CHAPTER XXI.

WAS IT A RUSE?

The tide of horror was mounting higher, the waters gurgled to her lips,

and her own feeble hands must raise a footway from out of the hissing

waves to bear her safely over.

"Where now, miss?" asked Symonds, holding the coach door in his hand.

"Drive to the office of Seamore Emersham, the lawyer," said Margaret.

The coachman mounted to the box, turned the carriage, and rolled down

the street again.

"Can it be doubted that my guardians have been purposely sent out of the

way, that I may not appeal to them for protection?" she thought. "No, I

am not deceived; Mortlake is too talented a plotter to leave a door of

safety open for his victim. With what plausible excuse can he have duped

the suspicious Davenport, and the humane Gay, that they have both left

me in his power? No doubt he expected to keep me a prisoner in the

castle until I had either capitulated or fallen a victim to his rage.

But I have escaped him, and am free to seek protection where I please,

and since my friends have allowed themselves to be cheated by the

villain, I shall lay my case before this other lawyer, Mr. Emersham. I

have only to disclose the outrage attempted last night, and my enemy

shall be arrested. Oh! you arch fiend! you did not expect this chapter

in the story, did you? No, you wretch, you do not know that Margaret

Walsingham is posting to sure victory, and your certain destruction!"

Symonds drew up before Mr. Emersham's windows, and the lawyer himself

looked out at this unwonted vision of a carriage at his door, and drew

back with a smirk of satisfaction!

Margaret had her foot on the step, her hand on the servant's shoulder,

and was about to alight, when a triviality stayed her steps, an incident

changed her purpose--she sat down again and waited.

Through the drab-colored mire of the village street, a man was trudging,

his scarlet coat the one object of interest in the lonely street, an

envelope in his outstretched hand shining like a flag of truce--he

hurried eagerly toward the Castle Brand carriage--the village postman.

Reaching the pavement before the lawyer's door, he handed Margaret a

letter, and touched his hat deferentially.

"Thought I couldn't catch yer in time," panted the old man to Symonds,

"and there's 'immediate' on the letter. I saw yer pass the post office,

and knew it would save me the tramp to the Waaste if I could catch up.

Good-day, sir."

He trudged away, and the coachman lounged about the pavement awaiting

his mistress' pleasure.

The letter was written in the welcome hand of Dr. Gay, and Margaret

devoured its contents with sparkling eyes.

Thus the good old doctor wrote:

"MY DEAR MISS MARGARET:

"I am writing this from----, in Berks, where I have stopped for

an hour to dine. I have been very unexpectedly called away to

Llandaff, to follow out this extraordinary case of yours, and

am anxious to run it through before I agitate you; hence my

sudden departure.

"When the worry of starting off was over, and I had time to

think over your position, I realized how uncomfortable you

would be under the sole charge of Davenport, who is always

rather hard upon you, considering that you are in a precarious

state of mind, so I thought of a very good plan for you. I

require to stay in Wales for a week or so, and will stop at

Caerlyon's Hotel, a very nice house, in Llandaff, where you

might be quite comfortable. Suppose then, you run off from the

colonel and come to me?

"I hope you will be pleased with the idea, for you need a

change badly. You can take Purcell with you and come by rail as

far as Cirencester, where you take the coach. Depend upon it, I

shall look for you every day. Think of it, and start to-morrow.

"Your obedient servant,

"RUFUS GAY."

Margaret laid down the letter with a trembling hand, and put that hand

to her forehead wildly. A dark suspicion had assailed her from the

moment she began to read, and now she sat wrapped in perplexity and

terror.

"Is this a snare for me also?" thought she. "Is this letter forged?"

She seized it again and pored over it with keen eyes; but its neat,

cramped chirography revealed nothing. She had had many notes from Dr.

Gay in precisely these finical characters.

The postmarks were all there upon the envelope, the sentences in the

letter echoed the doctor's every day speech. The whole missive seemed

too _bona fide_ to doubt for a moment.

And yet she doubted and hesitated, and longing frantically to obey the

welcome request which was couched in the familiar language of her old

friend, she thrust the hope from her with suspicion and loathing.

Torn between two opinions she gazed with stony eyes into vacancy; while

the sharp young lawyer eyed her inquisitively from his office window,

and Symonds lounging about the pavement, ventured to whistle a few

dreary notes to remind his mistress of his existence, and beat his arms

across his breast, to suggest to her the bitterness of the wintry wind.

