The Project Gutenberg eBook of Margery Daw
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Title: Margery Daw
A Novel
Author: Bertha M. Clay
Release date: December 20, 2024 [eBook #74956]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Street & Smith
Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGERY DAW ***
NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY No. 110
MARGERY DAW
_BY_
BERTHA M. CLAY
[Illustration]
A FAVORITE OF MILLIONS
New Bertha Clay Library
LOVE STORIES WITH PLENTY OF ACTION
PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS
_The Author Needs No Introduction_
Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They
are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best
work, and is the only authorized edition.
These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are
clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type
that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction
that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.
There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this
list is sure to give satisfaction.
_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
1--In Love’s Crucible By Bertha M. Clay
2--A Sinful Secret By Bertha M. Clay
3--Between Two Loves By Bertha M. Clay
4--A Golden Heart By Bertha M. Clay
5--Redeemed by Love By Bertha M. Clay
6--Between Two Hearts By Bertha M. Clay
7--Lover and Husband By Bertha M. Clay
8--The Broken Trust By Bertha M. Clay
9--For a Woman’s Honor By Bertha M. Clay
10--A Thorn in Her Heart By Bertha M. Clay
11--A Nameless Sin By Bertha M. Clay
12--Gladys Greye By Bertha M. Clay
13--Her Second Love By Bertha M. Clay
14--The Earl’s Atonement By Bertha M. Clay
15--The Gipsy’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
16--Another Woman’s Husband By Bertha M. Clay
17--Two Fair Women By Bertha M. Clay
18--Madolin’s Lover By Bertha M. Clay
19--A Bitter Reckoning By Bertha M. Clay
20--Fair but Faithless By Bertha M. Clay
21--One Woman’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
22--A Mad Love By Bertha M. Clay
23--Wedded and Parted By Bertha M. Clay
24--A Woman’s Love Story By Bertha M. Clay
25--’Twixt Love and Hate By Bertha M. Clay
26--Guelda By Bertha M. Clay
27--The Duke’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
28--The Mystery of Colde Fell By Bertha M. Clay
29--One False Step By Bertha M. Clay
30--A Hidden Terror By Bertha M. Clay
31--Repented at Leisure By Bertha M. Clay
32--Marjorie Deane By Bertha M. Clay
33--In Shallow Waters By Bertha M. Clay
34--Diana’s Discipline By Bertha M. Clay
35--A Heart’s Bitterness By Bertha M. Clay
36--Her Mother’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
37--Thrown on the World By Bertha M. Clay
38--Lady Damer’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
39--A Fiery Ordeal By Bertha M. Clay
40--A Woman’s Vengeance By Bertha M. Clay
41--Thorns and Orange Blossoms By Bertha M. Clay
42--Two Kisses and the Fatal Lilies By Bertha M. Clay
43--A Coquette’s Conquest By Bertha M. Clay
44--A Wife’s Judgment By Bertha M. Clay
45--His Perfect Trust By Bertha M. Clay
46--Her Martyrdom By Bertha M. Clay
47--Golden Gates By Bertha M. Clay
48--Evelyn’s Folly By Bertha M. Clay
49--Lord Lisle’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
50--A Woman’s Trust By Bertha M. Clay
51--A Wife’s Peril By Bertha M. Clay
52--Love in a Mask By Bertha M. Clay
53--For a Dream’s Sake By Bertha M. Clay
54--A Dream of Love By Bertha M. Clay
55--The Hand Without a Wedding Ring By Bertha M. Clay
56--The Paths of Love By Bertha M. Clay
57--Irene’s Bow By Bertha M. Clay
58--The Rival Heiresses By Bertha M. Clay
59--The Squire’s Darling By Bertha M. Clay
60--Her First Love By Bertha M. Clay
61--Another Man’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
62--A Bitter Atonement By Bertha M. Clay
63--Wedded Hands By Bertha M. Clay
64--The Earl’s Error and Letty Leigh By Bertha M. Clay
65--Violet Lisle By Bertha M. Clay
66--A Heart’s Idol By Bertha M. Clay
67--The Actor’s Ward By Bertha M. Clay
68--The Belle of Lynn By Bertha M. Clay
69--A Bitter Bondage By Bertha M. Clay
70--Dora Thorne By Bertha M. Clay
71--Claribel’s Love Story By Bertha M. Clay
72--A Woman’s War By Bertha M. Clay
73--A Fatal Dower By Bertha M. Clay
74--A Dark Marriage Morn By Bertha M. Clay
75--Hilda’s Love By Bertha M. Clay
76--One Against Many By Bertha M. Clay
77--For Another’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
78--At War With Herself By Bertha M. Clay
79--A Haunted Life By Bertha M. Clay
80--Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce By Bertha M. Clay
81--Wife in Name Only By Bertha M. Clay
82--The Sin of a Lifetime By Bertha M. Clay
83--The World Between Them By Bertha M. Clay
84--Prince Charlie’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
85--A Struggle for a Ring By Bertha M. Clay
86--The Shadow of a Sin By Bertha M. Clay
87--A Rose in Thorns By Bertha M. Clay
88--The Romance of the Black Veil By Bertha M. Clay
89--Lord Lynne’s Choice By Bertha M. Clay
90--The Tragedy of Lime Hall By Bertha M. Clay
91--James Gordon’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
92--Set in Diamonds By Bertha M. Clay
93--For Life and Love By Bertha M. Clay
94--How Will It End? By Bertha M. Clay
95--Love’s Warfare By Bertha M. Clay
96--The Burden of a Secret By Bertha M. Clay
97--Griselda By Bertha M. Clay
98--A Woman’s Witchery By Bertha M. Clay
99--An Ideal Love By Bertha M. Clay
100--Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood By Bertha M. Clay
101--The Romance of a Young Girl By Bertha M. Clay
102--The Price of a Bride By Bertha M. Clay
103--If Love Be Love By Bertha M. Clay
104--Queen of the County By Bertha M. Clay
105--Lady Ethel’s Whim By Bertha M. Clay
106--Weaker Than a Woman By Bertha M. Clay
107--A Woman’s Temptation By Bertha M. Clay
108--On Her Wedding Morn By Bertha M. Clay
109--A Struggle for the Right By Bertha M. Clay
110--Margery Daw By Bertha M. Clay
111--The Sins of the Father By Bertha M. Clay
112--A Dead Heart By Bertha M. Clay
113--Under a Shadow By Bertha M. Clay
114--Dream Faces By Bertha M. Clay
115--Lord Elesmere’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
116--Blossom and Fruit By Bertha M. Clay
117--Lady Muriel’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
118--A Loving Maid By Bertha M. Clay
119--Hilary’s Folly By Bertha M. Clay
120--Beauty’s Marriage By Bertha M. Clay
121--Lady Gwendoline’s Dream By Bertha M. Clay
122--A Story of an Error By Bertha M. Clay
123--The Hidden Sin By Bertha M. Clay
124--Society’s Verdict By Bertha M. Clay
125--The Bride From the Sea and Other Stories By Bertha M. Clay
126--A Heart of Gold By Bertha M. Clay
127--Addie’s Husband and Other Stories By Bertha M. Clay
128--Lady Latimer’s Escape By Bertha M. Clay
129--A Woman’s Error By Bertha M. Clay
130--A Loveless Engagement By Bertha M. Clay
131--A Queen Triumphant By Bertha M. Clay
132--The Girl of His Heart By Bertha M. Clay
133--The Chains of Jealousy By Bertha M. Clay
134--A Heart’s Worship By Bertha M. Clay
135--The Price of Love By Bertha M. Clay
136--A Misguided Love By Bertha M. Clay
137--A Wife’s Devotion By Bertha M. Clay
138--When Love and Hate Conflict By Bertha M. Clay
139--A Captive Heart By Bertha M. Clay
140--A Pilgrim of Love By Bertha M. Clay
141--A Purchased Love By Bertha M. Clay
142--Lost for Love By Bertha M. Clay
143--The Queen of His Soul By Bertha M. Clay
144--Gladys’ Wedding Day By Bertha M. Clay
145--An Untold Passion By Bertha M. Clay
146--His Great Temptation By Bertha M. Clay
147--A Fateful Passion By Bertha M. Clay
148--The Sunshine of His Life By Bertha M. Clay
149--On With the New Love By Bertha M. Clay
150--An Evil Heart By Bertha M. Clay
151--Love’s Redemption By Bertha M. Clay
152--The Love of Lady Aurelia By Bertha M. Clay
153--The Lost Lady of Haddon By Bertha M. Clay
154--Every Inch a Queen By Bertha M. Clay
155--A Maid’s Misery By Bertha M. Clay
156--A Stolen Heart By Bertha M. Clay
157--His Wedded Wife By Bertha M. Clay
158--Lady Ona’s Sin By Bertha M. Clay
159--A Tragedy of Love and Hate By Bertha M. Clay
160--The White Witch By Bertha M. Clay
161--Between Love and Ambition By Bertha M. Clay
162--True Love’s Reward By Bertha M. Clay
163--The Gambler’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
164--An Ocean of Love By Bertha M. Clay
165--A Poisoned Heart By Bertha M. Clay
166--For Love of Her By Bertha M. Clay
167--Paying the Penalty By Bertha M. Clay
168--Her Honored Name By Bertha M. Clay
169--A Deceptive Lover By Bertha M. Clay
170--The Old Love or New? By Bertha M. Clay
171--A Coquette’s Victim By Bertha M. Clay
172--The Wooing of a Maid By Bertha M. Clay
173--A Bitter Courtship By Bertha M. Clay
174--Love’s Debt By Bertha M. Clay
175--Her Beautiful Foe By Bertha M. Clay
176--A Happy Conquest By Bertha M. Clay
177--A Soul Ensnared By Bertha M. Clay
178--Beyond All Dreams By Bertha M. Clay
179--At Her Heart’s Command By Bertha M. Clay
180--A Modest Passion By Bertha M. Clay
181--The Flower of Love By Bertha M. Clay
182--Love’s Twilight By Bertha M. Clay
183--Enchained by Passion By Bertha M. Clay
184--When Woman Wills By Bertha M. Clay
185--Where Love Leads By Bertha M. Clay
186--A Blighted Blossom By Bertha M. Clay
187--Two Men and a Maid By Bertha M. Clay
188--When Love Is Kind By Bertha M. Clay
189--Withered Flowers By Bertha M. Clay
190--The Unbroken Vow By Bertha M. Clay
191--The Love He Spurned By Bertha M. Clay
192--Her Heart’s Hero By Bertha M. Clay
193--For Old Love’s Sake By Bertha M. Clay
194--Fair as a Lily By Bertha M. Clay
195--Tender and True By Bertha M. Clay
196--What It Cost Her By Bertha M. Clay
197--Love Forevermore By Bertha M. Clay
198--Can This Be Love? By Bertha M. Clay
199--In Spite of Fate By Bertha M. Clay
200--Love’s Coronet By Bertha M. Clay
201--Dearer Than Life By Bertha M. Clay
202--Baffled By Fate By Bertha M. Clay
203--The Love That Won By Bertha M. Clay
204--In Defiance of Fate By Bertha M. Clay
205--A Vixen’s Love By Bertha M. Clay
206--Her Bitter Sorrow By Bertha M. Clay
207--By Love’s Order By Bertha M. Clay
208--The Secret of Estcourt By Bertha M. Clay
209--Her Heart’s Surrender By Bertha M. Clay
210--Lady Viola’s Secret By Bertha M. Clay
211--Strong In Her Love By Bertha M. Clay
In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.
To Be Published in July, 1923.
212--Tempted To Forget By Bertha M. Clay
213--With Love’s Strong Bonds By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in August, 1923.
214--Love, the Avenger By Bertha M. Clay
215--Under Cupid’s Seal By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in September, 1923.
216--The Love That Blinds By Bertha M. Clay
217--Love’s Crown Jewel By Bertha M. Clay
218--Wedded At Dawn By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in October, 1923.
219--For Her Heart’s Sake By Bertha M. Clay
220--Fettered For Life By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in November, 1923.
221--Beyond the Shadow By Bertha M. Clay
222--A Heart Forlorn By Bertha M. Clay
To Be Published in December, 1923.
223--The Bride of the Manor By Bertha M. Clay
224--For Lack of Gold By Bertha M. Clay
LOVE STORIES
All the world loves a lover. That is why Bertha M. Clay ranks so high
in the opinion of millions of American readers who prefer a good love
story to anything else they can get in the way of reading matter.
These stories are true to life--that’s why they make such a strong
appeal. Read one of them and judge.
MARGERY DAW
_A NOVEL_
BY
BERTHA M. CLAY
Whose complete works will be published in this, the NEW
BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
(Printed in the United States of America)
MARGERY DAW.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER I.
“Stand back there! Move aside! Good heavens! Can’t you see the woman
will die if you press about her in this way?”
The speaker bent over the lifeless form as he uttered these words,
and tried once more to pour a little stimulant between the pallid
lips. The scene was one of indescribable confusion. A collision had
occurred between the Chesterham express and a goods train, just a short
distance from Chesterham Junction. Five of the carriages were wrecked.
Fortunately, three were empty; and the other two contained only three
passengers--a man, who, with his arm bound up, was already starting to
walk to the town; a boy, badly cut about the head, leaning, pale and
faint, on a portion of the broken woodwork; and, lastly, a woman, who
lay motionless on the bank, a thick shawl spread between her and the
cold, damp earth. On discovery, she had been removed from the _débris_,
laid on the bank, and forgotten in the excitement and terror. The rest
of the passengers had sustained only a severe shaking and bruises; and
loud were their grumblings and expressions of self-sympathy as they
clustered together on the bank, shivering in the gray autumn mist. A
doctor, who had been summoned from Chesterham, ran his eye over the
assembled people, strapped up the boy’s head, and skillfully set the
broken arm of the man. It was while doing this that his glance fell
on the prostrate form lying on the grass; and the sight of the pale,
bloodless face immediately brought a frown to his brow.
“What is the matter here?” he asked a passing porter.
“Lady in a faint, sir.”
The doctor fastened the last bandage, and, with hurried steps,
approached the woman. A crowd followed him, and gathered round so
closely as to cause him to request them to “stand back.” His words
produced the desired effect, and the bystanders moved away and watched,
with breathless interest, his fruitless efforts to restore animation.
The frown darkened on the doctor’s brow; there was something more than
an ordinary faint here. He raised the woman’s head for another trial,
and the mass of red-gold hair, already loosened, fell in glorious waves
round the beautiful, pale face, bringing a murmur of admiration from
the beholders. The sudden action caused one limp, cold hand to fall
against the doctor’s warm one, and at the contact he shuddered. He
raised the heavily-fringed eyelids, gave one look, then gently laid
the woman’s head down again, and reverently covered her face with his
handkerchief.
“I can do nothing,” he said, tersely, as if speaking to himself; “she
is dead!”
The crowd drew back involuntarily; some hid their faces, while others
gazed at the slight form in its dark-brown dress as if they doubted the
truth of his statement. Suddenly, while the doctor stood thoughtfully
drawing on his gloves, one of the porters appeared in the crowd. He
held a child in his arms--such a pretty child--with hair that matched
the red-gold masses of the lifeless form on the bank, eyes that shone
like sapphire stars from beneath her curling lashes, and a skin of
cream white, with no warmth of color in the face, save that of the
small, red lips. She was dressed in a little gray coat, all covered now
with dust; in her tiny hands she clasped a piece of broken woodwork,
holding it as though it were a treasure, and she glanced round at the
bystanders with an air of childish piquancy and assurance.
“Whose child is this?” inquired the porter, looking from one to another.
There was a pause; no one spoke; no one owned her. The porter’s honest
face grew troubled.
“Where does she come from?” asked the doctor, quickly.
“We have just picked her from under the roof of a second-class
carriage,” the porter explained. “We were turning it over--you see,
sir, it fell some distance from the rest of the carriage--and when
we lifted it we found this mite a-singing to herself and nursing her
dolly, as she calls this piece of wood. It’s by Heaven’s mercy she
ain’t been smashed to bits; but she ain’t got not even a bruise. She
must belong to some one,” he added, looking round again.
A lady in the crowd here stepped forward.
“Give her to me,” she said, kindly. “Perhaps she was traveling alone;
if so, that will be explained, no doubt, by a letter or something.”
But the child clung to the porter, her pretty brows puckered, her red
lips quivering.
“Mammie!” she cried, plaintively. “I wants my mammie!”
The doctor turned and looked at the child, and at that instant she
suddenly wriggled and twisted herself from the porter’s arms to the
ground, and, running to the silent form lying on the bank, crouched
down and clutched a bit of the brown dress in her hands.
“Mammie,” she said, confidently, looking round with her great, blue
eyes on the circle of faces, all of which expressed horror, pity and
sadness; “Mardie’s mammie!”
The doctor stooped, drew back the handkerchief, and glanced from the
living to the dead.
“Yes,” he said, abruptly; “this is her mother. Heaven have mercy on
her, poor little soul!”
The lady who had come forward went up to the child, her eyes filled
with tears. She loosened the dress from the small fingers.
“Mardie must be good,” she said, tenderly, “and not wake her mammie.
Mammie has gone to sleep.”
The child looked at the still form, the covered face.
“Mammie seep,” she repeated; “Mardie no peak, mammie--be good,” and she
lowered her voice to a whisper and repeated, “be good.” She suffered
herself to be lifted in the kind, motherly arms, and pressed her bit of
wood closer to her, humming in a low voice.
“We must find out who she is,” the doctor said, his eyes wandering
again and again to the dead woman. “She must be carried to the town;
there will be an inquest.”
A passenger at this moment pointed to some vehicles coming toward them.
They could not drive close to the spot, as a plowed field stretched
between the railway and the road, and one by one the group dispersed,
all stopping to pat the child’s face and speak to her. The doctor
gave some orders to the porter who had found the child, and a litter,
formed of a broken carriage door, was hastily improvised. As the crowd
withdrew, he knelt down by the dead woman, and, with reverent hands,
searched in the pockets for some clew. He drew out a purse, shabby and
small, and, opening this, found only a few shillings and a railway
ticket, a second-class return from Euston to Chesterham. In an inner
recess of the purse there was a folded paper, which disclosed a curl of
ruddy-gold hair when opened, and on which was written: “Baby Margery’s
hair, August 19th.”
The doctor carefully replaced it. A key and a tiny, old-fashioned
worthless locket were the remainder of the contents. He checked a
little sigh as he closed the purse, and then proceeded to search
further. A pocket handkerchief, with the letter “M” in one corner,
and a pair of dogskin gloves, worn and neatly mended, were the next
objects, and one letter, which--after replacing the gloves and
handkerchief--he opened hurriedly. The lady, still holding the child
in her arms, watched him anxiously. The envelope, which was already
broken, was addressed to “M., care of Post Office, Newtown, Middlesex.”
The doctor unfolded the note. It ran as follows:
Mrs. Huntley will engage “M.” if proper references are forwarded. Mrs.
Huntley would require “M.” to begin her duties as maid, should her
references prove satisfactory, as soon as possible. “M.’s” statement
that she speaks French and German fluently has induced Mrs. Huntley to
reconsider the question of salary. She will now give “M.” twenty-five
pounds per annum, for which sum “M.” must undertake to converse daily
with Mr. Huntley’s daughter in French and German, in addition to her
duties as maid. Mrs. Huntley desires that “M.” will send her real name
by return of post.
Upton Manor, near Liddlefield, Yorkshire.
November 15th, 18----.
The doctor handed the note to the lady, who read it through quickly.
“That does not give much information,” he observed, rising from his
knees.
“Dated yesterday--received this morning. We must telegraph to this Mrs.
Huntley; who knows?--the poor creature may have sent her references,
with her full name, before starting from London.”
“Yes, you are right; we must do that. But what is to become of the
child? Are you staying here for long, madam?”
“No,” replied the lady; “I had intended to travel straight on to the
North. But I shall remain in Chesterham for the night, and continue my
journey to-morrow. I wish I could delay it longer; but, unfortunately,
my son is ill in Edinburgh, and I must get to him as soon as possible.
However, I will take care of this poor little mite to-night. I hope by
the morning we shall have discovered her friends and relations.”
“If you will do that,” said the doctor, “I will see to the mother. I
must have the body carried to the infirmary.”
He beckoned, as he spoke, to the porter, who was standing at a little
distance, talking to the crowd of natives who had arrived to clear the
line, and the dead woman was lifted on to the litter, and covered with
a rug belonging to the lady who had taken charge of the child. She
watched the proceedings with a feeling of unspeakable sadness, and, as
the melancholy burden was carried toward one of the cabs, she clasped
the child closer to her breast, and tears stole down her cheeks.
The baby, cooing to her strange doll, looked up as they moved across
the field. She put up one little hand and rubbed away a tear from the
motherly face.
“No kye,” she said, in her pretty, lisping fashion. “Mardie dood--she
no kye.”
The lady kissed the small lips.
“Mardie is a sweet angel,” she whispered; “and now she shall come with
me to a pretty place and have some nice dinner.”
“Din-din,” said the child, nodding her head with its wealth of
red-gold curls. “Mardie ’ungry. Mammie a din-din, too?”
The lady shivered.
“Yes, mammie will go to a pretty place, too,” she answered hurriedly.
When they reached the cab, the doctor came up to them.
“If you will allow me to suggest, The Plow is the best hotel. I would
come with you, but I must drive straight to the infirmary. Give me the
child for a moment while you get in. She has lost her hat, poor little
thing; but the town is not far off, and the best place for her will be
in bed.”
Mardie went willingly to the doctor’s arms. She prattled to him about
the “din-din” and “mammie,” but much was unintelligible to him. She did
not ask for her mother or seem strange. “Mammie a seep,” she asserted
several times, in a whisper; and she was content with the two kind
beings whose hearts were heavy with pain as they thought of the long,
dreary path she must tread henceforth without a touch from the loving
hands, or a word from the tender voice she knew so well.
“There, madam,” and the doctor placed the small, gray-clad form in the
cab. “This poor little mite cannot thank you herself; but, if you will
allow me, in humanity’s name to offer you gratitude----”
The lady stopped him.
“I have done no more than my duty. I thank you, sir, for your courtesy.
Will you kindly let me know as early as possible the results of your
telegram? I will go to the Plow; my name is Graham.”
“And mine Scott. I will certainly let you know the instant I receive
any intelligence. Something must be done with this child; but that is
for to-morrow’s consideration. She is safe in your hands for to-night.”
Dr. Scott raised his hat, and the cab started along the country lane
toward Chesterham. Mrs. Graham drew Mardie on to her knee, and tried to
chat to the child; but her whole nervous system was so shattered by the
events of the past hour that the effort was vain.
Chesterham was a large manufacturing town. The news of the collision
had spread rapidly, and, although the November dusk was closing in,
crowds were thronging to the scene of the disaster. Mrs. Graham leaned
back in a corner to escape the eager eyes, for she knew the story
of the young mother’s death would be known by now, and her natural
refinement and delicacy shrunk from vulgar curiosity and hysterical
excitement. The cab soon rattled into Chesterham, and, after a short
journey through the lamp-lighted streets, stopped before the door of
The Plow. Mardie was handed out to a pretty-faced chambermaid, whose
bright cap ribbon immediately claimed the child’s attention, and Mrs.
Graham followed slowly and wearily up the stairs, feeling her strength
go at every step. The babyish voice and shrill peals of laughter echoed
in her ears as the wail of future grief; her eyes were fixed on the
small form, but her thoughts were with the dead young mother.
She dismissed the maid when she reached her room, and, drawing Mardie
to her, began to loosen the gray coat, which bore traces of dainty
design beneath the dust and dirt. For the first time the child seemed
to feel her loss.
“Mammie undress Mardie,” she said, putting up one little hand. “Mammie
seep now, but wake soon.”
“Mammie would like Mardie to take off her coat like a good girl,” Mrs.
Graham replied, feeling instinctively that the youthful mind grasped
already the meaning of love and duty.
The child dropped her hand and nodded her head, then submitted to have
the coat removed. She was neatly dressed in a dark-red cashmere frock,
made loose like a blouse; she wore a tiny thread of gold round her
neck, with a little heart-shaped pendant suspended. Mrs. Graham took it
in her hand, eagerly hoping to find some clew; but, on turning it, her
eyes rested on a miniature of the mother’s lovely face.
“Mardie’s mammie,” exclaimed the child, taking it and kissing it--“dear
mammie!”--then, with infantile changeableness, she rushed with a little
shriek to the door, where a kitten had just appeared, and with great
delight picked up the downy little creature and caressed it.
The advent of dinner soon attracted her attention, and she prattled
away merrily in her baby language while the dishes were carried in.
Mrs. Graham forced herself to talk to the child, and tried to divert
her mind from its gloomy thoughts by devoting herself to the task of
tending the little one. She was not a young woman, and the events of
the day had proved almost too much for her nervous system; but with
true unselfishness she tried to forget her own troubles in ministering
to the tiny atom of humanity thrown so cruelly upon the world’s ocean,
with mayhap no haven or port of love and affection to look to.
She lifted Mardie on to a chair, and was about to give her some food,
when the door opened, and, looking up in surprise, she saw a lady,
young and handsome, attired in a riding habit, enter the room.
CHAPTER II.
“I must apologize for this intrusion,” began the stranger, as she
closed the door; “but my errand, I trust, will excuse me.”
“What may I do for you?” asked Mrs. Graham, rising.
“Let me introduce myself,” said the young lady, with a pretty smile.
“I am Lady Coningham, wife of Sir Hubert Coningham, of the Weald,
Hurstley, a village about three miles out.”
Mrs. Graham bowed.
“I heard of the terrible accident while returning from a long run, and
I rode over immediately to make inquiries. I have learned everything.”
She stopped for an instant, and then asked: “Is that the child?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Graham, briefly.
“Poor thing!” murmured Lady Coningham, involuntarily. She moved forward
and bent over the child, stroking back the rich, golden-red curls.
“Poor wee thing! How pretty she is!”
Mardie smiled and showed her pearly teeth as she rapped her spoon
impatiently on the table.
“Din-din,” she cried, eagerly; “Mardie so ’ungry!”
Lady Coningham stood by while Mrs. Graham prepared the child’s meal.
She said nothing, but two tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon
her well-gloved hand. As soon as the child was well started, she turned
and motioned Mrs. Graham to the fireplace.
“Can you tell me anything about her?” she asked, quickly.
Mrs. Graham shook her head.
“We have no idea,” she answered; then she spoke of the letter and the
doctor’s intention of telegraphing to Mrs. Huntley.
“Yes--yes, that will be best. My object in coming here, Mrs. Graham,
was to speak about the child. I met Dr. Scott, who told me, briefly, of
the mother’s death and your kindness; and I hurried here to see what I
could do. Sir Hubert is one of the magistrates; therefore, as his wife,
I consider it my duty to take up the case. Perhaps my efforts will not
be required for long--I sincerely hope not--it will be a sad lookout
for this baby if we cannot find her friends.”
“It is the merest chance,” Mrs. Graham observed. “This lady in
Yorkshire may have received the name and references. I earnestly trust
she has.”
“If not, we must consider what to do with her,” said Lady Coningham. “I
would give everything I possess to be able to carry her home with me;
but”--she sighed a little--“that is out of the question.”
“You have children?” inquired Mrs. Graham, gently, attracted by the
other’s sweet expression.
“No,” Lady Coningham answered, slowly. “I had one once, but--but it is
gone.” She bent to kiss Mardie’s soft little cheek as she spoke, and
again tears welled into her eyes.
“I am glad you have come,” said Mrs. Graham, after a pause, “for it
would have gone to my heart to leave the child without some kind hand
to minister to it occasionally. I must go North to-morrow; but I feel
now that, should the worst happen and we find no clue, you will care
for this poor little flower.”
“I will do all in my power for her,” returned the younger woman; “but
do not let me keep you from your dinner--indeed, you must want it.”
Mrs. Graham rose and seated herself at the table. She felt weak and
faint, but eating was almost an impossibility. Mardie, her food
finished, put her hands together and whispered a grace, then wriggled
down from her chair and went to the fire.
“She must go to bed,” said Mrs. Graham, rising again and ringing the
bell; “she is growing tired now.”
The words were quickly verified, for the little head suddenly began to
droop, and the beautiful eyes to grow misty and sleepy; but, as Lady
Coningham, who had hurriedly removed her gloves, knelt and began to
unbutton her frock, the little child pushed her away and looked round
with a sudden quick feeling of fear and strangeness.
“Where’s Mardie’s mammie--where a mammie?” she murmured.
“Mammie is asleep,” said Mrs. Graham, soothingly, dreading a fit of
terror.
“Mammie seep? Mardie want a mammie. Mammie come a Mardie, come a
Mardie!”
She ran to the door of the room and tried to reach the handle. Lady
Coningham picked her up.
“If Mardie will be a very good little girl, she shall have some
goodies--such pretty goodies. See, here comes Mardie’s bath! She is
going to be such a clean little girl.”
Mardie sat still, but her small hands were clasped together, and her
little chest heaved with sobs. Then, as the bath was put before the
fire, and, looking from one to the other, she could see nowhere the
sweet, tender face that had smiled on her every day of her young
recollection, she burst into a tempest of tears, and, struggling from
Lady Coningham’s hold, ran wildly round the room in a paroxysm of fear,
calling for her “mammie.”
For several minutes their coaxing tenderness was in vain; but
after a while the maid succeeded in attracting her attention with
a gaudily-painted sugar parrot, which she had purchased at a
confectioner’s shop near by. The tears were all spent, nothing but sobs
remained, and the parrot came as a welcome bright spot in her small
world of grief.
“Pitty--pitty,” she murmured, clasping it to her breast and hugging it.
Then she grew so sleepy that she was scarcely conscious of their hands
removing her clothes, and her head drooped like a tired flower as they
put on a nightgown borrowed from the landlady. She needed no lullaby to
coax her to slumber now, and was lost in dreamland as the maid carried
her gently into the bedroom.
Lady Coningham stood and gazed, as if held by some magnetic power, at
the tiny face pressing the pillow, at the clusters of red-gold curls
falling in such rich profusion around it. She was lost in the memory
of the brief joy that had come to her only two short years before, and
lived once again in the unspeakable happiness of motherhood.
The sound of a deep voice broke her musings, and, stealing softly from
the bed, she entered the sitting-room and gave her hand to Dr. Scott.
“What news?” she asked, hurriedly.
Dr. Scott handed her a telegram, then seated himself by the table,
leaning his head on his hand.
Lady Coningham hastily read the words:
From Mrs. Huntley, Upton Manor, Liddlefield, to Dr. Scott,
Chesterham:--Am distressed to hear of accident and the poor woman’s
death. I can give you no information, as I have received no reply to
my last letter to “M.” Pray let me know if I can be of any pecuniary
assistance.
Lady Coningham put down the paper quietly.
“What is to be done now?” she asked.
“I have telegraphed to Newtown,” replied Dr. Scott, looking up, “to
the post office there, but, as yet, have received no reply. They may
know something, but I can not help thinking the poor creature had some
reason for secrecy, and I am doubtful as to success.”
Mrs. Graham was reclining wearily in an armchair by the fire. She spoke
now as the doctor finished.
