THAT AFTERNOON WAS passed very unremarkably by the young lady. Left once again to her own devices—for Lady Ramblay retired at once to her apartments, pausing only to commend her young relative on her choice of intimates—she attempted to fasten her attention on Mrs. Radcliffe’s latest work. But the novel was too full of unlikely characters, and the plot hinged upon an idea which, though unnatural in the extreme, was yet too closely linked to some thoughts Maggie had entertained herself of late to offer leisurely amusement. Throwing down the volume at last, she wandered about the lower rooms of the castle in the hope of glimpsing a portrait of the late Lady Ramblay. But no portrait was to be found that could conceivably be a likeness of the deceased Viscountess. One or two pictures hanging in the gallery did represent females, but they were clad in garments that had gone out of fashion fifty years before, and bore more resemblance in face and form to the present dowager than to a young and lovely tragic heroine. It struck her now as doubly curious that there should be no sign of her cousin’s late wife, for, not only was there no likeness of her anywhere, but, save for the one instance that morning in the gazebo, no mention had been made of her—or even of the fact that Lord Ramblay had ever had a wife. In the evening she determined to draw out Fanny Ramblay upon the subject and, succeeding in getting her attention shortly after dinner, drew her a little away from the others with the pretense of asking her the history of a tapestry. Miss Ramblay at first was all happy conciliation at being selected above the others for such a duty, and willingly followed her cousin into the gallery where the tapestry hung. A history was promptly rendered up—with many little apologies for the informant’s ignorance—and did not differ much from the one Lord Ramblay had given her of the hunting scene on her first evening in the castle. It was an ancient artifact, worked in Flanders two centuries before, and represented a scene at court. Maggie next moved to a much smaller tapestry, hanging beside it, which had aroused her curiosity that afternoon.
“I am in the greatest awe of such kind of skill,” she said, conscious that she was leading her cousin on, and feeling a trifle guilty for the fact. “Imagine! To have spent most of one’s life upon such a work! I have no patience of the kind—and yet it would be vastly pleasing to know that after I had died, some testimony should still remain of my life.”
Fanny murmured her agreement with great earnestness, and would have walked on had not Maggie stopped her.
“Now this—I can perhaps imagine finishing one of this size, had I the skill. Yet even this must have taken ten years to make.”
“Oh! Nothing of the kind!” exclaimed Fanny ingenuously. But then an expression of horror came over her face, and she stopped.
“Why! Did not it take so long? Five years, perhaps?”
“I believe,” said Fanny, with a restrained look, “it took the lady only a year or two to work.”
Maggie gave the young girl a sharp look.
“Oh! That is extraordinary. Then you must have known her.”
Clearly Miss Ramblay was in an agony of indecision. If there was one lady to whom she would readily have imparted a secret, it was her cousin Maggie. In only four days she had made of the young woman a kind of heroine and, besides everything else, really trusted her implicitly. But here was a secret which it was not her privilege to share with any living soul. Indeed, the secret had been kept from her for so long—and should have continued thus, had not she stumbled upon the evidence—that it was not her own. That fact had been well rubbed into her little head, with many assurances that to whisper a word of it would be to defame her family forever. Miserably she stared at Maggie Trevor, who seemed to be holding her eyes incapable of looking away, and whose own candid, intelligent look made her wonder how it could harm anyone to confide in her cousin. In actual fact, she was unsure of the parameters of the word “family”—was not Miss Trevor of their own blood? Would not she understand what discretion was needed? And yet something made her hold back—a memory of her brother’s eyes as he had explained it to her, with oh! so many painful silences and unhappy looks.
“Well, I can see you will not answer me,” said Maggie at length, beginning to turn away.
At this, Fanny’s hand shot out and caught the other’s sleeve. “Oh, it is not that I shall not, Cousin! Only—only——”
Maggie watched the young girl, with a dreadful feeling of shame at having made the young girl suffer so. “Never mind. I shall not ask you any more.”
And now Miss Ramblay burst out: “Then I shall tell you—it was worked by my brother’s wife, by Anna. I should have told you at once, for I loved her dearly, but we are not meant to speak of her.”
Now Maggie was really ashamed of having made the younger girl speak out against her wishes, but her guilt was not so strong as the sensation of triumph which now rose up in her bosom. Here, if she had needed any proof of foul play, was evidence indeed that things had not been as they should between Lord Ramblay and his lady. She longed to draw her cousin out further upon the subject, but Fanny Ramblay had turned away with burning cheeks and a pleading look, which spoke more clearly than any words could have, her urgent desire to be allowed to remain silent. As if to apologize for it. she stole a little hand into the crook of her cousin’s arm, and as they walked back into the drawing room where the others were sitting, leaned against her more closely than ever. Moved by this little display, Maggie put her arm around the girl’s slender shoulders and hugged her.
