Part 22 (1/2)
Some weeks pa.s.sed, the executors professed to be searching for the legal proofs of Colonel Brand's death. Davenport had written to Was.h.i.+ngton desiring particulars. In reality they were merely amusing their willful ward by these formalities, having not the slightest doubt of the colonel's decease; and impatiently hoping for some change of resolve in Margaret Walsingham.
But that aimless, hopeless period of Margaret's history quickly pa.s.sed away, and it had fitted her well for the strange, pathetic, wondrous end to which she now was fast approaching with reluctant feet.
She sat with Mrs. Gay and the baby in the doctor's cozy parlor, one bl.u.s.tering evening in the end of November. The green curtains were drawn warmly over the misty panes, the little fire flickered cheerily in the bra.s.s-k.n.o.bbed grate, and the baby crowed l.u.s.tily in his languid mother's lap, almost forcing a smile from her dejectedly drooping lips in spite of her chronic melancholy, when the doctor's step was heard on the pa.s.sage, and a shuffling sound, as of another arrival, and the doctor called in a strange voice for his wife.
”Harriet, will you come here?”
She slowly arose and placed the child in Margaret's eager arms, and shaking her head forebodingly, left the room. Margaret was happily unconscious of all save Franky's pretty face.
Presently the lady came back with uplifted eyebrows, and placed some wine upon the side-table, and brought her own vinaigrette and put it beside the decanter.
”The doctor has something to say to you. Miss Walsingham,” said she, at last. ”I will take Franky up-stairs for awhile, and Dr. Gay says that he is anxious that you should prepare your mind for a very unexpected turn of your affairs.”
She took the child and vanished from the room, leaving Margaret gazing after her with a vague feeling of terror.
”What has occurred, I wonder?” thought she. ”Something is wrong.”
She half rose, intending to seek Dr. Gay, but he appeared at the door, and shutting it close, approached her with a manifest tremor of apprehension.
”My wife has told you that I have something strange to say to you,”
began the little doctor, seizing her hand and pressing it closely. ”I would like you to endeavor to form some conception of it before I startle you with it.”
She was watching him with a wondering eye. His perturbation, his anxiety, his eagerness amazed her--she had never seen the mild little man so violently agitated.
”I can form no conception of your meaning,” said she; ”be so kind as to explain it in a word.”
”My dear girl, we've made a queer mistake, that's all,” faltered he, smoothing her hand anxiously. ”Now, do you think over every possibility, and pick out the most unlikely--I don't want to startle you.”
”Nothing can startle me now that St. Udo Brand is----”
She stopped abruptly and gazed fixedly in his face where yet lingered the traces of a serious shock; and her great gray eyes grew black as midnight while her cheeks flashed forth a splendid carmine.
”You don't intend to say that he is not dead?” cried she, sharply.
The doctor continued smoothing her hand; she s.n.a.t.c.hed it away and clasped both in an access of emotion.
”Tell me--tell me!” screamed Margaret wildly.
”St. Udo has come back, sure enough,” said the doctor, putting his arm about her and trying to soothe her. ”St. Udo Brand came home to-day and walked straight into Davenport's office.”
Her great eyes drank in the a.s.surance in his face, her parted lips quivered into almost a wild smile of triumph, and she clung to the little doctor, crying out:
”St. Udo is not dead--not dead! Oh, my heart, he is not dead!”
And then she sank on her chair and lifted her sparkling eyes, as it were, to Heaven, and whispered:
”Thank Heaven! thank Heaven! Oh, I can never grieve again.”
”Come, that's a right pleasant way of taking it,” cried the doctor, quite charmed. ”I was so afraid that you would take up the old hatred as soon as he came back to dispute the will with you, especially as he was thought to be so well out of the way.”