She looked at him at last, with a resolute face, and commanded him to

see whether Mr. Emersham was alone.

"I have nothing to hope for but death, if I stay here," mused Margaret,

almost calmly, "and I can meet no worse if I obey this letter, and go

away. I may as well have the benefit of the doubt, and go to Llandaff,

since there is a possibility that this Letter is not forged. Yes, I can

fear no worse fate than death, and that menaces me here every moment of

my guardians' absence. I will obey the letter and go."

A dingy office boy, answering Symonds' knock, announced that Mr.

Emersham was entirely disengaged, and Margaret alighted, and entered the

office.

The lawyer hastened to salute her, and had her seated, and the door shut

with much alacrity. She bestowed upon him one piercing glance; the

shallow eyes answered her appeal for wise counsel in the negative; the

_blase_ mouth answered her hopes for protection also in the negative.

The fast young lawyer was clearly not the man to whom she could trust

her secret or in whom she could place confidence.

The fast young lawyer's smartly furnished office and diamond ring, spoke

of a thriving practice; but his old office-coat, his idle hands clasped

behind him, his reckless swagger and his insincere face spoke more

reliable of shams, and shifts, and unscrupulous quirks to fill the empty

purse. Clearly, Mr. Seamore Emersham was a man to be bought with money;

and Roland Mortlake was the man to buy him; no disclosures must be made

by Margaret Walsingham before him.

"Dr. Gay's letter said to me 'start to-morrow,'" thought she, "but this

man's countenance as I read it, warns me to start to-night."

She dropped her distrustful eyes from his, and quietly opened her

business.

"I am Miss Walsingham, of Castle Brand," she said, "and in the temporary

absence of my own lawyer, Mr. Davenport, I have come to you. I am going

out to Surrey presently, and I wish to leave some documents in your

charge until I return. They are important papers, which I must not lose,

and, since some accident might occur to them or to you, in my absence, I

will prefer that you undertake the charge in company with some other

person whose honor is considered unimpeachable. Can you name such a

person?"

The lawyer opened his eyes very wide at his new client's strange

request, but glibly ran over a list of the leading men of Regis as

candidates for the honor of Miss Walsingham's confidence.

"We shall try the Rev. Mr. Challoner," she said, "and while I arrange

the papers, your boy can carry him a note from me."

Mr. Emersham darted for stationery and wheeled a desk to his visitor

with profuse politeness, and when the note was finished he sent his boy

off at full speed to the vicarage with it.

During his absence Margaret wrote a careful account of her enemy's

attempt upon her life the previous night; copied out the letter she had

received that morning purporting to be from Dr. Gay, and concluded it

with these remarks:

"Believing my life to be in danger so long as I remain in Roland

Mortlake's vicinity, I resolve to obey the above letter, although I

expect it to lead me into some trap where I shall lose my life. However,

in the faint hope that I may be mistaken, I will begin my journey to

Llandaff to-night at seven o'clock, Dec. 1862, and return in the seven

o'clock evening train the day after to-morrow, when I shall come

straight to Mr. Emersham's office, and reclaim this trust which I have

put in his hands. If I do not return on the evening of the said day, I

shall have met my death at the hands of Roland Mortlake, who personates

Colonel St. Udo Brand, and I call upon Mr. Emersham to cause that man's

arrest for my murder."

This finished, she ordered Mr. Emersham to draw up the form of her will,

wherein she declared her wish that the Brand property should be sold,

and the proceeds used to found a charitable institution in Regis,

declaring, heedless, of Mr. Emersham's looks of astonishment, that St.

Udo Brand being dead, she had resolved that an impostor should never

occupy his place. In dead silence then she awaited the arrival of the

vicar; the lawyer sitting opposite her gnawing the feather of his pen,

and peering inquisitively at her.

Presently the blown office boy ushered in the vicar of Regis, a tall,

snowy-haired divine, whose very presence diffused an atmosphere of

safety around the persecuted woman.

She had already a slight acquaintance with him, and after a cordial

greeting from him, she explained the favor she wished to receive,

apologizing timidly for intruding her affairs upon him.

"My advisers, Mr. Davenport and Dr. Gay, are both away," she said, "and

wishing to join the doctor, I feel that I must provide against any

contingency which may arise. Will you, jointly with Mr. Emersham,

undertake the charge of these documents for two days?"

Mr. Challoner readily consented. He had always liked the earnest-faced

woman, who took her place so regularly in church, and whose praises were

sounded so frequently by the lowliest of his flock.