“Never mind, my dear cousin. I see I have made you speak of what you had rather not. I shall not inquire further, if it will make you any easier.” Fanny’s grateful look was reply enough.
Maggie was half tempted, when they came back into the drawing room, to go up to Lord Ramblay, who sat in a corner with a book, and make some mention of the scissors she had found. She was certain now that the news would disturb him, and if it did, then she would have a stronger foundation for her suspicions than ever. Only one astonished or uneasy look would have convinced her that he harbored some guilty feeling about his marriage. That, in truth, was all she wanted.
If the reader is a little amazed that a young lady with so much sense and such a strong feeling of right as Maggie Trevor should be determined to cause her own cousin unease, even distress—a man who had, in truth, done nothing to harm herself—it may be explained by the fact that, for two or three days, she had been incapable of looking at him with equanimity. That she mistook a quickening of her pulse and a giddy sensation of not knowing quite where to look when he spoke to her for acute dislike, was not altogether incredible. Maggie had never in her life felt the need to look away from a gentleman’s eyes. She was by nature spirited, practical, and self-assured. It had never occurred to her that such kinds of trepidations as she felt in her cousin’s presence might be a sign of something besides doubting his worth. And the more uneasy she felt on seeing him gaze at her as if he could read the very essence of her spirit, the more determined she was to find some crookedness in his own.
Maggie was prevented from speaking to Lord Ramblay by the entrance of a footman, who, approaching his master, leaned down and spoke into his ear. Lord Ramblay flushed and looked angry, making some inquiry of the servant. The reply made him jump up and, flinging down his book, stride out of the room. Maggie watched him go in some amazement. When she glanced at Miss Ramblay, she saw she was pretending not to have seen anything wrong.
Lady Ramblay had put down her needlework, and called out to the servant. There followed a quiet exchange between them, with the Viscountess’s expression growing rapidly more angry. Now she, too, stood up and sailed from the room like a man-of-war going into battle. She paused in her progress to order her daughter to bed, and would no doubt have ordered Maggie there as well had not a glance at the young lady’s set countenance made her think again.
Maggie was left alone now to wonder what had occurred to upset the family so. Her first thought was that some mishap had occurred in the kitchen—a forgetful kitchen maid had let the fire spread out of the grate—but upon inquiring of a servant going past if there was anything amiss belowstairs, she heard that nothing untoward was afoot. For an hour she contrived to entertain herself, expecting any minute the return of either Lord Ramblay or his mother. But neither came, and the silence of the house belied there was anything amiss. At last she heard a footstep in the hallway and jumping up, went to see who it was. The comfortable figure of Mrs. Black, the housekeeper, was the last she had expected to see.
“Ah, miss!” exclaimed that woman, coming into the room. “I feared you had stayed here waiting for his lordship. But you had better go to bed, for indeed, he shan’t be calm any more tonight.”
“Why, what is the matter?” cried Maggie. “I hope there is nothing wrong!”
“Oh, indeed, indeed,” clucked the good woman, “it is only the poor child again. His surgeon has given him a tonic which won’t stay down, and the poor creature is half dead with retching.”
Maggie demanded in some amazement whom the housekeeper referred to, at which Mrs. Black looked surprised.
“Why, it is the little master, of course, Master James—oh! I had forgot. His lordship did not wish to trouble any of the guests about it, and so I suppose nothing was said to you. Poor child, he has been that miserable for a fortnight. No one can do anything for him, and naturally he cannot tell us what is the matter. Poor child!” And the woman shook her head in dismay.
“Why, do you mean to say,” exclaimed Maggie, walking nearer to the housekeeper, “that my cousin has a child?”
“What! You did not know it?”
“I was ignorant of the fact that he had even been married until several days ago, Mrs. Black.”
Now the woman seemed to recollect something, and nodded.
“There, I had quite forgot! Your mama was cast right out of the family, was she not? Well, my dear, it is a subject no doubt best left unspoken of. Such things seldom do anyone any good to remember. It was an ill-fated match from the start—I always thought so, anyways—what with her ladyship being from another kind of life altogether. Such kinds of marriages do no one any good, and the proof is in the pudding, as they say. Look at poor Master James, who cannot speak a word. A terrible tragedy, I always say, when a poor innocent child must pay for the sins of its parents. And now his lordship, bless him, must live out the tragedy every day of his life, though I contend ’twas no fault of his!”
