mind about her, my dear. I think her bite is not half so painful as her bark. Only try to ignore her as much as possible, and continue to be as civil as you have been. Shall you stay in Grosvenor Square? Good—for my house is in Grove Street, just off Berkeley Square. We shall see each other often. As to that other matter——”
But Miss Haversham broke off and glanced at Lord Ramblay, who was bidding his guests good-bye some distance from where they stood.
“Never mind, my dear friend. I shall tell you more about it when we are at leisure in Town. And, Maggie——”
“Yes?”
“Have a care of your cousin. I believe he is not as happy as he deserves to be.”
And with these astonishing words, spoken in a confidential murmur, Blanche Haversham smiled and turned away, and in a moment was out the door. Maggie stood perfectly still staring after her in amazement.
The departure of the hunting party left the castle empty and echoing with the sounds of their laughter. The prospect of spending the next week alone with her cousins in that vast building did little to cheer Maggie, who wandered disconsolately from room to room in search of some occupation. No one was about, for Lady Ramblay was still in her room, her daughter upstairs with her tutors, and the Viscount, when his guests had left, retired immediately to his study saying he had work to do. He had not gone, however, before hinting that Maggie might do well to spend an hour or two practicing her music. This hint was not lost upon her, and indeed the truth of the matter was that her cousin’s very perception annoyed her. There is nothing so calculated to raise our antagonism as a person who knows our faults, especially if that person be of the opposite sex and very handsome.
With a little flush of anger, therefore, she spent half an hour in pursuit of every other occupation she could think of. But the lower rooms of the castle, without any other occupants, proved barren of amusements, and after toying for a little with a novel, she finally threw it down and with a resigned look went into the music room. There she labored for an hour diligently, but at last she could bear it no more. Her natural energy and usual manner of living had made her require constant occupation. She was not one to sit idly by the hour gazing into space, and even the most interesting diversion wearied her after an hour or two. The day was very crisp and fine. She glanced repeatedly out of the windows, longing for a walk or some other exercise. At length, determining upon an exploration of the grounds, she ran up to her apartments to fetch a cloak and bonnet. Very soon she was striding down a path that led between two banks of hedge.
The brisk air, the smells of earth and grass, the brilliant colorations of the leaves, had soon done their work upon the young lady. Almost at once she felt refreshed, her cheeks were lit with color, and her eyes sparkling from exercise. Maggie had naturally a long stride and, her attention divided equally between an admiration of the natural beauties around her and her private thoughts, she had soon covered half a mile. The path now was giving way to an avenue. Leaving the garden proper behind, she struck out along this route into a kind of wood. From the great height of the trees, and the rougher terrain on either side the avenue, she assumed this must have been part of the ancient forest. The combination of serenity and great age of the place struck her as doubly pleasing for the careful attention it received. Here and there were gardeners laboring near the tree trunks, weeding out any minor growths and shrubs. The ground was perfectly covered with pine needles, and every leaf was plucked up as it fell from above.
Absorbing the tranquil luxury of so much beauty and order, she was soon lost in her own thoughts and did not notice much where she walked. Miss Haversham’s words to her that morning had continued to turn in her mind without any comprehension. “Have a care for your cousin,” she had said. Why a care for him? What could she have meant, indeed? And what on earth could she, a mere cousin, do to improve his spirits? Miss Montcrieff had better be looked to for that! And yet what had Miss Haversham meant by saying he was not as happy as he deserved to be? What more did he deserve, beside the luxury of this place, with all the devotion and respect of his family, rank, place, and great wealth?
It was true she had seen an occasional expression come over Lord Ramblay’s face which had struck her as a great sadness. But these moments were always instantly covered over by his usual formality and that cold civility with which he was used to address everyone. It struck Maggie all at once that his sadness might be the result of penitence over his marriage. Perhaps after all he had felt remorse for his heartless treatment of the young lady who had been his wife. That such might be the case, made her like him a little better. Even had he been really cruel, even had he felt nothing more than a pride of possession for her, if he now repented of his conduct, it proved he was not altogether without a heart.
