Margaret Montfort Part 2

Returning from the kitchen an hour later, a sadder and a wiser girl (for Frances's perfection seemed unattainable by ordinary mortals, even with the aid of Sapolio), Margaret heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside. Glancing through the window of the long pa.s.sage through which she was going, she saw, to her amazement, a carriage standing at the door, a carriage that had evidently come some way, for it was covered with dust. The driver was taking down a couple of trunks, and beside the carriage stood a lady, with her purse in her hand.

"I shall give you two dollars!" the lady was saying, in a thin, sharp voice. "I consider that ample for the distance you have come."

"I told the gentleman it would be three dollars, mum!" said the man, civilly, touching his hat. "Three dollars is the regular price, with one trunk, and these trunks is mortal heavy. The gentleman said as it would be all right, mum."

"The gentleman knew nothing whatever about it," said the sharp-voiced lady. "I shall give you two dollars, and not a penny more. I have always paid two dollars to drive to Fernley, and I have no idea of being cheated now, I a.s.sure you."

The man was still grumbling, when Elizabeth opened the door. She looked grave, but greeted the newcomer with a respectful curtsey.

"Oh, how do you do, Elizabeth!" said the strange lady. "How is Mr.

Montfort?"

"Mr. Montfort is very well, thank you, mum!" said Elizabeth. "He is in town, mum. He'll hardly be back before evening. Would you like to see Miss Montfort?"

"Miss Montfort? Oh, the little girl who is staying here. You needn't trouble to call her just now, Elizabeth. Send for Willis, will you, and have him take my trunks in; I have come to stay. He may put them in the White Rooms."

"I--I beg pardon, mum!" faltered Elizabeth. "In the Blue Room, did you say? The Blue Room has been new done over, and that is where we have put visitors lately."

"Nothing of the sort!" said the lady, sharply. "I said the White Rooms; Mrs. Cheriton's rooms."

Margaret stayed to hear no more. A stranger in the White Rooms! Aunt Faith's rooms, which she could not bear to occupy herself, though her uncle had urged her to do so? And such a stranger as this, with such a voice,--and such a nose! Never! never, while there was breath to pant with, while there were feet to run with!

Never but once in her life had Margaret Montfort run as she did now; that once was when she flew up the secret staircase to save her cousin from burning. In a flash she was in her own room--what had been her room!--gathering things frantically in her arms, s.n.a.t.c.hing books from the table, dresses from the closets. Down the back stairs she ran like a whirlwind; down, and up, and down again. Had the girl gone suddenly mad?

Ten minutes later, when Elizabeth, her eyes smarting with angry tears, opened the door of the White Parlour,--Willis the ch.o.r.eman behind her, grunting and growling, with a trunk on his shoulder,--a young lady was sitting in the great white armchair, quietly reading. The young lady's cheeks were crimson, her eyes were sparkling, and her breath came in short, quick gasps, which showed that what she was reading must be very exciting; what made it the more curious was that the book was upside down. But she was entirely composed, and evidently surprised at the sudden intrusion.

"What is it, Elizabeth?" asked Margaret, quietly.

"I--I--I beg your pardon, Miss Montfort!" said Elizabeth, whose eyes were beginning to brighten, too, and her lips to twitch dangerously.

"I--I didn't know, miss, as you had--moved in yet. Here is Miss Sophronia Montfort, miss, as perhaps you would like to see her."

The strange lady was already glaring over Willis's shoulder.

"What is this?" she said. "What does this mean? These rooms are not occupied; I was positively told they were not occupied. There must be some mistake. Willis--"

"Yes, there is a mistake!" said Margaret, coming forward, and holding out her hand with a smile. "Is this Cousin Sophronia? I am Margaret, Cousin Sophronia. Uncle John asked me to take these rooms, and I--I feel quite at home in them already. Would you like the Pink, or the Blue Room? They are both ready, aren't they, Elizabeth?"

"Yes, Miss Montfort," said Elizabeth, "quite ready."

The strange lady's eyes glared wider and wider; her chest heaved; she seemed about to break out in a torrent of angry speech; but making a visible effort, she controlled herself. "How do you do, my--my dear?"

she said, taking Margaret's offered hand, and giving it a little pinch with the tips of her fingers. "I--a little misunderstanding, no doubt.

Willis,--the Blue Room,--for the present!" But Willis was suffering from a sudden and violent fit of coughing, which shook his whole frame, and made it necessary for him to rest his trunk against the wall and lean against it, with his head down; so that it was fully five minutes before Miss Sophronia Montfort's trunk got up to the Blue Room.

CHAPTER III.

THE UNEXPECTED.

When Mr. Montfort came home that afternoon, Margaret was waiting for him, as usual, on the verandah; as usual, for she was determined to keep the worry out of her face and out of her voice. But as her uncle came up the steps, with his cheery "Well! and how's my la.s.sie?" he was confronted by Miss Sophronia Montfort, who, pa.s.sing Margaret swiftly, advanced with both hands held out, and a beaming smile.