Maggie stared at the woman for a full minute. She could hardly bring herself to believe her ears, for the idea of Lord Ramblay’s possessing a child was too much of a shock for her to digest in a moment.
“Do you mean to say, Mrs. Black, that the child is ill?”
The housekeeper nodded her head gravely.
“Ill either in body or in soul, miss. The child has not uttered a word since his mother’s death.”
“What! And is there no treatment for him? Surely, if he has a tongue, there must be a way to coax him into using it!”
“Tut, miss—with all due respect—it is my opinion that mortals have no business mixing their hands in such matters. If it is God’s will, the child will speak. I have said as much often and often to his lordship. But he, poor man, cannot accept it. Not a week goes by but he has got some new surgeon or other down from London. This one, now—the one who has just disgraced himself—was said to be the greatest wizard in England. Our own Regent swears by him, and nothing would do for his lordship but he must have him here to attend Master James. But I fear it is all in vain, and always shall be. ’Pon my word, the Lord does sometimes give us rough roads to travel. It is all I can do to hold my tongue when I think of that poor innocent baby paying for his own mother’s sins.”
Maggie glanced sharply at her companion. “His mother’s sins!”
But if Mrs. Black was sometimes given to gossiping, she knew also how to hold her tongue. With the sudden consciousness of having poured forth more than she ought, she now pressed her lips together sternly.
“Tut! You ought not to make me talk so, miss. I always hold no good has ever come of gossiping. Besides, it is not my business, I am sure, and never was. I should not have said so much indeed, were it not that the sight of that dear man being made more miserable every day makes my blood fair boil. I cannot speak out, miss—I am naught but a servant, though Ramblay Castle has been my home these thirty years—but you perhaps could!”
“What!” cried Maggie in surprise. But the thought made her smile to herself, and she explained, “I am afraid, Mrs. Black, that you overestimate my powers over my cousin. Though we are cousins, I am nothing but a stranger to him—and I fear that if I made any mention of this subject, he should lose what little esteem he may now have of me.” But a sudden idea made her add, “Besides, if I were to speak to him, what could I say?”
Mrs. Black stared back at the young lady in perplexity, shaking her head a little. “Ah, well, I suppose you are right.” The woman said nothing for a moment, and then, as if on a sudden impulse, burst out with surprising passion, “What the little fellow needs, miss, is a mother! Not a vain piece of muslin like that Miss Montcrieff, the Viscountess is always urging the master to marry, but a real woman—like yourself, miss. I fancy you could do both of them more good than all the surgeons in Christendom. A little of your laughter would cheer up this great empty place a deal, too. Lud, it has been five years at least since I have seen his lordship smile so happily as he has done in these past days!”
Mrs. Black recovered her composure almost instantly after this astonishing outburst had escaped her lips, and with a sheepish look, implored the young lady to retire for the night before she could be allowed to listen to any more nonsense. Maggie would dearly have loved to continue the conversation, but she did as she was bid. It was not until the early hours of the morning, however, when the sky had lightened to a pewter color and the rays of a full moon lay across her coverlet, that she could still her racing thoughts sufficiently to drift into an uneasy slumber. The morning was well advanced when she awoke, her head still full of strange, disturbing dreams—a young woman laboring at a tapestry which never was completed, the miserable sobbing of a child, and over all, the unreadable eyes of Lord Ramblay staring back at her.
She gave herself a brisk shake, lecturing herself as she dressed and the maid arranged her hair. But she had half formed the intention of confronting her cousin as soon as she could by the time she had reached the breakfast room. Just what she would say, or how she could broach the subject, was not absolutely clear to her, but one thing was certain: She could no longer remain in the dark on so many points. If she was a cousin, and was to be treated as such, then she deserved to be undeceived. She felt increasingly resentful of the mysteries all around her, and of the absurd attempts being made to keep her in ignorance of them—for she felt, in the heat of the moment, that it was a kind of plot formed by all the Ramblays precisely to baffle her. Try as she might to persuade herself otherwise, the same feeling of ill-usage crept up in her bosom. The news, received almost the instant she sat down to breakfast, that her cousin was called away on urgent business to London, only served to aggravate her further. That there should continue to be such secrecy about the real motives for Lord Ramblay’s journey angered her more than she could bear. Well did she know what had caused the Viscount’s sudden departure—no doubt he had driven the offending surgeon back to London himself, under the guise of having business to conduct. Suddenly she remembered the strange little man in black who had been with Lord Ramblay that day in Dartmoor, and the realization that this must have been the famous surgeon on his way to the castle brought her up.