“I wish from my heart I could take the child, but it is out of the
question, at any rate just now. My son is studying at Edinburgh
University; he unfortunately caught a severe cold, and is now prostrate
with rheumatic fever. My every moment will be with him; but, if you
will place the poor mite with some kind people for a time, Lady
Coningham, I will add my share to the expense, though frankly I am not
by any means wealthy.”
“I know of a person,” began the doctor; but Lady Coningham broke in
eagerly:
“I will take her to Hurstley. There is a poor young woman, the wife of
one of my gardeners, almost heart-broken through the death of her baby.
Her cottage is not far from the Weald. I pass it every day in my rides,
and I could see the child very often. Let her come there to-morrow
before you start. I will see Mrs. Morris to-night as I go home.”
“That seems an excellent plan,” agreed the elder woman--“at all events,
for a time; but we must leave no stone unturned to find her relations.”
“Will Sir Hubert like the arrangement, your ladyship?” asked Dr. Scott,
as he rose to depart.
Lady Coningham’s face flushed slightly.
“I will make it all right,” she replied, though with a little
constraint. “Fortunately, Morris is a favorite with him. But now I must
go; it is very late, and I have a long ride. Lest we should not meet
again before you start, Mrs. Graham, let me say now how pleased I am
to have made your acquaintance, though the introduction has been a sad
one. I will let you know early in the morning, Dr. Scott, if I have
succeeded; and may I ask you to send the child over?”
The doctor bowed, and opened the door.
“I will come down and assist you to mount. Your groom is with you, I
trust?”
“Oh, yes!” Lady Coningham smiled another farewell to Mrs. Graham,
and was passing out, when a thought struck her. “Suppose,” she said
hurriedly, “suppose I cannot do this, what will become of the child?”
“She must go to the workhouse,” replied Dr. Scott, gloomily; “my hands
are too full already, as your ladyship knows, and there is no other
alternative.”
Lady Coningham could not repress a shudder.
“That must never be,” she said decidedly. “I must arrange with Morris.
Many thanks. Good-by!”
Mrs. Graham rose early the next morning. Her sleep had been troubled
and restless; but the child had never moved, and still slept on
placidly as she dressed herself quietly. Dr. Scott was announced about
half past eight, and his face showed that he had gained no further
information.
“The post office can give me no clew,” he said. “They recollect the
woman ‘M.,’ and describe her accurately; but she received no letters
save three addressed to her initial; consequently we are just where we
were. Lady Coningham has sent her groom to say that Mrs. Morris will
receive the child, so when she is dressed I had better take her over
there myself.”
Mrs. Graham assented with a sigh, and then rang for the maid to assist
her in preparing Margery for the journey. The little one was very
good; she submitted to her bath in brightness, and only now and then
would turn her head to look for her mother. Already she seemed to know
Mrs. Graham, and raised her lips many times to be kissed, her childish
affection sending a pang of pain through the woman’s heart. At last all
was ready; the little gray coat well brushed and repaired, was donned,
a silk handkerchief tied over the red gold curls, and the beloved
parrot clutched in a tight embrace. Mrs. Graham knelt for one brief
moment by the small form, and a silent prayer went up to Heaven for
mercy and protection; then she led the child to the doctor.
“I will write from Edinburgh,” she said hurriedly; “perhaps, after all,
I shall be able to manage something in the future; and here”--handing
two sovereigns to the doctor--“is my small share toward present
expenses. When will the inquest be?”
“To-day,” returned Dr. Scott, picking Margery up in his arms.
“And she will be buried where?” again asked Mrs. Graham quickly.
“It must be a pauper’s funeral,” he answered, sadly; “any other would
cost too much.”
“Can we not get up a subscription? The railway company should give
something. It seems so dreadful that she should be buried in a pauper’s
grave, with no stone above her.”
“I will do my best to prevent it,” Dr. Scott said, kindly. “Your
suggestion about the railway is good, and I will communicate with the
directors to-day. Whatever happens in the future, you, madame, have
acted nobly, and this child owes you a debt of gratitude.”
“Ah, I wish I could keep her with me always!” Mrs. Graham responded,
kissing the little cheek once more. “I must say good-by now. I will
write to you in a day or two. Will you let me know if any news reaches
you, and where you bury the poor mother?”
“I will,” answered the doctor; then he turned away and carried the
child, still happy and unconscious of her terrible loss, down the
stairs, to his trap; and, taking the reins, he drove rapidly through
the town to the village of Hurstley.
CHAPTER III.
“Stuart, where are you going?”
The question was put in a cold, sharp voice, and came from a lady
sitting at her writing-desk in a spacious window-recess overlooking
extensive grounds. She was a handsome woman, with rather massive
features and a profusion of dark-brown hair artistically arranged. Her
eyes, of a light green-gray shade, were fixed at this moment on a young
man standing in an easy, graceful attitude outside the French window.
“Going, mother?” he responded. “Nowhere in particular. Do you want me?”
Mrs. Crosbie examined her firm white hands for one brief second.
“Have you forgotten what to-day is?” she asked, quietly.
The young man pondered, puckered his handsome brows, and pretended to
be lost in doubt.
“I really forget,” he answered, after a while, looking up with a
mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. “Thursday, I believe; but you
have your almanac close to your hand, mother.”
“This is Thursday, the twenty-second of July, Stuart,” observed Mrs.
Crosbie, putting down her pen and looking fixedly at her son. “And this
afternoon your Aunt Clara and Cousin Vane will arrive, and you are
expected to meet them at Chesterham station.”
“By Jove,” exclaimed Stuart, with a soft whistle, “I had clean
forgotten them!” He pushed his hands into his tennis-coat pockets and
regarded his shoes with almost a real pucker on his brow. “What time
are they due?” he asked, after a brief silence.
Mrs. Crosbie took up a letter and read aloud:
“We shall arrive at Chesterham by the twelve express from Euston,
reaching the junction about six-thirty. Pray let somebody meet us.”
“I call that cool,” observed the young man shortly. “But I suppose Aunt
Clara cannot do a thing for herself. However, it need not entail my
going; she only says ‘somebody,’ and I am nobody.”
“Your father will expect his sister to be treated with respect,” was
his mother’s icy reply.
“And I trust he will not be disappointed,” responded Stuart; “but to
trudge to Chesterham in this heat will be enough to roast a fellow.”
“I have ordered the barouche,” Mrs. Crosbie told him. “Vane must lean
back comfortably--she is so delicate.”
Stuart Crosbie buried his toe in the well-kept lawn and made no answer
to this. His mother watched him keenly, though he was unaware of her
scrutiny.
“Well?” she said at last.
“Well?” he replied, looking up.
“Stuart, I do not often express my wishes, but to-day I particularly
desire you should go to Chesterham and meet your aunt and cousin.”
Stuart removed his felt tennis-hat and bowed low.
“My lady-mother,” he said lightly, “your wishes shall be obeyed.”
He put on his hat and strolled away, while a frown settled on his
mother’s face. She tapped her writing-table with her pen, in evident
vexation; but after a while her brow cleared, as if some new thought
had come into her mind and by its bright magic dispelled the cloud.
Stuart Crosbie sauntered on over the lawn. A moment before he had
grumbled at a prospective walk in the heat when the day would be
declining, yet now he made no haste to get out of the sun’s rays,
although trees whose spreading branches promised shade and coolness
studded his path. He had pushed his hat well over his eyes, and with
his hands still in his pockets dawdled on, as if with no settled
purpose in his mind.
He had strolled in a circuitous route, for, after progressing in this
fashion for some time, he looked up and found himself almost opposite
to the window--though at a distance--from which he had started. His
mother’s head was clearly discernible bent over her writing, and,
waking suddenly from his dreams, he left the lawn, betook himself to
a path, and made for a gate at the end. The lodgekeeper’s wife was
seated at her door, having brought her work into the air for coolness.
She rose hurriedly as she perceived the young squire striding down the
path, and opened the gate.
“Why did you trouble, Mrs. Clark?” said Mr. Crosbie, courteously. “I
could have managed that myself.”
“Law sakes, Master Stuart, my good man would be main angry if he
thought I’d let you do such a thing!”
“Jim must be taught manners,” Stuart laughed lightly. “How do you like
this weather?”
Mrs. Clark mopped her brow with her apron.
“It’s fair killing, sir,” she answered; “I never remind me of such a
summer. But folks is never content. Mayhap what tries me is good for
others--your young lady cousin, for one, sir. Mrs. Martha tells me she
is very weakly like. She be coming to-day.”
“I have vivid recollections of Vane as a child,” Stuart remarked, more
to himself than to the woman; “and certainly I can testify to her
strength then, for she boxed my ears soundly.”
“Laws, Master Stuart!” ejaculated Mrs. Clark. “What a little vixen!”
“But these are tales out of school,” laughed the young man; “and I
fancy I tormented her pretty freely in those days. Ta-ta, Mrs. Clark!
Go back and have a nap--sleep is the best way to pass these hot days.”
“Now, if he ain’t the best and kind-heartedest boy in the whole world!”
mused Mrs. Clark, watching him as he strode along the lane. “Just like
his father, poor gentleman!”
Mr. Crosbie went along the road at a fast pace, and did not slacken his
speed till he sighted a few cottages that denoted a village. Then he
moderated his pace, and sauntered into the one street, hot and parched
with thirst.
“Phew!” he exclaimed to himself, taking off his hat and waving it to
and fro vigorously. “I must have something to drink. I wonder if Judy
keeps soda-water?”
“Judy” was the owner of a small shop, the one window of which displayed
a heterogeneous mass of articles--comestibles, wearing apparel, tops,
and scissors. It did not look very inviting, but thirst must be
quenched, and better things might be in store behind the counter. So
Stuart raised the latch and entered the cottage.
“Soda-water, Master Stuart?” repeated Mrs. Judy, in amazement. “I
scarce count on what you mean. There’s pump-water, if you like, or may
be a glass of milk.”
Mr. Crosbie hesitated for a moment, then decided for the latter.
“It is a long time since I drank so innocent a beverage, Judy,” he
observed, putting down the glass with a slight shudder.
“Ay, there ain’t much ’arm in milk,” responded Judy. “But, laws, Master
Stuart, you do look warm! Will you ’ave a chair and set in the doorway
to cool a bit? There’s a little bit of wind springing up.”
Mr. Crosbie shook his head.
“No, thanks, Judy; I must get on. There”--throwing a shilling upon the
small counter--“take that for your kindness.”
“Eh, but, Master Stuart, I’d like you for a customer every day!”
exclaimed the woman; and with a smile and a nod Mr. Crosbie strode away.
He passed through the narrow street, deserted now--for the sound of
the children’s voices was wafted from the village school--and turned
into a wide country-lane that led to the left of the cottages. After
sauntering a few yards, he came in sight of a wood inclosed by a high
wall, while through the branches of the trees glimpses of a gray-stone
house were visible. Mr. Crosbie’s steps grew slower and slower as
he approached this wall, and he walked past it in a very desultory
fashion. Presently he reached a large iron gate through which a wide
even drive was seen. Evidently Mr. Crosbie had no acquaintance with
this drive, for he passed on, still down hill, till he came to a tiny
spring trickling and babbling by the side of the road; and here he
paused. He was out of the sun’s glare now, and felt almost cool; to his
right hand stretched the path he had just traversed, to his left lay
two lanes, one leading through the distant fields, the other turning
abruptly. He thought for an instant, then turned in the direction of
the latter, and just before him stood three cottages at equal distances
from each other. He passed the first, and with a quick nervous hand
unlatched the gate of the second, and went up the sweet-smelling garden.
The door was ajar, and as he knocked a faint, weak voice answered:
“Come in.”
Stuart Crosbie pushed open the door and entered the cottage. A woman
was lying on a sofa, propped up with pillows, the whiteness of which
rivaled her face in purity. She had a woolen shawl round her shoulders,
although the heat was so oppressive, and looked very ill.
Stuart bent over her.
“How are you to-day, Mrs. Morris?” he asked, gently.
“Much about the same, thank you, Mr. Stuart. Were you wanting Reuben,
sir?”
“Yes. I did rather want to see him,” replied the young man a little
hesitatingly. “I am anxious to hear about that poaching affair the
other night.”
“It weren’t nothing at all, sir,” Mrs. Morris said, in her low, weak
voice. “Reuben was out nigh most of the night, but couldn’t see a soul.”
“Well, I’m glad of it,” observed Mr. Crosbie warmly, “for between
ourselves, Mrs. Morris, I confess my sympathies go entirely with the
poachers.”
Mrs. Morris smiled faintly.
“Ah, you ain’t Sir Hubert, sir! He don’t hold them views. You would
give the whole village welcome to the birds; but he’s different.”
“Yes, we are rather opposed in some ways,” remarked the young squire,
dryly. “Is it true, Mrs. Morris, that Sir Hubert and Lady Coningham are
coming home?’
“Yes, sir; Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, come to see me yesterday, and
she says her ladyship is expected next week. Ah, I am glad I shall see
her again! I began to fear I should die before she came back.”
“You must cheer up,” said Stuart, gently, “and not talk about dying.
Why are you here all alone? Where is Margery?”
“She’s gone out, sir. She would go all the way to Farmer Bright’s to
fetch me some fresh eggs; our hens are bad at laying just now. But she
ought to be in directly, sir. She started at dinner-time, and it’s now
close on three o’clock.”
“It’s a long walk to Bright’s farm,” observed Mr. Crosbie, rising and
strolling to the window, and stooping apparently to sniff the bowl of
flowers standing on the ledge, but in reality to have a good look down
the hot, dusty lane.
“Ay, it is, sir; but Margery would go. She takes such count on me, sir;
and it’s her lesson day and all.”
“Is she still studying with the rector’s governess?”
“Yes, sir; her ladyship, when she wrote last, desired her to continue
the lessons, and Miss Lawson speaks main well of Margery’s cleverness.
I expect Lady Coningham won’t know her when she sees her again.”
“Ten years would make a difference, Mrs. Morris,” Stuart said, looking
round with a smile; “and Margery was only about seven when Lady
Coningham went to India. What a jolly little thing she was, too! We had
some fun in those days.”
“Margery is a bit of a tomboy now,” the sick woman observed, with a
loving light in her eyes.
“Is she? Well, I never see it; she always seems as sedate as--well,
as the rector’s governess herself. But I must be off. Tell Reuben I
looked in to hear about the poachers, and that I don’t sympathize with
him a bit for spending the night in the wood.” He bent and took one of
the invalid’s thin white hands in his. “And now don’t get low-spirited
about yourself, Mrs. Morris; you will feel better when this heat
passes. I shall send you some fruit down from the castle. I dare say
you can manage a few grapes.”
“Many, many thanks, Mr. Stuart, and Heaven bless you, sir! You are very
good to me.”
Tears rolled down Mrs. Morris’ pale face, and the young squire turned
away with a sudden expression of sorrow. At the door he hesitated for a
minute, then said hurriedly:
“I shall walk a little way along Linton’s Lane, Mrs. Morris. I want to
ask Margery about Bright’s crops.”
“Ay, do, sir,” replied the sick woman, warmly; “she will be rare glad
to see you.”
Mr. Crosbie strode down the path, and let the gate swing behind him. He
turned to the right, and walked quickly along in the glaring heat, with
his eyes fixed in an almost eager way on the long straight road before
him. Away in the distance appeared an object--a patch of something
pink moving very slowly toward him. His pace increased, the distance
lessened between this object and himself, and gradually the pink patch
melted into the slender form of a girl, her bent head covered with a
flapping white sunbonnet, a small basket on her right arm, and a book
between her two little brown hands. She came on very slowly; apparently
the heat had no effect on her, although the sun was beating on her with
scorching force. Mr. Crosbie slackened his pace as they drew nearer,
and at last came to a standstill. The girl was so deeply absorbed
in her book that she was unaware of his presence till, looking up
suddenly, she saw him just in front of her. The book dropped, a flush
of color mantled her clear, transparent face, and a look of intense
pleasure shone in her great blue eyes.
“Mr. Stuart! Oh, how you startled me!”
“Did I, Margery?” returned Stuart, removing his felt hat and grasping
her hand firmly. “What are you made of? You must be a salamander to
live in this heat; yet here you are walking along as if it were in
Iceland; and you look as cool as”--hesitating for a smile--“as a
cucumber.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a little sunshine!” said the girl, with a slightly
contemptuous curl of her short upper lip. “In fact, I don’t feel it.
But where are you going, Mr. Stuart? Have you seen mother?”
“Yes,” replied the young man, turning beside her and taking the basket
from her arm. “She told me you had gone to Bright’s farm, and I am
anxious to know how his crops are.”
“He is grumbling, of course,” Margery answered; “but I fancy he is, on
the whole, well satisfied.”
Their eyes met, and they both burst into a merry fit of laughter.
“You don’t care a bit about the crops--you know you don’t!” remarked
Margery, severely, as she tried to banish the merriment from the
corners of her mouth.
“Well, strictly between ourselves, I don’t. It is a fearful confession
for a farm-owner to make, but it is the truth.”
“Ah, I am glad you do tell the truth sometimes!” said the girl, with a
bright glance from her glorious eyes.
“You must be a witch or some sort of fairy,” Stuart declared suddenly,
“for prevarication, let alone untruths, always fail when I meet you.”
He was watching her with intense earnestness, enjoying the sweet
witchery of her beauty. For she was beautiful; her form was so slender
and lithe; every limb, from the tiny feet in the rough country shoes,
which could not hide their daintiness, to the small, delicately-shaped
hands, browned and tanned as they were, spoke of grace and loveliness.
Her head had a certain imperious carriage that made the simple cotton
gown appear a queenly robe, and the face beneath the flapping sunbonnet
was one to inthrall a sterner man than Stuart Crosbie. The complexion
of pale cream white, which even the sun could not kiss to a warmer
shade, the sweet, rosy mouth, the great wondrous eyes, fringed with
long, dark lashes, and the mass of ruddy golden curls that twined
about the brow and delicate throat were but a few of the attractions
that Margery possessed. One of her greatest charms was the simplicity
and unaffectedness of her manner; perhaps it was that as yet none had
whispered flattery in her shell-like ear, none had tried to sweep
away her girlish frankness and youthfulness by adulation and undue
admiration. But Margery never seemed to think she possessed beauty, nor
even that that beauty was such as a queen might sigh for. She found
more pleasure in tossing the hay, romping with the children, or, in
quieter moods, diving into her books, than in posing before her mirror;
and she was quite unconscious of the exact meaning of Stuart Crosbie’s
eyes, which filled with a fire of admiration and ecstasy whenever they
rested on her.
“Now,” she said, lightly, turning her book round and round in her hands
after they had been conversing for several minutes, “since I am a
fairy, I shall get this question answered. Why did Mr. Stuart take such
a long walk in the broiling sun which does affect him if he does not
care a scrap about Farmer Bright’s crops?”
“Why?” echoed the young man. “Why, to meet you, Margery!”
“Oh, how kind of you!” she returned, quietly; then, looking up with a
smile, she added, “Come now--I shall begin to doubt my power. What----”
“But that is the real downright, honest truth. I told Mrs. Morris it
was to ask about the crops, but I tell you the truth.”
“And why could you not tell mother the truth,” she asked, quickly--“why
not say you wanted to see me? She would have been honored at such a
thought.”
Stuart Crosbie bit his lip. His brow clouded for a second, then he
answered quietly:
“Yes, you are quite right, Margery. I ought to have said so. Well,
never mind--I will next time. And now tell me what you have been doing
all this age. What is that book?”
“‘The Mill on the Floss’”--holding it out.
“Hum! Looks dry--is it?”
“Dry!” exclaimed Margery. “Oh, it is so beautiful! Have you never read
it?”
“I hardly think so,” confessed the young squire. “I will look it out
in the library when I get back, and dig into it to-night, when I am
smoking.”
“Miss Lawson doesn’t approve of story-books,” said Margery; “but I am
not so strict.”
“And how are you getting on?”
“Oh, all right! I am deep in German just now. I speak French every day
when I go to the rectory. I want to be perfect by the time her ladyship
comes back. Mother has told me all about her kindness to me. I can
scarcely remember her when she went away, but she must be nice.”
“Nice!” exclaimed Mr. Crosbie. “She is a brick--a million times too
good for that old curmudgeon, Sir Hubert!”
“No one seems to like him,” Margery remarked, thoughtfully--her face
had grown almost sad; “but mother is never tired of telling me all
about Lady Coningham--how she took me when I was a baby, and my poor,
dear real mother was killed, and put me with mother Morris. I am not
very old, Mr. Stuart, but I feel I can never repay her ladyship all she
has done for me. Sometimes I seem to have a faint, misty recollection
of the days when I first came here, and I can see a face that was--oh,
so pretty and kind!”
“My mother always says Catherine Coningham was very beautiful,” Stuart
said, as the girl paused. “I remember her as a faded, pale woman, very
kind, as you say.”
“There is one thing she did I can never, never forget,” Margery went
on--“that was her goodness in burying my poor mother in such a pretty
spot, and putting that cross on her grave. It does me good to go there,
Mr. Stuart. I almost think my mother knows I go. She must have been
sweet, she was so beautiful! I always wear my locket, you know”--she
put up her hand and produced a tiny heart of gold--“it is such a
comfort. I wonder who I really am!”
“I think you are a princess,” observed the young man, gravely; “you
look it.”
Margery shook her head.
“We shall never know, I suppose,” she said, sadly, “and I shall always
be the nursery rhyme girl ‘Margery Daw,’ as Lady Coningham christened
me.”
“It is the prettiest name in the whole world!” cried Stuart, warmly.
“And--and it suits you!”
“So you would say if you caught sight of me on the village see-saw;”
and Margery laughed heartily. Then she added: “But we are home; and you
have carried my basket all the way. It must be nearly four o’clock.”
“No!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “By Jove, I shall have to tear----”
Then he stopped abruptly and asked: “Margery, when are we going to have
that picnic we decided on a month ago?”
“Oh, some day!” she answered, going into the garden and closing the
gate.
“But ‘some day’ is so vague. Shall we fix it for next Wednesday? That
is your half-holiday, I know.”
His eyes were fixed on her face with such earnestness that for the
first time she seemed to feel their power. She colored faintly and held
out her hand.
“Yes, Wednesday, if you like--if mother is well enough to spare me.
Good-by!”
“Good-by!” he answered.
He gave one last look and hurried up the hill. He had a good hour’s
walk before him, his toilet to make, and the drive to Chesterham to
accomplish as well. That Lady Charteris and her daughter Vane would be
received at the station by the young squire of Crosbie Castle seemed
very improbable, indeed.
CHAPTER IV.
The dressing-gong sounded sonorously through the corridor of Crosbie
Castle. In one of the many charming rooms situated in the towering
wing a young girl was standing. The open windows overlooked a sweep
of verdant lawn, majestic groups of veteran trees, and to the left a
clump of smaller woodgrowth, touched with every tint of green. From
beneath, the scent of many a flower was borne on the air and wafted to
her, bringing with its fragrance a sense of purity and delicacy that
was utterly wanting to the faint odors that hung round the costly glass
bottles her maid was placing on the toilet table.
The mistress of the dainty apartment was leaning against the open
window deep in thought. She was tall and slight, with a face of
delicate loveliness and charm, albeit spoiled a little by a slight
expression of indifference and discontent. She had hair of the warm
brown shade peculiar to Englishwomen; her eyes were large, of a clear
but rather cold blue; her mouth was small and well shaped, disclosing
white, even teeth when her lips parted. There was an easy, graceful
nonchalance about her carriage; and, without being a strictly beautiful
figure, Vane Charteris had an indescribable air of _hauteur_ in the
slope of her shoulders and well-poised head that put to shame many a
rival better favored by nature. Her eyes were fixed at this instant
on the figure of a young man walking quickly across the lawn to the
house, followed by half a dozen dogs. He was by no means unpleasant to
look upon; and so thought his cousin, for she watched him with evident
attention and interest.
“My squire of Crosbie pleases me,” she murmured, moving languidly from
the window; “for once mamma has shown discrimination with worldly
wisdom.”
She seated herself at the glass, and let her maid unpin her luxuriant
tresses till they fell upon the folds of her pink silk wrapper in
glorious profusion. Vane Charteris had been out two years. Worshiped
from her cradle by her weak, widowed mother, she had entered society’s
world haughty, indifferent and selfish. The admiration she received
was but a continuation of the adulation that had been lavished upon
her all through her life; she had no aims, no hopes, no ambitions, but
was content with her imperious beauty and the power that gift brought.
At first Vane was a great success--her proud coldness was new, and
therefore a delightful experience; but after a while society grew weary
of her autocratic ways. The season just ended had been a lesson to her.
She saw herself deserted, and her power slip from her; and, as this
truth came home, she woke suddenly from her dreams, and realized that
something more was expected of her if she would still reign as queen.
Lady Charteris little guessed the workings of her daughter’s mind. She
had grown to consider Vane as a priceless jewel which must be carefully
watched, carefully tended and thought for. She judged the girl’s nature
to be one of the highest, combining true Charteris pride with utter
indolence. Possibly the mother had felt a touch of vexation when she
saw girls far below her child in beauty wed nobly and well; but she
loved Vane as her life, and regret was banished in the pleasure of her
presence.
This was the first visit of the beautiful Miss Charteris to Crosbie
Castle. Hitherto she had contented herself with meeting her uncle and
aunt in London: but this year the mood seized her to accept their
oft-repeated invitation and spend a few weeks in their country home.
She had heard much of her cousin Stuart, but had never seen him since
her childhood, as during the past two years he had been traveling, and
before that time she never left the seclusion of her schoolroom.
Sore with the knowledge of her social failure, dissatisfied with her
mother, herself, and everybody, Vane had sunk into a morbid, depressed
state. She left town without a sigh (though, when she contrasted this
journey with her migration of the former season, she might have given
vent to one, for instead of hearty farewells and expressions of regret,
she was neglected, save by her maid and her mother), and actually felt
a thrill of genuine pleasure as she bowled through the country lanes
and drank in the sweetness of the air. She stole many hurried glances
at her cousin during the drive--Mr. Crosbie had reached the station
in the nick of time--and found herself agreeing with the oft-repeated
praises her mother had sung concerning him. There was a manliness, a
frankness, an absence of self-consciousness and conceit about Stuart
Crosbie that pleased her jaded spirit; he was as handsome as any of her
former admirers, while possessing many other advantages they did not.
She listened quite interestedly to his chatty accounts of his travels,
and was surprised at the pleasure she derived from them.
“What will mademoiselle wear?” the maid asked, after she had coiled and
waved the luxuriant hair round the graceful head.
Vane woke from her musings.
“Oh, anything, Marie; it does not matter! No; on second thoughts, give
me that plain white silk.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
Marie went to the inner room, and returned with a mass of soft, rich,
clinging drapery on her arm, and assisted her mistress to adjust the
robe in silence. She was wondering a little why mademoiselle should
have chosen so simple a gown--it was not her usual habit. But, when the
last touch was given, and Vane stood gazing at her reflection in the
mirror, the maid was fain to confess the choice was good. The tall,
supple form looked inexpressibly graceful in the long, soft folds, the
delicate masses of lace brought fichu-like across the bust gave a touch
of quaintness to the whole, and the purity of the silk gave a softened,
fresher look to the pretty face, for once free from its discontent.
Vane looked long at herself, then turned to her maid:
“My gloves and fan, Marie. Thanks. Do not trouble to wait for me
to-night. Leave my wrapper here; I will brush my hair myself. I dare
say you are tired.”
“_Merci bien_, mademoiselle,” Marie murmured, marveling still more. She
was unaccustomed to any notice, to say naught of kindly words, from her
young mistress.
Vane drew on her long white gloves, then went slowly through the
corridor and down the stairs. The sun was declining, the heat of the
day dying, and a faint, delicious breeze came in through the many open
windows. Miss Charteris passed through the great hall, the tap-tap of
her heels sounding distinctly on the tesselated floor, and stood for
one instant at a door that led first under a colonnade and thence to
the grounds which her windows overlooked. While she was standing here
her cousin sauntered into view, and, moving forward with languid grace,
she went to meet him.
“_La dame blanche_,” he said, tossing away an unfinished cigarette.
“You startled me, Cousin Vane--you crept out so quietly and look so
like a spirit.”
“I am quite real, I assure you,” Vane answered. “But why have you
thrown away your cigarette?”
Stuart laughed as he answered:
“It is against my mother’s rules to smoke immediately before dinner,
but I love my weed, and am scarcely conscious when I am smoking or not.
Please forgive me. I have been a savage for so long, I have forgotten
my good manners.”
“Ah, I want to hear all about your travels and adventures!” said Miss
Charteris. “Have we time to stroll up and down for a while before
dinner?”
“But you will be tired,” remonstrated Stuart, mindful of his mother’s
injunctions; “and”--glancing at the small, dainty white feet--“I am
afraid you will ruin your pretty shoes!”
“I am not afraid of either calamity,” Vane responded, with a smile;
“however, let us split the difference and go to the conservatory.”
Stuart agreed willingly. He was most favorably impressed by his new
cousin. She was no hypochondriacal creature, but a young, beautiful
girl, and likely to prove a most agreeable companion. He glanced at
her dress as they sauntered along the colonnade to the conservatory,
mentally declaring it to be most charming and simple, deciding it
to be most probably the work of her own hands, and would have been
thunderstruck had any one informed him that the innocent-looking
garment had cost nearly fifty pounds.
Vane Charteris saw her cousin’s admiration, and her heart thrilled.
Once more she would taste the joy of power, she would no longer be
neglected. A vision of future triumph filled her mind at that instant.
She would wake from her indifference. The world should see her again as
queen, reigning this time by charm and fascination as well as by her
beauty. The color mounted to her cheeks, the light flashed in her eyes
at the thought, and she turned with animation and interest to converse
with the man beside her.
“You have a splendid home, Stuart,” she observed, after they had walked
through the heavily scented conservatory to the drawing-room. “I am
glad I have come.”
“And I am heartily glad to welcome you. I have heard so much of my
Cousin Vane, such stories of triumphs and wonders, that I began to
despair of ever receiving her here.”
“You forget,” said Vane, softly, waving her great feather fan to and
fro, “there is an attraction here now that at other times was wanting.”
She spoke lightly, almost laughingly, but her words pleased the man’s
vanity.
“Can it be that I am that attraction?” he asked, quickly. Then he
added: “Cousin Vane, I am indeed honored.”
“You jump to hasty conclusions,” she retorted, “but I will pardon your
excessive vanity, if you will give me a spray of stephanotis for my
dress.”
“Is it your favorite flower?” he asked, leading the way back to the
conservatory.
“I love all flowers,” Vane answered; “that is,” she added, carelessly,
“all hothouse flowers.”
“You shall be well supplied in future.”
“Thanks.”
She drew off her gloves and pinned the spray of wax-like flowers
amid her laces. Her hands were white and delicate, yet Stuart’s mind
unconsciously flew to two little brown ones he had seen that afternoon
grasping a plainly bound book. There was even more beauty in them than
in his cousin’s, he thought.
“I shall look to you, Cousin Stuart,” Miss Charteris observed, as
she fastened her gloves again, “to initiate me into the mysteries of
country life. I intend to dabble in farming, milk the cow, toss the
hay, picnic in the fields, and get quite burned and brown.”
Stuart laughed a little constrainedly. He was thinking of his picnic
for next Wednesday, and wondering whether he could induce his cousin to
be kind to Margery. His mother, for some unaccountable reason, did not
appear to like Margery.
