CHAPTER II.

READING OF THE WILL.

Mrs. Brand, in her lead coffin, in its rosewood shell, was slumbering in

the stately vault of her ancestors, and Mr. Davenport held in his hands

the last will of her whose will had in her life ever been law, and

glanced around to see that all the legatees were there.

St. Udo Brand, the tardy heir, was present, quietly waiting to hear the

reading of the will with that decorous gravity with which we wait to

bear our honors.

Dr. Gay was there, because his departed friend had requested him to do

so.

It was in the library; the walls of books glittered in calf and gilt in

the pleasant April sunlight; the glass door was opened upon the perfumed

garden walks; and the twitter of the busy birds came sweetly over beds

of crocuses and early blossoms to break the silence.

"Where is Miss Walsingham? Shouldn't she be here?" asked the doctor.

"I don't think she'll come down, sir," said the housekeeper.

Mr. Davenport cleared his throat.

"Better send for her, eh?" said he to Captain Brand.

The heir-expectant turned a dark face, disfigured by impatience, upon

the lawyer.

"It cant make much difference," he answered, dryly. "She can hear her

part of it again. Go on."

"On the contrary, it makes all the difference in the world," retorted

the lawyer, with unexpected heat; "and I refuse to break these seals

until Margaret Walsingham is present."

"Oh!"

St. Udo Brand raised his level brows and subsided into stolid

indifference.

A messenger carried a line from Mr. Davenport to Miss Walsingham's room,

and carried down again a message from her, which promised her presence

in a few minutes.

Some time passed in irksome silence, during which the captain beat the

devil's tatoo on the table, and darted mocking glances at the important

Mr. Davenport.

Then the sound of a slippered foot crossing the black and brown hall

floor sent the captain sauntering to the remotest window, there to watch

the struggles of a sparrow caught in the wire framework which protected

the espaliers; so that there was no one to welcome Margaret Walsingham

in, save old Dr. Gay, who compassionately pressed her cold band as he

led her to a chair, and with his heart pitied the captain's future

bride.

She passed, with heavy eyes cast down, to a seat behind a bronze statue

of St. George and the dragon, where the deepest shadows lurked, and kept

the giant warrior between her and that distant window until the will

should be declared.

Then the lawyer cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and read:

"THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ETHEL BRAND.

"SEVEN-OAK WAASTE, SURREY, 1862.

"_To all whom it may concern_:--I, Ethel Brand, being on this,

the twenty-eighth day of March, in the year of our Lord one

thousand eight hundred and sixty-two, in infirm health, yet in

possession of sound mind and memory, and all my natural

faculties, hereby declare this to be my last Will and

Testament, and that I revoke, rescind, and disannul any and all

Wills, Testaments, or Codicils previously made by me.

"To my dear grandson, St. Udo Brand, only son of my late son,

Cathcart Brand, all other lawful issue being dead, I bequeath

the whole of my personal property, estates, houses, and moneys

as held by me and in my name, together with the Seven-Oak

Waaste estate and house known as Castle Brand, on one

condition:

"That he shall, not sooner than one month, and not later than

one year, take to be his wife, and the legal mistress of Castle

Brand, my beloved and faithful friend, Margaret Walsingham, who

held the cup of love to the lips of an otherwise forsaken old

woman, and for four years served her without thought of reward.

"Should my grandson, St. Udo Brand, fail to marry Margaret

Walsingham within twelve months after my demise, I bequeath all

my property, lands, houses, and moneys as above mentioned, to

Margaret Walsingham, to be enjoyed by her until the day of her

death, and to descend to her children, or next of kin, forever.

"Should St. Udo Brand or Margaret Walsingham die within the

year, the property shall revert to the survivor."

Then followed generous bequests to various charitable schemes,

and annuities to the old servants of the castle, the whole

concluding in the clause:

"I appoint, and do hereby declare Rufus Gay. M.D., my

trustworthy physician, and Andrew Davenport, Esq., my faithful

lawyer, to be the executors of this, my Will, bequeathing to

each the sum of five thousand pounds, as an humble token of my

regard for, and gratitude to them; and adjuring them to see the

contents of my Will faithfully carried out.

"All of which I confirm by affixing this my signature, in the

presence of these witnesses.

"ETHEL BRAND.

"RUFUS GAY, M.D.

