Wild Margaret

CHAPTER XVI

Lottie Belvoir looked down at the prostrate figure of Margaret with a pallor that made the carefully-applied paint on her face look yellow by contrast.

For a minute or two she felt frightened and had an idea of calling for help. Lottie was not altogether a bad girl; indeed, the persons who are either altogether bad or altogether good do not exist in real life, but only in the pages of some novels.

She had been brought up in a hard school, in which each has to struggle for itself, and where each knows that without doubt the devil will take the hindmost.

Mr. Austin Ambrose had worked upon her feelings and tempted her to do this thing, and she had done it. But in the doing of it she had felt distinctly uncomfortable, in the first place she had discovered that Margaret was a lady; if she had been one of Lottie's own class, Lottie could have had no compunction whatever. Then Margaret's beauty, which affected everybody more or less, had had its effect upon Lottie; then again Margaret had treated her so kindly and gently; and altogether Lottie Belvoir had not had a particularly good time of it.

She got the glass of water and sprinkled it over the white beautiful face, and chafed her hands and presently Margaret reopened her eyes, and smiling faintly, murmured – "Blair!"

Then, as memory returned to its seat, the white features were convulsed, and shrinking away from Lottie she said, in a ghastly whisper:

"It is all true, then? I – I thought that I had dreamt it."

"Yes, it is all true," said Lottie, rather sullenly. "And now I want to know what you are going to do, miss?"

Margaret winced at the "miss." More surely than any other word could have done, it brought home to her the fact of her ruin and degradation.

Slowly she dragged herself to a chair, and sank into it, refusing with a slight shudder Lottie's proffered arm.

"What I am going to do?" she repeated in a dull, benumbed fashion. "I do not know! Yes I – I must go away! I must go at once, before – before he returns."

"That is the best thing you can do, miss," said Lottie. "It goes against me to drive you away, but what can I do? He is my husband – "

"Yes, yes," gasped Margaret, as if she were choking, "he is your husband – he is nothing to me. I have no right to stay here now. I will go."

"Perhaps you'd like to see him again, like to see us face to face and have it out with him?" suggested Lottie, doubtfully, and watching Margaret's face covertly.

"No, no," she said, instantly, and with a shudder, "I – I never wish to see him again."

"He has behaved cruelly, shamefully to you, miss," said Lottie; "to both of us, in fact, and he isn't worth fretting about, though he is a lord."

Margaret sat staring at the gayly patterned carpet, almost as if she had not heard the last words, then she looked round the room in a kind of bewildered fashion.

Lottie rose and let down her veil.

"There is a train in an hour," she said, with a sympathetic sigh, "if you'd like to go to London, or perhaps you'd like to go abroad. If there should be money wanted – "

She had almost gone too far.

Margaret rose and looked at her with wild eyes.

"I will go," she panted, "do not be afraid. I will never see your – your husband again. But leave me alone! Do not offer me money" – then her face changed, and with a sob she cried – "forgive me. It is you who have been wronged as well as me. I – I did not mean to speak so – but, ah, if you would only go and leave me to fight against my misery."

Lottie turned pale again under her paint, and moved toward the door. There she paused, and a strange look came into her face. It was the shadow of coming remorse casting itself before its steps. Even then there was a chance for Margaret, for at that moment Lottie's womanly heart was beginning to assert itself, and the impulse to fling herself at Margaret's feet and tell her the truth – the real truth – was making itself felt; but at that instant she caught sight of a man's figure coming up the winding path, and with a quick step she came toward Margaret.

"I am going," she said, in her ear; "you will not see me again. Go to London – abroad – somewhere away from Blair, and – from Mr. Austin Ambrose!"

These last words were not in her part, but for the life of her, though she lost all, Lottie could not have helped whispering them. Then, without waiting for any response, she went out and turned down the path. A hundred yards from the gate, on the narrow path, she met Austin Ambrose.

"Well," he said, quickly, "is it over?"

"Yes, it's done," she said, looking at him with anything but a pleasant countenance; "and a nice job it has been! Why didn't you tell me she was a lady?"

He made an impatient gesture.

"What does it matter? Where is she? – how did she take it?"

"She is in there," said Lottie shortly; "and she took it – well, it would have been almost as easy to have murdered her! Indeed, I shouldn't be surprised if it did kill her. She fell at my feet as if she were dead."

"Tut!" he said, with a cold smile; "she is not of the sort that die easily. She will get over it. But there is no time to lose. You get over to Paris; catch the down-train to the junction, and travel by the night mail."

"And you – what are you going to do now?" she asked.

He smiled.

"You need not trouble about that," he said. "You have done your part, and I'll see that you get your reward."

She nodded.