“We must get a native of Hurstley to act as cicerone,” he responded,
breaking off a leaf from sheer wantonness. “I have been away so long, I
have almost forgotten my home.”
“What are you going to do, now you are back?”
“Nothing--that is, nothing definite. You see, my father is very shaky,
and I must relieve him of some of his duties. My mother has a strong
wish that I should stand for Chesterham.”
“A parliamentary career?” questioned Vane. “How would you like that?”
“Not at all,” Stuart answered, frankly. “Legislation is not my _forte_.
I am, if anything, a sportsman.”
“English to the backbone! Cousin Stuart, I am disposed to like you.”
“Is that true?” Stuart asked, gravely.
Vane turned and met his gaze, then laughed softly.
“True? Of course it is; are we not cousins? The liking, however, must
not be altogether on my side.”
“Have no fear,” the young man began, but at that instant the
dinner-gong sounded, and his sentence remained unfinished.
Vane was led in by her cousin, and they were even yet more amicable
during the meal, to Mrs. Crosbie’s intense satisfaction. She made
no effort to interrupt the merry conversation of the young people,
and contented herself with now and then joining in the flow of
reminiscences in which her husband and Lady Charteris were indulging.
Squire Crosbie was a tall, thin man with a worn, almost haggard
face. Its prevailing expression was kindly but weak, and he turned
instinctively to his wife for moral support and assistance. Stuart
dearly loved his father. The gentle student disposition certainly was
not in harmony with his own nature; but he had never received aught
but tenderness and love from his father, and grew to think of him
as a feeble plant that required warmth and affection to nourish it.
His feeling for his mother was entirely different. He inherited his
strong spirit from her, the blood of an old sporting family flowed in
her veins. She was a powerful, domineering woman, and Stuart had been
taught to give her obedience rather than love. Had he been permitted
to remain always with his mother, his nature, although in the abstract
as strong as hers, might by force of habit have become weakened and
altered; but, as soon as he had attained his majority, he had expressed
a determination to travel, and in this was seconded for once most
doggedly by his father. Those two years abroad did him an infinite
amount of good; but to Mrs. Crosbie they did not bring unalloyed
delight. Her son had gone from her a child obedient to her will, he
returned a man and submissive only to his own.
Lady Charteris resembled her brother, the squire; but the intellectual
light that gleamed in his eyes was altogether wanting in hers. Her
mind was evidently fixed on her child, for even in the thick of a
conversation her gaze would wander to Vane and rest on her. She was
heartily pleased now at her daughter’s brightness, and whispered many
hopes to Mrs. Crosbie that this visit might benefit the delicate nerves
and health.
Mrs. Crosbie nodded absently to these remarks. She was occupied with
her own thoughts. Stuart must marry; and whom could he find better,
search where he might, than Vane Charteris for his wife? Beautiful,
proud, a woman who had reigned as a social queen--in every way she was
fitted to become the mistress of Crosbie Castle. She watched her son
eagerly, she saw the interest and admiration in his face, and her heart
grew glad. Of all things Mrs. Crosbie had dreaded during those two
years’ absence, the fear of an attraction or entanglement had been most
frequent, and not until she saw him so wrapped up in his cousin Vane
did she realize indeed that her fears had been groundless.
CHAPTER V.
“Get on your bonnet, child, and trot away! I shall be content till you
come back.”
“Mother, I don’t like to leave you to-day, you seem so weak. Miss
Lawson will not mind--let her stay with you.”
Mrs. Morris put out her weak hand and caressed the soft silky hair.
“No, no, child,” she persisted, gently. “You must go to yer lessons.
Reuben will be ’ome directly; he’ll make me a cup of tea; don’t you
worrit yourself. It’s yer day of German, too, and I want you to be well
got on by the time her ladyship comes home.”
Margery rose slowly from her knees.
“Well, I will go,” she said, regretfully; “but let me make you
comfortable. There is your book--why, you are getting on quite fast,
mother!--and here are the grapes Mr. Stuart sent, close to your hand.”
“Heaven bless him for a kind, true-hearted gentleman! Ah, there are few
like him, Margery, my lass!”
“He is good, indeed,” replied the girl, a soft spot of color appearing
in her cheeks. “Now, I will go; but first of all I will run into Mrs.
Carter’s and ask her to come and sit with you.”
She bent and kissed the transparent cheek, tied on her sunbonnet, took
up her books, and, with a parting smile, went out of the doorway.
Her message delivered at Mrs. Carter’s cottage, Margery went slowly up
the hill, past the wall inclosing the wood, on past the gate leading
to the Weald, Sir Hubert Coningham’s country-house, on and on, till
she reached the village. The rectory stood a little way beyond the
schoolhouse, close to the church, and, by the time she reached the side
gate, Margery had learned her lesson by heart. The heat was quite as
great as it was on the afternoon she walked to Farmer Bright’s, now
four days ago; and she looked round anxiously at the sky, dreading a
cloud until Wednesday was gone and the picnic with Mr. Stuart a thing
of the past.
Somehow Margery found her lesson not so delightful to-day; her
attention would wander, and Miss Lawson had to repeat a question three
times in one of these moments before she got a response. The governess
put down the girl’s absence of mind and general listless manner to the
heat, and very kindly brought the lesson early to a close and dismissed
her pupil.
Margery for the first time gave vent to a sigh of relief when she
received permission to go home, and she sauntered through the village
almost wearily. She was gazing on the ground, ignorant of what was
going on about her, when the sound of ponies’ feet and the noise of
wheels behind her caused her to turn, and, looking up, she saw Mrs.
Crosbie, seated in her small carriage, close at hand.
“Good-afternoon, Margery,” Mrs. Crosbie said, in her haughty, cold
manner. “I am glad to have met you. How is your mother?”
“Good-afternoon, madame,” replied the girl, calling Mrs. Crosbie by the
name the village always used, and bending her head gracefully. “Thank
you very much, but I am afraid mother is very bad to-day; I did not
want to leave her, but she insisted. She grows very weak.”
“Has Dr. Metcalf seen her to-day?”
“Yes, madame, but he said nothing to me--he looked very grave.”
“I was going to send her down some beef tea and jelly, but as I have
met you it will save the servant a journey. Get in beside Thomas; I
will drive you to the castle, and you can take the things to your
mother.”
Mrs. Crosbie pointed to a seat beside the groom. She was for some
reason always annoyed when she came in contact with this girl. In the
first place, Margery spoke and moved as her equal; she never dropped
the customary courtesy, nor appeared to grasp for an instant the
magnitude of the castle dignity. Mrs. Crosbie was wont to declare that
the girl was being ruined; that Catherine Coningham had behaved like
an idiot; that, because the child had worn delicate clothes and the
dead woman had seemed in every way a lady, Margery should be brought
up and educated as such was preposterous. It was all absurd, Mrs.
Crosbie affirmed, a mere shadow of romance. The letter in the mother’s
pocket had plainly stated her position--she was a maid, and nothing
else, and all speculation as to an honorable connection was ridiculous
and far-fetched. Mrs. Crosbie did not quarrel with Lady Coningham for
rescuing the baby from the workhouse--charity she upheld in every
way--but she maintained that Margery should have been placed with Mrs.
Morris as her child, and that she should have learned her A, B, C with
the other village children in the village school, and that the story of
the railway accident and her mother’s death should have been carefully
withheld from the child. Now the girl’s head was full of nothing but
herself. The mistress of Crosbie Castle opined that she was fit for no
situation, and consequently would come to no good.
Margery was ignorant of all this; but she was never entirely
comfortable in Mrs. Crosbie’s presence. The waif had within her the
germ of pride every whit as great and strong as that possessed by
Stuart’s mother. Hitherto she had had no reason to intrench herself in
this natural fortress, for all the village loved her; the very fact
that Lady Coningham had adopted and educated her raised Margery in
their eyes. So the girl had received kindness, in many cases respect;
and she was as happy as the lark, save when a wave of mournful thought
brought back the memory of her mother.
Mrs. Crosbie wronged her. Margery had not a spice of arrogance in her
composition--she had only the innate feeling that she was not of the
village class, and, with the true delicacy and instinct of a lady,
forbore even to express this.
There was plenty of room on the front seat, but Mrs. Crosbie would not
have dreamed of bidding the girl to sit there--she relegated her to
what she considered her proper place, among the servants. Margery’s
face flushed a little.
“If you will allow me,” she said, with her natural grace, “I will walk
up to the castle, thank you very much.”
“Do as I tell you,” commanded Mrs. Crosbie, quietly. “Thomas, make room
for Margery Daw.”
Margery bit her lip and hesitated for a moment, then the memory of the
poor sick woman at home came to her. If she offended madame, mother
would have no more delicacies, so, without another word, she stepped in
and was driven briskly out of the village. She sat very quiet beside
the shy groom, and, opening her book, a collection of short German
stories, soon lost her vexation in their delights.
Mrs. Crosbie was unduly pleased with herself for bringing this girl to
her level, and she was determined to lose no opportunity of continuing
it in the future. As they stopped at the lodge gates she turned to
Margery:
“Get down and go along that path to the back part of the house, and
wait in the kitchen till I send for you.”
Margery obediently descended, and turned down the sidepath as the
ponies started off along the sweeping avenue to the castle entrance.
Why was madame so stern and Mr. Stuart so kind? Margery pondered as
she walked on. Had she done anything wrong? Her mind accused her of no
fault; she could therefore arrive at no solution of the mystery.
The path she was following was one used by the gardeners, and she soon
arrived at a small gate, which, on opening, led her to the paddock and
kitchen gardens. Margery toiled through the heat up to the courtyard,
and, after crossing this, entered a large door standing wide open.
The cook and her handmaidens were indulging in five-o’clock tea, and
the mistress of the kitchen rose with genial hospitality to press her
visitor to partake of some, too.
“Now, do!” she urged, as Margery shook her head. “You look fair fagged
out.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Drew,” Margery said, simply; unconsciously she
recoiled from accepting anything that came from Mrs. Crosbie. “I am not
really tired. Madame has driven me here from the village. I am to take
some things back to mother. If you don’t mind, I will wait outside--it
is rather hot in here.”
“Ay, do, child,” the cook answered; and she handed out a large stool.
“Put this just in the doorway, and you’ll catch a little draught.”
With a smile Margery took the stool, and, placing it in a shady corner,
sat down and began to read. The courtyard stretched along a quadrangle
leading to the stables, and, looking up now and then from her book,
Margery caught glimpses of the castle horses lazily switching their
tails in their comfortable boxes. The pony carriage was driven in while
she waited, and she watched with much interest the small, sturdy ponies
being unharnessed and led away. It was a quaint, picturesque spot--the
low-roofed stables, the larger coach-house, a portion of the gray-stone
castle jutting out in the distance, with a background of branches and
faintly moving leaves. Margery shut her book and let her eyes wander
to the clear blue sky seen in patches through the trees. She felt cool
in her little nook, and enjoyed the rest. The groom had discarded his
smart livery, and, in company with another lad, was busily employed in
cleaning the pony carriage, the hissing sound with which he accompanied
his movements not sounding unmusical from a distance; and Margery found
herself smiling at his exertions and the confidence that had succeeded
his bashfulness. Suddenly, while she was watching them, she saw the
groom and his companion draw themselves up and salute some one; and
then the next moment a figure came round the corner--a figure in white
tennis costume, with a white silk shirt and large flapping hat. Margery
felt her cheeks grow warm, then they as quickly colored. Another figure
stood beside the tall one of the man, a dainty, delicate, lovely form
in a dress of ethereal blue, holding a large sun-shade of the same
color above her beautiful head.
Unconsciously Margery felt her heart sink. Never had she seen so fair
a vision before; and the sight of those two figures, so well matched
and so close together, brought a strange vague pain to her, the nature
of which she could not guess. She dropped her eyes to her book again,
and shrunk back into her corner, hoping to escape notice. She was too
far away to hear what was said, and she began to breathe freely again
after a few minutes, when the faint sound of a musical voice was borne
on the air and the tones of a deep, clear voice she knew well came
nearer and nearer. She pulled her sunbonnet well over her eyes and bent
still lower over her book as the voices drew closer.
“If you are ill after this, Cousin Vane,” she heard Stuart say, “I
shall never forgive myself. The heat is terrific, you know. Are you
quite sure you can manage it?”
“Quite,” answered the woman’s voice. “I want to see this poor doggie;
besides, you tell me it is just as far back again as round this way.”
“Just as far. Well, here we are! Poor Sir Charles, I hope the old
fellow is better.”
The two figures came into sight; they were about six yards from
Margery, and were walking slowly. She could see the delicate blue
drapery, the slender gauntleted hand, though she did not raise her
eyes; and she drew back into her corner with a nervous dread such as
she had never felt hitherto.
Mr. Crosbie led his cousin to a small outhouse immediately facing the
kitchen door, and was about to open the door, when, looking round, he
saw Margery. His face flushed for an instant; then, before his cousin
could perceive it, his embarrassment was gone.
“There, Vane,” he said, easily, opening the door and pointing to a
large collie lying on a heap of clean straw. “Don’t be afraid; he won’t
hurt you. Poor Sir Charles--poor old fellow!” He stooped and took up a
bandaged paw. “I shall have you about in a day or two. He wants some
fresh water. Margery”--he left his cousin’s side a little, and looked
straight at the girl sitting up in the corner--“Margery, will you
kindly ask one of the maids to bring me some water for Sir Charles?”
Margery put down her book without a word, went indoors, brought a jug,
then walked to the well a little to the left, and, having filled the
jug, approached him.
“Thank you. Why did you trouble, Margery?” said Stuart, courteously.
“How is your mother to-day?”
“She is no better, Mr. Stuart, thank you,” returned Margery, in her
clear, refined voice. “I am waiting for some things madame is kindly
going to send her.”
Vane Charteris had turned at the first sound of the girl’s voice, and
she was almost alarmed at the beauty of the face before her. Beside the
golden glory of that hair, the depths of pathetic splendor in those
eyes, the pale transparency of that skin, her own prettiness simply
faded away. She noted the grace and ease with which Margery moved, and
immediately conceived a violent dislike to this village girl.
“Vane, let me present to you one of my old playfellows--Margery Daw.
You were wanting some one to point out all the beauties of Hurstley. I
am sure no one could do that half so well as Margery.”
Miss Charteris bent her head and smiled at her cousin.
“Many thanks, Stuart; but you forget we have planned to discover the
mysteries of the country together without any assistance--a spice of
adventure is always charming.”
Margery turned away, with a bow to Stuart--she did not speak, or look
at his companion--and she overheard Miss Charteris say, with a scornful
laugh, as she walked back to her seat:
“Dear Cousin Stuart, you should be more merciful; that girl’s hair is
so painfully red, it makes me quite uncomfortable in this heat.”
Margery did not hear the reply--her lips were quivering and her hands
trembling with mortification--and, when she looked up again, the
housekeeper was handing her a basket, and the cousins were gone.
“Madame sends your mother some beef tea, a bottle of brandy, and some
fruit and jelly,” said the housekeeper, closing the basket lid. “It is
rather heavy; and mind you, carry it carefully. Can you manage it?”
“Yes,” said Margery, steadily. “Thank you; I am much obliged.”
She turned with her heavy load and walked across the courtyard, her
heart no lighter than her basket.
That lovely looking stranger had made fun of her--fun--and to Mr.
Stuart! Perhaps he had laughed, too. The thought was too painful. And
was she not a sight? Look at her old pink gown, well washed and mended,
her clumsy boots, her sunburned hands. The memory of that dainty figure
looking like a fairy in her delicate garments rose to her mind, and her
head drooped. Yes, she was a common village girl--madame treated her as
such; and now Mr. Stuart would turn, too. Oh, why could she not tear
aside the veil of mystery and know what she really was? Could that face
treasured in her locket be only the face of a maid, or did her heart
speak truly when it called that mother madame’s equal?
Margery was pained and troubled as she took her way along the
paddock--pained not so much at the woman’s words as at the thought that
the man had re-echoed them and deemed her stupid and plain. She had
grown to look on Stuart Crosbie as something bright and delightful in
her life. They had played together as children, and the memory of that
friendship was the strongest link in the chain that held him as her
hero. When he was away, Stuart had written once or twice to Margery,
sending her views of the places he visited, and giving her long
chatty accounts of his travels. When he came home, they renewed their
intimacy; there was not a shadow of surprise or fear in Margery’s mind
when the young squire came so frequently to see her.
She had no suspicion that this friendship would annoy his mother or
was in any way strange or uncommon. She liked Stuart Crosbie; she
could talk to him of her studies, her pursuits--a sealed book in her
home--and gradually grew to welcome him as a companion with whom she
could converse easily and naturally, and as a friend who would never
fail her. Mrs. Morris was too great an invalid to devote much thought
to the girl’s amusements, nor would she have been greatly troubled had
she known how intimate the young squire and Margery had become; so the
girl had had no constraint put upon her; she met, walked, and chatted
with Stuart Crosbie as freely as she liked, and no cloud had dawned on
her happy life till to-day.
The sight of that other girl, so different from herself, had brought
a strange, sharp pang, but that was lost in the pain she endured when
she thought that Stuart had agreed with the cruel remark, and that his
friendship was gone forever. She wended her way along the paddock, and
was turning through the gate to enter the gardeners’ path again, when
a hand was stretched out from beside her, took the basket from her,
and, putting a finger under her chin, raised her head from its drooping
position.
“Well?” said Stuart, quietly.
“Give me my basket, please, Mr. Stuart,” Margery murmured, hurriedly, a
crimson wave of color dyeing her cheeks.
“What for?” asked the young man, calmly.
“I must get home. I am very late as it is.”
“Well, why don’t you go?” Stuart inquired, watching the color fade from
her cheeks.
“I cannot go without my basket,” Margery answered, trying to be at her
ease. “Please give it to me, Mr. Stuart.”
“No,” he answered, briefly.
“Then I must go without it!” she exclaimed; and, suiting the action to
the word, she began to move down the path.
Stuart followed at once, and put a detaining hand on her arm.
“Here is your basket, Margery. I was only teasing you. What a time you
have been! I have been waiting here for you for the last five minutes.”
Margery’s heart grew lighter again.
“You might have been better employed,” she returned, with the quaint
sharpness Stuart always admired. “But, if you have time to waste, I
have not. Listen! There--it is striking six, and mother will wonder
what has become of me.”
“Yes, that is six,” observed Mr. Crosbie, listening to the clock
chiming from the castle. “You will get home by seven, Margery, if you
start at once. Not that way!”--as she turned again down the path. “This
is nearly half a mile nearer.” He pushed open the gate and motioned
her into the paddock again. “Now,” he continued, slinging the basket
on his arm and turning beside her across the field, “why are you cross
with me, Miss Margery?”
“I am not cross with you,” Margery answered, hurriedly.
“Not now, perhaps; but you were.”
Margery was silent.
“What was it, Margery?” he asked, gently.
“I heard what that lady said about me just now,” she replied, after a
pause; “and--and----”
“You are angry with me. That is hardly fair--rough on an old friend,
you know.”
“I thought you might have----” She stopped.
“Agreed with her. You ought to know me better than that, Margery.”
The grave tones went to her heart.
“Oh, forgive me!” she cried. “It was wrong; but--she is so beautiful,
and I----”
“You are----”
“Only a village girl beside her.”
“I wonder if you know how different you are from her?” Stuart said,
quietly.
Margery’s face flushed.
“I never felt I was--common till to-day,” she answered.
“Margery!”
She looked up quickly. Mr. Crosbie checked his words and laughed a
little constrainedly.
“You must not grow vain,” he said.
“Am I vain? I will remember another time,” she responded, gravely.
“And remember this, too,” Stuart added--“that, whatever any one may
say, my opinion of you does not change--never will.”
She smiled with delight.
“Thank you, Mr. Stuart,” she said, simply. “And now please give me my
basket; you must not come any further.”
“I shall carry it home for you,” he answered. “We shall not be long,
and this is tons too heavy for your little hands. Tell me of your
lesson. What have you done to-day, and what is that book?”
Margery immediately broke into a long account of her studies, and, with
her happy serenity restored, she walked on beside him, heedless of the
dust or the sun--content that their friendship was unaffected.
Stuart Crosbie listened with pleasure to the ripple of her voice,
his eyes never tired of wandering to her sweet face, lovely in its
innocence; but, when he had parted from her and strode home along the
lanes, his brow was clouded and a puzzled expression rested upon his
face.
CHAPTER VI.
Wednesday morning broke clear and cloudless. Margery rose at an early
hour, and sat looking out of her little window at the sun gilding the
fields and trees with its glory. Stuart Crosbie, too, rose earlier than
was his wont; and he occupied the time till the breakfast-gong sounded
in walking up and down his room, apparently in deep thought. As the
muffled summons reached his ear, he uttered an impatient “Pshaw!” and
made his way slowly down the stairs. His mother was seated at the table
when he entered the room; and he had scarcely exchanged greetings with
her when Vane Charteris made her appearance. It was not Miss Charteris’
usual custom to honor the breakfast table with her presence; but
since her stay at Crosbie the mood had seized her, and she descended
regularly to the early meal.
“Good-morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Crosbie, smiling her sweetest. “You
look as fresh as a rose; doesn’t she, Stuart?”
“Words always fail me to describe Cousin Vane’s beauty,” was his
gallant reply.
Vane smiled languidly; but she was not quite happy. There was something
strange about this cousin of hers; he was attentive, but his attentions
seemed to be the outcome of habit rather than inclination. Was her
power to fail her here, too?
“What is the programme for to-day?” she asked, as she drew her chair to
the table.
“We must devise something,” observed Mrs. Crosbie. “Ah, Vane, my dear,
I fear you find this place very dull!”
“Dull!” repeated Miss Charteris. “I cannot tell you, my dear aunt, how
happy I am in your lovely home.”
Mrs. Crosbie felt her heart swell; more and more she saw the
advisability of a marriage between Stuart and his cousin, more and more
she determined it should take place.
“Well, Stuart, what are we to do to amuse Vane?” she inquired, turning
to her son, with the pleasure called up by her niece’s speech still
lingering on her face.
“I am afraid, mother, I shall not be able to offer my services to-day.
I am bound for Chesterham this morning,” Stuart answered, vigorously
attacking a pie on a side table.
“Chesterham!” ejaculated his mother. “Why, what takes you there,
Stuart?”
“An appointment with Derwent. He has written and asked me to meet him
at the junction on his way to town; he wants to see me.”
“Why could not Captain Derwent come here for a few days?” inquired Mrs.
Crosbie, coldly. She was annoyed that anything should interrupt the
acquaintance that was progressing so satisfactorily.
“He can’t; he is due in London.”
“But must you go?” began his mother, when Vane interrupted with:
“Oh, please don’t stop him, auntie, dear, or he will vote me such a
nuisance! Indeed; we can spare Stuart for one day, and I will enjoy
myself with you if you will let me. We have not driven to any places
yet; shall we not go somewhere to-day?”
“I shall be pleased,” Mrs. Crosbie replied, though she looked vexed;
and all other remarks on the subject were stopped, to Stuart’s great
relief, by his father’s appearance--Lady Charteris never left her room
till noon.
The squire came in with his curious halting gait; he carried a bundle
of letters and papers in his hand, and his haggard features wore a look
of surprise.
“Good-morning, my dear,” he said to Vane. “Constance”--to his wife--“I
have received a most extraordinary surprise. Read that”--holding out a
letter.
With ill-concealed impatience Mrs. Crosbie took the letter he held
toward her.
“What sort of a surprise, dad?” asked Stuart, putting his hand for an
instant into his father’s.
“Your mother will tell you,” answered the squire.
“From Douglas Gerant!” exclaimed Mrs. Crosbie, gazing at the end of the
letter. “This is a surprise indeed! Why, Sholto, he is in England--has
been for the last month--and wants to come to us for a visit!”
“By Jove!” was Stuart’s only utterance.
“It seemed like a letter from the dead,” said the squire, dreamily.
“What years since one has heard or seen anything of Douglas Gerant! It
must be fifteen, at least, since he left England.”
Mrs. Crosbie folded up the letter.
“He is not changed,” she observed--“at least, his letter is as strange
and erratic as of old. Vane, you have heard your mother speak of
Douglas Gerant, have you not?”
Miss Charteris puckered her brow.
“I don’t remember his name,” she replied. “Who is he?”
“Your mother’s cousin--surely she must have spoken of him!”
“I have heard of Eustace Gerant,” Miss Charteris answered, “but he is
dead.”
“This is his brother. He, too, might have been dead for all that we
have seen or heard of him. He was a ne’er-do-wee’l, an utter scamp.”
“But with great good in him,” added the squire, warmly. “I know you
did not think so, Constance, but Douglas always had a fine, generous
nature.”
“It was well hidden, then,” his wife retorted, coldly. “I never had
much sympathy with him, and I have less now. A man has no right to be
lost to the world, as he has been, and leave a magnificent inheritance
wasting and neglected when there are others who would prize it.”
“Is this the long-lost cousin who owns Beecham Park?” asked Vane, with
sudden interest. “Oh, then I have heard of him, of course!”
“He came into the property ten years ago,” Stuart explained, “and
he has not come home till now. I must confess I always had a strong
sympathy for this unknown cousin. What a strange life his has been! I
am tempted to envy him the wonders he must have seen.”
“I am surprised you should speak like that, Stuart,” said his mother,
coldly. “I cannot understand any man of principle putting aside his
duties for his inclinations.”
Miss Charteris looked bored.
“Is he married?” she asked, languidly.
“No, no, my dear,” answered Mrs. Crosbie, quickly; “by some marvelous
chance he has escaped matrimony. I always expected to hear of a
low-born wife; but he appears to have a little of the Gerant pride
within him, and has spared us that humiliation.”
“Then he has no heir?” Vane observed.
Mrs. Crosbie did not reply immediately, but Miss Charteris saw her
handsome eyes wander to Stuart’s face and rest there.
“He has the power of willing Beecham Park,” Mrs. Crosbie remarked; and
the squire broke in with his quiet, monotonous voice:
“I have often wished Douglas had married; he was just the man to be led
to good things by a good woman.”
“You always were absurd on this subject, Sholto,” his wife remarked,
quietly; and the squire discreetly said no more.
Stuart moved from the table as the meal ended, and, engrossed with the
newspaper, was lost to all that was passing around.
“I will write this morning and bid Douglas welcome,” Mrs. Crosbie said
after a while. As she rose, she turned to the butler--“Fox, tell Mrs.
Marxham to prepare some rooms for Sir Douglas Gerant; I expect he will
arrive to-morrow. Now, Vane, I will leave you for half an hour; then,
if you will equip yourself, we will drive this morning.”
“Thanks, auntie,” and Miss Charteris walked slowly across the room to
one of the long French windows, looking thoughtful and not altogether
displeased.
“The power to will Beecham Park,” she mused; “and the heir must be
Stuart Crosbie. His mother’s eyes spoke that plainly.”
Miss Charteris glanced at the tall, well-built form of Stuart, who was
still intent on the newspaper, and for the first time the thought
of a warmer feeling dawned in her heart. She found this cousin a
more agreeable companion than she had imagined; she was irresistibly
attracted by his manliness and charm of manner. Might she not gratify
her ambition, as well as her fancy, if she chose this young man for
her husband? As mistress of Crosbie Castle she would once again reign
in her world, but as mistress of Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park her
sovereignty would be greater than she had even dreamed of. Vane felt
her heart swell within her at the glorious prospect her imagination
conjured up; and, standing in the soft morning sunlight, she vowed to
link her lot with Stuart Crosbie and be his wife.
She left the window and walked toward him.
“You are most unkind, Mr. Crosbie,” she said, looking sweetly
plaintive. “You are going to leave me all day, and you bury yourself
now in those dry papers.”
Stuart put down the newspaper quickly; he had been utterly unconscious
of her presence.
“I beg your pardon, Vane,” he said, smiling; “indeed it was very rude
of me.”
“I forgive you this time,” she returned, extending her white hand, “on
condition that you promise to come home early from your meeting with
this tiresome man.”
Stuart colored faintly. It was true that he had received a letter
from his friend, Captain Derwent; also true that that friend would
pass through Chesterham at some time during the day; but Stuart’s
appointment was not with Captain Derwent. In an hour’s time he was to
meet Margery, and start for their picnic in the woods.
“I shall get back as soon as I can,” he said, hurriedly. “In truth,
Vane, I am afraid that you find Crosbie horribly dull; there is nothing
or no one to amuse you. It will be better in a day or two, for I intend
to invite one or two people for the twelfth.”
“I don’t want them,” Miss Charteris observed, raising her large blue
eyes to his; “and do you know, Cousin Stuart, strange though it may
seem, I am not at all dull in your society.”
Stuart bowed low at her words.
“You are easily satisfied,” he replied; and at that moment his mother
reappeared.
“Now, Vane, I am at your service. By the by, Stuart, shall we not drive
you to Chesterham? I can easily drive the barouche instead of the pony
carriage.”
“Oh, no, thanks!” he answered, hurriedly. “I prefer to walk.”
Mrs. Crosbie elevated her eyebrows, but made no remark; and Vane
followed her aunt from the room. On reaching the door, she looked back
and kissed her hand.
“_Au revoir_, Cousin Stuart!” she said, lightly. “Don’t stay away too
long.”
Stuart waited only till the ladies had well disappeared, then he walked
across the hall, caught up his tennis hat, and made his way along the
colonnade to the grounds. He stopped at the entrance to the courtyard
and whistled for his dogs, then, without another look round, started
across the paddock to the village.
* * * * *
Margery was dressed early, and had packed a small basket with some
home-made cakes and some apples as provender for the picnic. She had
told Mrs. Morris of her holiday and Mr. Stuart’s kindness, and occupied
herself with many little duties of love for the sick woman before she
left her.
Mrs. Morris watched with tender eyes the slender form flitting about
the room in its plain white cotton gown. All the wealth of her
childless heart was bestowed on this girl, and in return she received
pure and deep affection.
“Now, are you quite sure, mother, you will not miss me?” asked Margery,
kneeling by the couch when all her duties were done.
“Nay, that I cannot say,” Mrs. Morris returned, with a faint smile. “I
always miss you, child; but I shall not want you. Mrs. Carter is coming
in to see me, and Reuben has promised to come home for dinner.”
“Reuben will keep his word, then,” declared the girl; “but I shall not
be away long.”
“Stay and amuse yourself, Margery--you are young, and should have
pleasure. Now, get on your bonnet and start, or you will keep the young
squire waiting.”
Margery tied on her sunbonnet. At first she had been tempted to don
her Sunday hat, a plain, wide-brimmed straw with a white ribbon, but
she checked herself and put it away, with a blush at her vanity. She
took her little basket, and, walking slowly toward the spring, sat
down by its musical trickling to wait. She felt more than ordinarily
happy; the memory of Stuart’s kind words had driven away the sting of
his cousin’s remark; there was not a cloud on the horizon of her young
life. She wanted for nothing to complete her happiness, and reveled in
the sunshine and the golden glory of summer as only a heart can that
has tasted no sorrow, seen not the darkness or gloom of pain.
She had not waited long before the sound of hastening footsteps told
her that Stuart was at hand; and she bent to caress the dogs as he
approached, thus hiding the pleasure that dawned on her face.
