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.