"If it was to be done over again," she began; then she moved on a step, but stopped and, with a spot of red, said:

"I advise you to get away before Blair comes back. If he should happen to turn up" – she shrugged her shoulders – "I wouldn't give much for your life!"

He nodded and laughed, and his eyes flashed evilly.

"Blair will not turn up!" he said.

The tone of confidence startled her.

"Why? What have you done with him?" she asked.

"Now, my dear Lottie," he said in a low voice, and looking round cautiously, "don't interfere with my part of the play. It doesn't concern you. Get off as fast as you can, and make your mind easy. Stop! you'll want money," and he put his hand to his pocket; but, with a deep flush and a tightening of the lips, she refused it – as Margaret had refused hers!

"I've got enough money to go on with," she said. "You can send it to the Hotel de Louvre at Paris, if you like," and, with a nod, she sped quick down the path.

Austin Ambrose waited for a minute or two, looking at the sky. The blue that had been so unbroken a short time since was streaked with fleecy clouds, that might later grow black.

Then he opened the cottage door and walked into the room where Margaret sat, her head resting upon her outstretched arms.

While one could count twenty he stood and looked down at her, then he said, in a low voice:

"Miss Margaret!"

She did not start, but raised her head and looked at him, and a shudder seemed to convulse her whole frame.

"You here?" she said, scarcely audible.

He inclined his head with a sorrowful gesture.

"Yes, I am here. I have come to see if by any chance I can be of assistance to you."

"Then – then you have heard it?" she panted.

He dropped his eyes and sighed.

"Tell me," she cried, catching at his arm and holding it with a grasp of steel, "tell me the truth! Is what she said – this woman! – is it true?"

He waited a moment.

"It is true, alas!" he said.

Margaret's hand fell from his arm, and she shrank back.

"I only learned it just now," he said, as if in explanation. "Early this morning, Lady Leyton – I beg your pardon, but I fear it is her legal title – met me at the station, and recognizing me as a friend of Blair's, told me her story."

Margaret hid her face in her hands.

"She has been here, I suppose?" he said.

"Yes," breathed Margaret.

He sighed.

"I feared so! I wish that I could have reached you and broken it to you before she came, but I wanted to learn if her story was true, and I telegraphed to the clerk of the church at which she said she was married." He paused to see if Margaret was fully realizing his words, then went on slowly and impressively. "I received an answer promptly. They were married at St. Jude's on the twelfth of March."

Margaret remained motionless.

"But I need not have taken this precaution, for I met the one person who could set all doubt at rest."

She looked up and fixed her eyes upon him.

"I met Blair, and taxed him with his fiendish villainy, and – "

Margaret caught her breath.

– "He confessed it!" he said.

She uttered a low cry, and cowered against the back of the chair.

"I think I could have killed him on the spot," he went on. "He has played the part of a heartless scoundrel! Miss Margaret, do you remember how he started when I remarked how easy it would be for a man to commit bigamy at Sefton?"

The incident flashed back upon Margaret's memory, and she groaned.

"If I had only known what that start of his meant!" murmured Austin Ambrose. "Yes, he confessed the crime! He sent you a message by me – "

She looked up and put up her hand.

"Do not tell me! Do not mention his name again!" she cried hoarsely.

"I must tell you," he said gently; "I promised! He implored your forgiveness! Reparation, he knows is impossible; not even the remorse, which will haunt him as long as his life lasts, can invent any way of undoing the wrong he has wrought you! He consigned you to my care, Miss Margaret, and I have undertaken readily – yes, very readily – to see that your future is not further darkened by want."

Margaret rose and clutched the table.

– "You – you offer me money; you, too! And his money!" she panted.

Austin Ambrose hung his head and sighed.

"You will let me be your friend?" he pleaded in a soft voice.

Margaret pushed the hair from her white forehead.

"No!" she said; "I have no friend! I am alone in all the world! Tell him – yes, tell him – that I would not touch a penny of his if it were to save my life! Tell him that he has killed my heart and soul, but while there is life still left in my body, I will use it to crawl as far from him as I can! Tell him – " she broke down for a moment – "tell him that I forgive him, but that if he ever again sends me such a message as you have brought, the love through which he wronged and ruined me will turn to hate!"

"You are right!" he murmured. "But what will you do?" he asked, looking at her with anxious intentness.

Margaret moaned.

"Ah! What will I do?" she sobbed hoarsely. "Heaven knows! there is only one thing I can do, to creep away into some place where none may find me, and die!"

If Mr. Austin Ambrose had possessed that extremely awkward organ, a heart, he would – he must – have been touched by the sight of the misery and anguish of this innocent girl, whose happiness he had so carefully and skillfully plotted against; but if there was a heart in Mr. Austin's bosom, it existed there simply for physiological reasons, and not for those of sentiment.