Symonds was called in to append his name as one of the witnesses to

Margaret Walsingham's will, Mr. Challoner being the other, and then the

office door was shut mysteriously upon the lady and her two counselors,

and gave them her instructions.

With her own hand she placed the document which condemned Roland

Mortlake as St. Udo's assassin, his note-book, and her will, in an empty

pigeon-hole of the lawyer's dusty drawers, locked it, and put the key in

the old vicar's hand.

"Come here on Thursday evening at seven o'clock," she said, "with that

key; wait until fifteen minutes past the hour, and if I do not arrive

then, you must take out the document and read it. If you fail to act up

to its instructions, a murderer will escape. I place the key in your

hand, because foul play might be attempted upon Mr. Emersham to force

him to betray my trust--foul play will not be attempted upon you."

They silently regarded the whitening face, when her womanly terrors

struggled with the fixed, fatal look of vengeance, and solemnly promised

to do her will.

Then the vicar shook hands and went away.

She looked at her watch. It was six o'clock. She had been nearly two

hours in the lawyer's office.

He had long ago lit the gas and closed the shutters, and was waiting

very patiently for her to conclude her business that he might go home to

his dinner.

"I have one more letter to write, Mr. Emersham. Will you wait a few

minutes longer?" said Margaret.

Again he poured out the assurance of the honor, etc.; and, with a wild

smile on her lips, she wrote the following daring words:

"ROLAND MORTLAKE, OR THOMS--which name you have least right to

I cannot tell--I warn you, that if I meet my death while absent

from Regis upon this journey, your doom is sealed!

"I warn you further, that if I return safely at the end of the

time I have set, your doom is sealed, if you are here to brave

it. Your only safety lies in flight before I return; and even

then I shall do my best to convict you of the murder of St. Udo

Brand, which you have confessed in your pocket-book, which has

this day been placed in safe hands--which will break the seals,

if I am not alive to break them when I intend to return to

Regis. If I perish, vengeance shall surely overtake the

murderer of St. Udo Brand and MARGARET WALSINGHAM."

She bade farewell to Mr. Emersham at last, and entering her carriage,

drove straight to a hotel near the railway station, from which she sent

Symonds home with the carriage, and intrusted her letter to him with

directions to give it to the steward to deliver to the colonel; and

warnings to Symonds not to allow himself to be questioned by Colonel

Brand.

A note to Mr. Purcell conveyed her command that he would attend upon her

journey; and cautioned him against giving Colonel Brand an inkling of

his intentions.

In a quarter of an hour the steward of Castle Brand was ushered into her

presence.

"All ready, Purcell?" demanded the lady.

"Quite ready, Miss Margaret."

"Where is Colonel Brand?"

"Still at the castle, miss."

"Did you give him my letter yourself?"

"I did, miss."

"What did he say?"

Mr. Purcell shook his head and looked disgusted.

"You must tell me what he said, Purcell?" insisted Margaret.

"He said nothing that I'd be proud to repeat, Miss Margaret," said

Purcell, sourly.

"He up and cursed you like a madman, and said, 'Let her go if she

dares!'"

"What else?"

"Ordered out his horse."

"Intending to find me before I started--do you think?"

"Yes, miss; but I left him cross-questioning Symonds, who wouldn't give

him any satisfaction."

"Very good. Now we must hasten, or we shall miss the train."

She hurried on her traveling-cloak, and, accompanied by Purcell,

descended to the station, where the train was ready to start and got on

board in time.

From behind her thick crape vail she watched every passenger who crossed

the platform to enter any of the long line of cars, and the flaming

street-lamps revealed every face distinctly.

Porters hustled each other; newsboys shouted their papers; ladies made

blind sallies to the wrong class car and lost themselves in the throng;

gentlemen with umbrellas, carpet-bags and plaids elbowed their way into

empty compartments; but Roland Mortlake was not among the mob.

She had slipped the chain and got free.

The train glided out of the shed and set itself to its night's work, and

Margaret sank back to her seat with a sigh of relief.

"I have outwitted him," she thought. "His calculations upon my expected

movements are all astray. I have taken him by surprise. I shall find Dr.

Gay in Llandaff, sure enough. I did right to go in search of him."

On rushed the train through the darkness of night.

Purcell, who sat beside his mistress, spread a plaid over the back of

her seat, and pinned it about her shoulders, grumbling that she would

take her death of cold in the drafty car; and presently she fell fast

asleep, with her head resting against the jarring panel.

