Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards Quand on conspire, sans frayeur Il faut se faire conspirateur; Pour tout le monde il faut avoir Perruque blonde, et collet noir!"

Peggy's injury proved to be slight, as she herself had declared, but the jar had been considerable, and her head ached so that she was glad to be put to bed and nursed by Margaret. Rita hovered about, still very pale, and apparently much more disturbed by the accident than the actual sufferer. She put many questions: Would Peggy be well to-morrow? Probably still weak? Would it be necessary for her to remain in her room this evening? In that case, what would Margaret do? Would she leave her to Elizabeth's care, and come down as usual?

"Certainly not!" Margaret replied. "Elizabeth will stay with Peggy at tea-time, but otherwise I shall not leave her. You don't mind staying alone, Rita? Of course, there is not much to be done; Peggy is not ill at all, only weak and tired, but she likes to have me with her. You will not be lonely?"

No; Rita had letters to write. She should do very well. Desolated, of course, without the two who were her soul and her existence; but Margaret understood that she could not bear the sight of sickness; it had been thus from infancy. Margaret nodded kindly, and went back into Peggy's room, with an impression that Rita was pleased at having her out of the way. Out of the way of what? But Margaret could not think about mysteries now. Peggy wanted to talk, and to have her head stroked, and to know that Margaret was near her.

"Your hand is so smooth, Margaret. I never felt anything like it; and the smoothness and coolness seem to go into my head, and stop the aching. Do you think this is being sick? If it is, I like it."

Margaret saw that the child was excited, and her eyes were overbright. "No; this is not being sick," she said quietly. "But you ought to be sleepy by this time, my pussy. Lie still now, like a good child, and I will sing to you. Will you have the 'Bonny House o' Airlie?'"

But it was long before Peggy could be quieted. She wanted to talk. She was full of reminiscences of former "croppers" in the lives of the various members of her family. She wanted to tell how Jim was dragged by the buffalo bull he was taming; how Pa caught the young grizzly by his paws, and held him until George came with the rifle; how Brown Billy ran away with her when she was six years old, and how she held on by his mane till he lay down and rolled in the creek, and then swam ashore. Her brain was feverishly excited, and it was not till late in the evening that Margaret succeeded in singing and soothing the tired girl to sleep. At length Peggy lay still, and her thoughts began to sink away into soft dreams, lulled by the soft hand on her brow, and the smooth, sweet voice in her ears. She opened her eyes to say, "I love you, Margaret; I love you best, over and over, all the time. If I thought I didn't for a bit, that was just because I was a stupid, and she—but now I know." And Peggy smiled, and smiling, fell asleep.

Margaret sat still for a time, listening to the breathing that grew deeper and more regular as the minutes went on. She had brought her own bed across the hall, meaning to sleep with Peggy, in case of her waking in the night; though that was hardly likely. It was ten o'clock now, and Rita was probably asleep. She would go down for a moment to see that all was well, and perhaps have a word with Elizabeth, if she were not gone to bed. She went softly to the door, and turned the handle noiselessly. The door was locked!

Greatly startled, Margaret stood motionless for a few minutes, thinking and listening. At first all was still. Footsteps above her head,—Elizabeth was going to bed; then the familiar creak of the good woman's bed; then silence again. Rita's room was across the hall, and she could hear no sound from there. Through the open window came the soft night noises: the dew dripping from the chestnut leaves, a little sleepy wind stirring the branches, a nut falling to the ground. How still!

Hark! did a twig snap then? Was some one moving through the shrubbery, brushing gently against the leaves? And then, as her heart stood still to listen, Margaret heard a low, musical whistle. She stole to the window, and standing in the shadow of the curtain, looked out. A light was burning in her room, and at first she could see nothing but blackness outside. Gradually, the outlines of the great chestnut stole out from the empty darkness, a hard black against the soft gloom of the night. Then the shrubbery behind; and then—was something moving there? Were those two figures standing by the tree?

The whistle was repeated; and now Margaret heard the swift rustle of silk brushing against her door, then fluttering from baluster to baluster, as Rita sped down the stairs. A door opening softly, and now three figures stood under the chestnut-tree. Words were whispered, greetings exchanged; then the three figures stole away into the blackness.

Margaret felt helpless for a moment. Locked in,—her cousin asleep here, exhausted if not ill, and needing absolute quiet,—and going on downstairs—what? She must know! She must call John Strong, and warn him that her fears were realised, and that unwelcome visitors were already at the doors of Fernley, perhaps already within. But how was it possible? She ran to the window and looked down. Full twenty feet! To jump was impossible; even Peggy could not have done it. Peggy! yes! but Peggy could get out. Only the other night she had had a climbing frenzy, and had slid down the gutter-spout, half for the joy of it, half to tease Margaret, who was in terror till she reached the ground, and then in greater terror when the young gymnast came "shinning" up again, shouting and giggling. The spout! Margaret stood looking at it now. For a moment her courage deserted her, and she wrung her hands and began to sob under her breath; but this would not do! Her nerves knew the resolute shake of the shoulders, and shrank into obedience. She set her lips firmly, and there crept into her face a certain "dour" look that may have come from her Scottish ancestors. "If a thing has to be done, why, it must be done!" she said to herself. "Anyhow, there will be solid ground at the bottom, not a quaking bog."