Turning the matter over in her mind, she stepped off the avenue and into the woods. Here the smells of leaves and pine needles were stronger, and here the atmosphere of great age and history lingered in the branches of the trees as palpably as a fog. Absorbing everything, but without any conscious knowledge of it, she began to reconstruct what that marriage must have been like. Captain Morrison had said the lady was exquisitely beautiful. Aside from this, Maggie had hardly any knowledge about her. That she had been very young, very innocent, and in awe of Lord Ramblay, she had been told, and that she was a stranger to England, having been brought up all her life in the West Indian Islands. Such a kind of creature might well have been the foil for an arrogant man’s pride. How could she defend herself against his superior mind, greater experience, and worldly view of life? No, no—surely she would have stood too much in awe of him to ever question his interminable orders, his strict code of conduct, his unequal idea of how they should live. Yes, it was all clear now—she would have gone willingly wherever he required her, and kept silent even as he dashed about on a ceaseless round of pleasure with his friends. Confined to the country, to loneliness and heartache, she would have awaited his infrequent returns eagerly, hoping for a little of that tenderness and love which he had never shown her.
The picture was forming itself very clearly in Maggie’s mind as she looked up and, glancing through the trees, noticed the outline of a small building. It seemed to be a sort of gazebo or summer house, constructed in the midst of the forest. Still lost in her reverie, she wandered toward the shape, and at last came into a little clearing of trees. There she stood for a moment, entranced by the charming picture before her. The gazebo—for it was one of those constructions that had been in vogue some few years before, with a Chinese roof and supporting columns, but without any walls—stood up upon a platform, several feet above the ground. A flight of steps led up to it on three sides, and the light and shade falling upon it lent it an almost fairy-like appearance. In the middle of the little house was a crumbling stone statue of the goddess Diana, lifting her bow as if to shoot an arrow into the overhanging bows of trees. On four sides were small stone benches. The appearance of the place was very delightful, and yet Maggie was struck by some oddity about it. It had the air of a place no longer in use, though it was obviously of recent construction. The paint on the slender columns was peeling off, the steps were crumbling a little, and the roof appeared to have sagged under the weight of rain. Yet here she was standing in a really ancient wood, so well tended that it was immaculate. Why should not the little pavilion have the benefit of an equal degree of care?
Pondering this, Maggie walked closer and ascended the steps. She stood for a while wondering why it was not in use any longer, until a thought struck her, and she sat down upon one of the benches. To be sure! It was here that her cousin would come with his lady, on his infrequent visits to the castle. Here they would walk, conversing about the time they had been parted, and here the innocent Lady Ramblay would hope every moment for a tender embrace. Suddenly something caught Maggie’s eye: a shining object under the bench across from which she now sat. Leaning down to pick it up, she saw at once what it was. She held in her hand a tiny pair of scissors, of the kind kept by ladies in their reticules for needlework. It was all made of silver, with inlay of gold and mother of pearl, a most enchanting little instrument. Turning it over, she descried upon the side the tiny initials, ALR. Indeed, it must have belonged to Lady Ramblay!
Maggie remembered all at once the tapestries hanging all over the lower part of the castle. What better occupation could there be for a wife confined to the solitude of the country, without the benefit of her husband’s company, than such labor? The picture was now fleshing itself out, and all at once Maggie had a vision of a scene, enacted in this very place, some years before.
Lord Ramblay would have returned from one of his long visits to town. Lady Ramblay, having patiently waited for him, would joyfully greet him. He would be cold, indifferent, to all her longing looks and silent pleas. Together they would walk through the park to the summer house, where Lord Ramblay would make some cold inquiries of how she had passed the time since last he saw her. The stoical replies (for in Maggie’s mind Lady Ramblay was as steadfast of heart as she was fragile of appearance) would bring forth a nod or two. Lady Ramblay would then make some eager inquiries of her husband. How were their friends, what had he done, had he been amused? It would be more and more apparent that they had nothing to say to each other, until finally Lady Ramblay—who had been working silently upon her tapestry—could bear it no longer. She would throw down her scissors, in a rare outburst of emotion, and begin to weep. Whereupon, the hard-hearted Lord Ramblay would—why, what would he do? Certainly he would lecture her, perhaps even strike her! The thought brought an angry flush to Maggie’s cheek. She would like to have struck him back, to defend his defenseless lady. She was just considering what she would have done in such a case, when the sound of step nearby made her jump.