Purcell, too, dozed off, and dreamed that he was in his own cozy room at

Castle Brand; and only awoke with the banging of a door ringing in his

ears and the soft hand of his mistress clutching his arm.

The train was gliding on again, but it had paused one minute at a little

country station, and a man had entered.

He was muffled in a huge fur coat, and seated himself near Margaret,

with a grunt of satisfaction that he had a whole seat to extend his legs

upon.

Margaret regarded him keenly, and he returned her gaze with stolid

indifference. Purcell growled out his disapprobation of the new-comer's

placing his clumsy foot against his mistress' long dress, and the man

serenely changed his position, wound a scarlet muffler about his

copper-colored throat, and settled himself for a nap.

He was a tall, stout man, with a heavy jaw, coarse lips turned doggedly

down at the corners, and piercing steel-blue eyes; his face was red and

his hands were large and brown; but stupid, dull, and sleepy, he seemed

unworthy of a second thought; and Margaret sank into a deep reverie and

forgot him.

On they glided; through dim villages, amid bare-branched wealds, and

over creeping rivers, which shone like misty mirrors in the faint

starlight, resting from time to time, for a few minutes, at the country

stations.

Other cars emptied and were filled again with fresh travelers; other

compartments changed their occupants from seat to seat, but the trio sat

still in this, and whiled away the time silently.

Then the train entered upon an hour's stretch of country, which it must

traverse without pausing.

The man in the fur coat, weary of steadying his drowsy head against the

corner of his seat, sat upright and drew a newspaper from his pocket.

Falling asleep over that, he produced a silver snuff-box, and refreshed

himself with a generous pinch; then he looked meditatively at the old

steward nodding comfortlessly before him, and proffered him the

snuff-box; but looking into it, he discovered that it was about empty.

This appeared to afford him peculiar gratification, for he smiled to

himself as he drew a paper parcel from his pocket, and proceeded to fill

the snuff-box with its fragrant contents.

Idly Margaret watched him thrusting the diminished parcel back into the

breast-pocket, and waking Purcell up by a vigorous poke, in order to

offer him the replenished snuff-box.

The old man's eyes brightened, he uttered a heartfelt "I thank you

kindly, sir," and inhaled a huge pinch, handing back the box with a

courtly bow.

Then, sneezing with much fervor and wiping his eyes, Purcell vowed that

he couldn't remember the day when snuff had smelt so queer; at which the

man in the fur coat roared with laughter and boasted that his was the

best; and presently Purcell's head sank down on his breast, and he took

no further notice of his _vis-a-vis_.

Margaret drew out her handkerchief and covered her face with it, for a

faint, sickening, drowsy odor was exhaling from Purcell's nostrils, and

stealing her breath away.

She next tried her smelling-salts, and requested Purcell to open the

window on his side: but he, taking no heed, she shook his arm, and, at

last, gazed into his face.

It was chalk-white, a deadly perspiration bathed lip and brow; the

half-closed eyelids showed the eyeballs glazed and sightless, and his

breast heaved painfully, as if a ton-weight lay upon it.

Margaret Walsingham came to herself in an instant--she grew cool and

calm.

She knew now that the man who sat opposite to her had been hired by

Mortlake to murder her.

No more tremors of fear, no more hurried plans for escape, no more

hoping for some fortunate circumstance to save her. She felt that her

time had come; and she knew that she must succumb to her fate. She saw

how well her destruction was planned; she traced out the tragedy with

terrific distinctness, she saw herself seized by these great, cruel

hands in the first tunnel whose resounding roar could drown her

death-shriek, and the pistol fired off at her ear, or the silent knife

plunged into her bosom; and she knew how easy it would be for her

murderer to leave the car at the next station and escape forever.

Before she raised herself from her speechless examination of her drugged

servant, she had foreseen her death, and accepted it with a stony

despair.

She mechanically turned to pull down the window at her own side, but the

rough hand of the murderer met hers and arrested the act; his steel-blue

eyes gleamed into hers, and drove her back to her corner, where she sat

gazing like a dumb animal into the man's face, with her arms folded over

her breast, a frail shield which he laughed at.

Some minutes passed, the servant partially recovered consciousness, and

was plied with a handkerchief saturated with chloroform and pressed to

his nostrils; and, when he was swaying to and fro in his seat like a

dead man, with every lurch of the car, the ruffian turned to the unhappy

woman beside him with a mischievous, fatal look in his coarse face.