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Three Margarets, a fiction by Laura E. Richards |
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Chapter 12. In The Saddle |
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_ CHAPTER XII. IN THE SADDLE "To witch the world with noble horsemanship."
Something was on foot; some mystery hung about; she had felt thus much, and had felt, too, that it was connected with Rita; but all had been vague, uncertain. Rita had been receiving many letters with the New York postmark; but what of that? It was not Margaret's business to take notice of her cousin's letters. She had met Rita once or twice at the foot of the garret stairs, evidently returning from a visit to that place of shadowy delight. What of that? Rita had said each time that she had been looking for such and such a costume; that she was planning a charade, a new tableau, that would be sure to ravish her cousins; and in the evening she would produce the charade or the tableau, and sure enough, it would be enchanting, and they were delighted, and most grateful to her for the pains she took to amuse them. And yet--and yet--had she been at these pains until lately? Had not Margaret herself been the one who must think of the evening's amusement, plan the game, the reading, or singing, which should keep the three various natures in harmonious accord? So it had surely been, until these last ten days; and now-- But how hateful to suspect, when it might be that Rita was merely feeling that perhaps she had not done her share, and had realised that with her great talent and her lovely voice and presence, she was the one to plan and execute their little entertainments? And what should Margaret suspect? It was not her nature to be anything but trustful of those around her; and yet--and yet-- But now her suspicions had taken definite shape, and Rita herself had confirmed them. There could no longer be any doubt that she was planning to take advantage of their uncle's continued absence to aid her brother,--who was in New York, as Margaret knew, in spite of Rita's recent declaration that he was in the mountains,--and to conceal arms in Fernley House, and have them shipped from there. It seemed impossible; it seemed a thing out of a play or a novel, but she could not doubt the fact. After all, Rita was a person for a play or a novel. This thing, which to Margaret seemed unspeakable, was to Rita but a natural impulse of patriotism, a piece of heroism. Of course she would not be able to do it; no person in her senses would attempt such a thing, on Long Island, only a few miles from New York; but the hot-blooded young Cubans would not realise that, and they might make some attempt which, though futile, would bring disagreeable consequences to Mr. Montfort and to all concerned. What was Margaret to do? The absurdity of the whole thing presented itself to her keenly, and she would have been glad enough to turn it all into a jest, and take it as the "story" with which Rita had tried to rouse her cool-blooded cousins; but that could not be. Rita had meant every word she said, and more; that was evident. What was Margaret to do? Her first thought was of Mrs. Cheriton; her second of John Strong, the gardener. Aunt Faith ought not, she was sure, to be disturbed or made anxious; her hold on life was too slender; her days must flow evenly and peacefully, as Uncle John had arranged them for her; it would never do to tell her of this threatened, fantastic danger. But John Strong! he was Mr. Montfort's confidential servant, almost his friend. Nay, Aunt Faith had spoken of him as "a good friend," simply and earnestly. He knew Uncle John's address, no doubt; he would give it to her, or write himself, as seemed best. It was dreadful to betray her cousin, but these were not the days of melodrama, and it was quite clear that Fernley House could not be made a deposit of arms for the Cuban insurgents during its master's absence. So with a clear conscience, though a heavy heart, Margaret sought the garden. John Strong was there, as he always was in the morning, fondling his roses, clipping, pruning, tying up, and setting out. In the afternoons he was never visible. Margaret had heard his voice occasionally in Mrs. Cheriton's rooms, but had never seen him there; he had evidently other work, or other haunts of his own, which kept him out of the way. She could not help knowing that he used her uncle's private sitting-room, but she took it for granted that it was with Mr. Montfort's leave and for his business. Rita might mistrust this man; but no one of Northern blood could look on the strong, quiet face without feeling that it was that of one of nature's noblemen, at least. "John," said Margaret, after she had admired the roses and listened to a brief but