“I am fearfully late, Margery,” Stuart said, apologetically, as he
flung himself down on the cool, mossy bank. “By Jove! though, I had no
idea I could walk so fast. I have come here in no time.”
“You do look tired,” she said, quickly; “let us rest a while. Shall I
get you some milk?”
Stuart shuddered. The thought recalled all the horrors of Judy’s
draught that summer morning.
“No, thanks; I will have some water. Do you know, Margery, I don’t
believe I can go very much further. What do you say to a picnic in the
Weald wood?”
“I think it will be very nice. But, Mr. Stuart, where is your basket?”
“My basket?” he echoed.
“Yes--your lunch,” said Margery, holding out her tiny hamper. “You have
forgotten it.”
“Yes, I have. Will it matter?” asked Stuart, gravely, thinking he had
never seen so sweet a picture as the girl before him.
“Well, you know, to picnic it is necessary to have some food; but
perhaps I have enough for both.”
“I devoutly hope so!” exclaimed Mr. Crosbie. “May I ask, Margery, what
your basket contains?”
“Cakes and apples,” she answered, promptly.
“Hum!” observed Stuart, meditatively. “That sounds solid, Margery.”
“Don’t you like cakes and apples?”
“Do you?” he asked.
“Very much.”
“Then I do, too. Now let us get into the woods. By the by, is Reuben
about?”
“No; I believe he has gone to some of Sir Hubert’s farms. He started
very early this morning, but he will be home to dinner. Did you want
him, Mr. Stuart?”
“No, not particularly. But what a lark if they take us up for
trespassing--eh, Margery!”
Margery laughed heartily at the idea.
“What would they do to us?” she asked.
“Transport us for life, perhaps,” Stuart replied, with a laugh, as he
mounted the narrow wall. “How would you like that, Margery?” he added.
“Would that mean going away from here?”
Stuart nodded.
“I should not like it at all, then,” she declared.
“Then you intend to live in Hurstley all your life? Give me your hand;
there--that is right. The dogs will clear it.”
Margery jumped lightly from the wall to the soft turf, and then watched
the easy way in which the collie and retriever scaled the wall.
“How clever they are!” she cried, stooping to pat them.
“But you have not answered me. Do you intend to live here all your
life?” said Stuart, as they strolled in the cool shade of the trees.
Margery looked at him quickly.
“I have never thought about it, Mr. Stuart,” she replied. “Would it be
wrong to wish it?”
“Wrong?” he repeated. “No, Margery, of course not.”
“I love Hurstley,” the girl went on, thoughtfully. “Mother lives
here, and Reuben, and Lady Coningham, though I cannot remember her
well--still I love her; then there are Miss Lawson and all the village.”
“No one else?” queried Mr. Crosbie, fixing his eyes on her face.
“Yes--you, Mr. Stuart,” Margery answered, softly. “You are here, too.”
“But suppose that all these friends were to go away--suppose you were
left alone--would you care for Hurstley then?”
Margery’s face paled.
“I never thought of that,” she murmured. “Oh, I could not stay then; it
would be terrible!”
Stuart opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them firmly again,
and for a while there was silence between them as they walked. At last
the young squire spoke. They had reached a clump of trees, a cooler,
shadier spot, and here he stopped.
“Let us unpack that gigantic basket here, Margery,” he said, lightly.
“This is the very nook for a picnic.”
Margery tossed off her bonnet, and the young man, stretched at full
length on the soft grass, feasted his eyes on her radiant beauty,
feeling that with every look his determination to see less of this girl
was slipping from him, and that for him happiness was found only when
in her presence.
CHAPTER VII.
Vane Charteris found the day pass very slowly, with no one but her aunt
to amuse her. She sat listlessly beside Mrs. Crosbie during the long
drive, feeling bored and wearied, and yawned through the afternoon in
her room, finding no pleasure in her mother’s society and less in her
own. The thought that had come to her suddenly in the morning grew
stronger as the hours passed. As Stuart Crosbie’s wife, she would taste
once more the sweetness of her lost power.
She was leaning by her open window, thinking this, heedless of the
beauty of the picture that stretched before her, when her eyes fell on
a man’s figure strolling leisurely on the lawn--a strange, odd-looking
man, who seemed not quite at home in his surroundings. Miss Charteris,
roused from her languor, watched him intently, and at once determined
that the intruder was a tramp--perhaps one of a gang of thieves. She
rose quickly, and made her way from her room, picking up her sun-shade
as she went. Her aunt was out at a garden party, which she had vainly
tried to induce Miss Charteris to attend, her mother was enjoying a
_siesta_, and her uncle was absorbed in his books. There was no one
about, and the castle seemed quite deserted as Vane walked across the
hall to the back grounds. The man was standing as she had seen him
last, his hands in his pockets, his hat pulled low over his brows. She
went toward him at once.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Do you know you are trespassing?”
The man turned at her first word; he looked at her keenly from a pair
of earnest gray eyes, then slowly, and with unmistakable courtesy,
removed his slouched felt hat.
“Trespassing?” he repeated, in a cool tone. “Do they prosecute at
Crosbie Castle if a man is found gazing only?”
“You are insolent,” Miss Charteris responded, frigidly; “and, if you do
not leave at once I shall send some of the servants to you.”
The man replaced his hat, with a curious expression on his face.
“Pray save yourself that trouble,” he said, dryly. “I am going; but may
I ask if I have the honor of speaking to Mrs. Crosbie?”
Vane’s face flushed.
“No,” she said, coldly.
“Ah! Miss Crosbie, perhaps?”
“No,” she repeated again.
“Indeed! Then, madame, by what right do you eject me?”
“I am Mrs. Crosbie’s niece, and, in her absence, do what I know she
would desire.”
“Mrs. Crosbie’s niece!” repeated the man. “So Mrs. Crosbie rules this
castle! Where is the squire?”
Miss Charteris moved away a little.
“I shall answer no more questions,” she said, quietly. “I must request
you to go away at once.”
“There spoke George Charteris!” muttered the stranger, as if to himself.
Vane started; she could hardly believe her ears. This shabby man to
mention her father’s name! It was extraordinary, and not pleasant.
“I do not know who you are,” she said, with marked irritation; “but
you have heard what I said, and you take no notice of my words. It now
remains for the servants to see if they will be more successful.”
“Softly, softly, my young lady!” said the man, putting his hand on her
arm. “You are much too hasty, and, like all intemperate spirits, judge
by appearances only. How do you know whether I have business here or
not--whether my visit may not be that of a friend?”
“Friend?” echoed Miss Charteris, sarcastically, at the same time
hurriedly drawing her arm from his touch.
“I see,” continued the stranger, half closing his eyes, and fixing her
with a look which annoyed and fidgeted her. “I see you count Squire
Crosbie’s friends by the cut of their coats. Stay; let me convince you
that people are not always what they seem.”
At that moment a footman was passing along the colonnade; and, calling
in a loud voice, the stranger attracted his attention.
“Is your master in?” was the question, put easily and naturally.
The footman hesitated for an instant; but the presence of Miss
Charteris reassured him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Kindly inform him that I am here.”
“What name, sir?” the man asked.
“Sir Douglas Gerant.”
The footman bowed and turned away, while Vane felt that she wished the
ground would open and swallow up this queer, dried, cynical cousin or
herself--it mattered not which. Never had she been in so disagreeable a
position. Sir Douglas came to her rescue.
“Will you forgive me?” he said, quietly extending his hand, a long,
thin white hand, which seemed strangely at variance with his rough,
ill-cut clothes.
“It is I who must ask that,” she replied. “Of course, had I known----”
“Naturally, naturally,” interrupted Sir Douglas. “Let us say no more
about it. So my cousin Constance is out? Well, I hope she will forgive
me for taking her by storm in this way. And where is her boy?”
“Stuart has gone to Chesterham.”
“Hum! And is he a nice fellow? Do you like him?”
Miss Charteris hesitated.
“Yes,” she replied, slowly, “I like Stuart very much. You will see him
this evening.”
“Hum!” observed Sir Douglas again; and at that instant the squire’s
tall, thin figure appeared, a look of undisguised pleasure on his face.
“My dear Douglas!”
“Sholto, old fellow!”
The two men clasped hands; no words of stronger welcome were spoken,
but their eyes looked all they would say; the handgrip testified more
plainly than words. What memories filled the mind of each as they stood
thus face to face--the traces of the world’s buffets in their worn
lineaments--memories of two young forms with hope and vigor shining in
their glowing eyes, determination and ambition strong in their hearts.
“Welcome--a thousand times welcome!” said the squire, after a moment’s
silence. “I received your letter this morning. We expected you
to-morrow.”
Sir Douglas laughed.
“Yes, I thought so; but I am not an orthodox person at all. I break
through all rules and regulations. I look like a tramp. Ask this young
lady if she does not think so,” he added, abruptly.
Vane’s face flushed--she was inwardly much annoyed; but Sir Douglas
continued, speaking easily, and her confusion was unnoticed.
“I was eager to see you, Sholto, and I started off almost as soon as I
dispatched my letter. I have had a great wish to see you for the last
month.”
“I am heartily glad to meet you once more,” the squire responded; and
his face looked brighter than usual. “But how have you come, Douglas?”
“On foot,” returned Sir Douglas, calmly. “My man will arrive with my
traps in about an hour’s time.”
“On foot from Chesterham! You must be tired out. Come to my study. What
volumes of anecdotes we could write, Douglas, of our respective lives!
Vane, my dear, will you come with us?”
“No,” replied Miss Charteris, with a forced smile. “I will go and tell
mamma that Sir Douglas has arrived.”
She moved away gracefully as she spoke; Sir Douglas looked after her.
“That is George Charteris’ girl?” he asked.
“Yes. She is very beautiful, is she not?” returned the squire, dreamily.
“Hum!” observed Sir Douglas to himself. “She may be; but----”
The sentence was left unfinished, and the strange guest followed the
squire into the house.
“How unchanged it all is!” he remarked, as he entered the great hall.
“I seem to have stepped back into my boyhood again, Sholto. Ah, we
don’t wear as well as bricks and mortar, old fellow! Only a few short
years, and we are both wrecks of what we were!”
They had entered a smaller apartment at the back of the building, one
used by the squire as his study and own special sanctum. Books and
pamphlets were carelessly strewn about; and the room, in its plain
appointments, told clearly and distinctly the character of its owner.
The squire pushed forward a large chair to the window, and Sir Douglas,
throwing off his hat, seated himself in it, whilst the squire settled
himself at the table.
“Did my letter startle you?” asked Sir Douglas suddenly.
“Yes, it did,” was the candid answer. “I had begun to think you would
never return to England, that you would die as you have lived, a
wanderer from your home.”
“A weary, restless wanderer--a man, Sholto, with but one thought in
his mind, one desire in his wanderings, one wish that has never been
fulfilled. Ah, you have judged me as the world has judged me, an
ill-conditioned fellow who loved all nations and people above his own!
But you have wronged me--the world has wronged me. I am as capable
of strong domestic feeling as any man living. I am what I am through
trickery and deceit.”
The squire gazed earnestly at his cousin’s face, the thin features
illumined by a sudden rush of color. Sir Douglas turned, and, as his
eyes met that earnest gaze, he sunk back slowly in his chair, and the
old cynical look came back again.
“I must not bore you with my hidden griefs, Sholto,” he said, dryly;
“they are musty and gray now with age.”
“You mistake if you think they bore me. I have never judged you hardly,
Douglas. Your nature was not a common one. To me your life has fitted
your nature.”
“My life,” echoed the guest a little sadly. “What a weary turmoil it
seems looking back at it now, what ceaseless restlessness! Ah, cousin,
you have had the best of it, after all!”
The squire made no reply.
“Let us bury by-gones--they leave a bitter taste behind. I will come to
the present, Sholto. I wrote to you with one idea and thought prominent
in my mind. In another month or so I shall leave England again, perhaps
this time never to return; but, before I go, I want to leave my old
inheritance an heir, and I must find him here.”
“Here!” repeated the squire. “You forget, Douglas, I am seven years
your senior, and in all probability----”
“I do not mean you. You have a son.”
“Stuart?” exclaimed the squire. “Yes. You have never seen him, Douglas.
He is the best in the world.”
“I do not need your word to tell me that. I have heard of this son. The
world is very small, and my ears are always sharp. He was in Calcutta
last year. Yes, and I was there, too.”
“Then you know him?”
Sir Douglas shook his head.
“I never saw; but I heard of his good, warm, generous nature, and,
judging him as your son, my heart went out to him.”
“It is a noble offer,” the squire said, in his quiet, simple way. “But
is there no one whom you would care to select outside the family?
Stuart will inherit the castle, remember.”
“There is not a soul,” Sir Douglas replied, in low tones. “Don’t cross
me in this, Sholto; to your son I would willingly give all I possess.
Heaven grant he may derive greater happiness from it than I have done!”
There was a silence between the two men; then the squire said, gently:
“You look worn and tired, Douglas. Must you leave England again so
soon?”
“Yes,” Sir Douglas returned briefly. “My search is not ended; if
nothing else will support me, revenge will.” He paused for an instant,
then went on quickly, “Sholto, old fellow, don’t think me mad or wild;
there is a spot in my past which even you can never see. Only this
much I will tell you, that, though I am a cynical, dry, hard creature
now, there was a time, a brief heavenly time, when my life was as full
of joy and vigor as your son’s is now. The memory of that dead joy,
the memory of my terrible wrong--for I was wronged--has destroyed my
life’s happiness. I live only for two things--to be revenged and to be
satisfied.”
He rose from his chair as he spoke, and strode rapidly up and down the
room, while the squire watched him tenderly and sorrowfully. He read
the depth of trouble in the grief-distorted face; but he did not seek
to know this or learn in any way the truth of his cousin’s strange
career. Sir Douglas suddenly stopped in his hurried walk.
“I am not myself to-day, Sholto,” he said, relapsing into his dry
manner. “My return to your old home, where everything speaks of the
past, has worked badly on me; but the weakness is gone, and--don’t be
alarmed--it will not come again.”
The squire said nothing, but stretched out his hand and grasped
his cousin’s in silence. Sir Douglas turned away as their fingers
unloosened and threw himself into his chair again.
“I shall stay with you for a week or two, Sholto,” he went on,
presently. “I want to make friends with Stuart--and then I shall
disappear. I trust your wife will not be alarmed at my rough
appearance; I believe I have some decent coats among my things--I must
look them out.”
“Constance will welcome you warmly,” though he shifted his papers
nervously about as he spoke.
“More especially when she knows what has brought me,” was Sir Douglas’
muttered thought.
Then he turned the conversation on other things; and the two men were
soon lost in an argument, talking as easily and naturally as though
fifteen days, not years, had elapsed since their last meeting.
Meanwhile, away in the Weald grounds, the picnic was progressing well.
Margery had spread her snow-white cloth on the turf and placed the
dainty cakes and apples upon it; and, despite Stuart’s grumbling, he
ate heartily of the simple repast.
“I call this heavenly!” he exclaimed, as he lay on the grass, leaning
on his elbow, and watched Margery feed the dogs.
“It is nice,” she agreed, turning her great sapphire eyes on him; “but
I do all the work and you picnic, Mr. Stuart. I am afraid you are very
lazy.”
“I know I am,” confessed the young man, “but you forget how hard I have
always worked, Margery,” he added.
Margery shook her wealth of red-gold hair, and laughed a sweet, musical
laugh that rang through the summer silence.
“Worked,” she repeated--“you worked! I don’t believe you really know
what work means.”
“I do seem to have led a purposeless life when I think of it,” Stuart
observed, reflectively. “The hardest day I ever had was when I went
tiger-shooting.”
“Tiger-shooting!” repeated the girl, paling. “Oh, Mr. Stuart, it sounds
so dreadful!”
“You are a little coward, Margery,” Stuart laughed. “By Jove, though,
how you would have enjoyed some of the things I did! I am sure you
would be a good sailor. Margery, how would you like to be out at sea
and not a speck of land in sight?”
“I have read of the sea; but I have never seen it,” Margery said,
simply. “But I think I should like it; there must be such a grandeur
and beauty in rolling waves and great moving waters. I wish you would
tell me something about it, Mr. Stuart.”
Stuart moved into a sitting position and leaned his back against the
trunk of a giant tree.
“I shall have to write a book about my travels, and dedicate it to
you,” he said, lightly.
Margery smiled, and then put her arm round the collie’s neck, and
drew the dog’s head on to her knees. The retriever had retired to a
shady spot, and was stretched out fast asleep. Stuart launched at once
into anecdotes of the sea; he knew just where to put a telling touch
and wake the interest; and Margery listened eagerly, drinking in the
wonders with pretty incredulity and making Stuart break into hearty
fits of laughter at her ignorant nautical remarks.
The afternoon passed quickly; the sun had moved round, and cast
slanting rays of golden light into the green nook. It touched Margery’s
head, seeming to rest on the soft silky curls with delight. She
looked so sweet in her plain white gown--a very flower of purity and
beauty--that Stuart’s eyes, resting on her, would make him hesitate
in his story and his heart thrill with a strong wave of unspeakable
pleasure. To Margery the moments slipped away too quickly; she reveled
in these tales of strange countries, in the adventures and hair-breadth
escapes that had filled those two years of travel.
“How beautiful and how strange it must have been, Mr. Stuart!” she
said, drawing a deep breath, after a while. “You must find Hurstley
dull.”
“Hurstley to me is the most beautiful place in the whole world,” Stuart
said, involuntarily. “I love it.”
“And so do I!” cried the girl. “But then I am different.” There was a
slight pause, and she went on thinking of what he had just told her.
“Then I was wrong when I said you had not worked--why, you helped to
save the ship that stormy night, Mr. Stuart!”
Stuart smiled as he moved nearer and held out his hand.
“There is the mark of the cut from one of the ropes. Now, you will give
me credit for some good, Margery?”
The girl took the hand between her own two small brown ones. She bent
her head to look at the scar, while, at the touch of her fingers,
Stuart felt his whole being thrill and the last barrier that stood
between himself and his love melt away.
“Yes--yes, I see,” Margery said, gently. “Oh, Mr. Stuart, what pain you
must have suffered!”
She raised her luminous eyes to him, their blue depths darkened almost
to blackness at the thought of that terrible night at sea, and met the
steady, passionate gaze bent on her. Some new sense flooded her mind;
in one second all her girlish innocence vanished; she knew that she was
on the brink of a great wondrous event, though she could not guess what
it was. She dropped Stuart’s hand, and rose hurriedly.
“It is getting late; we must go,” she declared. “Mother will want me.”
Stuart at once moved to her side. He took the sunbonnet from her hand,
and imprisoned the small fingers within his own.
“Margery,” he said, softly, “is mother the only one who wants you? Will
you not stay with me? Ah, my darling,” he cried, bending to catch her
other hand and seeing the trembling lips and great, wondrous, startled
eyes, “I have frightened you! You do not know--how could you?--how much
you have become to me. Margery, I did not mean to speak yet--I meant
to wait, and let your love grow; but your sweet face has urged me, and
I can wait no longer. Margery, my own darling, I love you! Do you love
me?”
Margery felt herself drawn into his strong arms. She looked up at him
for one instant, then said softly:
“Love! What is love?”
“Love,” cried Stuart, “is the greatest joy or the greatest pain. To
love is to think, dream, live only for one person, to be happy when
near them, lonely when away, ever longing to clasp their hand, listen
to their voice, as I have done these past weeks, my own sweet dear one.”
“Then”--the color came vividly into the cream-white cheeks, the eyelids
drooped, and the graceful head was bent--“then I do love you, Mr.
Stuart; but----”
“But!” interrupted Stuart, gathering her to his arms. “There is
no ‘but,’ my darling, my very own! Oh, Margery, if you could know
what happiness I feel! It is such peace after doubt and perplexity.
See--just now you threw my hand away; I give it to you again, my
darling, yours to defend and tend you when you are my wife.”
“Your wife!” faltered Margery; and she trembled--the suddenness, the
sweetness of this news seemed to have taken all strength from her. She
lived in an indescribable dream of happiness; Stuart’s arms were round
her, his eyes gazed into hers, his voice was whispering tenderly in
her ear. She could not then grasp the full extent of her joy, she was
dazed by the passion and depths of his love.
“Yes, my wife, thank Heaven!” said Stuart, reverently raising one small
hand to his lips.
“Margery, each day that has gone has linked me closer to you--try
as I would, my love would turn to you. There may be storms in life
before us,” he went on, hurriedly, involuntarily drawing the slender
form closer to him as he thought of his mother’s anger--“there may be
trials, battles to fight; but we will be firm and trust in each other.
If we have love, we shall be satisfied.”
“My love will never, never die,” Margery murmured slowly, drawing
herself out of his arms. “But it is all so strange--you to love me!
And--ah, what will madame say, Mr. Stuart? I don’t know why, but I am
sure she does not like me.”
“Margery”--and Stuart drew her back to him again and kissed her sweet
lips--“we are pledged to each other, and none shall part us. Leave
all to me, and it will come right. And now I have a lesson to teach
you--henceforth I am Stuart, and Stuart only; don’t forget.”
“I will not,” she promised. She was silent for an instant, then said,
softly: “How good you are! I will try to be worthy of you. Something
tells me, Stuart, that I am not a common village girl. You will know
the truth, perhaps, some day, and then you will be proud of me.”
“I shall never be prouder of you than I am now!” cried the young man,
fervently. “I care not what you are--I love you; you shall be my wife!”
Margery raised her lovelit eyes, eloquent in tenderness, to his, and
then smiled.
“Our picnic is ended,” she said, loosing herself from his hold and
picking up her sunbonnet; “the dogs are tired of waiting; we must go.”
Stuart watched her pack her basket and tie on the simple headgear, his
heart throbbing with pure passionate love. Henceforth, let come what
might, this girl belonged to him--she was his very own.
“Margery,” he said, as they stood together before starting, “this is
the birth of our happiness. Remember, my darling, that you now are
my life, my very soul. If clouds should gather, turn to me and I will
sweep them away.”
Margery rested her hand for one moment on his shoulder.
“Stuart,” she said, steadily, “I was a girl an hour ago--I am a woman
now. As you love me, dear, so I love you, and ever shall, though a
world should stretch between us.”
CHAPTER VIII.
The sun was growing ruddy in its glory, filling the heavens with
a radiant, beautiful light. Margery had parted with Stuart at the
Weald gate, and, urged by the wonder and fullness of her happiness,
she turned back again to the spot henceforth engraved on her memory
with a golden touch. She stood beneath the tree that had reared its
branches over her unconscious head through the past hours, and her
heart thrilled again and again at the thought of the marvelous treasure
that had come to her. Stuart Crosbie loved her--loved her--Margery
Daw--a girl without even a name to call her own! She covered her eyes
with her hands, as if to shield them from the memory of his passionate
glances. What had she ever done to deserve this happiness? Had not her
soul murmured often, fretted beneath the cloud of mystery that hung
over her? Ah, how wrong she had been! Even while she had murmured, a
gift was coming to her, a gift beside which all else faded away and
vanished. A sudden impulse moved the girl. She was alone; save for
the occasional note of the birds, the faint flutter of the leaves,
there was not a sound to break the silence. On the very spot where
she had stood when Stuart uttered his earnest, fervent vows she knelt
and sent up words of thankfulness. Then she sank upon the ground and,
nestling close to the tree, let her fancy wander to the future. She
felt at times as if she could not be the Margery of the morning--so
far away now--and she almost doubted whether it was not all a dream,
till a sudden recollection of her lover’s voice--the memory of his
words--returned, and she knew it was a blissful reality.
The minutes slipped away, and it was not till the chiming of a distant
clock fell on her ear that Margery began to realize how long she had
sat and how late it was. She rose hurriedly and made her way through
the wood to the path. She had her secret to whisper to the poor, sick
mother at home, and the thought lent speed to her feet. What joy she
would bring to that tender heart! What happiness to share her new
delights with such a one!
She ran down the hill, the ripple of the stream sounding in her ears
like music, and approached the garden gate. A lady was seated in the
cottage doorway, and, as Margery was hurrying up the path, she rose and
came to meet her.
“Miss Lawson!” exclaimed Margery, in surprise.
“I have been waiting here nearly an hour,” the governess returned;
“your mother has been extremely unwell, and----”
“Mother ill!” exclaimed Margery, with a sudden pang. “Oh, let me go to
her!”
Miss Lawson put a detaining hand upon the girl’s arm.
“You must not disturb her; she has just dropped off to sleep. Reuben
has gone to fetch Dr. Metcalf, and Mrs. Carter is sitting indoors to
see to her.”
Margery’s face had grown very sad.
“What is it?” she asked, in a low voice. “She was weak when I left her
to-day, but not more than usual.”
“She had a severe fit of coughing, and it brought on an attack of the
hemorrhage again; it has stopped now, but it has left her very weak.
You can do nothing just now, Margery, and I came purposely to talk to
you.”
Miss Lawson was a small, thin woman with a quiet, determined face,
which from long contact with the world had grown almost stern; but
there were gleams of warmth and kindliness from the clear, gray eyes
and a touch even of tenderness about the mouth sometimes. Now, though
she spoke in her keen, dry way, there was an expression of kindness,
almost affection, on her features as she looked at Margery. The girl
turned back from the door at once.
“Shall I bring you a chair here, Miss Lawson?” she asked, quietly--this
news of her mother’s illness had fallen as a cloud on the brilliancy of
her joy.
“No. Come outside and stroll part of the way home with me,” said Miss
Lawson. “I have something of importance to say to you--indeed, I have
wanted to speak to you for several days past; but I had nothing very
definite in my mind at the time. To-day I have.”
Margery followed the rectory governess down the path in silence.
“Margery,” began Miss Lawson, abruptly, “have you ever thought about
your future? Have you ever thought what will become of you when Mary
Morris dies?”
The flush called up by the first sentence died away quickly, and
Margery’s face paled. She put her hand suddenly to her heart.
“Is she going to die so soon?” she murmured, involuntarily. “Oh, Miss
Lawson, you do not think she will die soon?”
“It is impossible to say,” returned the elder woman, quietly. “Mrs.
Morris has been gradually sinking all this summer; she may linger for
months, or she may pass away at any moment. It is not her present
illness that has caused me to speak; as I tell you, I have intended
doing so for days past. I have considered it my duty to put matters
clearly before you.”
She paused for an instant. Margery’s face was pained and sad; her
heart was heavy with sorrow and dread; all sunshine seemed suddenly to
have gone from her life, and, for the moment, Stuart, her lover, was
forgotten.
“Perhaps you will think me harsh,” Miss Lawson went on, “when I say
that I consider it time you began to plan your future life. Remember,
you are now about seventeen, and in another year--indeed, now--should
take upon yourself the responsibilities of life. Hitherto you have
been tended and cared for by two women. Lady Coningham has opened her
purse generously, poor Mary Morris has lavished the wealth of her whole
heart on you; but now, when she is taken from you, you will have but
Lady Coningham to fall back upon; and, unless I judge you wrongly, I
think you will grow weary of your dependence and long to be free. Don’t
think me unkind, child,” continued Miss Lawson, putting a hand on the
girl’s slender shoulder. “If I did not like you so much--if I did not
know the good in your nature--I should not speak so plainly. But you
must review your position. You are grown now almost to womanhood; you
are educated above the level of many a girl of wealthier station; you
have natural gifts that will aid you; and I say distinctly, you should
shake yourself free, not with ingratitude, but with a sense of duty
and independence. Believe me, Margery, in the long run you will be far
happier.”
“Yes, you are right,” the girl assented. She had followed each word
and grasped the meaning instantly. Her natural pride was roused in one
moment, and she felt a thrill of desire to add no more to her heavy
debt of kindness--to be indeed free.
“Understand me--you must not turn suddenly and be selfishly murmuring
over the past,” urged Miss Lawson, who had been closely watching the
girl. “Whatever happens, be grateful, Margery.”
“I am--I am,” cried Margery, “thankful to all, and to you, for you have
done so much for me, and now you come to help me again!”
“As I shall always help you, I hope,” returned the governess. “I knew
you would understand me, Margery--I felt you would be true to your
nature. I waited only till I had something definite to propose before I
spoke to you.” She drew out a letter from her pocket as she finished.
“You have heard me speak of my sister, Mrs. Fothergill. This is from
her. She has married a doctor in London, a man who is fast becoming
celebrated as a specialist. I have written many times about you, and,
when we have met, I have chatted to her, till she thoroughly realizes
what you are. This letter came only this morning, and it contains
something that I thought would just suit you.”
“Yes?” said Margery, simply.
Miss Lawson unfolded the letter.
“‘You have often heard me mention Lady Enid Walsh,’” she read, “‘the
poor young creature whom John has been attending during the past year.
I was sitting with her yesterday. She seems to have taken a fancy to
me, and during our conversation she asked me to help her to find a
companion. She has a lady with her now, an officer’s widow; but she
is not a pleasant woman, and they are going to part. I feel so sorry
for Lady Enid--young, with beauty and rank, and a cripple for life!
She leads such an isolated existence!--for her aunt, Lady Merivale, at
whose house she resides, is very old, and almost always confined to
her room, and Lady Enid’s only brother, the Earl of Court, is never in
England. She welcomes me so warmly, and opens her heart to me! She told
me that she would like a bright young girl for companion--if possible
from the country. Lady Enid adores the country; but she is compelled
to live in London to be near the doctors and under the so-called care
of her aunt. Immediately she spoke of a country girl my thoughts flew
to your pupil, Margery Daw. From your accounts I feel sure she is the
very person to suit the poor young invalid. Do you think this could be
managed? She would have a luxurious home, a really magnificent salary,
and I feel sure would soon grow to love Lady Enid--no one could help
doing so. I half said I knew of some one, and she adopted the idea
eagerly; so I hasten to write you.
“‘The question is whether Margery would like the life. It would be
dull, very dull; but Lady Enid is a most charming and intellectual
companion, and very unselfish. I know you have been anxious about your
pupil; and this seems such a wonderful chance that I cannot help saying
I shall be disappointed if it falls through. I suppose Lady Coningham
would not object to her _protégée’s_ becoming independent? Write by
return, and let me know what you think of my proposal; and, if you
approve, try to arrange it as quickly as possible, as the widow lady
leaves in a fortnight.’”
Miss Lawson folded the letter slowly, and put it back into her pocket.
“That is all,” she said, quietly. “Now, Margery, it remains for you to
express your feelings.”
“It is so sudden,” responded Margery, faintly; her hands were
clasped together; her face, hidden behind the flopping sunbonnet, was
perplexed, pained and troubled.
What must she do? How could she leave Hurstley, where every tree and
stone was precious to her, and where her heart was bound? Should she
speak openly of her love at once, her future marriage with the young
squire of Crosbie Castle? The words were on her lips--and then she
hesitated. Instinctively she felt that Miss Lawson would not approve of
the engagement, and she vividly recalled madame’s unceasing dislike.
No, she could not speak of it yet; it was so new, so strange; perhaps,
after all, it might not be--and her hands pressed her heart closely.
She would leave all to him; he must speak out, she could not. And what,
then, must she say to this proposal? Could she leave Hurstley--go
from the sun which gave her being life, into a lonely, strange
world--leave all that she knew and loved so well--the tiny cottage, the
sweet-smelling woods and lanes, and the poor, sick woman, a mother in
all but truth? That last thought came as a golden gleam.