"ANDREW DAVENPORT, Attorney-at-Law."

The lawyer laid down the will upon the table again, and turned a

searching glance upon each of the principals. Again he cleared his

throat, which had grown husky at the last clause referring to himself,

and it bore an admonitory, as well as a reproachful import to the ears

of Captain Brand.

"Miss Walsingham," blurted Dr. Gay, rising nervously, "no one has

presented you to Captain Brand. May I?"

"Sir, be pleased to lend your attention for a moment," cried Mr.

Davenport, pugnaciously.

So Captain Brand was pleased to lend his attention. He wheeled from his

dark reverie, and marched, with the reckless tread of the desperado

going to the cannon's mouth, up to the group, and his flashing eyes

boded no tenderness in their first scathing glance towards his future

bride.

"Miss Walsingham, my dear, this is Captain Brand."

The doctor stepped back, and the lady glided from her shadowy nook; and

the rich gold lights from the tinted panes fell full upon her.

"Ye gods, what a Medusa!" muttered the captain, staring.

"We have met," said Margaret Walsingham, panting and white-lipped, her

wild gray eyes burning with red heat, and meeting his sneering gaze with

loathing, "we have met, sir, by no will of mine."

A loud, insulting "Ha! ha! ha!" burst from Captain Brand.

The harsh, grating laughter, eloquent with scorn, devilish with malice,

incredulity, and fury, turned the girl's outraged protest into

speechlessness.

She wrapped her long crape garments about her hands, and the beautiful

figure of Margaret Walsingham--her one charm, and a perfection it

was--vanished from the incensed eyes of St. Udo Brand.

"Well, what think you of woman's wit after this?" cried he to the

executors when the door had closed. "Who says a woman can't scheme, and

cleverly, too? What fool ever called hers the softest sex?"

"I must request of you, as the executor of this will," said Mr.

Davenport, slapping it loudly, "is bound to do--to apologize to the

young lady whom you have just now insulted, for your treatment of her."

The captain's magnificent eyes were blazing with anger, and his brow was

contracted with the scowl of a baffled demon, but at the plucky lawyer's

proposition, he threw back his head and burst into another shout of

laughter that made the ceiling ring again.

"What! trust my unwary heart to the red-hot fingers of a Torquemada? She

would dissect it leisurely for its vulnerable spot, and probe that with

spiteful blade. It needed not my insults, as you call them, to turn her

venom against me. Did I not read it in the loathing eyes and shrinking

figure before ever I opened my mouth? Am not I the one obstacle between

her and the fortune she has lain in wait for during four years? She can

afford to take insults from me; they will not hurt her. They are my

tribute to her talent as a fortune-hunter."

"I must disabuse your mind of all unjust suspicions against Miss

Walsingham," cried Mr. Davenport, meeting the captain's frowning eyes

with as fierce a frown; "she has never schemed for this disposition of

your grandmother's property. On the contrary, to my extreme surprise and

disapprobation, she vehemently implored that she might be left out of

the will altogether, and sent for me an hour before Mrs. Brand's

decease, hoping that you might arrive in time to prevail upon Mrs. Brand

to revoke the clauses concerning her."

"Save me these rhapsodies, friend," returned the captain; "those

heavenly qualities to which you direct my lover-like regards, but whet

my appetite like that of the ravening wolf. Let me make a mouthful of my

bliss; but I warn all officious fingers to keep out of my pie."

"You mean by that, I suppose, that you will submit to the conditions of

the will?"

"I mean nothing of the kind, my good sir. To the infernal shades I

consign your scheming adventuress."

He rose from his lounging attitude with another of those bitter and

cynical bursts of laughter, and dashing open the glass door, stepped out

upon the gravel walk to saunter, his hands behind him, past the old

moss-grown fish-pool, into the shrubbery.

The sun shone on the stately form and on his purple black hair. It

wavered between leafy banners on his angry face, so dark with ominous

clouds, and merciless with the dance of inward passions.

And yet it was a grand picture of desolation, that lofty countenance in

its wrath. The fires of a thousand passions had graved these deep curves

of bitterness, and marred the once genial mouth with the never absent

sneer, and perverted an intellect once pure and stately.

No wonder that the two men, who were watching him in silence as he

deliberately slashed down lilies with his cane, shuddered when they

thought of the poor girl who stood between him and Castle Brand.