eloquent dissertation upon Catherine Mermet and Marechal Niel, "how near are we to the sea?" "To the sea, Miss Margaret? Call it a quarter of a mile. The rise of the land hides it from Fernley, but you will notice that we are near, by the sound of it; and you have been down to the shore a number of times, I think." "Yes; oh, yes! I know it is very near. I was only thinking--John, would it be easy for--persons--to come here from the shore, without being seen? I mean, could a vessel lie off here and not attract attention?" John Strong looked at her keenly. "That depends, Miss," he said. "By day, no; by night, yes. It is a quiet part of the shore, you see." "Do you know when Mr. Montfort is coming home?" was Margaret's next question; and as she put it she looked straight into the gardener's brown eyes, and they looked straight into hers. She fancied that John Strong changed colour a little. "I have not heard from him lately," he said quietly. "I think he will be here very soon now. Could I--may I ask if anything is distressing you, my--Miss Margaret?" Margaret hesitated. The temptation was strong upon her to tell the whole tale to this man, whom she felt she could trust entirely; but the thought of Rita held her back. She would say what was necessary, and no more. "I--I think--" she began timidly, "it might be well for you to be watchful at night, John. The Cubans--I have heard rumours--there might be vessels,--do you think, possibly--" She broke off. The whole thing seemed like a nursery nightmare, impossible to put into plain English without exposing its absurdity. But John Strong glanced at her again, and his eyes were grave. "Miss Rita is deeply interested in the Cuban war, I believe," he said, with meaning. Margaret started. "How did you know?" she asked. "Surely she has not--" John Strong laughed. "Hardly," he said. "Miss Rita does not converse with menials. It was Peggy--Miss Peggy, I should say--who told me about it. She was quite inclined to take fire herself, but I think I cooled her down a bit. These are dangerous matters for young ladies to meddle with. I think she told me that young Mr. Carlos Montfort was now in New York?" "I--I believe so," said Margaret. She was angry with Peggy for talking so freely, yet it was a great help to her now, for John Strong evidently understood more of the matter than she would have liked to tell him. "You may trust me, Miss Margaret, I think," he said presently, after a few moments of silent snipping. "It is not necessary for me to know anything in particular, even if there is anything to know. I am an old soldier, and used to keeping watch, and sleeping with one eye open. You may trust me. You have said nothing of this to Mrs. Cheriton?" He looked up quickly. "No; I thought she ought not to be distressed--" "That was right; that was very right. You have shown--that is, you may depend on me, young lady. May I cut this bud for you? It is a perfect one, if I may say so. Perhaps you will look closer at it, Miss; (Miss Rita is observing you from the balcony, and you would not wish)--there, Miss. I shall bring some cut flowers into the dining-room later, for arrangement, as you ask. Good morning, Miss." Margaret returned to the house, half relieved, half bewildered. John Strong was certainly a remarkable person. She did not understand his position here, which seemed far removed from that of a domestic, but after all, it was none of her business. And even if he did speak of Peggy by her first name, was it Margaret's place to reprove him? He was almost old enough to be Peggy's grandfather. Rita had apparently forgotten the storm of the day before. She was in high good humour, and greeted Margaret with effusion. "Just in time, Marguerite. Where have you been? We have called till we are hoarse. Look at us; we go to ride. We are to have an exhibition of skill, on the back of the white beast. Behold our costumes, found in the garret." Margaret looked, and laughed and admired. Rita was dressed in a long black velvet riding-habit, with gold buttons, a regal garment in its time, but now somewhat rubbed and worn; a tall hat of antique form perched upon her heavy braids, and she looked very businesslike. Peggy had found no such splendour, but had put on a scarlet military coat over her own bicycle skirt. "Finery is good," she said, "but not on horseback." A three-cornered hat, with the mouldering remains of a feather, completed her costume, and she announced herself as the gentleman of the party. "Rita was saying what a pity it was there were no boys here, and I told her I ought to have been a boy, and I would do my best now," said Peggy good-naturedly. Rita made a little grimace, as if this were not the kind of boy she desired, but she nodded kindly at Peggy, and said she was "fine." "And