“Mother!” she said, hurriedly, “I cannot leave her.”
“Then you renounce all thought of independence,” she observed, coldly,
watching the girl’s face with something like a frown on her own.
“I do not,” replied Margery, firmly. “I have listened to your advice,
and I will take it; but I must first think of her. She will miss me,
Miss Lawson--I know she will.”
“Well,” said Miss Lawson, after a pause, “that is true. It would be
cruel to leave her now. I will write to my sister and thank her in your
name, and explain why you refuse.”
“You are not cross with me?” Margery murmured, putting out her hand
suddenly.
“Cross? No, my child. I wish it might have been arranged; but you are
right; it is your duty to stay with Mary Morris, and help to cheer her
sad life. In the future, if ever you want help, come to me, and what I
can do I will.”
Margery’s eyes met the governess’ steady gaze, and then she bent
forward and kissed her.
“I will come to you,” she said, simply; and the two women separated.
Margery hurried down the hill toward home. She felt weary, almost
exhausted; it had been a day of extreme mental excitement. As she
passed the woods and the stream, her thoughts went back to Stuart, and
she felt again the power of his love. Why should she have doubted him?
Why not have spoken bravely of their love? Had he not said himself that
storms might come, but he would face them all? To-morrow she would seek
Miss Lawson, and, strong in the knowledge of Stuart’s great, honest
heart, tell her all. Now she must hasten to the sick woman, and watch
beside her with tender care and hope.
* * * * *
Stuart Crosbie strode home to the castle, feeling that he had left
behind him everything that made life happy. His love for Margery had
been growing slowly, but surely, during the past three months that had
elapsed since his return home. Her beauty bewitched and enthralled
him, her freshness and sweetness linked him still more strongly,
her daintiness and natural refinement appealed to him through all.
He knew there would be trouble; that his mother would denounce his
choice; but his mind was made up, his will, the will of which she
was so proud herself, would be firm as iron. Let all the world rage,
Margery should be his wife. Though she was nameless, a waif, a nobody,
was she not a pure, sweet girl? Were these worldly considerations
stains on her fair character? No; his heart was given, his mind made
up, and nothing should move him. He raised his head proudly at this
thought, a look of determination on his face. He was armed for the
fray; but, while he gloried in his own strength, there came the thought
of Margery’s weakness. Would she brave the storm as he could? Would
not the bitterness of his mother’s anger wound and humiliate her? His
face softened. He must shield his sweet love from the fierceness of
the battle, tenderly protect her from the cruel wind of harshness and
coldness that would most assuredly greet her at Crosbie Castle.
He chose the path through the paddock, and walked through the
courtyard just as the tower clock chimed a quarter to eight. He had
but a few minutes to change his tennis suit for his dinner garb, and
he ran hurriedly from the coachhouse round to the lawn, determined to
make a rush to his room. He dismissed his dog with a word, sped fleetly
across the grounds till he reached the colonnade, and entered it, when
suddenly, by some mischance, his foot slipped. He made a vain effort to
save himself; his head swum; he was conscious of a sudden sharp twinge
of pain, and, falling heavily, he knew no more.
* * * * *
Sir Douglas Gerant, after a lengthened chat with his cousin, mounted
to his room, and dressed himself with due regard for the exigencies
of polite society. The hard, cynical look that had rested on his face
during his conversation with Vane Charteris, and in the political
argument with the squire, had now vanished. He looked worn and ill as
he walked slowly up and down his room; his eyes were sad; his head
drooped. He seemed to be thinking deeply; at last, with a deep-drawn
sigh, he seated himself at the table and wrote a letter. It was a
summons to his lawyer, bidding him draw up a will, and fixing a day
for him to come to Crosbie Castle. This done, Sir Douglas leaned back
in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand for several minutes.
The entrance of his valet, a man who had been his faithful servant
and companion for years, roused him; and, bidding the valet dispatch
the letter quickly, Sir Douglas left his room and descended the broad
staircase. As he passed through the wide hall to the colonnade, its
white pillars, gleaming against the background of green, tinged now
with the ruddy gold of the setting sun, made a picture gratifying to
his artistic eye. He sauntered on, determining to seek the grounds,
when his eyes fell on Stuart’s prostrate form and pale face. In an
instant he was kneeling beside the young man, and his clear voice rang
out to the butler, who happened to be passing to the dining-room.
The man hurried up with some brandy, and Sir Douglas, with almost
professional dexterity, lifted Stuart’s head and poured a few drops
between the closed lips. He watched the color slowly return, and the
eyes open, with a look of anxiety and tenderness on his face.
“That is right!” he said, gently, as he met Stuart’s gaze. “Are you
hurt?”
“My arm!” murmured the young man, faintly, as the butler and Sir
Douglas helped him to rise.
The baronet cast a keen glance at the right hand, hanging limp and
swollen.
“You have had an ugly fall,” he said, briefly. “Your arm is broken--how
did it happen?”
He pushed Stuart gently into a chair near at hand, and, while he spoke,
he deftly cut away the slight tennis sleeve from the wounded limb with
a pair of scissors taken from his pocket.
“I can’t quite remember,” Stuart replied, speaking with an effort, and
passing his left hand over his eyes. “I came an awful cropper, I know,
and must have banged my head. Is the arm broken? If so, you had better
send for Metcalf and have it set.”
The butler was moving away; but Sir Douglas stopped him.
“There is no need to send to the village--I can manage this. Go up to
my room and send down my man; it is not the first time he has helped me
in this sort of thing.”
Stuart lay back in his chair; he was still feeling faint and weak. He
caught Sir Douglas’ eye, and smiled a little.
“I feel rather like what the boys used to call a ‘jolly duffer,’” he
said, slowly. “I can’t think what made me so stupid; I don’t usually
fall about in this way. I wonder how long I was insensible--and I have
never thanked you for helping me.” Stuart was gradually recovering
himself, and woke to the fact that this was a stranger. “I beg your
pardon.”
“It is granted, Cousin Stuart.”
Stuart looked mystified, and then said, suddenly putting out his left
hand:
“You are Douglas Gerant; I am very glad to see you.”
Sir Douglas grasped the hand.
“Thanks, my lad,” he said, quietly; then, looking round: “Here is
Murray. Now sit quiet, and don’t speak, and we’ll settle you in a
trice.”
Stuart watched his cousin curiously as he prepared the bandages and
improvised some splints; he scarcely felt the long, white fingers as
they moved over his wounded arm, and winced only as the bones clicked
together. But he grew fainter as the bandages were wound round; and,
as the operation was finished, Sir Douglas, without a word, held the
brandy to his lips again and forced him to drink some.
“You have pluck, Stuart,” he said, quietly. “You are of the stuff to
make a man. Now, if you take my advice, you will go to your room and
rest. I fancy that arm will trouble you rather to-night; so try to get
some sleep now.”
“My head feels rather queer, I confess,” Stuart responded; and he
gladly let his cousin draw his hand through his arm and lead him
through the hall to the stairs.
Mrs. Crosbie was sailing down as they approached.
“Stuart,” she exclaimed, in genuine dismay, “what is the matter?”
“He has fallen and broken his arm,” Sir Douglas answered, quietly. “I
am taking him to his room; it will be wiser to let him pass, Cousin
Constance, as he has had a nasty touch on the head.”
“Arm broken!” cried Mrs. Crosbie, in alarm. “But it must be set! I will
send for Dr. Metcalf at once!”
“You can send for the doctor, if you like,” Sir Douglas remarked, as
he drew Stuart up the stairs; “but his arm is already set. I have had
considerable experience in such cases, and I can assure you it is all
right.”
Stuart smiled faintly at his mother, and she followed him up the
stairs, a little annoyed, a little anxious, and, oddly enough, a little
glad--annoyed because Sir Douglas had taken so much upon himself;
anxious for her son, whom she loved better than anything on earth; and
glad, because she saw in this illness a chance of bringing about the
marriage between Vane and Stuart, which she so much desired.
Sir Douglas left the mother and son together when he had ensconced his
patient comfortably in a large chair; and Mrs. Crosbie busied herself
with many little offices about the room, quitting the apartment only
when she saw Stuart’s eyes close in slumber. She met Vane on the
landing, and, with an affectionate glance, drew the girl’s hand through
her arm.
“He is resting, dear,” she said, “so I shall leave him for a while. We
must nurse him together, and we shall soon get him well.”
Vane’s face flushed a little.
“I will help you gladly,” she returned, and she spoke honestly. Her
first thought, like her aunt’s, had been that this would bring Stuart
and herself more together. She had another duty to perform, too. She
must ingratiate herself with Sir Douglas Gerant, and try by every means
in her power to wipe away the memory of her foolish mistake.
Stuart slept for an hour or two, and dreamed of Margery, but when he
awoke the pain in his arm was so great that even her sweet image was
banished from his thoughts. His mother came in as night fell, but
Stuart was too ill to broach the subject of his love. The blow on
the head was more severe than he had imagined, and he grew feverish
as the day declined. He heard the tower clock chime the night hours,
and whenever he moved his head, his eyes rested on the figure of Sir
Douglas reading by the window, and ready at any moment to tend him.
And at the small cottage by the Weald another being sat and watched
by a sickbed, watched with a heart that was growing sadder and sadder
as the moments passed. Margery, still in the white cotton gown that
she wore when she plighted her troth, knelt by Mary Morris’ couch,
trying to alleviate the pain that was racking the poor, wasted frame.
She was ignorant of her lover’s illness, and she thought of him only
with a sense of peace and happiness. What a long, wonderful day it had
been, she thought, as she sat beside the little window and watched the
veil of night darken the sky--a day in which her girlhood was buried
forever, a day in which the golden glory of all earthly happiness
dawned for her! She turned from the window to watch the sick woman. The
paroxysm of pain seemed past, and she was asleep. The house was quiet
as a tomb. In another room the loving, faithful husband and companion
was lost to trouble in slumber. Margery was alone; she moved softly
to the window and drew back the curtains, and immediately the room was
bathed in the silver radiance of the moon.
She stood and gazed on at the dark-blue heavens, the glittering myriads
of jeweled stars, the moonlit earth, till a cloud seemed to obscure
her vision; and, when she gazed again, the stars were gone and a ruddy
haze, pierced by the sun’s golden beams, illumined the sky.
She rose softly, moved on tiptoe to the bed, then, with a sudden
shudder, dropped on her knees beside it. While her eyes had been closed
in sleep, while the dawn had spread its roseate veil over the night, a
spirit had flown from earth--Mary Morris was dead!
CHAPTER IX.
The days passed away, and Stuart Crosbie gradually recovered from the
effects of his fall. Despite the assurance from Sir Douglas that her
son was doing well, Mrs. Crosbie satisfied herself and summoned the
village doctor, together with a fashionable physician from town, only
to receive the same opinion from them, coupled with the expression
that Stuart could not have been better treated. The young man passed
four days in his room; but, as the pain left his head, he insisted on
donning his clothes and descending to the garden. His mind was haunted
by Margery’s image and the thought of her sorrow; for the news of Mrs.
Morris’ death had reached him through his servant, and he longed to
rush away and comfort his darling. He had seen little of his mother
during the past four days; Sir Douglas had constituted himself head
nurse, and Mrs. Crosbie, who was not quite at home in a sickroom, gave
way to him with a little annoyance and jealousy, though she would not
let it be seen. Stuart had not been sufficiently well, during the short
time she visited him, to speak about Margery--indeed, he scarcely had
strength to reply to her inquiries--the heat was still very great, and,
although he had an excellent constitution, he was considerably weakened
by the fever and pain. But, though he could not collect his ideas to
speak of Margery, she was never absent from his thoughts. The vision
of her sweet blue eyes, her wistful, lovely face, haunted his bedside,
bringing a sense of peace and rest to his troubled dreams.
At last, after four days had passed, Stuart insisted on leaving his
room and seeking the air, urged, in fact, by a strong desire to see his
mother and tell her of his love. Sir Douglas offered no opposition to
this move; the severer effects of the fall were now passed, and, with
such health and vigor as Stuart possessed, his arm would soon heal.
Nevertheless, it was a rather shattered likeness of the handsome cousin
that greeted Vane Charteris’ eyes as she crossed the hall and saw him
making slow progress down the stairs.
“Let me help you,” she said, gently, moving forward at once, and
putting out her hand.
“Thanks. I am rather shaky,” returned Stuart, smiling faintly. “How do
you do, Cousin Vane? Thanks for all your kind messages.”
Vane made no reply, but helped him down the stairs, across the hall to
the colonnade, and, pushing forward a large chair, she soon made him
comfortable.
“Thank you,” he said again; “you are very kind. Is my mother anywhere
about?”
“She has gone to Chesterham on some missionary business,” replied Vane,
leaning back against one of the white pillars, and looking extremely
pretty and graceful in her long, soft pink gown. “I don’t think she
knew that you were coming down, or I am sure she would not have gone.”
Stuart sat silent, troubled and disappointed. He had braced himself
for his interview with his mother; he was longing to send some word or
sign to Margery. Four whole, long days had passed since their picnic in
the wood, and during that time sorrow had come to her, and he had not
ministered to her comfort. He wondered whether she knew of his illness,
whether she realized that it was that illness alone that had kept him
silent. He had determined, as he rose, to speak to his mother, and then
drive over to the Weald cottage and bring Margery back in all dignity
to the castle, as befitted his future wife; but now again fate was
unkind; his mother was absent--might be absent the whole day--and he
was too weak to crawl even to the carriage. What could he do? He must
send some message of comfort, some word of love to Margery. His eyes
fell on his maimed hand; and, with a half groan, he realized that he
was helpless, utterly helpless to do as he wished.
Vane Charteris watched him carefully. She saw his brow contract and the
look of trouble gather on his face.
“Are you in pain?” she asked, gently.
Stuart woke from his musings.
“My arm is a little troublesome,” he replied, evasively; then,
collecting his thoughts with an effort, he said: “But I must not be
selfish, Vane. You will find it dull work sitting with an invalid. I
feel so angry with myself for being so clumsy. Just fancy, Vane--this
is the first time I have been ill in my life!”
“Then we must do our best to cheer you, Cousin Stuart,” Vane responded,
a faint color mounting to her cheeks at the last words. What could they
mean but that this illness kept him from her side? “Come,” she added,
brightly--“let me amuse you, read to you, or do something. I assure
you, Cousin Stuart, I consider it a pleasure. I would do anything for
you, believe me.”
Stuart looked at her as she drew up another chair and sunk into it,
giving him a frank, affectionate glance. A sudden thought flashed into
his mind, and then died away.
“You look upon me as useless,” she observed, with a smile. “I mean to
upset that theory altogether.”
“Useless!” echoed Stuart. “Indeed, Vane, you are quite wrong.”
“Then let me help you,” Vane said, suddenly. “I see plainly, Stuart,
something is troubling you; it is not only the arm. Come--I shall begin
to be jealous of Sir Douglas, to be afraid that you will trust in no
one but him. Will you not let me be your friend as well as your cousin?”
Stuart half rose in his chair.
“My friend!” he repeated; then he sunk back again. “Yes, Vane, if you
will be my friend.”
“Friendship is not an empty term with me,” Miss Charteris observed,
slowly. “Since you will let me be your friend, I must act as such.
See”--extending her hand--“let us seal the contract--look upon me as
your chum, your sister, as well as your friend and cousin.”
Stuart grasped her hand.
“I will,” he said, quietly; “for I am in urgent need of a friend,
especially just now.”
He stopped and looked at her; she was watching him with an expression
of frankness and sympathy.
“Vane,” he began slowly, “I came down this morning on purpose to talk
to my mother on a subject that is more than life to me. I anticipate--I
know--I shall have a hard struggle with her, though, despite all she
may say, I shall be firm. Will you help me in this struggle?”
Vane rose to her feet again; her breath was coming fast, and a
presentiment of something disagreeable passed through her mind.
“Tell me what it is, Stuart,” she said, quietly, unfurling a large fan
she carried, and holding it against the light, ostensibly to shield her
face from the sun, in reality to keep it hidden from her cousin.
“Vane, do you remember the fourth day of your visit here, when I took
you to see Sir Charles?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Do you remember a girl who was sitting in a corner and who brought me
some water for the dog? I introduced her--Margery Daw.”
Vane caught Stuart’s eager glance, and her heart seemed to cease
beating.
“Yes,” she replied, a little coldly.
“Vane, that is my secret; that is the girl I love better than any one
or anything in the world--Margery Daw.”
Vane Charteris was silent for a moment. She felt as though her vexation
and jealousy would choke her; then she forced herself to be firm and
calm. She dropped her fan and moved out of the sunlight; her face was
very pale, but she smiled as Stuart looked at her eagerly.
“Well,” she said, quietly, “and--and you want me to help you--how?”
“You will?” he asked, with gladness on his face.
Vane put one hand on her chair for support.
“Am I not your friend?” she smiled, faintly.
“Oh, thank you--thank you!” he cried, rising from his chair; but Vane
gently pushed him back again.
“Tell me what you want,” she urged, standing at his side, so that he
could not see her pallor and annoyance.
“I want you to plead with me to my mother--not for myself--I am strong
enough”--and Stuart drew himself up proudly--“I would face the whole
world. I want you to be a friend to Margery, as you would be to me. She
may need your help; a woman such as you, Vane, can do much--smooth many
difficulties. You can see how angry my mother will be. I shall not care
for her anger; but Margery is so tender, so sweet, so proud--anger will
humiliate and distress her; and, if you aid her, she will scarcely feel
it, I am sure.”
“Then you have not spoken to Aunt Constance yet?” Vane observed, very
quietly. “I am afraid you will have great trouble. You see, Stuart,
your--your wife will be of low station, and your mother is proud.”
“We do not know what Margery’s birth may be; but that does not affect
me. I love her; she shall be my wife. Ah, you do not know her, Cousin
Vane, or you would not have said that! There may be some mystery
connected with her birth; but there is no stain on her. If ever there
was a lady, she is one.”
“Your news has surprised me, Stuart, I must confess,” observed Miss
Charteris, moving languidly from his side and sinking into her chair
again; “but I shall prove my words. I am your friend--I will act as
such. Yes; I will help you.”
Stuart’s face flushed, and he leaned forward and bent his lips to
Vane’s white hand.
“This is, indeed, good of you!” he exclaimed. “Vane, I can never thank
you enough.”
“Tell me what I must do,” returned Miss Charteris, unfurling her fan
again.
“Will you see Margery?” inquired Stuart, hurriedly.
“To-day?” asked Vane.
“Yes. Ah, Vane, think--four days have gone, she has had a great sorrow,
and I have been tied to my bed, not able to see her, not even to write
her a word! If you would go to her, tell her all is going well, that
you will be her friend, you will make me so happy.”
“I will go, Stuart,” Vane said, quietly; “for your sake I will do all
I can. No; do not thank me. Remember what I said just now--I would do
anything for you. I will wait till it is a little cooler, then borrow
Aunt Constance’s ponies, and drive to the village.” She hesitated.
“Perhaps--perhaps Miss Daw may not like me?”
“Not like you!” cried Stuart, quickly. “She cannot help herself. Dear
Vane, how good you are! You do not know what a load you have taken
off my mind. I dreaded, I feared that my poor darling would have been
without a friend. Now she is secure. My mother loves you, and will be
led by you. I shall speak to her the instant she returns, and then
Margery can come here. Vane, I shall never, never forget your kindness!”
“You shall give me all your messages before I start,” Miss Charteris
replied. “Now let me read to you a little--you look tired. I shall not
let you talk any more.”
She smiled gently, and flitted away, leaving Stuart deep in happy
thought. His spirits rose as the picture of a blissful future floated
before him, and his heart was filled with gratitude toward Vane.
Without her help, it would have been a hard fight; but now his fears
were lessened, for his darling would have one stanch, true friend.
Sir Douglas Gerant, walking through the hall, glanced at the invalid
lying back in the chair, his face illumined with the flood of happiness
that thrilled him.
“You look better, Stuart,” he said, abruptly, approaching the young man.
“I am feeling splendid,” Stuart replied, heartily.
“Hum! What new remedy have you tried, may I ask?” Sir Douglas said,
dryly.
“A new doctor has prescribed for me,” Stuart said, with a laugh; “and
here she is. Cousin Vane, see how much good you have done me! Sir
Douglas has complimented me with almost professional jealousy.”
Miss Charteris smiled, and, seating herself, opened her book, while Sir
Douglas retraced his steps through the hall to the front entrance and
walked thence across the sweep of lawn to the lodge gates.
“So the wind blows in that quarter!” he mused, while a frown contracted
his brow. “I am sorry and disappointed. He is a good lad, worthy of
a better woman than that proud, selfish creature. Well, I am an old
fool! The sooner I go from here the better. I shall grow too fond of
Sholto’s son if I stay much longer.”
He walked briskly across the lawn, then turned into the avenue, and
approached the gates. The sun was beating down on the hot, dusty lane,
the lodge-keeper’s wife was standing, her arms akimbo, talking to some
one leaning wearily against the iron pillar.
“Good-morning, sir,” she said, courtesying. “May I make so bold as to
ask how the young squire is this morning?”
“Better--much better,” returned Sir Douglas.
“There, Margery--you hear?” the woman turned again to the
figure--“better. Lor’, if there ain’t that baby awake! Excuse me, sir;”
and, dropping a hasty courtesy, Mrs. Clark rushed into the house.
“You have come to inquire after the young squire?” Sir Douglas began,
addressing the slender, black-robed girl in kindly tones.
The head was bent, the plain skirt was thick with dust; but there was
about the young girl’s figure an air of unspeakable grace, and a tress
of the red-gold hair that shone beneath the black straw hat gleamed as
a touch of wondrous color to the somber picture.
Margery raised her head.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, and then stopped, almost in alarm. Sir Douglas
had moved forward as his eyes rested on her face; his color faded to a
deathly whiteness, and he almost staggered against the gate, his eyes
still fixed on her wondrous countenance.
“Who are you? What is your name?” he gasped, rather than spoke.
“Margery Daw,” she answered, trembling a little with fear. Then, seeing
his head droop, she added quickly: “You are ill, sir; let me get you
some water.”
Sir Douglas put out a feeble hand.
“It is nothing--a spasm--the heat,” he muttered; then he moved slowly
to the lodge door and sunk upon the bench outside. “The heat,” he
muttered again, “and a ghost of the past.”
Margery went into the cottage, and returned with a glass of water. Sir
Douglas took it from her and drank it eagerly.
“I have frightened you, child,” he said, abruptly. “Tell me”--he
pressed one hand to his side--“you are called Margery Daw. Your
mother--what of her?”
“I have no mother,” Margery replied, and her lip trembled. “I am alone.”
“You live here--have lived here always?” went on Sir Douglas, quickly.
“All my life,” she answered.
He sank back in the seat again.
“It was but my thought,” he murmured; “and yet how like, how like!”
“Are you better now?” asked Margery, gently.
“Yes, child--yes”--he paused a little--“but I shall go no further.” He
rose slowly, his eyes wandering now and again to the girl’s face. “But
you--you look tired--what are you going to do?”
“Walk back to the village,” Margery answered, with a sigh and a wistful
glance in the direction of the castle. So much sorrow had come to her
since that happy day in Weald Wood that she seemed, indeed, faint and
weary. She longed to see Stuart, to send him a few words; but her
pride, her modesty, forbade it, and not until this morning could she
summon up courage to walk to the lodge gates and inquire about him. She
never doubted his constancy, nor did she look for any message from him.
She knew of his suffering, and all her thought was for him. She turned
away now, with a graceful inclination to Sir Douglas, and prepared to
retrace her steps.
“You cannot walk yet--you are not rested,” he said, sharply. “Sit down
a while. This heat is enough to kill you.”
Margery shook her head.
“Thank you; I must go. I only came to inquire after--after Mr. Stuart.”
“He is in good hands,” Sir Douglas remarked, in his dry, cynical
way. “I set his arm; but his heart requires another doctor, and his
cousin has succeeded there. Ah, the village will see a wedding before
long, child, unless I have lost my wits!” He was turning away when he
suddenly approached her once more. “I must see you again,” he said, in
a strange, husky voice. “You have brought back a gleam of the past that
was buried, touched the spring of a secret that has never seen life.
There is a strange sense of hope within my heart--hope that I thought
dead, never to be revived. Child, whoever you may be, remember that in
the future, while I live, I will be a friend to you, for you bear an
angel’s face.”
He turned and walked away rapidly; but Margery had neither heard
nor understood what he meant. She was repeating over and over again
the words he had uttered first; her heart grasped too clearly and
terribly the meaning--a wedding in the village, a wedding from the
castle! Stuart, her Stuart, the being who held her very life, marry
another--that fair, lovely woman who had laughed her to scorn! The
sunshine grew blood-red before her eyes, for one instant she reeled,
and then grasped the doorpost for support. Then gradually she awoke
to the fullness of her pain and humiliation. Pride was swelling in
her heart; she seemed in that instant changed from a girl of glowing,
living hopes to a woman who had tasted the bitterness of all earthly
grief. She bent her head and walked steadily down the lane, heedless
of the sun, heedless of the rough stones, heedless even of madame’s
presence, as she dashed past in her carriage. She was oblivious of
everything save her pain and trouble, and the memory of her wasted love.
CHAPTER X.
“Friendship is constant in all other things,
Save in the office and affairs of love;
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues.
Let ev’ry eye negotiate for itself,
And trust no agent.”
Vane Charteris closed abruptly the book she was reading. She had
commenced the quotation scarcely heeding what she read, but the sense
dawned upon her as she reached the end. She colored faintly and looked
up hurriedly, then gave a sigh of relief. Soothed by the musical
monotony of her voice, Stuart had fallen into a doze, and the last
words had had no meaning for him.
Vane opened her fan and sat back; her eyes were fixed on the lovely
picture before her, but her thoughts were a tumult of anger, vexation
and jealousy. To find her plans upset, her hope of power pass from her
in the very moment of its birth, was a bitter mortification. Her short
dream of ambition was broken, and for what? A mere country girl, whose
eyes had bewitched Stuart, and whose charm had beguiled the passing
hour. A feeling of self-annoyance succeeded the vexation. Vane bit her
lip and tapped the ground with her foot. What had she done? Promised to
befriend and assist the very woman who had pushed her aside. She was a
fool, the proud girl told herself, not to have laughed Stuart’s tale
of love to scorn. A few cold words might, perchance, have checked the
ardor of his flame. Now it was too late; she had given her promise, and
she must meet this woman. A deeper flush spread over Vane’s cheeks.
She shut her fan quickly, and looked curiously at her sleeping cousin.
A thought had suddenly come into her mind. After all, she had not
been so foolish, for was she not to meet Margery alone, with no other
influence to work against hers? Could she not so manage as to rouse,
say, if not the demon of jealousy, at least the spirit of pride? The
girl had pride, Vane was compelled to admit--she had not forgotten
Margery’s dignity that day in the courtyard, nor the graceful _hauteur_
and ease with which she had moved away. Wordy warfare was not unknown
to Miss Charteris, and it would be strange, indeed, if she could not
plant some poisoned arrows in this presumptuous country girl’s breast.
Stuart could not write a line--that was fortunate; he would not be able
to leave the castle for three or four days at the least--that also was
fortunate. Vane felt her spirits rise again, and her hatred, fanned by
piqued vanity and jealousy, grew stronger and stronger.
Some vague thought of trouble seemed to come at that moment to Stuart,
for, on turning her head, she met his open eyes fixed with an anxious
look on her.
“You have had a delightful sleep,” she said, rising, and moving toward
him. “I am so glad!”
Stuart passed his left hand over his brow.
“How rude you must think me, Vane!” he murmured. “Your voice sent me to
sleep; but I have not slumbered peacefully. My arm is a most annoying
member.”
“I feared you were suffering,” Vane answered, gently. “Stuart, why not
go back to your room again? I am sure it will be wiser.”
“I don’t feel a Hercules, certainly,” confessed Stuart. “Who could
think that four days would pull a fellow down so low?” He rose slowly
from his chair, then added, suddenly. “But my mother! Vane! I must see
her to-day.”
“I am going to propose something,” Vane said, slowly, as she drew his
hand through her arm. “Let me speak to Aunt Constance. Believe me, I
shall do it far better than you. You would probably be hurt at what
she says, and then you would both be angry. Now, if I speak, Stuart,
I, being an impartial person, shall be more calm and collected. I
will plead your cause well, and--don’t think me vain--I think I shall
succeed as I wish.”
Vane drew a quick breath. Stuart did not see the transitory gleam of
triumph that flashed from her eyes.
“I am your friend; you will trust me?” she added, gently.
“Trust you? Yes, Vane; but it seems cowardly, unmanly, not to plead for
myself.”
“Do you want to win your mother’s consent? Yes, of course you do?
Then be assured, Stuart, that in my hands you will be more certain of
it than if you act for yourself. See--here is your servant! Take my
advice, rest and be happy, and all will go well.”
“Vane,” began Stuart; but she stopped him.
“Do as I ask you,” she pleaded; and with a smile of grateful thanks,
Stuart retired to his room.
“All will go well--yes,” mused Vane, as she turned back to the
colonnade. “I see the end clearly now. I must enlist Aunt Constance
on my side, and the rest will follow in due course. Margery Daw, your
chance of reigning at Crosbie Castle grows smaller and smaller.”
She mounted the stairs to her room, stopping on the way to exchange a
few words and embraces with her mother, who was overjoyed to see her
darling child so well and happy.
Vane made a careful, simple toilet; she exchanged her long pink gown
for a dainty white cambrice, chose a large white hat and gloves of a
light tan shade, and, after bidding her maid place them in readiness,
descended to the hall just as her aunt arrived.
Mrs. Crosbie was dismissing her groom with the ponies when Vane
interrupted.
“Forgive me, auntie, dear,” she said, lightly, “but may I have the
carriage this afternoon? I have an errand to perform in the village.”
Mrs. Crosbie looked surprised for an instant; then she said, affably:
“Certainly, my dear. At what time shall Tims bring it round?”
“About five o’clock. Many thanks, Aunt Constance,” she added, prettily,
as Mrs. Crosbie gave the desired order.
Luncheon progressed slowly and rather silently. Lady Charteris chatted
away to the squire, and Mrs. Crosbie dilated in her proud, cold way
upon mission work. Sir Douglas ate and spoke little, while Vane
discussed the delicacies in silence.
Several times in the course of the meal she was struck by the strange
expression on Sir Douglas Gerant’s face; there was a glow of animation,
a look of eagerness that surprised her, and she decided mentally that
he was pondering some great problem, when she saw his brows darken and
his jaw set with determination. She herself had many momentous thoughts
troubling her; but her manner was placidly serene. She was awaiting her
opportunity to speak alone with Mrs. Crosbie, and thought to effect her
purpose immediately after luncheon.
In this, however, she was foiled; her aunt was claimed by the
housekeeper on account of domestic affairs, and it was past four
o’clock before she was liberated.
At last Vane saw her chance. She had seated herself in the colonnade,
which was a favorite lounge for the whole house in summer-time, and
from here she could see all who came and went. To outward appearance
she was absorbed in her book; but in reality she was keenly alive to
everything passing around, listening for the first tones of her aunt’s
voice, and wondering during the moments of her watch what was causing
the struggle in Sir Douglas Gerant’s breast as he walked to and fro
beneath the shade of the trees in the distance.