After breakfast she went in search of Mrs. Black, in the hope of finding out more about the little boy. The woman, whether because she wished to avoid her out of a fear of speaking more than she ought, or because she was really occupied, could not be found, and Maggie was left more restless and perplexed than ever. All at once she remembered the appointed walk with Mr. Wayland; the prospect afforded her more pleasure than she ever before would have thought possible. Might she not, with a companion, and both with the excuse of having never seen the place before, be pardoned for exploring the house and grounds? She wished fervently to have a glimpse of the tragic product of her cousin’s marriage, and not only because the story had touched her deeply: Some part of her kept going back to the image she had had in her sleep of the sorrowful little boy. She clung to the idea that the sight of him might explain everything. She hoped to have such a glimpse that afternoon.
Mr. Wayland was to come at two o’clock to fetch her. The hours from nine till noon were an interminable wasteland. At length she sat down with the idea of writing to her father, but three separate attempts were cast into the waste basket. She had tried at first to explain to him what in her own mind was unclear. In the end she settled on a briefer note:
“My dearest Papa, So much has happened since last I saw you that I hardly know where to begin in a narration of the strange and perplexing events which have taken place here. In truth, I hardly know any more what to believe of what is told me, and what to regard with a greater degree of incredulity. Your sensible Maggie has at last met her match—indeed, you would smile if you knew what a knot my poor brain has been in these past days.
“The journey itself was safe enough, but marred by an incident which I shall explain to you later. I was helped by a very amiable kind of gentleman—a Captain Morrison, whose ship is under repair at Portsmouth. He spoke of you in very glowing terms, and says you have met him. If so, I think you will agree he is an excellent fellow. To me he was all kindness and helpfulness, and I look forward to meeting him again in Town.
“As to Ramblay Castle, and the family here—I hardly know what to tell you, for I hardly know any more what is true. Save for the Viscountess, who has taken an inexplicable aversion to me and never tires of giving out every kind of incivility, I have been treated with great kindness. Fanny Ramblay is a sweet child, though she seems too much in awe of everyone to have a mind of her own. I hope that when we are in London she will be less under the influence of her mama—who in truth is an overbearing, and imperious creature—and will learn that everyone in the world is not set to frighten her. As to my cousin, Lord Ramblay, he has been as kind as possible for a man who seems incapable of complete easiness; were it not for the tone of his letter to you, and a tale I heard from Captain Morrison, I should be almost tempted to like him. Did you know that he had been married? His lady was from the West Indies, and died two years after they were man and wife. She is a great mystery, for no one will speak of her and there are no portraits of her anywhere. She left a child, however, whom I have not seen, nor heard spoken of by any of the family. I have been told the little boy is mute since his mother’s death, and perhaps this is the cause for my cousin’s strange silences and moodiness. It would be a natural cause for grief, but so much strangeness and mystery surrounds the story that I am half tempted (do not laugh) to think there is more to it.
“The castle and grounds are very grand—you would be amazed to see your own Maggie reposing amid such luxury. I have been on a hunt, and been commended for my great dexterity with bandages, when one of the gentlemen fell into a ravine. My hope of hearing great music and great conversation has not been satisfied yet, but I hope I shall have better luck in London, where we remove next week. I confess I am longing to go, for it is so quiet here a good deal of the time, and everyone is occupied with their own interests. However, I have one companion, whom you shall be astonished to hear is a great comfort to me. Pray, sir, do not smile too much when I tell you that your old friend Mr. Wayland has made himself more welcome in my eyes than I ever dreamed possible. He is not much changed, and smirks more than ever (if that is possible), and yet he is a fellow human being. I begin to think sometimes my cousins are not quite mortal, or at least are driven by desires very different from my own.
“I must go now to meet this same distinguished Personage—we are to have a tour of the park, and I am in hopes of glimpsing the poor little boy I mentioned. Pray send my regards to everyone, and reserve for yourself the fondest embrace from your own devoted daughter—Maggie.”
The letter folded up and inscribed with the address, and commended to the care of a footman, Maggie went to change her morning frock for a more suitable walking costume. There was then only an hour left to await the arrival of the Vicar, and this she passed in great restlessness pacing up and down the morning room.