Margaret sat in her room, dumbly enduring the first humiliation of her

life. Her humble soul had been outraged--disgraced. That cruel,

insulting laugh still rang in her ears. Her cheeks flamed with shame;

her eyes were suffused with hot tears. She could do nothing but sit in a

trance, and busy-brained, revolve it over and over until she trembled

with the agony of wounded pride.

Her sense of womanly honor had been trampled upon; her unapproachable

self-respect had been bandied about by impure hands. Margaret felt that

she was forever disgraced. To have been thrown at his feet, to suffer

his eyes to scorn her, to see the wicked mouth sneer--the reckless head

thrown back--to hear the muttered "Ye gods! what a Medusa!" to be

stunned by the loud "ha! ha!" to be consorted with a monster of

dissipation, such as he was--and to be scorned. Oh, cruel Ethel Brand:

to force a friendless girl into such a position! Why had she not rather

turned her from these castle doors, four years ago, than reserve her for

such a fate as this?

Margaret began to see that she was terribly in Captain Brand's

power--that if he were rascal enough to propose to her, she could

scarcely in honor refuse him, and keep him out of his property. She also

saw, with vague, prophetic eyes, a vision in the distance, of _stealthy

hands stretching toward her life in either case_.

The ruddy sun, slipping down behind the cliffs two hours later, looked

in at Margaret, who, with her door securely locked, sped about with

motions of nervous energy, packing a small valise of clothes to take

with her upon a sudden journey.

She had determined to blot herself by her own act out of Ethel Brand's

will, by disappearing alike from friend and enemy, and hiding herself in

some far distant corner of England, until Captain Brand had stepped into

secure possession of Castle Brand.

She believed her life to be in danger, for she had wit enough to know

that there were a thousand ways of quietly putting her out of the way

before the twelve months were over, provided that St. Udo Brand was

villain enough to avail himself of them, and of that she had little

doubt; so she made all haste to leave him master of the field.

At ten o'clock of the night she flitted down the broad oak and walnut

stairs, with her valise under her cloak, and stole out of the library

glass door, under the very nose of sleepy Symonds, the footman, and

under the night shades of the Norman oaks.

A man met her on the broad Waaste, where the somber pines stood one by

one like specters, and Margaret sharply screamed when he came close to

her and peered into her face.

"I think this is Miss Walsingham?"

"Oh, yes."

He was the letter-carrier from Regis, and held a white missive in his

hand.

"Special, it says, miss, so I took it over to-night, instead of waiting

for to-morrow's batch, for, says I to myself, 'Young wimmen likes to get

their letters.' Night, miss."

"Good-night, Mr. Wells. Thank you for taking so much trouble this dark

night."

She stood listening to his retreating footsteps, and fingering the

embossed seal of the letter. It seemed to be the Brand coat of arms; and

yet who would use this crest when all the Brands were dead but one?

A light still burned in the lodge, down by the great gates, and she hung

her valise on the iron railing and lifted the latch.

"Let me come in a moment?" she asked, putting in her pale, disturbed

face.

"Lord! is that you, Miss Margaret!" cried the lodge-keeper, pushing his

horn glasses upon his forehead to look at her with his watery eyes.

"Come in, and welcome."

"I was out walking, and met the letter-carrier, he gave me a letter,

which I cannot wait longer to read. Let me read it here?"

She sat down, with the tallow candle between her and these bleared old

eyes, and opened her letter. Yes, it bore the Brand crest with its

fierce inscription. There was but one surviving Brand in the world, and

his name signed Margaret's letter:

"MADAM:--Accept, with my profound congratulations, Ethel

Brand's bequest of Seven-Oak Waaste, and all acres attached,

and my bequest of your own choice of a master to the place

mentioned. I have withstood the exquisite temptation of sharing

your bliss, lest I should revive the pretty drama of 'Paolo

Osini,' who strangled his wife in his first embrace; and with a

pious blessing on the manes of poor Madam Brand, who likely

enough got choked by a parasite, I depart to a land where

oracles do say there are no fortune-hunters.

"Yours, admiringly,

"ST. UDO BRAND."

With this second bitter insult crushed in her hand, and terrified tears

washing her cheeks, Margaret Walsingham went back, in the surging night

wind, to Seven-Oak Waaste.