Vane did not look up as she saw her aunt approach; but she gave Mrs.
Crosbie a smile when she addressed her.
“So I hear, Vane, that you have been nursing Stuart, and with good
results. I have just met Andrews, and he tells me his master has slept
nearly all the afternoon; he will soon recover, now, I hope.”
“I hope so, indeed,” said Vane, softly.
She pushed forward a chair as she spoke; then, as her aunt sank into
it, she said, quietly:
“Aunt Constance, I want to speak to you. I said before luncheon that I
had an errand to perform in the village, but I did not say what that
errand was. I will tell you now.”
“Do you think I look curious, Vane?” laughed Mrs. Crosbie, her handsome
features wearing an air of satisfaction and pleasure as her gaze rested
on her niece.
“I am going to see Margery Daw,” Vane said, slowly, letting her eyes
wander across the sunlit lawn, but not before she saw a look of
surprise dawn on her aunt’s face.
“See Margery Daw!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie. “Why, Vane?”
“Because Stuart has asked me to go.”
“Stuart!” breathed his mother, half rising from her chair. “What do you
mean, Vane?”
“I mean, aunt, that Stuart loves Margery Daw, and says he will make her
his wife.”
For a time there was no reply from Mrs. Crosbie, and Vane, turning, saw
a heavy frown on her handsome face.
“You are jesting, of course, Vane?” she said, at last.
“Indeed, Aunt Constance, I am not,” returned Miss Charteris, quietly.
“My news surprises you?”
“Surprises!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie. “I fail to understand you at all.”
Vane rose and knelt beside her aunt.
“Auntie, dear,” she said, gently, “you must not be hard on poor Stuart.
Recollect, he has eyes, and this girl is beautiful. I have seen her,
and love is----”
“Has he asked you to plead for him?” interrupted Mrs. Crosbie, coldly.
“No; he told me his secret this morning, urged by I know not what,”
and Vane let her eyes wander away again. “Perhaps,” she went on, after
a brief pause, “some idea of the warm interest I must ever have in him
prompted him; but that I cannot tell. He spoke openly to me, and asked
me to be her friend as I was his.”
A sneer curled Mrs. Crosbie’s lip.
“He evidently thought union was strength,” she remarked, dryly.
“Aunt Constance, I will not hear your anger against Stuart,” Vane said,
quickly. “I--I am his friend, and----” Her head drooped and her cheeks
flushed. Then she went on, hurriedly: “It is not his fault--of that I
am sure; you must blame Margery Daw, if you blame any one.”
“Does he expect me to receive her?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, quietly.
“I think so. But listen to me, Aunt Constance. I have not crossed
Stuart, I have not refused his request, for I feared, in his weak
state, to vex him; but he has left everything in my hands, and I
will----” She stopped, and their eyes met.
“What?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, almost sharply.
“Save him from this if I can.”
The words were uttered very quietly, and Mrs. Crosbie drew a quick
breath of relief.
“Vane,” she said, “forgive me; I was wrong to doubt you, even for a
moment.”
“I know what it is,” Vane went on, hurriedly--“a glamour, a romance.
Stuart has been here alone--he has been bewitched. But I know, too,
what a bitter awakening it would be when the glamour was gone, the veil
of poetry and romance torn down; and, for his sake, I will do it. Aunt
Constance, do not think me bold--do not think me unwomanly. I cannot
help myself; I would do anything for Stuart--for--for I--love him!”
Vane sank back and buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Crosbie put her
arms around her niece and drew her to her shoulder.
“Unwomanly, Vane?” she said, gently. “I honor you. This is as it should
be.”
“Ah, you will keep my secret, Aunt Constance? He must not know--I
would not let him know for untold gold. If we succeeded in satisfying
this girl’s ambition or avarice--money generally heals such wounds as
hers--we must remember he will be troubled perhaps for a time. I would
not let him think my heart hungered for him; my pride would suffer--it
would kill me.”
“He shall not know, I promise,” Mrs. Crosbie responded, stroking Vane’s
soft hair. “But what shall we do--how break this off? It has taken me
at a disadvantage; the very thought seems so monstrous, I cannot yet
believe it.”
“I want you to humor Stuart,” Vane said. “Let him think that you may
consent eventually; be proud and cold, but not unkind. The blow must
come from her.”
“How?” inquired Mrs. Crosbie, for once roused from her calm demeanor.
“She must be convinced of the uselessness of her scheme. I am going to
her now, sent as Stuart’s messenger. I think I shall pave the way, at
any rate.”
Mrs. Crosbie clasped her niece’s hand for an instant, and then turned
aside.
“It is very bitter to me, Vane, to have to stoop to deceit; but it is
a deep wound to my pride, that Stuart, my son, should so far forget
his dignity as to think of such a girl for his wife. You are prompted
by the best and noblest feelings, Vane; but I cannot bring myself to
submit to this degradation even for a minute. Stuart must know the
truth--must know how I judge him in this.”
Vane rose hurriedly from her seat.
“I know you are right, Aunt Constance,” she responded, quietly, though
she was inwardly disturbed by Mrs. Crosbie’s words; “but consider.
Stuart is impulsive, as strong-willed as yourself; if you cross him
in this, who knows but that he may do something rash--perhaps marry
the girl without delay, and be separated from you forever? Is it not
wiser to act cautiously, to be careful and politic? I do not advocate
too much warmth on your part; meet Stuart coldly, but at the same time
throw no obstacle in the way. Believe me, dear Auntie, you will be
relieved of all anxiety if you do this.”
“But what do you propose?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, resuming her seat, and
Vane saw that her advice had taken root.
“We must let the separation come from her,” she answered, quickly. “It
will not do to send the girl away--that would be but a stimulus to
Stuart’s determination. No; he must be disillusioned; and that will not
be a difficult matter, I should imagine.”
Mrs. Crosbie was silent for a few moments; she was irritated and
displeased more than Stuart imagined she would be at the news of his
attachment. To her it seemed incredible that a Crosbie should stoop to
humiliate himself in this way. Vane’s words fell with good effect upon
her ears. Had her niece not been at hand to smooth matters with gentle
tact, she would not have been able to restrain her anger. Something of
the wisdom of the girl’s advice came home to her as she mused. She saw
that Vane was urged by jealousy and pride to break off this terrible
connection, but she was quite wrong in her conclusions as to the source
of that jealousy. She judged it to be solely the outcome of love for
her son, and the thought came as soothing balm at such a moment. Once
let them dispatch that girl, and the marriage she had planned would
take place.
Vane watched her aunt intently.
“You will consent?” she said, softly, breaking the silence.
“Yes,” Mrs. Crosbie answered, abruptly.
Vane made no immediate reply, but her heart thrilled with satisfaction.
Now she must conjure up all her power to defeat Margery Daw. Plan after
plan followed each other through her mind, but she could arrive at none
better than trampling on this village rival’s dignity and wounding her
pride with darts, the sting of which would linger longest. Before she
began the fray, however, she must see Stuart, breathe in his ear that
she had succeeded with his mother, and thus allay any suspicion he
might entertain in the future that it was through her instrumentality
that his love-dream had been broken.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Crosbie, again, “I will act as you suggest. I see
plainly the wisdom of such a course. Were I to display the anger I
feel, the consequences might be worse than the present state of
things. At all hazards we must separate him from this girl!”
Vane bent, and kissed her aunt.
“I am glad you see the matter as I do. Aunt Constance, I feel I am
right. Stuart must be saved from this; and, if we work well, we shall
do it. Now I must start for the village. Remember, you will not let
your anger be seen.”
“It will be difficult, perhaps,” returned Mrs. Crosbie; “but there is
too much at stake, and I will control myself.”
Vane moved away slowly, leaving the mother plunged in bitter thought,
and mounted the stairs to her room. She put on her pretty hat, smiling
triumphantly at her own image in the mirror, and, drawing on her
gloves, passed along the corridor till she reached Stuart’s door.
She knocked softly, and whispered to the servant:
“Is your master awake?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Ask him to come to the door for one minute, if he can.”
Vane fastened the last button of her glove, and then stood waiting, a
picture of grace and beauty, as Stuart moved slowly into the doorway.
“I am going now,” she said, gently; “but, before I start, I wanted to
let you know that I have succeeded with Aunt Constance. She----”
“She agrees?” interrupted Stuart, resting against the door for support.
“Yes; but,” continued Vane, “you must not be surprised if she is cold
and hard. Of course, she was totally unprepared for my news. I expect
she will come and see you directly. Now, will you trust me again,
Stuart?”
“Trust!” he echoed, putting out his hand. “I have no words to thank you
with, Vane. Margery and I owe all our happiness to you.”
“I thought I would tell you; and now I must go,” Miss Charteris said,
hurriedly. “You look pale, Stuart.”
“My head aches confoundedly! I beg your pardon, Vane, but I am not used
to pain, and I grow impatient. Tell Margery---- But I leave it all to
you. Thank you again and again.”
Vane descended the stairs rapidly, and she felt as she seated herself
in the smart pony-carriage that she had fought half her battle, and
that, with a little care and discrimination, the victory would be
easily and gracefully won.
CHAPTER XI.
Along the hot road, and through the village, where her strange, dazed
look awoke wonder in the women’s minds, and set their tongues wagging
in pity, toiled Margery. She was filled with but one thought, one
terrible thought, which chilled her heart and roused her pride. Stuart
Crosbie had deceived her; he had deliberately sought her, and--a blush
dyed her cheeks at the remembrance--won her love, her pure, innocent
love, by false vows, which were laughed to scorn, perchance, with his
cousin when he had left her. She did not doubt the truth of the words
she had just heard; they had been spoken so naturally, the outcome
of the speaker’s knowledge. Had he not seen the lovers together? Was
he not in the house, with every opportunity of judging? Now all was
explained. Stuart had made his accident a pretext for leaving her in
her sorrow without a word or sign. Her youth, her joy, her light of
life was gone, and henceforth she was alone in the world. Her heart
raised a cry against this man. Why had he sought her? Why had he
ruthlessly broken the charm of childhood, and given her the sorrows of
a woman? Why not have left her in her innocence, content in her humble
life?
During the past three months Margery had lived in an atmosphere of
indescribable happiness. She did not stop to reason with herself as
to whether Stuart Crosbie’s comings and goings had not an unspeakable
interest for her. She had welcomed him as her friend, the dearest, in
truth, she possessed, until the day in Weald Wood, and then what joy
filled her being! Stuart loved her. The truth was revealed to her; the
key to her contentment--her joyous spirits never saddened save when by
the sick woman’s couch--was grasped. And now all was at an end. An
indescribable pain pierced her heart; she never realized till now how
deeply her affections were centered in him. Her shamed modesty resented
the wound he had inflicted. She recalled the words he had spoken, the
looks she had given, the kisses he had stolen from her lips, and at
each thought she grew fainter and pressed her small hands against her
heart to stay its throbbings. She could think of nothing but the two
figures standing in Weald Wood, with the sunshine overhead; and the
picture brought a flush of shame to her face, a weight of unspeakable
grief to her heart.
She reached the cottage gate at last, and advanced wearily to the door.
The reality of Mrs. Morris’ death came to her then in all its bitter
force. In all the days of her childhood, when trouble had overtaken
her, she had sought the gentle woman whose couch now stood blank and
empty, and had found solace in her soothing love. Now she had none to
whom she could turn, none to bring her peace.
She threw off her hat, and, suddenly flinging herself upon the couch,
gave way to a flood of passionate tears. A thousand thoughts coursed
through her mind. Was this the cross of her life? Was all that was
beautiful and happy gone forever from her? Was her lot henceforth to
be but sorrow and tears? Her spirit recoiled from the vision of grief.
Some lines she had read a week before rose to her lips with an agony of
despair:
“O God, I am so young, so young!
I am not used to tears at night
Instead of slumber, nor to pray’r
With sobbing lips and hands outwrung;”
and, uttering a bitter cry, Margery buried her face in her hands till
the paroxysm was passed.
Fatigue and sorrow had told upon her, and she rose from her knees
looking, with her white, tear-stained face, the ghost of the lovely
girl of a week before. Her tears had relieved her, the dull pain at her
heart was gone; but the passion of her grief had weakened her, and for
many minutes she lay back in a chair, the faint breeze stirring the
curls on her forehead.
Presently the sound of footsteps aroused her, and, looking up, she
saw Reuben Morris enter the garden, accompanied by a young man, who,
despite his handsome face, was certainly of a plebeian stamp. The two
men were talking earnestly; and Margery noticed with a pang the stoop
in the sturdy shoulders, the worn face of the bereaved man. She had
always loved him, though the link that bound her to the dead woman was
wanting in her affection for him; and she forgot her own sorrow for the
moment in thinking of his.
She was leaning back in the shadow, and neither perceived her; but her
ears caught her own name; and, too weary to move, she remained in her
seat.
“Then you have not spoken to Margery yet?” she heard the young man
question.
“No; but I shall do it afore nighttime. I cannot bear to think of
quitting her, poor lamb! But there’s many here as’ll be good to her,
and I cannot stay in the place; it would kill me.”
“You will be a loss, Morris,” returned the stranger. “Have you sent
word to Sir Hubert’s steward about going?”
“I’ve just come from him. He spoke very kindly, and tried to persuade
me to stay on; but my mind is fixed, and I was firm. Sir Hubert and my
lady are not coming home, after all, he tells me, for which I am sorry,
as Margery would----”
Margery rose and moved into the doorway, holding out her hand to the
speaker.
“I have heard what you have been saying, Dad Reuben,” calling him by
the name she had given him when she was a child.
Reuben Morris drew her toward him.
“My poor lass!” he said, gently. “How worn and tired you look! I meant
to ha’ spoken to you to-night, Margery.”
“Tell me now,” she urged, giving her hand to the young man.
“I am going away, Margery,” Reuben replied. “I cannot stay here. The
sight of all she loved would kill me; so I am just going to leave it
all; and I start for Australia at the end of the week. I have been up
to Farmer Bright’s, and Mr. Robert has walked back with me to talk it
all over.”
“Australia!” repeated Margery, drawing closer to him. “So soon!”
“Yes, lass; I must go. I have had an offer through Farmer Bright to go
up country to a man who wants a stock-driver. It isn’t money that takes
me, Margery. I must quit Hurstley, or I shall go mad. But we must think
of you, lass?”
“I shall be all right,” Margery said, quietly. “I have many friends;
Sir Hubert’s steward will find me another home till Lady Coningham
comes back, and----”
“Yes; my mother has sent me here with a message to you, Margery,”
Robert Bright said, quickly. “She wants you to come to her for a month
or so.”
“She is very kind.”
“Wilt thou go, lass?” asked Reuben, gently.
Margery drew a quick breath.
“I cannot answer now,” she said; “to-morrow I will tell you, Mr.
Robert.”
“Oh, there is no hurry,” Robert returned, heartily. “Mother will
welcome you gladly whenever you come.”
“Wait till to-morrow, and she’ll be with you,” Reuben said, in the
young man’s ear, as Margery turned indoors again; then he added, in a
louder tone: “I must go up to the Weald for an hour, to see the men.
Get thee some rest, lass.”
“I will stay here, if Margery will let me,” Robert Bright said, putting
one foot on the doorstep, and glancing into the room.
Reuben had moved away down the path, and the sight of the girl’s pale,
drawn face, and listless, drooping figure, stirred the heart of the
young farmer. For weeks past he had grown to watch for this girl. Her
rare beauty and daintiness were as something heavenly in his everyday
life.
“You must not fret, Margery,” he said, as kindly as he could; sympathy,
always difficult to him, was almost impossible now. “You are looking
very pale and ill.”
The girl raised her hands, and pressed them over her hot eyes; then she
rose with a faint smile, and drew nearer to the door, leaning back
against it with a weary little sigh.
“I am very tired,” she said, wistfully, “and the heat tries me.”
“Come to my mother, and she will nurse you; you do not know what a
clever doctor she is. Come! Let me take you away with me--I will borrow
a cart from some one in the village. Do come, Margery!”
Margery shook her head.
“I cannot go,” she answered, slowly. “Do not think me unkind; I cannot
go.”
His face fell, and there was silence between them for a few minutes.
Her heavily-fringed lids drooped over her eyes, and so he gazed, while
the love raging within his heart urged him to take this frail, sad
being from sorrow to happiness. Suddenly it grew too much for him, and,
putting out his hands, he grasped hers tenderly.
“Margery,” he said--“my darling!”
Margery tremblingly withdrew her hands, and her eyes met his glowing
ones, with horror and distress in their depths. She had never dreamed
of this. She had liked Robert, thinking him a cheery, kind-hearted man;
but love--love from him, when every pulse in her beat only for Stuart!
It was a horror--a sacrilege!
Robert Bright saw her slight shudder, and he tried once more to grasp
her hands.
“Forgive me, Margery,” he said, hurriedly. “I would not have spoken so
soon, but something within me forced me to do so. I could not bear to
see you looking so pale and ill. You want comfort now, and so I spoke.
Margery, I love you! My darling, don’t be frightened. Perhaps I am
rough; but I love truly--you cannot know how truly, Margery!”
But she had drawn back, and, with her face buried in her hands, had
sunk into her chair again. As she felt his touch on her shoulder, her
hands dropped, but her head was still lowered.
“You must not say such words,” she said, faintly. “Dear Mr. Robert,
forgive me, but--but I cannot hear them. I----”
“I am a brute to tease you,” he broke in, quickly; “but, Margery, I am
not sane, now! I love you so dearly; give me one kind word.”
“I cannot, I cannot!” she cried. “You must not hope. Mr. Robert, I----”
“Not hope!” he repeated, blankly. “Not hope! Do you mean that, Margery?”
“Yes,” she answered, putting one hand to her heart to check its
tumultuous throbbings. “Yes; I mean it. I like you--you are so good;
but love----”
The sadness of her accents touched him.
“Then forget it all,” he said, huskily. “Love does not kill. I shall
get over it. And yet----” He hesitated, looked once more at her
drooping figure, and then went on, hurriedly: “Don’t let this stop you
from going to my mother, if you care to do so. I have to run up to
London to-night. We should not meet.”
Margery rose and held out her hands to him. In an instant he had them
pressed to his breast, his eyes fixed on her face; but there was no
indication of what he sought in her pallid cheeks and trembling lips.
He loosened his grasp.
“Then,” he said, slowly, “there is no hope, Margery?”
“None,” she murmured, faintly.
Robert Bright pressed his lips to her hands, and the next minute she
heard his step grow fainter and fainter along the path, and then the
click of the gate told that he was gone.
Margery sat on, dazed, almost stupefied. Then gradually memory came
back to her, bringing, in all its bitterness, the old pain of the
morning, with a fresh pang of sorrow for the man who had just left her.
She felt as though she had been cruel to him. He had been so earnest,
so eager, and yet there was no hope. No hope! Her heart echoed the
dismal words. Life, that had been so bright and beautiful, was now
dark and drear as winter gloom. She sat on, heedless of time’s flight,
vaguely watching the sun touch the trees with its afternoon gold, and
sadly musing on the dark, mysterious future that stretched before her.
At last she woke from her sad thoughts. The click of the gate had
caught her ear, and she realized that the afternoon was nearly gone.
“It is Dad Reuben!” she murmured, and, rising, she dragged herself
from the chair, and stood, looking pale and ill, as a shadow fell over
the doorway.
CHAPTER XII.
“You are Margery Daw?”
A cold voice fell on Margery’s ear. She turned, and her eyes rested on
Vane Charteris, looking inexpressibly lovely and graceful in her white
toilet. She looked steadily at Margery, noting with secret pleasure her
worn, tear-stained face and dusty, disheveled appearance.
“I retract my first opinion,” she said to herself; “the girl is
absolutely plain.”
Some vague instinct called Margery’s pride to arms. This woman hated
her, she felt, though their eyes had met but once before. She drew
herself up, and, resting one hand on her chair, faced her unwelcome
guest. What had brought her to the cottage? Margery felt her limbs
trembling; but her face showed no sign of the agony in her heart.
“Yes,” she said, steadily, “I am Margery Daw. Do you wish----”
“First, let me express my sympathy for you in your loss,” commenced
Vane, modulating her voice to soft accents. She saw at once that
Margery regarded her as an enemy; but she did not intend to allow that
thought to become rooted. She must clothe her darts with kindness, and
with her sweetest words thrust her dagger into this girl’s heart. “None
can know but those who have suffered what your grief must be,” she
finished, gently.
Margery’s head drooped. Had sorrow already destroyed all her good
impulses? She was prepared for war, and she met with sympathy, almost
tenderness!
“You are very good,” she faltered.
Vane advanced into the room and pulled forward a chair.
“May I sit with you for a while?” she asked. “It is not good for you to
be alone like this.”
“I like it,” answered Margery, turning her lustrous eyes upon her
guest; and as Vane saw their beauty, her brows contracted, and she
realized that her first judgment regarding this girl had been right,
after all.
Her mood changed. When she had considered Margery plain, a
half-contemptuous thought had passed through her mind to wound yet
retain her sweetness. Now, she felt she cared not how hard she struck
to relieve the jealousy and dislike that rankled in her bosom.
She leaned back languidly in her chair; and somehow the thought struck
Margery that she had never seen the little room look so small and
shabby before. The delicate gleam of Vane’s white garments contrasted
strongly with her own dingy, dust-stained black dress; the placid
beauty of Miss Charteris’ face brought back the thrill of pain to her
heart. How different they were! Who was she, to compete with such a
woman? She roused herself from her thoughts as she met Vane’s cold,
clear eyes watching her.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, quickly, yet with unspeakable grace.
“You have had a long drive; may I give you a cup of tea--or perhaps you
would prefer some milk?”
She moved toward an inner room; but Vane stopped her.
“Neither, thank you,” she replied, coldly--she was growing more and
more annoyed every moment. She was being treated with every courtesy,
with all regard for etiquette, as though her hostess were a duchess
instead of a common village girl! It was insupportable; she must hasten
to break down that calm exterior which irritated her beyond measure.
“Neither, thank you,” she repeated; “I shall not stay long. It is, as
you say, a tedious drive; but my cousin, Stuart Crosbie, wished me to
see you.”
She bent her head to look at her flounce, but not before she had seen
the girl’s slight frame wince and her cheeks grow paler.
“That shot went home!” she told herself.
Margery stood immovable, her hand still grasping the chair. A few
moments before, she had thought it impossible to suffer greater mental
pain than she had endured; now she was experiencing pangs still
greater, for her wound was being probed. Weak, faint from want of
food as she was, she determined to be brave, to stand firm before this
woman--her rival.
“I scarcely know how to begin,” continued Vane, with well-assumed
kindness and concern. “It’s a delicate subject; yet I could not well
refuse Stuart.” She hesitated for an instant, then held out her
well-gloved hand. “Miss Daw,” she said, impulsively, “will you forgive
me if anything I may say in the course of our conversation should vex
you? I would not, indeed, willingly cause you any pain.”
Margery’s eyes were fixed on the golden-tinted trees beyond the garden;
she did not notice the outstretched hand.
“Why should you cause me pain?” she asked, in reply. “There is nothing
in common between you and me.”
Vane let her hand drop to her side; her face flushed. Could she never
shake this girl’s control?
“I am glad you judge me rightly,” she responded, “for I am here and
have been much distressed by my errand. Stuart has asked me, Miss Daw,
to express to you his sincere sympathy in the loss you have sustained
by the death of Mrs. Morris. He begs me to tell you that he trusts you
will apply at the castle now that you are left without a guardian. He
has enlisted his mother’s goodwill on your behalf, and he sends you
this sum to assist toward anything you may require.”
She held out a small packet as she finished, and had the satisfaction
of seeing Margery’s lips twitch as with sudden pain, and her whole
frame shake with passion beneath the insult.
“It was his intention to write to you as far back as last Thursday,”
went on Vane; “but he had the misfortune to break his right arm, and
writing was impossible; therefore, as he thought you would require some
explanation from him, he asked me to come.”
“I thank you,” fell from Margery’s lips, in cold, strained tones.
“Then I may leave this?” Vane said, interrogatively, rising and placing
the packet on the table. “And you will promise to apply at the castle
with respect to anything concerning your future? I believe, but I am
not sure, that Mrs. Crosbie has already written to some lady about a
situation for you as maid.”
Margery made no answer, and Miss Charteris waited a few moments, and
then moved to the door, feeling strangely uncomfortable, and by no
means victorious. She looked back as she stood at the door.
“You have no reply?” she asked.
“Mr. Crosbie’s explanation requires none,” Margery answered, still in
the same cold, even tones.
“Then I will wish you good-afternoon.”
“Stay!” cried Margery; and Vane turned toward her. “You have forgotten
your packet,” Margery added, pointing to the table.
Vane took it up without a word. Then a thought seemed to strike her,
and she turned the money round and round in her hand hurriedly.
“Perhaps you will write to Stuart or to his mother?”
Margery’s eyes met Vane’s in an unflinching gaze.
“Write!” she repeated, with unutterable scorn and pride in the word.
“There is, indeed, little in common between us. Such a question
deserves no answer.”
Vane’s brows contracted. She turned and walked quickly to the carriage,
and, entering it, drove swiftly away. Her musings were not altogether
pleasant during the first mile or so of her return journey. She had
succeeded, and succeeded so well that she need never fear Margery Daw
again; yet her spirit was vexed even at her victory, for, though she
had forever separated Stuart and this girl, she had not lowered her
rival to the dust, as she had intended.
This thought rankled for some time; then her mind wandered to the more
important matter of dealing with Stuart. She had no settled plan; but,
as he was still so unwell, there would be a day or two yet in which
to arrange matters. For the present she must satisfy him with loving
messages, and explain that Margery was too distressed by her grief to
accompany her back to the castle. She must see her aunt immediately,
and get her to use her influence in some way to have the girl sent from
the village. It would never do to risk a meeting between Stuart and
Margery, for, though she judged the girl to be too honest to say much,
if indeed her pride would allow her to notice him at all, there would
be sufficient to fire Stuart’s anger and determination to learn the
truth; and then----
Vane’s face flushed at the thought of the humiliation she would undergo
in such a case; and she registered a vow that she would never permit it
to happen. Margery must go and at once.
Margery remained standing at the door as Vane walked down the path.
She did not move as, in a dim way, she saw Miss Charteris settle
herself in the dainty carriage, nor did she stir as the ponies started
briskly from the gate. But, as the sound of their hoofs died away in
the distance, she awoke with a shuddering sigh to the grossness of
the insults that had been offered her. Suddenly her strength failed,
and, with a groan, she sunk back on her chair, burying her face in her
hands. The thought of her loneliness had been bitter, her lover’s false
vows had rankled in her breast; but the weight of Vane’s humiliating
words crushed her. It was almost greater than she could bear.
She tried to banish all tender recollection of Stuart from her, to
think of him only as the one man who had darkened the glory of life
for her, as the man who had plucked the sweet blossom of her love only
to trample it under foot; but she could not succeed. Her mind would go
back to those happy walks, those brief moments of gladness when they
met, till it wandered to that day in Weald Wood, when, with her hand
clasped in his, she had sworn to love him always, no matter what came
between them. Yes, she loved him--would love him to the end; though he
had deceived and injured her, though he had treated her with such scant
courtesy and degraded her shamefully, her love was still the same.
She shook back her wealth of red-gold curls and rose to her feet; she
was growing calmer. She reflected that she had yet to plan her future.
She pushed the chair to the doorway and sunk into it. The sun was
sinking behind the woods; the air was soft and balmy--its touch seemed
like a kiss upon her cheek. The musical note of a bird twittered its
“good-night” amid the leaves, the babble of the distant brook, soothed
her. She leaned her weary head against the door, and began to think.
One idea stood out clearly--she must leave Hurstley. She dared not
even picture to herself a future in the village, where her eyes would
rest on Stuart smiling on that cold, cruel woman--where she must sit
down beneath a repetition of insult that had already roused her spirit
almost to madness. No, there was no other course open to her--she must
go, and soon. Ah, if she could but rush away at once, and let the veil
of darkness cover her humiliation! But whither and to whom could she
go? Reuben could not take her with him. Mrs. Bright would welcome her
for a while; but she could not meet Robert--poor Robert!
Like a flash of light in darkness came the remembrance of Miss Lawson,
and the letter from her sister. Would it be too late? It was not a week
ago. This must be her chance. She rose hurriedly, her limbs trembling,
and tied on her bonnet. She would go to Miss Lawson at once; the place
might still be vacant; she might start perhaps in the morning! The
thought lent her strength. She forced herself to eat some food, though
every nerve in her body was quivering from excitement.
The simple viands, the glass of milk, seemed to put new life into her;
she left a message for Reuben at the next cottage, and started in
feverish haste for the rectory, losing all thought of fatigue in the
rush of eager desire and hope that burned within her.
Miss Lawson was seated at her window, writing, when her eyes fell on
Margery’s figure coming rapidly up the path. The governess noted the
girl’s pale cheeks, her worn look of pain, and her heart thrilled with
sympathy.
“Well, child?” she said, as the girl came in.
“Miss Lawson----” began Margery, and then her rapid walk told on her,
and she half reeled to a chair.
The governess rose, untied the bonnet, and held a glass of water to her
lips. She saw at a glance that something was wrong; but she asked no
questions.
“You have walked too quickly, as usual, Margery,” was all she observed,
as she turned away with the glass.
“I wanted to see you,” murmured Margery; then, after a brief pause, she
added slowly, “You remember what you said, Miss Lawson, that evening
we parted--you would help me? I have come to claim that promise. I
want----”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want what I refused that night--to leave Hurstley--go away
altogether. Is it too late--oh, Miss Lawson, is it too late to go to
that poor young lady?”
Miss Lawson looked at her keenly.
“No,” she replied; “it is not too late. Strangely enough, I have heard
from my sister again, urging me to persuade you. This letter I am
writing is to her. I can tear it up.”
Margery felt the first thrill of pleasure she had experienced during
the long, dreary day.
“And soon--may I go soon?” she asked.
“The sooner the better--in fact, to-morrow, if you can be ready.”
“I could be ready to-night,” Margery answered, with a weary sigh,
pushing aside her curls.
“Then I will telegraph to my sister in the morning, when you start. I
will go with you to Chesterham and see you into the train, and I think
you had better get yourself one or two things when there; you can repay
me out of your first quarter’s salary.”
Margery bent her lips to Miss Lawson’s hand.
“I can never thank you sufficiently,” she whispered; “you are too good
to me.”
Miss Lawson pulled away her hand with a jerk; but her face bore no
trace of anger.
“Have you spoken to Reuben?” she asked.
“No; but I will at once. He leaves Hurstley himself at the end of the
week.”
“Well, I am heartily glad, child, you have decided on this. I think you
will be happy.”
“I shall be away from here, and that will be enough,” was Margery’s
muttered thought.
“I will speak to Mrs. Carr to-night. She will spare me to-morrow, I
know,” continued Miss Lawson. “You must be ready about eight in the
morning, Margery. Your luggage will not be much; perhaps you can
arrange with Reuben to take it for you to the corner of the lane, and I
will meet you there with the village fly.”
“Thank you,” said Margery again.
