The Argosy — page 244: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

WILFUL MARGARET. I, A LONG, low room with oaken panels, dark with age, and quaint, old-fashioned furniture speaking of a by-gone generation. <A tall, noble looking girl with glossy, dark brown hair, drawn back from the beautifully chiselled face and fastened at the back in a massy coil by a small gold comb, is standing before a tall and narrow ebon- framed mirror. A maid is engaged in fastening the long sweeping black dress that fits so closely to her exquisite figure as she stands in a thoughtful attitude. “You are never going to ride Wild Sorrel to-morrow, Miss Margaret ?” exclaimed the girl as she finished her task. ‘““Who told you that I was?” answered her mistress in a careless, indifferent tone, as she arranged a moss rose-bud in the front of her dress. ‘Buckle, ma’am. The grooms say that she isn’t safe for a lady to ride, .T hey would like to tell the Squire, but dare not, for fear of your anger.” Miss Darrell laughed. ‘‘ They are afraid for me, are they! What does Uncle John call me, Marian?” ““* Wilful Madge,’ Miss Margaret,” answered the girl timorously. “And you know that he calls me ‘Wilful Madge’ because I am too self-willed to allow anyone to thwart me? So, you see, Marian,” she continued as she fastened two small pearls in her ears, “that whether the grooms tell the Squire or not, it will make no difference to me. JI have said that I would conquer Wild Sorrel, and conquer her I will. As to Buckle, it cannot be any business of his.” Marian was too much accustomed to her young mistress’s imperious ways to be surprised at her tone. Margaret Darrell, the orphan niece of jovial John Darrell, the bachelor owner of Waverley Hall, had long reigned despotically over all with whom she came in contact. Her uncle was too good-tempered and indolent to attempt to control her, and her naturally self-willed disposition had been unduly fostered by the years of indulgence in every whim and caprice that she chose to set up. With a musical ripple of song, she opened the door and descended the broad flight of stairs that led to the hall, the sides of which, with their quaintly carved panels, were covered with dim and faded portraits of Margaret’s martial ancestors and their numerous trophies of the chase and battle-field. With a soft, gliding movement she crossed the curiously tiled floor and reached a small door that opened into a large conservatory. A large magnolia, with its luscious, overpowering scent, faced her. Beneath its shade a tall and slim, but LNOOKS.EO @ COMA