"I think you must let me be your friend!" he said in a low voice, and keeping his eyes on the carpet. "I can quite understand what it is you are feeling and suffering, and I think your desire to get away from here, to get beyond the possibility of ever meeting with Blair, a natural one. If you will let me I will help you. You would wish to go at once?"

Margaret did not answer him, she was scarcely conscious of what he said. He waited a moment or two, then said slowly and distinctly:

"I think that the best thing I can do, Miss Margaret, is to leave you for a short time. The blow has been an overwhelming one, in very truth, it has confused and bewildered me; and standing here, a friend of the villain who has wronged you – alas! the friend who did all he could in all innocence to bring about the ceremony – I feel as if I were a sharer in his guilt."

Margaret tried to murmur "No," but the word would not come.

"I think it will be better if I leave you for an hour or two; I will come back in the evening, after having made all arrangements, and if you will be so gracious as to intrust yourself to my hands as far as the station, I honestly think you will find the journey made easier for you."

She tried to thank him, but she was not capable of doing more than incline her head, and with hushed steps – as if there were death in the house – Mr. Austin Ambrose went out of the room and down the path.

With a low, heartrending moan she threw herself upon the ground and, grasping her hair in both her white hands, hid her face – crushed with shame and the torture of a broken heart.

She lay thus prostrate in her anguish for some time, then she rose and staggered up-stairs. A sudden thought had smitten her.

Blair might come back – it might be that he still loved her! Was it not love that had tempted him to work her ruin? He might still love her passionately enough to come back and try to force her to remain with him. Or the woman – his wife! – she might hear what he had done, and in a fit of revenge drag her, Margaret, into a court to give evidence against him and convict him.

She must fly! She did not think of Austin Ambrose's offer of assistance; or if she had thought of it, she would not have remained for him to return.

To get away at once, to fly to some place where no one knew her, or could get to know about it; that was her instinctive desire.

She bathed her face until the fearful aching of the burning eyes was lessened, and tried to pack a small bag with the few articles that were absolutely necessary, taking care that nothing but that which had belonged to her went into the bag.

One by one she stripped off her rings – until she came to the wedding one – and placed them, together with the bracelets, chains and trinkets Blair had given her, on the dressing-table. The plain band of gold, inconsistent as it seemed, she allowed to remain on her finger. Then she changed her dress for the plain traveling costume in which she had been married.

In doing so, she saw the locket – Blair's first gift! With trembling hands she began to untie the ribbon, then she faltered. She had promised him that she would not part with this. Surely she could keep this to remind her of the time when she first tasted happiness, the time when she had thought him all that was true and noble.

The temptation to keep these two things that should seem as links between her and the past – so bitter, and yet so sweet! – proved too strong, and she let the locket fall into its place again over her heart.

The warm glow of evening was over the landscape by the time her simple preparations for flight were made, and drawing her veil on her pale and haggard face, she stole down the stairs.

In the narrow passage stood Mrs. Day.

"Are you going out, ma'am?" she said.

Margaret moistened her lips, and tried to answer carelessly:

"Yes, Mrs. Day."

"I don't think you ought to go far, ma'am," she said; "we are going to have a storm. Will you take an umbrella or your mackintosh?" and she looked toward the west, where a great bank of clouds seemed to rise from the horizon, as if about to swallow the sun in its inky mass.

"I will take my mackintosh," said Margaret.

Mrs. Day took it off the stand and folded it.

"I hope Mr. Stanley will be back before the storm breaks," she said. "You won't go far, ma'am?" she added, wistfully.

"No, not far," said poor Margaret.

She took the mackintosh on her arm and walked out and down the path. Then suddenly she heard the sound of a sob, and, looking back, saw Mrs. Day with her hand to her face.

Even in that hour of her supreme anguish, Margaret's gentle heart could beat in sympathy with another's sorrow, and she went back.

"What is the matter?" she asked hoarsely.

Mrs. Day forced a smile, but her eyes were full of tears.

"It's nothing – nothing much, ma'am," she said. "I beg your pardon for distressing you, but – but the boat hasn't come back yet!" and she looked beyond Margaret toward the sea.

"Oh, I hope it will be all right," Margaret faltered. "Do not be anxious, it will be back before the storm."

She could not trust herself to say any more, and turning, walked quickly away down the path.

She felt tired, but she reached the bottom by the aid of a handrail, and went toward the station. Then suddenly she remembered that she had forgotten her purse!

She had a few pounds in gold and a little silver in her pocket, but the purse, containing the bank-notes given her by the earl, she had left in a drawer at the cottage.

She stood, aghast and trembling. To go back she felt was impossible; and yet, what should she do? How could she accomplish her flight and hope to hide herself without money?