Whirling around, she was just in time to see a man’s figure advancing through the trees. With the sudden realization that she still held the scissors in her hand, she just had time to drop them in the pocket of her cloak when Lord Ramblay spoke.
It must be said in Maggie’s defense that she felt exceeding foolish upon staring down into that face. So eminently sensible, so exceeding amiable an expression did Lord Ramblay wear that she instantly regretted the vividness of her imagination. And when he expressed his astonishment at finding her there, without any trace of the guilt appropriate in a man whose great secret has just been found out, she was doubly ashamed of herself.
“Why, Cousin!” exclaimed he, “you have found out my favorite hiding place! It is admirably suited to quiet contemplation, is it not?”
Maggie blushed and agreed that it was.
“But, Lord Ramblay, I hope I have not intruded upon it.”
“Quite the contrary. I only come here now and again to be alone and think.”
“Then I am afraid I have prevented your doing so today.”
Lord Ramblay smiled as he ascended the stairs.
“Think nothing of it, Miss Trevor. I am not so much in need of solitude as of escape from my work. Today I have been laboring at the accounts with my steward, who is a most demanding fellow and impatient with mistakes. I had infinitely rather sit here with you for a while than anything.”
“But I am sure you only say so to be civil,” said Maggie, beginning to stand up. “I will just continue my walk and leave you alone in your sanctuary.”
Now Lord Ramblay reached out a hand to prevent her going and declared that no sanctuary was so perfect that it could not be improved upon by the company of an intelligent woman. Maggie was well pleased with this compliment, and took her seat again.
“It is a delightful little building,” said she, glancing around her. “What a pity it is not better cared for! It could not be very old——”
“No, it is not. It was built only six years ago, for my wife. I was married at one time, you know.”
Lord Ramblay had turned away a little, and his expression was unreadable.
“Yes, I have heard,” murmured Maggie. “I am very sorry for you; for I know your wife died very young.”
“Oh! Do not be sorry for me, Cousin! Heaven, everyone is sorry for me!”
Had it been Maggie’s imagination, or had he spoken angrily? In an effort to ease the situation, she replied, “I am sorry, then, if I have made you think of it again.”
Lord Ramblay had stood up, and walking toward a railing, stared out into the trees for a moment. But suddenly his expression changed, as if he had determined to forget the subject, and with a determined cheerfulness, he said, “Pity is not of much use to anyone, Cousin. And in any case, there is nothing to be sorry for. I was married barely three years, and my wife, who was ever of a fragile constitution, was carried away by a lung fever. Such is life. But tell me, how is your father?”
Lord Ramblay inquired civilly into the Admiral’s health and happiness, and seemed to hear Maggie’s replies with very real interest.
“I am glad to hear that your father is so well,” said he, after a little, “for I have found it is often the case with very active men, who have been used to taking a great part in life, to be discontented with retirement. They grow irritable and depressed, dwelling in the past and bitterly resenting their diminishing strength.”
“Well, then you need have no fear,” laughed Maggie, “for such is not the case with Papa, I can assure you! Irritable he sometimes may be, but only because he detests country amusements. But save for his writing, no man could dwell less in the past. As to bitterness and resentment, he bitterly opposes every sort of foolishness, and resents those who would make him join in theirs!”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” smiled Lord Ramblay. “And yet I believe there is one part of his past he cannot forget so easily as you claim.”
Maggie understood where her cousin was leading, and said quickly, “I think you are wrong, sir! My father is certainly stubborn in some things, but he is very quick to forgive and forget, once he has set his mind to it.”