All was settled, and a feeling of peace stole into her breast. She
would disappear--leave behind her everything that recalled her brief
dream of bliss, her agony of grief. Stuart would be troubled no more
with the sight of her sad face to dim his happiness. He had regarded
her as a poor village girl, without heart, mind or pride--a toy with
which to while away the long, dull hours; and, as he had forgotten
her--as she had gone from his memory--she would creep away in deed
and in truth. She felt, as she sat in the twilight of the room that
had seen her so often in her young, fresh content, that she would be
satisfied if her name could be forgotten by Hurstley forever, if, with
her departure, the veil of mystery that hung over her birth might
envelop her in its folds, and she might be lost.
Miss Lawson, turning from her writing-desk, saw the plaintive look on
the girl’s face.
“What is it, Margery?” she asked, abruptly.
Margery broke from her thoughts.
“I was wishing,” she began, then hesitated, rose suddenly, and went
and stood beside her governess, putting one little hand on the elder
woman’s. “You are so kind, so thoughtful,” she said, gently. “You ask
me no questions, do not examine me as to why I have come to-night. I
must leave Hurstley, and at once; there is a reason, but I cannot tell
you yet. Still you will believe and trust me, will you not? Yes, yes, I
know you will. I have only you to help me now in the whole world, and
you will not fail me.”
“You wish me to do something more?”
“I want to be lost to Hurstley. I want no one but you to know where I
have gone. I want you to keep my secret.”
Miss Lawson drew the girl into the fast-fading light, and scrutinized
her face earnestly, almost sternly. The weary sadness in the beautiful
eyes, the trembling lips, the wistful expression, told their tale. Miss
Lawson was satisfied.
“Yes,” she promised, “I will do as you wish--your secret shall be
safe.”
CHAPTER XIII.
Immediately on her return to the castle, Vane Charteris sought her
aunt, and whispered to her the success of her mission. Mrs. Crosbie
willingly agreed to drive over early the next morning, and see what
could be done with respect to dispatching Margery from the village;
and Vane went up to her room, both satisfied and triumphant. Stuart’s
eagerness was fed by fictitious tender messages from Margery, which
Vane uttered glibly and without the slightest effort; and so the first
part of her plot proved most successful. She learned from her aunt
that the mother and son had met, and that Mrs. Crosbie had carried out
her part to the letter, thereby causing Stuart no little surprise and
pleasure.
The news of Margery’s disappearance came like a thunderclap to Vane.
She had never contemplated this _dénouement_, and was a little puzzled
how next to act, until Mrs. Crosbie, in recounting the occurrences
of her morning’s drive, incidentally mentioned that she had met Mrs.
Bright, who was in great distress about her son.
“What has happened to him, Aunt Constance?” asked Vane, with assumed
indifference.
“I thought I said that he was in love with this girl--wished to marry
her, in fact--and is so troubled at her refusal that he has determined
to leave England.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Vane, looking up suddenly, her cold, blue eyes shining
like stars. “Reuben Morris has gone to Australia, you say?”
“He starts at the end of the week; he left Hurstley for London this
morning.”
“And the girl is with him?” next queried Miss Charteris.
“She must be. The cottage is shut up, the key has been sent to the
Weald, and the neighbors tell me they saw both the man and the girl
leave early this morning.”
“Could Mrs. Bright give you no clew as to where her son has gone, or
intends to go?”
“None. She gave me his note to read, in which he merely says he shall
leave England for a while. This girl has bewitched him. A marriage with
him would have been the best she could expect--indeed, much too good
for her,” remarked Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. “What do you propose to do
now, Vane?” she added, rising.
“Nothing. I have finished. Aunt Constance, the game is ours. Do you not
see that this young man has gone to Australia with them?”
Mrs. Crosbie removed her driving-gloves slowly.
“I scarcely think that Vane,” she replied, “for Margery Daw has refused
to become his wife. His mother is highly incensed and greatly troubled,
poor creature, about it. No, I cannot think that, Vane.”
“It will prove to be the truth, nevertheless,” Miss Charteris said,
quietly; adding, “and, as such, it is welcome as a full and complete
solution to a difficult and disagreeable question. Poor Stuart--I am
sorry for him!”
Mrs. Crosbie glanced at her niece, leaning languidly against the open
window, almost frail-looking in her delicate white gown, and could
scarcely reconcile the strong, cold, relentless spirit with so lovely
an exterior. For an instant a feeling of disgust at this girl’s calm
trickery and deceit, and at her own share in the matter, passed over
her. Then her pride came to the rescue, and she consoled herself with
the thought that Stuart had been saved from dishonor and trouble, and
that Vane had done well. She bent and kissed her niece’s delicate cheek.
“Yes, you are right,” she said, thoughtfully. “The problem is solved,
and you have done it. I cannot thank you enough, Vane.”
“Do not thank me at all,” the girl whispered. “You know why I did
it--it was my love for Stuart that prompted me. Some day he will thank
me, perhaps. But for the present I fear he will suffer.”
“With you near, Vane, that will not last,” and, with an affectionate
glance, Mrs. Crosbie left the room.
The next day came, and Stuart still lived in his blissful dreams. Then,
with a rough hand, they were ruthlessly shattered. Vane was reading in
the colonnade that afternoon, when she saw hurried steps approaching,
and, on looking up, saw Stuart, his face as white as his tennis coat,
beside her.
“What is it, Stuart?” she asked, hurriedly.
“Vane, something has happened so strange, and yet so absurd, that,
were I not so confoundedly weak, I should laugh at it. My man Andrews
has just told me that Morris has left Hurstley--left early yesterday
morning--for Australia, and Margery has gone with him. He declares that
it is true.”
“True!” repeated Vane. “It is too absurd to credit for one instant.
Stuart, how can you believe it?”
“The man is so positive,” Stuart went on, with a sigh, resting his left
hand on a chair for support, “that it quite staggered me. Of course,
there is some mistake; but it haunts me, nevertheless. Vane, will you
drive me to the village?” he asked, abruptly. “I must make inquiries.”
“Willingly;” and Vane at once put down her book.
“How good you are!” exclaimed Stuart, trying to force a smile. “You are
indeed a friend.”
With a little laugh Vane put her hand on his lips and flitted away,
while Stuart called to a gardener and ordered the pony carriage to be
brought round.
Vane was down again almost immediately, her face nearly as pale as her
cousin’s. It was but a few minutes before the carriage appeared, yet
to Stuart they seemed hours. He tried to laugh at the absurdity of the
report, yet a presentiment of trouble possessed him.
“It cannot be, it cannot be!” Vane heard him mutter again and again;
and then he approached her.
“Tell me once more the messages she sent,” he said, hurriedly; and
Vane breathed the tender falsehoods in his ear, touching his agitated,
troubled spirit with their healing balm.
Sir Douglas Gerant passed through the hall just as they were starting.
“Whither away, wounded knight?” he asked, lightly.
“To the village. I shall be back soon, Douglas.” Then, turning to his
cousin, he said, “Drive fast, Vane.”
With a puzzled brow Sir Douglas watched them disappear--he could not
understand Stuart’s apparent attachment to this selfish, worldly
girl--then, with a sigh, turned wearily indoors. The next day was that
fixed for his lawyer to come down from London, and he had much to
occupy his thoughts. He sought the squire’s room, and, in a chat over
bygone years, lost for a while his anxious, restless expression.
Stuart sat silent beside his cousin as they bowled along the lane to
the village; and Vane glanced now and again at his pale, pained face,
wondering, when he knew the truth, what his opinion would be of her.
The village reached, he broke the silence by asking Vane to drive
straight to the little cottage by the Weald; and, without a word,
she complied. She drew up the ponies on the brow of the hill; and
Stuart, heedless of his aching arm and weakness, alighted, and walked
down to the gate he knew so well. It was just such an afternoon as
that on which he had parted from Margery, and the memory of her
beauty and sweetness lent strength to his faltering steps and fed the
eagerness and desire in his heart. He pushed open the gate and entered.
The window-blinds were drawn; the door--pushed with his one able
hand--defied every effort. He grew faint and cold, and leaned against
the doorpost for a moment, while the roses, nodding in the breeze,
seemed to whisper to him a sense of his loss in all its bitterness.
Margery was gone! But why--and whither? He turned and walked down the
garden, his head drooping dejectedly on his breast. Margery gone! What
could it mean? Why had she left him, without a word or sign, in the
very moment of their joy and happiness? The truth did not come to him
even then. There must be some mistake, he tried to convince himself.
A hundred different answers to the strange question came to him. He
closed the gate behind him and turned away. There was a man standing at
the gate of the next cottage, and at first Stuart determined to pass
him; but a sudden impulse seized him, and he stopped and spoke with
forced lightness.
“Ah, Carter--lovely weather for the crops! Is this true that I hear
about Morris?”
“Good-arternoon, squire. Hope I see you better. It were a stiffish
fall as you had. Morris, sir? What? That he’s gone to Australia? Ay,
sir--that’s true enough.”
Stuart’s left hand grasped the gate.
“Rather sudden, isn’t it?” he questioned, trying to clear his voice.
“Well, sir, it were rather; but, you see, the death of his missus fair
knocked him over, and he made up his mind in a minute.”
“And he has gone alone?” asked Stuart, every nerve in his body
quivering.
“Oh, no, sir! He’s took Margery with him; and right sorry are we
to part with her, I can tell you. She were just a sweet lass. Have
you heard that Sir Hubert and my lady ain’t coming home, after all,
sir? Perhaps that’s why Margery went, ’cos she belongs like to her
ladyship--don’t she, sir?”
Stuart murmured a few vague words in reply, and then passed on.
“Good-arternoon,” said Carter; and then, as he watched the young man
mount the hill, he muttered: “That there fall ain’t done the young
squire no good; he looks the ghost of hisself.”
Vane sat silent as Stuart came toward her; even her cold, calculating
heart was touched at the sight of his distress. He took his seat and
sunk back against the cushions, looking deathly pale and worn. Vane
gathered the reins together, and prepared to turn back to the castle;
but Stuart stopped her.
“Drive to Chesterham,” he said, in a quiet tone. “I must find out if
they went to London.”
Without a word she did as he wished, and in silence they sped along the
lanes to the town. Vane was by no means comfortable during the drive,
for she was beset by disagreeable thoughts. What if the girl, after
all, had gone to London only to bid farewell to her adopted father?
What more likely? Would she not have taken leave of the neighbors and
villagers had she started for so long a journey? What if, on their
arrival at Chesterham, they came face to face with her? Vane grew cold
and faint at the thought not only of the humiliation, but of such a
termination to all her scheming. She set her teeth, and her face grew
paler as she pictured his disgust when he learned the truth. It was
so hasty, so strange a flight, that Vane, as she sat absorbed in deep
thought, could not but feel the chances were very much against her.
Stuart did not notice his cousin; he realized only that Margery was
gone, his sweet love vanished. The joy of life for him was dead, and
his heart was heavy with its pain. Hope now and then revived, but the
vague presentiment that had hung over him since first he had learned
the news crushed it as it was born.
As they approached Chesterham, Vane began to tremble, and the hands
grasping the reins shook with fear.
“Draw up for a few minutes, Vane,” Stuart said; “here is
Bright--perhaps he can tell us something. Andrews said it was through
his instrumentality that Morris had gone.”
Vane checked the ponies and leaned back, feeling quite unnerved from
the sudden reaction.
“Ah, Bright, you are the very man that I want to see,” exclaimed
Stuart, as the farmer rode up, “for you can tell me better than any one
what I want to know.”
“I shall be glad to oblige you, Mr. Stuart,” returned Bright, turning
an anxious face to the young man.
“Perhaps you’ve heard about my boy Robert?” he added, full of his own
troubles.
“No, I have not. Is anything the matter with him?” asked Stuart, his
sympathy at once enlisted.
“It’s nigh broke his mother’s heart, sir; but he’s gone off to
Australia with Reuben Morris all of a sudden, without a word of
warning.”
Vane felt a thrill of joy pass through her, and her spirits at once
began to revive.
“Australia? Why? But they can not have gone yet--they must be in
London. It is one thing to say you will start on such a voyage, and
another thing to do it. It takes two or three days, Bright, you know,
to make the necessary arrangements.”
The farmer looked at the young squire’s flushed, eager face with a
little surprise and much gratitude.
“Thank you, sir. It’s like you, Mr. Stuart, always to be kind; but it’s
no use now, sir. Robert started last night; by this time they’re out of
the Channel. It’s a hard thing to see one’s only son took from us, Mr.
Stuart, and all along of a bit of a girl.”
“A girl!” echoed Stuart, shivering, he scarcely knew why.
“Ay, sir--that lass of Morris’, that nameless thing! She just bewitched
him, has played the fool with him, said him ‘No,’ when he’d have made
her his wife, and now has took him on again, for they’ve all gone out
together.”
“Margery!” exclaimed Stuart, in a dull, startled way. “She--they have
gone together?”
“Ay, sir--she’ve took him from us all with her fooling, and I make
no doubt but they’ll be married afore they reach the other side. The
mother would have welcomed her gladly to keep Robert at home; but she
weren’t honest enough to do that--she must needs give herself airs like
a fine lady, and drag my boy after her.”
Vane saw Stuart’s jaw set, his face flush, the veins on his forehead
swell. After a pause, he said, in a low tone:
“And you are sure of this, Bright?”
“I’m just back from London, sir. I’ve been down to the docks, and
there’s no mistake; they all remembered the girl--her pretty face, they
called it. Ah, it will be weary work for us, sir, waiting till Robert
comes back! My wife’s most distraught.”
“Good-by, Bright.” Stuart put out his hand, which the farmer grasped.
“This is indeed bad news! I am sorry, very sorry for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Stuart.”
Bright loosened Stuart’s hand, and, with a respectful salute to Vane,
passed on, something like a tear twinkling in his eye.
Vane looked straight ahead, pretending not to see the quick, hurried
way in which Stuart bent his head for a moment. Victory was hers, she
told herself--victory! Suddenly Stuart looked up.
“Turn around, Vane, and drive home; it is all over now--so much the
better!”
The recklessness of his tone pleased her; it showed her that anger
rankled as well as pain, that mortification filled his breast with
despair. If this mood lasted, her work would not be difficult.
CHAPTER XIV.
“Margery! Margery!”
The light of the setting sun was gilding the branches of the few trees
standing in the center of the square garden. A girl was sitting in a
bay window in one of the largest and gloomiest of the houses in the
square, apparently watching the sunset; but really the sunset had no
charm for her. She was so deep in thought that the sweet tones coming
from the further end of the room did not reach her.
“Margery!”
The girl turned quickly, her musings disturbed by the touch of
plaintive wistfulness in the last word.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Enid,” she said, hurriedly, moving from the
window.
“I am sorry to disturb your dreams, Margery,” observed Lady Enid,
gently, “but I should like to sit up for a while, and no one can help
me like you.”
She smiled affectionately as she spoke, her beautiful, dark eyes
resting with pleasure on the figure of her young companion; she looked
so dainty, so frail, yet so lovely, lying back on her cushions, that
it was hard to imagine so fair a form was aught but perfect. It was an
angel’s face, pale and sweet, surrounded by short, wavy locks of rich,
dark-brown hair, and lighted by a pair of luminous brown eyes.
Margery bent quickly and took away the silken coverlet from the couch,
then, putting her arm under the slight figure, raised it easily into
a sitting position; thence, after a moment’s pause, she assisted the
invalid to a large, luxurious chair drawn close at hand.
“Thank you,” said Lady Enid, as she reclined against the well-padded,
upright back. “How good you are, Margery! What should I do without you?”
Margery smiled, and, pushing up another chair, seated herself near the
speaker.
Two months had passed since she left Hurstley--two long, peaceful
months; and, though she could not say she was happy, she was content.
She seemed in those eight weeks to have put all girlishness from her;
her figure, in the simple gray gown that fitted to perfection, was
already touched with the grace of a woman; her face, as lovely as of
yore, bore, nevertheless, the traces of thought and the expression of a
deep, all-searching mind. She wore her red-gold tresses curled high on
her small head, and this gave her a dignified and maturer air.
“Do not talk of my goodness,” she answered, lightly. “What are my
little efforts, compared with all the kindness you have shown me?”
“You cannot guess, Margery, how different my life has been since you
came to me. Now, don’t shake your head! I can never say it often
enough. Do you know, I had a presentiment that we should become friends
the very instant Mrs. Fothergill mentioned your name? Margery Daw!
There is a sweetness about it, a touch of romance. I was quite eager
you should come, and I was so happy when the letter arrived saying that
you would. I am afraid, dear,” Lady Enid added, with a sigh, “that
sometimes it is very lonely and dull for you here, with only a poor
sick girl for company.”
Margery slipped to her knees beside the slight form in its
cardinal-colored silk wrapper.
“Never say that again--never,” she said, “for I will not listen.”
Lady Enid smiled; and Margery bent her lips to the thin, white hand.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked, gently.
“Quite. Now stay here, Margery, and let us chat together. When the
lamps come, I will hear you sing; but this is what I enjoy. I have been
thinking to myself, as I lay on my couch, what a delight it would be to
find out the truth about your poor young mother. How glad I should be
if we could discover a clew!”
“I have given up all hope,” Margery responded, dreamily.
“Then it is wrong of you,” Lady Enid said, reprovingly, while she
stroked Margery’s soft curls caressingly. “I do not mean to do so if
you do. I have thought of all sorts of plans; but the best of them all
is to put the whole affair into Nugent’s hands.”
“But, my dear Lady Enid, your brother, Lord Court, will have other and
more important things to employ him.”
“Nugent always does anything that gives me pleasure, and this would be
pleasure, indeed. You know, Margery, I have written so much about you;
and only in his last letter he said he was so delighted to hear that I
had at last secured a real friend and companion.”
“He is very fond of you, I know,” Margery responded, softly. She knew
that on the theme of this beloved brother Lady Enid would talk for
hours, and she welcomed any subject that interested the poor young
patient, being content herself to listen, for it banished more painful
thoughts.
“Nugent has loved me as a father, mother, brother, all in one; we were
left orphans so young; and, oh, Margery, you could never fathom how
dear he is to me! When I was well and could run about I can remember
that my greatest treat was to have a holiday with Nugent. Then, when my
illness came, and I was crippled for life, it was Nugent who brought
all the happiness, all the light into my existence. We were alone in
the world, and he treasured me as the greatest jewel till----” Lady
Enid paused. “Margery,” she went on, after a brief silence, “I dare say
you have often wondered why Nugent does not come home, why he has left
me here so long alone?”
“I have, sometimes,” confessed Margery.
“And you have thought him unkind. Ah, I will not have him judged
wrongly! I will tell you why he wanders abroad, leaves his old home and
me, his little sister. Yes, I will tell you.”
“If it pains you, do not speak of it,” broke in Margery, seeing the
pale face contract a little.
“It is dead and gone, and I need grieve no more. Nugent and I never
speak of the past, but it will do me good to open my heart to you.
When, as I have told you before, the doctors said I should be a cripple
for life, I thought my brother’s heart would break. He grew almost
ill with trouble, and it was not until he saw that I was resigned
and content that he recovered. He was so good to me then; no one was
allowed to touch me but he; he lifted me and carried me from my couch
to the chair or to the bed; he regulated his whole life and career by
me. But for my illness he would have found a prominent place in the
government, and doubtless have become a great man in the political
world; but he renounced all his ambitions--everything for me. We
were living then in our dear old home, Court Manor, of all Nugent’s
possessions the one we most cherished. I should like to take you there,
Margery, to show you its quaint rooms and corridors, let you lose
yourself in the pleasance and gardens. I was quite happy. Nugent never
left me; together we read, studied, sung; we wanted nothing more than
our two selves. Well, a day came that ended it all.
“Court Manor is in Westshire, in one of the most picturesque parts, and
the village of Court consists of about half-a-dozen cottages and a tiny
church. There are several country houses about, and the one nearest
to us is a large, rambling old place called the Gill. This has been
unoccupied, although richly furnished, for many years, the owner living
abroad; but suddenly one morning we heard that the Gill was to have an
occupant, and a few days later that occupant arrived. We neither saw
nor heard anything of the new neighbor, till one afternoon, as Nugent
was reading to me, the lower gate clanged, sounds were heard on the
gravel path, and a moment later a woman on horseback passed the window.
She asked to be admitted to me; but I begged Nugent to excuse me, and
he received her alone. I questioned him closely when the visitor was
gone; but he gave me little information about her appearance, and
only said, in rather a constrained way, that she was a widow--a Mrs.
Yelverton--who had taken the Gill for the hunting season.
“I dismissed her from my mind, and life went on as usual for a few
days; then it seemed to me that Nugent was out a great deal more than
formerly. He was hurried, almost ill at ease, during our readings;
and, when I asked him the reason, he at last confessed that Mrs.
Yelverton had organized regular hunting parties at her house, and had
begged him to join them. I submitted gladly, for I had long thought
the life was dull for him; and so the days passed on slowly, and we
drifted gradually apart. I saw Mrs. Yelverton only once, and then I
was almost dazzled by the brilliancy of her beauty. Her coloring was so
rich, so vivid, that others paled beside her, and her eyes, of a most
unprepossessing tawny shade, filled me with vague alarm. Apparently,
she did not care for me, for she never repeated her visit; and I was
left in peace till the end came.
“I will not linger over the rest, Margery; you can guess it. Nugent had
grown to love her--he was bewitched by her beauty; and he whispered
to me one evening that she had promised to become his wife. I tried
to murmur words of happiness; but my heart failed me, and I could do
nothing but look into his dear face with eyes that would speak my
distress. Nugent left me that night, hurt at my coldness; but all
thought of me was banished in the golden glory of his brief love-dream.
Brief! It was but three months after his betrothal that his dream was
shattered.”
Lady Enid moved restlessly in her chair, and Margery, noticing her
agitation, pressed tenderly the hot hands that were clasped together.
“Do not go on,” she whispered; “it pains you.”
“No, no! I like to tell you, dear,” replied Lady Enid hurriedly.
“Nugent was starting one morning to ride to the Gill; he had come
into my room to kiss and greet me, and was eager to be gone, when
the footman entered with a note. Nugent broke the seal and read it
hurriedly, then, with a face like death, staggered to a chair. I
begged in piteous tones that he would speak to me, tell me what had
happened--for, alas! I could not move!--and after a while he thrust the
note into my hands. It was from a man signing himself ‘Roe,’ stating
that he had heard his wife was about to commit bigamy with the Earl of
Court, under the assumed name of Mrs. Yelverton, and he warned Nugent
against her in words that were more than forcible. I tried to speak to
my brother; but his looks checked the words on my lips, and he strode
out of the room, mounted his horse, and tore like a madman to the Gill.
“You can picture the misery of that day, Margery. I tossed and moaned
alone--longing for, yet dreading Nugent’s return. At last he came, and
I heard the end--the agony in his face and voice would have wounded
you to the quick, Margery. The woman was indeed Roe’s wife, and, when
Nugent reached the Gill, he found everything in the wildest confusion.
The man and wife had had an interview, in which he informed her that
Lord Court knew the truth; and this so incensed her that she drew out a
revolver and fired at him. Fortunately, the bullet missed him, and the
woman, finding herself baffled, fled. Roe told Nugent the story of his
miserable life. His wife had deserted him, destroyed his whole career.
He described her as a desperate character, and thoroughly abandoned.
His words were true; for, Margery, it was discovered that she had
gathered together all the treasures of the Gill, and would have eloped
that very night with a man who had served her as groom during her stay
there.
“Nugent seemed turned to stone when all was over; it almost killed me
to see him wandering about listlessly, all happiness crushed out of his
life. Then I spoke to him and tried to persuade him to go abroad, to
leave Court Manor for a time. At first he would not listen to me; but,
after a while, the idea seemed to please him, and he went, leaving me
alone and miserable, and I came here, ostensibly to be under the London
doctors. I have seen him only for a few days together in the four years
that have passed since that time; but his letters of late have been
brighter, and I live in the hope that he will return to me as he was
before his life was clouded.”
“It is a sad story,” murmured Margery. She had risen, and was leaning
against the broad chimney-board. Trickery and deceit--who knew better
than she how bitter, how terrible they were? Did not her heart beat in
warm sympathy for this man, with his wounded heart, his life spoiled by
false vows? The story brought back the agony of by-gone days; it paled
her face and made her hands tremble.
Lady Enid saw the distress she had produced, but attributed it to the
girl’s sympathetic nature.
“Dear Margery,” she said, gently, “do not look so sad. You have a
tender heart, dear; I am sorry I told you.”
“I am glad,” Margery murmured, “for it binds us closer together. What
suffering there is in the world!”
“Sometimes it seems too great for us poor mortals; yet, Margery,
this world is not all; we have a source of peace, a Comforter in our
greatest trials. You know these lines:
“‘I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.’”
“They are beautiful!” Margery answered. “But it is hard sometimes to
believe them.”
“I do not think I should have lived through my trouble if I had not
known the truth of them. You have health--while I----” Lady Enid gave a
little sigh.
“I am selfish--cruelly selfish!” cried Margery, roused by the pathetic
sound.
Lady Enid stretched out one small hand and drew Margery to her.
“You have a sorrow of your own, too!” she said, tenderly. “Ah, yes; I
have seen--I know it! Kiss me, Margery! Some day, dear, perhaps you
will tell me what it is, and, if I can, with all my heart I will help
you.”
Margery knelt beside the chair for a few moments; then she raised her
head.
“Some day I will,” she answered, steadily; then she rose.
When the footman appeared with the lamps, Margery turned to the piano.
She had a sweet, sympathetic voice; but, though Miss Lawson had taught
her music, Margery had had no singing lessons until she came to London
to be companion to Lady Enid Walsh. Then, hearing her one night, the
young invalid had been charmed, and insisted on Margery’s receiving
lessons and studying under one of the best masters in town. She made
rapid progress, for she loved all music well.
“What will you sing, Margery?” asked Lady Enid, leaning back, watching
her young companion’s graceful form with loving eyes.
“Elaine’s song, the song of love and death. I have a new setting; it is
very sweet.”
She played a few bars; then her voice filled the room with melody.
“Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain,
And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;
I know not which is sweeter--no, not I.
“Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death must be.
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die!
“Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay--
I know not which is sweeter--no, not I.”
“It is too sad!” cried Margery, with forced lightness; the misery of
her own lost love was almost choking her.
“It is very beautiful,” said some one standing in the doorway.
Margery rose quickly, and her eyes rested on the figure of a tall,
well-built man, with a keen, dark face, a tawny-brown mustache hiding
the mouth, and eyes of such liquid beauty that not even the long scar
on the forehead could mar them.
Lady Enid uttered a cry of delight.
“Nugent--my brother! Oh, thank Heaven! I am so glad--so glad!”
Lord Court had left the door, and was bending over the slight figure of
his sister. Margery, with tears of sympathy in her eyes, turned away,
and was leaving the room, when Lady Enid noticed her.
“Margery,” she called, softly, “you must not go;” then, turning to her
brother, she said, “Nugent, this is Margery Daw, whom I have so often
written to you about; she is my dear friend.”
“I am heartily glad to welcome you,” said Lord Court, extending a hand
to Margery. “I seem to know you already through my sister’s letters.
Let me thank you in both our names for your kind attention to her.”
“My small services merit no thanks,” Margery responded, simply. “I
would do all in my power for Lady Enid, for I love her.”
She moved forward and kissed the lips Lady Enid upheld to her; there
was a flush of delight on the pale face of the invalid, a glow of
unalloyed happiness in the lovely brown eyes.
“Ah, Nugent, it is like a gleam of sunshine to see you again! Where
have you come from?”
“From Italy. I paused only one day in Paris. I was eager to see you, my
darling.” Lord Court drew up a chair to his sister’s side, and took her
hand in his. “You are looking better, Enid,” he added.
“That is due to Margery then. I am so happy with her.”
“Miss Daw is a most successful physician,” the earl remarked, smilingly.
“I give place to a better,” Margery replied; then, with a sweet smile,
she left the room.
“Is she not sweet, Nugent?” cried Lady Enid.
“It is the most beautiful face I have ever seen,” the earl
involuntarily declared.
* * * * *
The day succeeding the Earl of Court’s arrival was passed by Margery
principally in her own room. She felt that the brother and sister had
much to speak of that was of moment to themselves, and she shrank, with
natural delicacy, from intruding. She employed her morning in writing a
long letter to Miss Lawson and painting some handscreens for Lady Enid.
The afternoon sun tempted her to go out, and she wandered round the
garden in the square, ignorant that a pair of dark eyes were fixed
admiringly on her slight, graceful figure and on the wealth of red-gold
hair gleaming in the sunlight. It was a dreary plot of ground to call a
garden--the trees were begrimed with the smoke of the city, the flower
beds were faded and dull, the very earth was hard and cold-looking--yet
all its dreariness was lost on Margery. She paced its paths nearly
every day; but she did not see her surroundings--her mind was too full
of thought. In her moments of solitude her memory claimed her, though
she was struggling hard to forget--the pain of her lost love was too
new yet. Again and again she would go back to those two days standing
out clear and distinct from all other days--the day of happiness
unspeakable and the day when the sun had shone on the hot, dusty lane,
and she had heard the words that drove that wonderful happiness from
her tender young heart forever. She was content, gratefully content,
in her present life, for she had peace and affection; but happy, she
whispered to herself, she could never be again.
Her letters to Miss Lawson were cheerful and chatty, but the governess
put them aside with a strange sensation of pity. She felt that there
was some great sorrow, a sorrow which Margery must bear alone, that
none could alleviate. She was gratified at the success of her pupil,
and from her sister, Mrs. Fothergill, she heard of the warm friendship
that already existed between Lady Enid Walsh and her companion. The
girl’s heartfelt gratitude pleased and touched Miss Lawson, and she
was glad to know that her judgment of the maid’s character had been
right; that Margery was all she had expected. Gratitude, indeed, was
the warmest feeling in Margery’s breast just now; she could not thank
her governess enough for assisting her at a time when she most needed
assistance. To have stayed at Hurstley would have been worse than
death, she told herself. As she crept away in the freshness of the
morning, she took her farewell of all that had been dearest and best
to her, and, with a courage born of despair, faced the unknown future
unfalteringly. Reuben Morris had accepted with little surprise the news
of her hasty departure; he knew that Miss Lawson loved the girl in her
quiet way, and would watch over her, and her speed to be gone matched
his own plans, for the vessel started three days earlier than he had
expected, and there was no time to be lost.
Margery traveled up to the great city, silent and sorrowful, her
hand clasped in Reuben’s, with Miss Lawson by her side. Not till she
reached the docks, whither she had pleaded to be allowed to accompany
Reuben, did she learn that Robert Bright, too, sailed away from the
old country in the same ship, and the news was the last drop in her
already overflowing cup of grief. She spoke a few words to him, urging
him to stay; but, when she learned that her love was all that could
keep him, she was silent; it was impossible--it could never be. So the
two men went together, and Margery stood beside Miss Lawson, the tears
blinding her eyes as the huge vessel glided away. Then, in silence,
they retraced their steps, and Margery was launched upon the world.
Her secret was safe. Hurstley chattered of her as in Australia, with
Reuben Morris and her lover; but Miss Lawson’s lips were closed; she
kept her promise.
CHAPTER XV.
Margery was walking slowly to and fro in the square garden, buried in
her thoughts, when a firm step coming toward her made her raise her
head, and she saw Lord Court, looking almost handsome and undeniably
soldierly in the sunlight.