After a few minutes the dull roar of the rising tide seemed to exercise a fascination over her; and presently she felt no desire to reach the station, only a great longing to be alone by the side of the vast ocean, whose solemn, measured beat seemed like an awful voice calling to her.

She reached the foot of the rock, toward which the fisherman had pointed when he told her of the accident that had happened to the man and woman two years ago.

The tide had not touched it yet, and painfully she clutched its rugged surface up which a few hours ago she could have sprung easily.

At the top she sunk down exhausted, her face toward the sea, her eyes fixed on the bank of cloud, that like the giant in the Eastern fable, who escaped from the open bottle, had expanded and grown into a huge mass, which had ingulfed the sun, and threatened, as it seemed, to swallow the whole sky.

How long she lay there, hidden from the sight of the village, motionless and almost lifeless, she knew not; but suddenly she heard the lap, lap of water below her, and looking down, saw that the tide had crept round the rock, and was gradually but swiftly rising.

She regarded its sullen approach with heavy, listless eyes. All power of thought, much less appreciation of her peril, had deserted her. The sound of the waves, the dull booming of the wind fell upon her ear almost soothingly.

The day seemed to close and night to fall; the storm-clouds were right over her, and enveloped the earth as with a pall.

Suddenly the darkness was broken by a vivid flash of lightning, and the thunder roared and seemed to shake the rock on which she lay. At the same moment she felt her right foot grow cold, and looking down, saw that the tide had reached and covered it.

Then, for the first time, she awoke from her stupor, and realized that death and she were face to face.

With that instinct of self-preservation, that shrinking from the horror of death which comes to even the most miserable, she sprung to her feet and crawled to the highest point of the rock, and looked wildly round.

She had been cold the moment before, but now she seemed suffocating with an awful heat. With trembling hands she tore off her hat and waved it – Heaven knows with what desperate idea of attracting attention! – but the wind seized it and tore it from her hand. A moment afterward she felt the water lapping at her feet, and with an awful voice she called upon – Blair!

As if in answer to her appeal, the lightning shot out from the black sky and revealed her form as if carved in bronze on the top of the rock. The next moment she heard a man's voice, and a boat seemed to rise from the depths of the sea at her feet.

A lantern flashed in the darkness, and by its flickering gleam she saw a man rowing in the boat, and a woman crouching in the stern.

It was Day and his wife.

The woman screamed and pointed.

"There – there she is! For Heaven's sake be quick! Spring, Mrs. Stanley, spring! Oh – " and she moaned, "be quick!"

But, half mad with the insanity of mental and physical torture, Margaret drew back.

"No!" she cried. "I will not go! You shall not take me back to them!"

"Quick!" roared Day, with an oath, "or you will be too late! Here, hold the lantern, Jane! Hold it high!"

His wife seized the lantern and threw its rays upon Margaret's wild, white face. The boat, driven by the tide, struck against the rock, and Day, grappling it with his boat hook, sprung on to it.

For a moment or two there was a struggle between the weak and exhausted woman and the strong mariner. It lasted only a minute or two; then he lifted her bodily, and as gently as possible dropped her in the boat.

Springing in after her he seized the oars and began rowing to shore.

For a minute or two Margaret lay motionless, panting heavily, then she got to her knees and flung herself at Mrs. Day's feet, clinging to the woman's dress.

"Have pity on me," she moaned; "don't take me back! I will go anywhere else. I will do anything – but don't take me back to him! Oh, listen to me! You don't know how cruelly he has wronged me. I cannot go back. Stop!" – and she seized one of the oars. "You shall stop!"

Day stopped rowing, confused and bewildered.

"Is – is she mad?" he roared, hoarsely, at his wife.

Mrs. Day, white and trembling, threw her arms round Margaret and got her clear of the oars so that he might row.

"Oh, my dear, what is it? What has happened? Do you know that you have been nearly drowned? If I had not seen you and caught the boat just as it was coming to land – quick, James, quick!"

"No, no," sobbed Margaret. "Not back! I will not go back!" and she tried to free herself from the woman's grasp and throw herself into the sea.

"The poor lady's gone out of her mind!" said Day, pityingly. "Hold her, Jane, for Heaven's sake!"

"Yes, yes," panted Mrs. Day. "You row as hard as you can. I will hold her, poor dear. Oh, James, what can have happened? And she so happy a few hours agone!"

Day bent to the oars. Margaret had ceased to struggle, but Mrs. Day did not dare to relax her grasp. The boat forced its way nearer the shore.

Suddenly there rang out a sharp report, and a flash of fire darted from the beach.

Day uttered a cry and stopped rowing as if he had been shot, and Mrs. Day crouched still lower in the boat.

"It's the coastguard!" he said, bending forward and lowering his voice, though no one but the two women could have heard him. "It's the revenue men —and I've got the things aboard!"