you, Marguerite? How will you appear? Will you find a cap and spectacles, and come as our grandmother? That would approve itself, _n'est-ce-pas_?" It was laughingly said, but the sting was there, nevertheless, and was meant to be felt. "Oh, I should delay you," replied Margaret. "Let me come as I am, and be ringmaster, or audience, or whatever you like. I never rode in my life, you know." Peggy opened wide her eyes, Rita curled her lip, but Margaret only laughed. "Frightful, isn't it? but how would you have me ride in my father's study? And the horses that went by our windows had mostly drays behind them, so they were not very tempting. Is William going to saddle White Eagle for you, girls?" "William has gone to the mill, or to bed, or somewhere," said Peggy. "I am going to saddle him myself. John Strong said I might." They went out to the great, pleasant barn, and while Peggy saddled the good horse, Rita and Margaret mounted the old swing, and went flying backward and forward between the great banks of fragrant hay. "Isn't it good to be a swallow?" said Margaret. "I wonder if we shall really fly some day; it really seems as if we might." "I would rather be an eagle," said Rita. "To flutter a little, here and there, and sleep in a barn,--that would not be a great life. An eagle, soaring over the field of battle,--aha! he is my bird! But what is this outcry? Has he bitten thee, Peggy?" For Peggy was shouting from below; yet when they listened, the shouts were of wonder and delight. "Oh, girls, do just look here! There is a new horse,--a colt! Oh, what a beauty!" The girls came down hastily, and ran to the door of the second box stall, which had been empty since they came. There stood a noble young horse, jet black, with a single white mark on his forehead. His coat shone like satin, his eyes beamed with friendly inquiry. Already Peggy had her head against his shoulder, and was murmuring admiration in his ear. "You lovely, you dear, beautiful thing, where did you come from? Oh, Margaret, isn't he a darling? Come and see him!" Margaret came in rather timidly; she was not used to animals, and the horse seemed very large, tramping about freely in his ample stall. But he received her so kindly, and put his nose in her pocket with such confiding grace, that her fears were soon conquered. Rita patted him graciously, but kept her distance. "Very fine, my dear, but the straw smells, and gets on one's clothes so. Saddle me this one, Peggy, and you can have the white one yourself." "Are we--have we leave to take this horse?" asked Margaret, colouring. It was too horrid that she must always play the dragon,--as if she liked it,--and of course the others thought she did. "Have we been forbidden to take the horse, dear?" asked Rita with dangerous sweetness. "No? But perhaps you were told to keep watch on us by your friend, the servant, who wears his master's clothes? Again, no? Then kindly permit me, at least, to do as I think best." "Oh, Rita!" cried Peggy, "perhaps we ought not--" "_Chut!_" cried Rita, flashing upon her in the way that always frightened Peggy out of her wits. "Do you saddle me the horse, or do I do it myself?" Margaret thought it was highly improbable that Rita could do it herself, but she said no more. A difficulty arose, however. There was found to be but one saddle. "Never mind!" said Peggy. "I can ride bareback just as well as saddleback; but I am afraid, Rita--" "Afraid!" cried Rita. "You too, Peggy? My faith, what a set!" "Afraid the saddle will not fit the black!" said Peggy, looking for once defiantly at her terrible cousin. "White Eagle is so big, you see; the saddle was made for him, and it slips right off this fellow's back." Rita fretted and stamped her pretty feet, and said various explosive things under her breath, and not so far under but that they could be heard pretty well, but all this did not avail to make the saddle smaller or the new horse bigger; so at last she was obliged to mount White Eagle, and to have the mortification of seeing Peggy vault lightly on the back of the black beauty. He had never been ridden before, perhaps; certainly he was not used to it, for he reared upright, and a less practised horsewoman than Peggy would have been thrown in an instant; but she sat like a rock, and stroked the horse between his ears, and patted his neck, and somehow wheedled him down on his four legs again. Margaret watched with breathless interest. This was all new to her. Rita looked graceful and beautiful, and rode with ease and skill, but Peggy was mistress of the situation. The black horse flew here and there, rearing, squealing with excitement, occasionally indulging in something suspiciously like a "buck;" but Peggy, unruffled, still coaxed and caressed him, and showed him so plainly that she was there to stay as