“Ah—once he has set his mind to it,” murmured Lord Ramblay, thinking of the letter he had written four years before which had never been answered. “And perhaps that requires a great while.”
“No longer than it requires some others!” responded Maggie archly.
Her cousin gave her a puzzled glance, and would have protested had not Maggie, who had suddenly remembered her first reason for disliking the Viscount, already risen from her bench and proposed returning to the castle.
Neither spoke during their return. Maggie had been brought up against her initial prejudice, and angered by the Viscount’s insinuation that it had been her own father who had put off the reparation of their quarrel, she was determined to say nothing more. The thought of her father’s face when he had told her of the invitation from the Ramblays, of his great earnestness in wishing her to accept, and of his own letter, made her turn her head away from Lord Ramblay in dislike as they walked.
As to the gentleman, he was too much confused by this young lady to know what he could say. His solicitude for the Admiral had been genuine and, had not he been reproved by Miss Trevor, he would shortly have made some allusion to his first letter. He had long been troubled by her father’s silence, and wished to know what had inspired it. The letter had been, in his own estimation, everything it should have been. It had striven to bridge the gap imposed by a family feud, and yet had not unjustly blamed his own father. It had regretted certain qualities of stubbornness and intractability in the older man’s judgment without denigrating his real family loyalty. Yet he had received no reply for four years, until that peculiar missive from the Admiral had arrived. This last had been such a reversal of mood that it instantly raised his suspicions. Had Lord Ramblay been less eager to end the quarrel, he might have ignored it, upon seeing that its purpose was nothing more than to advance the daughter’s situation. Indeed, had not his mother urged him to ignore it, just as Admiral Trevor had ignored his letter? The letter had made Lady Ramblay sneer and exclaim at its vulgarity. It had made her swear she would never like Miss Trevor, and had convinced her that both the Admiral and his daughter were nothing but social-climbing hypocrites. Lord Ramblay himself had felt some hesitancy, but at last he had replied, offering the invitation to go to Town with them. If he had wondered what sort of young woman would appear and had at first determined to be no more than civil in his treatment of her, he had been amazed by his first glimpse of Maggie Trevor. Her very brusqueness pleased him, so far was it removed from the insipidity of the ladies he had known. Her arch, pert manner, while annoying sometimes, often delighted him, and the candor of her eyes, which never stooped to the kind of maidenly flutterings and other tricks so often resorted to by tonnish women, never ceased to cause a flutter in his heart. Here indeed was a woman worthy of the name, here indeed was a woman to be reckoned with. He could not help believing that her excessive bluntness and all-knowing air might be cured by the right masculine teacher, and when they were a little curbed, she would be the most delightful creature in the world. She had courage and resolution—that he had seen when she had been helping the surgeon to tend young Montcrieff. Her mind was quick and agile and, if she was not an absolute beauty, her handsomeness was of a kind almost more pleasing than perfection. She was tall and walked well, and her features were enhanced by such radiant health and good humor that it was impossible to see her without smiling.
Lord Ramblay could not guess what had angered Maggie, but he had patience enough even for her moods. Determining to outlast her vexation, he walked silently beside her. A glance at that pert face, now lifted in disdain, made him smile. Her anger had made her flush, and lifted her chin in so delightful a fashion that he would not have disturbed the mood for all the world.
As they came within view of the castle, Maggie stopped and gazed ahead of her.
“I hope you approve the architect’s work?” inquired Lord Ramblay after a moment.
Feeling herself teased, Maggie did not reply. Nodding her head, she remarked, “I have not seen it from this view before. I see now where my own bedchamber is—” pointing to the northern wing—“but what is in the other wing? I do not believe I have been there.”
“It is all closed up,” replied Lord Ramblay, beginning to walk on. “We have not used it since my wife died. There are some memories better left untapped.”
Maggie glanced at her companion. His face was set, and the pleasant smile had given way to a frigid look. It passed over her mind, just as they reached the steps, that perhaps she had not exaggerated her idea of what had passed between the Viscount and his wife.