Could she do it? She had never climbed in her life. She had been wont to grow dizzy on any great height; and here she reflected that she had inwardly laughed at Rita, a few hours before, for growing dizzy at the sight of blood. "But I have to learn so many lessons!" said poor Margaret, and with that she laid her hand on the spout. A moment longer she waited, but no longer in hesitation,—she was simply asking for strength from One who had never refused it yet; then she clasped the pipe with both hands, swung herself out as she had seen Peggy do, and slid down, down, down.

Her hands were torn and bleeding, but she reached the ground in safety, falling several feet, but escaping with a few bruises which she did not feel at the time. She ran round the house toward the east wing, where the gardener's room was, but stopped half-way. The door of the ground-floor room, her uncle's private room, was open; a light was burning inside. Possibly John Strong was himself on the watch, and she need go no farther. Margaret turned hastily, entered the room,—and was confronted by two young gentlemen in Spanish cloaks and broad-brimmed hats.

Margaret's first impulse was to run away; her second, to stand and wait, feeling that she was at a play, and that the next scene was going to be very thrilling; but the third impulse was the right one, and she stepped forward, holding out her hand.

"You are my Cousin Carlos, I am sure!" she said, addressing the taller of the two lads (for they were only lads, she saw to her unspeakable relief; the elder could not be more than twenty). "I am Margaret Montfort. You—you have seen Rita?"

Don Carlos Montfort gasped and bowed, hat in hand. He and his companion were evidently new to their rÔle of conspirators, for they were piteously ill at ease, and their dark eyes roamed about as if in search of retreat; but he managed to say something about the distinguished honour—a spare hour to visit his sister—delight at making the acquaintance of a relative so charming,—here he stopped and looked over his shoulder, for footsteps were heard, and he hoped Rita was coming. Already he and his comrade were cursing themselves for having been asses enough to be drawn into this scrape; why had they attended to a foolish girl instead of going their own way? Now they were in a trap—was that Rita coming?

The door of the secret staircase was open, showing which way the girl had gone. But the steps that were now descending were heavy, though quiet,—far different from the rush of an excited bird that had gone up a moment before Margaret's appearance. They were to follow Rita,—she went to light a candle. Ah! what was this?

The young men recoiled, and their dark eyes opened to their fullest width; Margaret's hands came together with a violent clasp. Down the narrow stair and into the room came a man in a black velvet jacket; a tall man, with bright, dark eyes and a grave face. He held a candle in his hand; he set it down, and turned to the two disconcerted Spaniards.

"My nephew," said Mr. Montfort, "I am glad to welcome you and your friend to Fernley House. I am your Uncle John!"

Margaret was not conscious of any surprise. It seemed part of the play, and as if she had known it all along, but had not been allowed to realise it, for some dramatic reason. She saw John Strong—John Montfort—shaking hands with the two unhappy young men, and trying to put them at their ease by speaking of the bad roads and the poor conveyances that were undoubtedly to blame for their arriving so late. She saw and heard, but still as in a dream. Her real thought was for Rita; what would she do? What desperate step might follow this disconcerting of her cherished plan?

Unconsciously Margaret had moved forward, till now she stood the nearest to the foot of the stairs. She looked up into the darkness, with some thought of going to her cousin, telling her gently what had happened, and quieting her so that she might come down and face the situation, and meet her uncle. All at once, from that darkness above, a bright light sprang up, and the same instant there rang out a wild and terrible shriek.

"Help! Carlos, help! I burn!"

The three men started forward, but they were not the first. Margaret was conscious of but a single movement as she flew up the stairs, never stumbling, lighted by that fearful glare above. To spring into the garret, to drag down the heavy old cloak—the same that once had frightened the three girls on their first visit—that hung close by the stairway, to fling herself upon Rita, throwing her down, muffling her, smothering and beating out the flames that were leaping up toward the girl's white, wild face,—all this was done in one breath, it seemed to her. She knew nothing in the world but the fire she was fighting, the little flames that, choked down in one place, came creeping out at her from another, playing a dreadful hide-and-seek among the folds of the cloak, starting up under her very hands; but Margaret caught them in her hands, and strangled the life out of them, and fought on. It was but a moment, in reality. Another second or two and the flames would have had the mastery; but Margaret's swift rush had been in time, and the good heavy cloak—oh, the blessed weight and closeness of its fabric!—had shut out the air, so that by the time the last of the three anxious pursuers had reached the garret, the fire was out, and only smoke and charred woollen remained to tell of the terrible danger. Only these—and the two hands, burned and blistered, that Margaret was holding out to her uncle, as he bent anxiously over her.

"Don't be angry with her, Uncle!" cried the girl. And she knew nothing more.