long as she felt inclined, that after a while he gave up the struggle, and settling down into a long, smooth gallop, bore her away like the wind over the meadow and up the slope that lay beyond. Now they came to a low stone wall, and the watchers thought they would turn back; but Peggy lifted the black at it, and he went over like a bird. Next moment they were out of sight over the brow of the hill. "Oh," cried Margaret, turning to Rita, her face aglow with pleasure, "wasn't that beautiful? Why, I had no idea the child could ride like that, had you? I never knew what riding was before." Rita tried to look contemptuous, but the look was not a success. "A gentlewoman does not require to ride like a stable-boy!" was all she said. She was evidently out of humour, so Margaret was silent, only watching the hill, to see when the pair would come galloping back over the brow. Here they were! Peggy was waving her hand--her hat had flown off at the first caracole, and Rita had ridden over it several times--and shouting in jubilation. Her hair flew loose over her shoulders, her short skirt was blown about in every direction, but her eyes were so bright, her face so rosy and joyous, that she was a pleasant sight to see, as, leaping the fence, she came sweeping along over the meadow. "Hail!" cried Margaret, when she came within hearing. "Hail, daughter of Chiron! gloriously ridden, O youthful Centauress!" Peggy did not know who Chiron was, but she caught the approving sound of the words, and waved her hand. "Come on, Rita!" she cried. "Take the Eagle over the fence! It's great fun. I'm going to try standing up in a minute, when he is a little more used to me." They set off at an easy gallop, and White Eagle took the fence well enough, though it was his first, and he was no colt, like the black. Then they circled round and round the meadow, sometimes neck and neck, sometimes one far in advance. Generally it was Peggy, for the black was far the swifter animal of the two; but now and then she pulled him in, like the good-natured girl she was, and let her cousin gallop ahead. Margaret watched them with delight, not a pang of envy disturbing her enjoyment. What a perfect thing it was! how enchanting to be one with your horse, and feel his strong being added to your own! How-- But what was this? All in a minute, something happened. The black put his foot in a hole,--a woodchuck's burrow,--stumbled, pitched forward, and threw Peggy heavily to the ground. He recovered himself in a moment, and stood trembling; but Peggy lay still. Margaret was at her side in an instant. The child had struck her head on a stone, and was insensible, and bleeding profusely from a cut on the left temple. Rita dismounted and came near. "Some water, please!" said Margaret. "Bring water quickly, Rita, while I stop the bleeding. And give me your handkerchief, will you, before you go?" She held out one hand, which was already covered with blood; glancing up, she saw that Rita was pale as death, and trembling violently. "What is it?" cried Margaret. "Are you hurt,--ill? hold her, then, and I will run." "No,--no!" said Rita, shuddering. "It is--the blood! I cannot bear the sight. I will go--I will send Elizabeth. Is she dead, Margaret? It is too terrible!" "Dead? no!" said Margaret vehemently. "She is only stunned a little, and has cut her head. If I had some water, I could manage perfectly. Do go, Rita!" Rita seemed hardly able to move. She was ghastly white; her eyes sought, yet avoided, the red stream which Margaret was checking with steady hand. She did, however, move toward the house; and at the same moment Margaret had the satisfaction of feeling Peggy move slightly. The blue eyes opened part way; the mouth twitched,--was Peggy giggling, even before she regained consciousness? Margaret bent over her anxiously, afraid of some shock to the brain. But now the eyes opened again, and it was Peggy's own self that was looking at her, and--yes! undoubtedly laughing. "Don't be scared, Margaret," she said, speaking faintly, but with perfect command of her senses. "It isn't the first 'cropper' I have come; I shouldn't have minded at all, only for my head. But--I say, Margaret, didn't I hear Rita going on about blood, and asking if I was dead?" "Yes, dear; she is evidently one of those people who faint at the sight of blood. And you do look rather dreadful, dear, though I don't mind you a bit. And you must not talk now; you truly must not!" "Rubbish! I'm going to get up in a minute, as soon as the water comes. But--I say, Margaret, how about the Cuban war? Do you suppose--the rest of them--feel the same way about blood? because--" "Peggy, I am surprised at you!" said Margaret. "Hush this moment, or I will let your head drop!" _ |
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