"My dearest John! my poor, dear fellow! Confess that I have surprised you. Confess it, John!--you did not expect to see me."

"Sophronia!" exclaimed Mr. Montfort. He stood still and contemplated the visitor for a moment; then he shook hands with her, rather formally.

"You certainly have surprised me, Sophronia!" he said, kindly enough.

"What wind has blown you in this direction?"

"The wind of affection, my dear boy!" cried the strange lady. "I have been planning it, ever since I heard of Aunt Faith's death. Dearest Aunt Faith! What a loss, John! what an irreparable loss! I shall never recover from the shock. The moment I heard of it, I said--William would tell you, if he were here--I said, 'I must go to John! He will need me now,' I said, 'and go I must.' I explained to William that I felt it as a solemn duty. He took it beautifully, poor, dear fellow. I don't know how they will get on without me, for his wife is sadly heedless, John, and the children need a steady hand, they do indeed. But he did not try to keep me back; indeed, he urged me to come, which showed such a beautiful spirit, didn't it? And so here I am, my dearest boy, come to take Aunt Faith's place, and make a home for you, my poor lonely cousin.

You know I have always loved you as a sister, John, and you must consider me a real sister now; sister Sophronia, dear John!"

The lady paused for breath, and gazed tenderly on Mr. Montfort; that gentleman returned her gaze with one of steady gravity.

"I shall be glad to have a visit from you, Sophronia," he said. "I have no doubt we can make you comfortable for a few weeks; I can hardly suppose that William can spare you longer than that. We have no children here to need your--your ministrations."

The lady shook her head playfully; she had thin curls of a grayish yellow, which almost rattled when she shook her head.

"Always self-denying, John!" she cried. "The same unselfish, good, sterling fellow! But I understand, my friend; I know how it really is, and I shall do my duty, and stand by you; depend upon that! And this dear child, too!" she added, turning to Margaret and taking her hand affectionately. "So young, so unexperienced! and to be attempting the care of a house like Fernley! How could you think of it, John? But we will make that all right. I shall be--we can hardly say a mother, can we, my dear? but an elder sister, to you, too. Oh, we shall be very happy, I am sure. The drawing-room carpets are looking very shabby, John. I am ready to go over the dear old house from top to bottom, and make it over new; of course you did not feel like making any changes while dear Aunt Faith was with you. Such a mistake, I always say, to shake the aged out of their ruts. Yes! so wise of you! and who is in the neighbourhood, John?"

"I hardly know," said Mr. Montfort. "You know I live rather a hermit life, Sophronia. Mrs. Peyton is here; I believe you are fond of her."

"Sweet Emily Peyton!" exclaimed Miss Sophronia, with enthusiasm. "Is that exquisite creature here? That will indeed be a pleasure. Ah, John, she should never have been Emily Peyton; you know my opinion on that point." She nodded her head several times, with an air of mysterious understanding. "And widowed, after all, and once more alone in the world. How does she bear her sorrow, John?"

"I have not seen her," said Mr. Montfort, rather shortly. "From what I hear, she seems to bear it with considerable fort.i.tude. Perhaps you forget that it is fully ten years since Mr. Peyton died, Sophronia. But Margaret here can tell you more than I can about Mrs. Peyton; she goes to see her now and then. Mrs. Peyton is something of an invalid, and likes to have her come."

"Indeed!" cried Miss Sophronia. "I should hardly have fancied--Emily Peyton was always so mature in her thought, so critical in her observations; but no doubt she is lonely, and glad of any society; and sweet Margaret is most sympathetic, I am sure. Sympathy, my dear John!

how could we live without it, my poor dear fellow?"

"I am going to walk," said Mr. Montfort, abruptly. "Margaret, will you come? Sophronia, you will be glad of a chance to rest; you must be tired after your long drive."

"This once, yes, dearest John!" said the lady. "This once you must go without me. I am tired,--so thoughtful of you to notice it! There is no sofa in the Blue Room, but I shall do very well there for a few days.

Don't have me on your mind in the least, my dear cousin; I shall soon be absolutely at home. Enjoy your walk, both of you! After to-day, I shall always be with you, I hope. I ordered tea an hour earlier, as I dined early, and I knew you would not mind. Good-bye!" and the lady nodded, and smiled herself into the house.

Margaret went for her hat in silence, and in silence she and her uncle walked along. Mr. Montfort was smoking, not in his usual calm and dignified manner, but in short, fierce puffs; smoking fast and violently. Margaret did not dare to speak, and they walked a mile or more without exchanging a word.

"Margaret," said her uncle, at last.

"Yes, Uncle John."

"Not in the least, my dear!"

"No, Uncle John."

They walked another mile, and presently stopped at the top of a breezy hill, to draw breath, and look about them. The sun was going down in a cheerful blaze; the whole country smiled, and was glad of its own beauty. Mr. Montfort gazed about him, and heaved a long sigh of content.

"Pretty! Pretty country!" he said. "Spreading fields, quiet woods, sky over all, undisturbed. Yes! You are very silent, my dear. Have I been silent, too, or have I been talking?"