“I am sent after you, Miss Daw,” he said, raising his hat with a smile
that lit up his plain face. “Enid is pining for you, and thinks you
will be fatigued with so much walking.”
Margery laughed a little silvery laugh that sounded strange in her own
ears--it was long since she had been merry.
“Lady Enid does not know my capabilities,” she answered. “I am a
country girl, and walking comes naturally to me; but I am quite ready
to go to her.”
Lord Court turned and kept pace beside her.
“I can see walking is a pleasure to you,” he remarked, easily.
“I have been watching you, Miss Daw, and have been struck by the
very un-English nature of your carriage; you bear yourself like an
Andalusian. There is something peculiarly ungraceful in the ordinary
Englishwoman’s walk.”
“I think high heels have a great deal to answer for,” Margery
responded, the color just faintly tinting her cream-white cheeks. “I
have been seriously alarmed at the shoes I have seen since I came to
town; it must be almost like walking on stilts.”
“They are for show, not use,” said the earl, smiling. “What a beautiful
sky! It reminds me of the sunsets we used to see at Court Manor. My
sister, I dare say, has spoken to you of our old home, Miss Daw?”
“Lady Enid is never tired of dwelling on its beauties; she seems to
love it so much.”
“I have not seen it now for years,” the earl said--and Margery saw
a shadow cross his face; “but its memory is very dear. In point
of beauty and value it does not compare with either Drake Park or
Hohen Castle, both Court possessions; to me, however, it is far more
beautiful.” He paused, then said, abruptly, “Miss Daw, do you think it
would make Enid happier if she returned to the manor for a while?”
“Yes,” Margery answered, simply; “I am sure of it. She is so good, so
sweet, that she never complains; but I know she is pining for a glimpse
of the country, and I think she would grow stronger out of London--she
has been in town so long.”
“What a selfish brute I have been!” muttered the earl to himself.
“Poor child--poor Enid! Thank you, Miss Daw,” he added, quickly. “I
will speak to her at once, and make arrangements to start whenever she
likes. But you--you do not object to leave London?”
“I?” questioned the girl. “No, Lord Court, I have no objection; it
matters little to me where I am.”
He cast a quick, earnest glance at her.
“You are young to say that.”
Margery flushed; she had spoken unreflectingly, and she regretted the
words as soon as they were uttered.
“And wrong,” she said, with forced lightness. “I shall enjoy the
change; and anything that makes Lady Enid happy is a great pleasure to
me.”
Lord Court was silent, but he read her assumed manner rightly. He knew
Margery’s history well; still, he felt instinctively it was not her
orphan state alone that had caused such a remark.
Margery was unaware of his covert glances; she picked two or three
leaves from the trees as she passed and arranged them in a cluster with
an artistic touch.
“You are an artist, Miss Daw,” the earl observed, as they approached
the gates.
“I paint a little, but only flowers,” she returned.
“I used the brush a few years ago,” Lord Court said, “but I do nothing
now, and, with the exception of a few Egyptian sketches, I have no
drawings of my travels.”
He opened the gate as he spoke; then, suddenly meeting the full gaze of
her wondrous eyes, he said, almost involuntarily:
“I think I could paint you, if you would allow me.”
“I would sit to you most willingly,” Margery returned, smiling, “but
only on the condition that you make a picture of Lady Enid.”
“It is a bargain!” he cried, and Margery felt a thrill of pleasure at
his words.
By this promise she knew she would bring happiness to the young
sister--happiness because her beloved Nugent would be near her.
“Let us go and tell her at once,” she said, turning her lovely face,
flushed with pleasure, to him. “Ah, you will see my words were right
last night! You will be a better physician than I could ever hope to
be.”
The earl made no reply, but followed her across to the house. At the
door of Lady Enid’s room Margery paused.
“It will gladden her more coming from you,” she whispered, and she
hurried away.
Lord Court watched her disappear, then entered the room.
“Have you found her, Nugent?” asked Lady Enid, fixing her brown eyes
upon him.
“Yes,” he answered, drawing a chair to her couch and looking at her
pale face and fragile form with a dull pain at his heart. “We have been
talking together, Enid, and we have made two arrangements which we hope
will please you. The first is for us all to go down to Court Manor as
soon as ever you like. The second is for me to paint your portrait and
your friend’s--Margery Daw. Does that please you, my darling?”
Lady Enid raised her hands to her eyes--her face was hidden. She made
no reply, and her brother leaned over her and kissed her tenderly.
“My sweet Enid!” he murmured. “My poor little one. How selfish I have
been!”
Lady Enid let her hands drop.
“Selfish--you selfish, Nugent? How can you say so, when by this very
proposal you sacrifice your own wishes? No, my dear brother; I cannot
accept it.”
“But it is my wish, Enid. It will be like a glimpse of peace to see the
old place; and, back in her own nest, my darling will grow stronger,
please Heaven.”
Lady Enid’s face had grown a shade paler, her lips were trembling.
“Nugent,” she said, slowly, “I will go; but, first, will you do
something for me?”
“Anything on earth!”
“Then, dear, I wish you to visit Drake Park and Hohen before we start
for the manor. It is our duty, indeed, Nugent. Think. You have not been
near your property for so long that the tenants do not even know you.
Will you do so?”
“But I thought you would like to go straight to the manor,” the earl
said, slowly.
“I would rather wait and go with you, dear, and then we can commence
the portraits without further delay. I shall be so glad to have a
picture of my sweet Margery. Ah, here she is! What plots have you two
conspirators been hatching? Come, confess!”
“Do they not please you?” inquired Margery, kneeling for an instant
beside her.
“Please me? Nothing on earth could give me greater pleasure; but I want
Nugent to postpone the journey till his return from the country.”
The earl moved to the window, and was standing with folded arms. His
face wore a puzzled, almost distressed expression.
“My sister, Miss Daw,” he said, quietly, “is desirous I should visit my
other tenants before starting for Court Manor, and I am satisfied she
is right. I have not been down for years, but it will not take me long,
and then----”
“And then,” finished Lady Enid, with a feeble smile--“then good-by to
dreary, gloomy, dusty London, if--if Dr. Fothergill consents.”
“Enid,” Lord Court said, going to his sister’s side, “what do you mean?
Has Fothergill been frightening you? Ah, I knew there was something
that made you hesitate! Speak! tell me at once!”
“Nugent, my darling”--and Lady Enid imprisoned his strong hand in her
two frail ones--“forgive me! I have been tempted to tell you, and
then the thought of buoying you up only for bitter disappointment has
stopped me. This is it, my darling.” There was a little catch in her
breath which he did not notice in his anxiety, but which did not escape
Margery, who had risen, and was standing at a little distance, with
hands clasped tightly together. “For some time past Dr. Fothergill
has been hopeful that, by undergoing certain treatment, I shall be
cured--that is, partially cured--walk by myself, be no longer the
great baby I am now; and--and I have agreed to try it, for I do long
for health, to be as others are. Now, Nugent, you know my secret--you
have wormed it out of me. I did not mean to tell you, but I have been
compelled. So you see, darling, I cannot leave London while I am under
his care. In a little while I shall know whether the treatment is
successful or not. I have kept this even from Margery.”
Her cheeks were flushed, a light of eagerness was in her eyes. Margery
could not see for tears; she slipped her hand into the tiny hot one,
and whispered the words that Lord Court spoke; then, deeply moved, she
turned and left the room.
CHAPTER XVI.
Two days passed, and the earl announced his intention of going down to
his tenants at the end of the week. They were two peaceful, pleasant
days, and Margery found much to occupy her. She would have remained in
her own room during her spare moments if Lady Enid would have allowed
it, but, with pretty tyranny, the invalid refused any such concession,
and so Margery brought her painting into the boudoir. Lady Enid seemed
never tired of watching her as she sat bending over her canvas, and
every now and then she would touch her brother gently, and by a sign
call his attention to the girl’s beauty. Margery liked Lord Court. She
was pleased at the graceful deference he showed her, and happy because
of the joy his presence brought to Lady Enid. He was a most agreeable
companion; his wanderings about the world had provided him with a fund
of anecdote and information, and Margery listened delightedly to his
voice, though her heart would sink at times at the memory of that other
who had spoken of the same scenes. She found that the earl was an
artist of more than ordinary ability, and was grateful to him for his
many hints, entering into long discussions with a zest that delighted
Lady Enid. The earl, too, found it a strange pleasure to listen to her,
and he would start a conversation simply for the sake of hearing her
speak, and to watch the ever-changing expression of her sweet face.
He gave himself up now entirely to his sister; his fears were banished,
her own hopefulness kindled his, and the delicate flush that appeared
on her white cheeks led him to believe that her strength was returning.
Margery, too, shared his eager delight in Lady Enid’s recovery; yet
amid it all she could not repress a vague feeling of discomfort
sometimes, and alarm would rise unbidden when she looked up quickly and
saw the unspeakable sadness in Lady Enid’s face; but she kept her fears
to herself, and, indeed, dismissed them as fancies when she heard the
brother and sister laughing and chatting together.
Lord Court was absent a week, but he sent dispatches daily to town,
with hampers of flowers and fruit. The two girls were ardent lovers of
flowers, and Margery would flit about arranging them till the room was
scarcely recognizable.
On the day of the earl’s return she began the pleasant task of
decorating, and, when all the vases were filled, she turned to Lady
Enid with the great clusters that remained in her hand.
“Shall I send these up to Lady Merivall, Enid?” she asked--by Lady
Enid’s special desire she discarded the title when speaking to her
friend and mistress.
“Aunt Hannah!” Lady Enid laughed. “Oh, she cannot bear flowers,
Margery! She would declare that we wished to kill her if we put them in
her room!”
Margery buried her face in the flowers.
“How I pity her!” she said, slowly. “To me they are as life itself.
Yet, do you know, Enid, sometimes the thought comes to me that we are
cruel when we cut the blossoms off so ruthlessly--they die so soon.”
She gazed admiringly at a small, delicate white rose as she spoke; it
looked so desolate without its setting of green leaves. A curious fancy
seized her--was not her life like this poor flower’s, separated from
all she loved?
“She is thinking of her grief,” thought the invalid girl. “You are too
tender, darling,” she said, gently; “flowers are sent for our use; and,
after all, we die as they do.” She paused a little, and then went on,
“I will tell you where to put those, if you will. Nugent loves flowers
as we do. Ask Morgan to give you some glasses, and arrange them on his
table, will you?”
“Of course! Why did I not think of this before?” and, gathering them in
her hands, Margery went swiftly from the room.
Lady Enid lay back very still as she disappeared, a strange yearning
look on her face.
“If that only might be,” she murmured to herself, “I could go in
happiness, I think.” She looked toward the door, and her eyes suddenly
gleamed with joy. “Nugent,” she cried, “you have come back! How good of
you to be so early!”
Lord Court bent and kissed her.
“Where is Miss Daw? You are alone.”
Lady Enid saw his eager glance.
“She has just left me to put some flowers in your room. Oh, Nugent, how
sweet they are! I breathe the country air again in their scent.”
“As you will breathe it in reality, darling, soon. What does Fothergill
say?”
“I am progressing slowly,” Lady Enid replied, in a quiet voice, though
the flush on her cheeks deepened; “it must be another week yet, Nugent,
before I can think of starting.”
“A week will soon pass,” the earl responded, tenderly, not noticing her
labored manner--“a week, and then, Enid, my darling, we shall return to
the home where we were so happy, to the haunts you loved! My life shall
henceforth be spent for you and with you, as of old.”
Lady Enid put her hand on her brother’s.
“You do not dread it?” she whispered.
“All dread is gone--it is buried in the past,” he answered, firmly,
looking into her eyes.
Lady Enid sighed, and Margery entered the room as he released her hand.
“You have been putting some flowers in my room, Miss Daw; that is kind
of you.”
“I did not know you liked flowers, Lord Court,” she answered, with the
grave smile that never brought any light to her eyes. “I will remember
in future.”
“I like all that is beautiful,” he said, involuntarily; then, turning
to his sister--“Enid, let us celebrate my return. You have not driven
out for weeks. Can you bear the fatigue to-day?”
“Yes,” replied Lady Enid, with a gleam of delight. “I shall enjoy it.”
“It is a lovely day,” went on the earl. “I long to drag you from this
gloomy room; a drive will do you good, I am sure.”
“Yes, I know it will.”
Margery knelt for an instant beside the couch.
“Are you quite sure?” she whispered. “Will Dr. Fothergill----”
“He has urged me to go many times,” Lady Enid interrupted, kissing her;
“so run and put on your hat.”
Margery went with a light heart, and in a few minutes followed the
slight figure on its straight, padded board to the luxurious barouche.
Lady Enid’s couch was placed in the carriage, for she was compelled to
retain her recumbent position, and, with a heart full of pity, Margery
took her seat beside the invalid.
London was very full, considering that the shooting season had
commenced, and many people came to the side of the carriage, either
to bow or to offer their greetings to Lady Enid. To all of these
acquaintances Margery was introduced as “my dear friend,” and her heart
swelled with gratitude to Lady Enid for her delicacy and consideration.
Lord Court, though he was busy talking, lost none of the varying
expressions that passed across her face. Gradually it was becoming
a pleasure to him to be near this girl whom his sister loved; he
recognized the rare beauty of her nature, her inborn refinement, and
her pride and grace won from him attentions that many another woman
had sighed for in vain. Margery was always gratified by his courtesy,
though his growing admiration was lost on her. She sat back in the
carriage listening to the conversation, speaking only when addressed.
The earl had judged rightly--the drive seemed to have brought new life
to his sister. She chatted gayly, breathing the soft air with avidity,
and his hope rose higher and higher as he gazed at her animated face.
They had turned into the park, which was filled with carriages and
equestrians, and Margery, who had been only once before in this part of
London, grew interested in watching the groups of people passing to and
fro.
Lord Court’s eyes wandered from his sister’s face to hers, and a sense
of peace such as he had never felt in the past four years crept into
his heart. Lady Enid saw his eyes turned on Margery, and she smiled to
herself a happy little smile; she felt that these two would be friends,
and the thought pleased her. Just as they were turning to leave the
park, a gentleman rode up to the carriage and entered into conversation
with the earl and Lady Enid. Margery sat back, and let her eyes and
thoughts wander. She watched, with a smile on her face, two children
struggling for a doll, heedless of the voice of their nurse; then
suddenly the smile faded, and her heart seemed to stand still. Beneath
the trees to their right a party of riders was just moving on--a woman
between two men, followed by two grooms. Margery’s cheeks blanched, and
her hands trembled; she knew that graceful form only too well. It was
Vane Charteris--Vane Charteris, with the smile of content, the glow
of perfect happiness on her lovely face; and beside her rode Stuart
Crosbie. Margery had looked but once, yet she saw only too well. Vane
had turned with a smile to her lover, and he, bending close to her, was
murmuring words the tenderness of which might have been guessed by the
earnest gaze that accompanied them.
Margery drew back in her seat as they passed; it was a moment of bitter
agony. She had thought herself schooled to meet sorrow, that she was
able to be firm, that she had cast out all love and despair from her
heart, and filled it with a desire for utter forgetfulness. Now she
saw herself in her weakness. The very sight of Vane Charteris brought
back the humiliation she had suffered, while the sight of Stuart, the
man who had deceived her, insulted her, wrecked her life at its very
beginning, brought back the tumultuous joy of that evening in the Weald
Wood, the never-ending sorrow of her loss. Ah, she might be as brave
as she would, away, but a glimpse of his face had broken down all the
barriers that pride had been setting up during these past weeks, and
left her as weak as before!
Turning to speak to her, Lord Court saw her pallor and look of pain.
“Something is troubling her,” he thought. “She is too young, too fair
to look so distressed.” Ignoring her apparent faintness, he gave his
orders to the footman, and they were driven home.
Margery all that evening was quiet, almost depressed. She knew she
might have remained in her own room, had she so wished, but she shrank
from being left alone with her thoughts, from the confession of her own
weakness; and she sat with Lady Enid, who, full of the pleasure of her
drive, chatted and laughed gayly, not noticing her friend’s changed
manner. But, though it escaped her, it was quickly detected by her
brother, and the pale face of the young girl, the unspeakable depth of
sadness in her eyes, touched him with deep sympathy. He came easily and
gracefully to her rescue. He took the book from her hand when Lady Enid
asked her to read, with a playful remark as to Miss Daw’s needlework
progressing slowly, and he alone saw the slender figure leaning back
wearily on the wide window-ledge, her work forgotten in her thoughts.
He exerted himself to chat to his sister, and then, knowing that her
evening was never complete without music, seated himself at the piano,
and filled the room with the melody of a rich baritone voice.
Margery listened a while, then the sighing sadness of the music proved
too much for her, and, stooping to kiss Lady Enid, she retired to her
room.
The night hours passed slowly and heavily; she could not sleep. Her
mind was haunted by the vision of two forms with the radiance of a
great happiness in their eyes. Was London, then, so small that she must
be tortured by their faces wherever she went? And her secret--would
not that be discovered? They had not seen her to-day, but who could
tell whether she might not meet them again? She felt low-spirited and
disheartened for a time, then grew gradually easier in her mind. In a
week, perhaps, they would leave London, and down at Court Manor she
would have peace, if not happiness. Comforted by this thought, she fell
asleep just as the gray dawn was breaking, her troubles forgotten for
the time in dreams.
For the next three days life went on as it had before Lord Court
arrived. Margery took her solitary walks in the square garden, secure
from all fears there, and Lady Enid declared herself much better. As
the end of the week drew near, Margery felt her heart lighten. Only a
few hours more, and she would be safe for a long time!
“Have you your canvas and all the necessaries for our pictures,
Nugent?” asked Lady Enid, on the afternoon of the day before that fixed
for their departure.
“I have one or two little commissions to execute this afternoon,”
returned the earl; “then I shall be quite prepared for work.”
“Let us go with you; it is a lovely day.”
“But the fatigue!” he said, warningly. “Remember, Enid, there is the
journey to-morrow.”
“I should enjoy it,” Lady Enid murmured, a little plaintively.
“Then come, by all means, my darling.”
With a beating heart, Margery put on her hat; fain would she have
stayed at home, but she could think of no excuse, and she did not like
to spoil Lady Enid’s pleasure. She shrank from the idea of seeing those
two faces again, and the chance of being recognized.
The earl was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.
“Enid has sent me for you, Miss Daw,” he said, hurriedly, “but I was
most anxious to speak to you for a minute alone. Tell me honestly, do
you think she wishes this journey to-morrow? Sometimes I fancy I see a
hopeless longing in her eyes, and it almost makes my heart ache.”
“Indeed, Lord Court,” Margery answered, earnestly, “I am sure Lady Enid
lives in the very thought of going to her old home. She has talked of
it so often. Please do not distress yourself; I have seen that look in
her eyes, too, but I do not think it means more than a longing to be
well.”
She put out her hand timidly, and he raised it to his lips.
“Thank you,” he said, gently; “you always comfort me, Miss Daw.”
Their eyes met for an instant, and he saw again the deep sadness in
hers.
“Enid is waiting,” he said; “let us go to the carriage.”
This time they drove through the streets, and Margery forced herself
to talk and smile, though she was trembling with fear. If her smile
died away suddenly, and if her voice had not the true ring, it was only
the earl who remarked it. Lady Enid, lying back on her couch, was too
interested in all that was passing to see the effort and notice the
constraint.
At last all the commissions were executed, and it was with a sigh of
relief that Margery found the carriage was rolling homeward.
“Shall I ever learn her sorrow?” the earl wondered, as they bowled
along, noting her sweet face. “It is only one who has suffered as I
have who looks as she does--yet that is impossible in her young life.”
Margery met his earnest, questioning gaze; the color rose to her
cheeks, and she was about to make some remark, when suddenly, to her
amazement, the earl leaned forward and pulled her on one side; then
followed a sharp shock to the carriage. Dimly she saw a huge impending
mass above her, and heard voices raised in alarm; then her senses
cleared, and she saw the earl standing in the street, the footman
beside him, and a crowd of people hurrying forward.
“There is no damage,” cried the earl, getting into the carriage
again--“at least, none to us. You are not hurt?” His tone was intensely
eager.
“No, no,” Margery answered, quickly; “but Lady Enid----”
“Is all right. She told me so herself, with a smile, just this minute.”
Margery bent over the couch.
“Then she deceived you,” she said, hurriedly, looking up with blanched
cheeks; “for she has fainted.”
CHAPTER XVII.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck eight in clear, silvery chimes;
Margery paused in her walk to and fro in the boudoir, and looked at it.
Three hours since they had returned, and carried Enid’s poor, fragile
form to the bedroom, her face as white as death itself. The agony of
Margery’s suspense was unbearable; she had been alone, listening for,
yet, she scarcely knew why, dreading to hear Dr. Fothergill’s step on
the stair. All thought of self was banished now; she could think only
of the sweet angel-woman who had been a spirit of goodness to her,
and of the look of speechless grief on the earl’s face as he carried
his sister into the house. Downstairs, in another room, a man was
sitting, with head bent forward as with age. It was the Earl of Court.
He had returned from his sister’s couch, after placing her there, and,
dropping into the chair beside the fire, had never moved during the
three weary hours that passed. He heard the doctor slowly descend the
stairs; yet he, like Margery, dared not approach him because of the
unspeakable dread that was in his heart, and he heard the street door
close with a slight shudder at the fears that possessed him.
It was not till the door was gently opened that he roused himself from
his trance of despair; then, raising his head, he saw Margery, pale and
agitated, standing before him.
“Enid wishes for you,” she said, faintly.
He started to his feet in an instant.
“You have seen her?” he murmured.
“No,” Margery shook her head. “I will come after you; she has asked for
us both, and----” She stopped--her voice failed her.
The earl pressed his hands over his eyes, and followed her from the
room.
Lady Enid was lying back on her pillows, very pale and faint. She
could not move her hand as her brother entered, but he saw the look of
pleasure that illumined her face. He bent low over her, and heard her
voice come only in a whisper, and that with a painful effort.
“You are better, Enid?” he murmured, hoarsely. “Oh, say you are better,
my darling!”
“I shall be soon, Nugent,” she answered. “Have you seen Dr. Fothergill?”
He shook his head, and he thought he saw a look of pain gather on her
face.
“I am sorry,” she said, faintly, “for I must tell you myself.”
“Tell me what, Enid?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible.
She did not answer at once, but after a while she raised her weak hand
and passed it over his brow.
“Nugent,” she faltered, her tones a little clearer, “I want you to give
me a promise, dear.”
“Need you ask for one?” he answered, pressing her hand to his lips,
then clasping it firmly within his own.
“I want you to be a friend to Margery; she has no one, and I love her.
Nugent, my darling, do not look at me like that--there is no hope. Oh,
don’t cry, my own dear brother! Listen! I have deceived you”--her voice
grew fainter--“I have been growing weaker and weaker every day. This is
the finish.”
The earl had sunk upon his knees; his face was almost hidden. Lady
Enid’s hand, wandering over his hair, touched his eyes--they were wet
with tears.
“Don’t, don’t! Oh, Nugent, you break my heart!”
He was up again in an instant, his grief repressed by an iron will.
“You promise?” she said, eagerly.
“I promise all you ask,” he answered. “Oh, why cannot I die, instead of
you?”
“You must live and keep your promise,” Lady Enid whispered; then she
closed her eyes for a minute, and, in despair, he beckoned to the maid
to moisten the pale lips.
The heavy lashes were raised, and the girl’s eyes smiled again.
“I have one great, great wish,” she murmured, faintly.
“It is granted. What would I not do for you, Enid?”
“Make Margery Daw your wife!”
The earl started, and his color deepened.
“If she consents,” he answered, after a moment’s pause, “I will.”
“She is so good--ah, Nugent, you do not know how good! I have grown to
love her as a sister. She will watch over you for my sake--when I am
gone!”
She lay back silent for a minute, then turned her eyes on her maid.
“Ask Miss Daw to come now.”
The earl moved away and buried his face in his folded arms on the
mantelpiece. Margery came in softly, then, with one deep sigh, crouched
beside the bed and put her lips to the thin hands.
“Margery,” whispered Lady Enid--“my dear Margery!”
“You are better--oh, tell me you are better, Enid!” faltered Margery.
“Darling, listen to me. I am dying. My poor Margery, be brave. I have
known it a long time; the shock to-day has--has--only hastened it. But
I want you to do something for me. Margery, do not promise till you
have heard what it is. Nugent!” The earl came to her with slow steps.
“You shall not be left alone, Margery, when I am gone. Margery, you
have loved me--you know all; I want you to be my brother’s wife!”
Margery drew back for an instant, and stood with her hands pressed
against her bosom, her mind distracted, the words just uttered ringing
in her ears.
Could she link herself to one whom she could never love, though she
deeply respected him? Could she give herself to another while she
believed herself pledged to Stuart Crosbie forever? Her eyes met the
sweet brown ones, already dim with pain, turned wistfully upon her. A
flood of pity filled her; she dropped upon her knees, and breathed:
“I will.”
Lady Enid waited a moment; then, grasping Margery’s hand, she held it
toward the earl, and across her bed the compact was sealed.
“There is one--thing more,” she whispered, with difficulty; “the--end
may be soon. I could die--happier if--if you were made man and wife
now.”
The earl was silent; but Margery raised her head, her cheeks as pale as
those lying on the pillow.
“It shall be so,” she said, clearly; “be comforted.”
The earl stooped, and pressed his lips to his sister’s; a sigh burst
from his overcharged heart.
“As Margery says, I say; we will be married here in the morning. I will
arrange it.”
Then, without another word, he passed out of the room.
Margery hardly moved all through the long, terrible night that
followed. Lady Enid held her hand within her own, and, fearful of
disturbing her few moments of slumber, Margery did not stir, though
she grew faint and stiff as the hours passed. What were her thoughts
during the interval? She could not have told; but the dominant feeling
was one of bitter grief, an agony of regret and sorrow as she looked at
the pale young face with the seal of death already upon it. The promise
she had given did not come home to her in those silent moments; she
was striving to gauge the depths of Enid’s great and noble nature. How
brave, how strong she had been, with the knowledge that she was doomed,
ever present in her breast! What courage had filled that poor, fragile
frame, what an infinity of love that feebly-beating heart! Ah, what a
lesson was it to the girl crouched in that sickroom to bury self and
live for others!
Toward early dawn--the girl was worn out with fatigue and
sorrow--Margery’s eyes closed; and, with her wealth of red-gold curls
spread over the coverlet, she slumbered peacefully. Lady Enid woke
early. She was faint, even weaker than the night had left her; yet,
as she saw the daylight creep into the room, her heart almost leaped
with joy--her mind was at rest. Her eyes lingered with tenderness on
Margery’s tired head; and, as the first rays of the morning sun touched
the luxuriant tresses of hair, making them as a ruddy, golden halo, she
murmured: “Nugent will be content by and by,” and lay back, waiting
till her maid or Margery should awake.
The sun was well up before Margery raised her heavily-fringed eyelids;
but, once aroused, she was angry with herself for sleeping.
“My sweet Margery,” whispered Lady Enid, “my poor, tired darling!”
“Forgive me,” murmured Margery.
“Forgive you! You were worn out. Listen, darling! Nugent will be here
soon. Go to your room, and put on a white gown.” She smiled faintly.
“I--I wish it; you shall have no bad omens at your wedding, Margery.
Pauline, attend mademoiselle.”
Margery hesitated, and then obeyed silently.
“Heaven give me strength!” prayed Enid, as she felt herself growing
faint. “But this one thing, this marriage over, and I shall die
content.”
Margery went to her room, and listlessly allowed the maid to wave her
hair and adjust the simple white cambric dress; but her hands were
trembling and her senses numb. A wedding! It seemed like a dream. The
prayer book the maid handed her recalled her to the reality; and with
faltering steps she went back to the dying woman.
Three men were in the room as she entered, but she was scarcely
conscious of their presence. She went straight to Lady Enid, and sat
down beside her, her hand clasped in hers, her head bowed.
Then she felt herself raised to her feet, she saw Dr. Fothergill bend
and put a vial to Enid’s rigid lips, and the next minute a solemn voice
sounded through the room, and the marriage service began. Margery felt
her hand clasped in a firm hold; she uttered her responses in a voice
that sounded far away; but her eyes never left the pale face lying back
on the pillows, with a gleam of joy in the sweet eyes.
The ceremony was over, the blessing was spoken, and together Lord Court
and his wife knelt beside Enid’s bed to catch the faint whispers that
fell from her pallid lips; they saw her eyes gaze into theirs with a
glow of heavenly radiance, they saw her hand move feebly toward them,
they seemed to hear the prayer uttered for their happiness; and then
the dying girl’s eyelids drooped, a fluttering sigh escaped her lips,
her head fell forward, and--Margery knew no more.
Nugent, Earl of Court, saw the servants bear his wife from the room;
but he remained kneeling by his sister’s body, gazing on the calm,
marblelike face, the still form of her he had loved so well.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Vane Charteris was astonished beyond words when she found that the
assertion she had made regarding Margery’s voyage to Australia in
company with Robert Bright and her so-called father was absolutely
confirmed by fact. Nothing could have been more opportune, no more
satisfactory _dénouement_ to the whole affair could have taken place
had she arranged it herself. It had needed only jealousy to finish what
she had begun; and its poison now rankled in Stuart Crosbie’s heart.
He was stunned, almost overwhelmed by Margery’s apparent treachery
and heartlessness. He did not know, he had never fathomed till now,
how greatly he had loved, what a flood of passion had overtaken him.
Margery had been the sun of his existence, and she was gone--worse than
gone--she was faithless!
Vaguely he repeated the words over and over again, as he sat listlessly
in a chair looking out over the fair landscape, but seeing it not.
Faithless! The girl who had kindled the glow of all earthly bliss,
the girl who had seemed a very angel of purity and beauty, was false!
While he held her clasped in his arms and breathed his earnest, sacred
vows of love, she was false! As she smiled in radiant tenderness and
whispered back her own, she was false! Through it all she had been
false! It was inconceivable; it was maddening!
A fortnight wore away, but Stuart’s mood did not alter; he sat silent
and morbid, trying to understand it all, to get at the truth. Vane
grew a little troubled at his manner--she had not imagined the wound
would have been so deep. Her own shallow nature could not comprehend
the depths, the intensity, the passion of love. To her it had appeared
that Stuart would of course be angry. As a proud man, that was but
natural, and she had expected to see him defiant, hard, reckless. This
strange silence, this quiet misery amazed and annoyed her. But she
was outwardly at her best all this time. She never spoke to her cousin
respecting their former confidences. She made him feel rather than know
the depths of her womanly sympathy, thus making her worldly tact appear
as innate refinement and tender delicacy. She moved about as in harmony
with his gloomy thoughts; her laughter never jarred; her voice often
soothed him; and last, but not least, she warded off any attacks from
Mrs. Crosbie, whose brow contracted in many an ominous frown because of
what she termed her son’s folly and want of dignity.
It was tedious work sometimes, and Vane often grew vexed and weary;
but this gloom could not last, she told herself; there would come a
day when Stuart would rouse himself and cast aside all thought of his
dead love, trampling on the memories of it as on a vile and worthless
thing. She must not fail now, seeing that she had succeeded so well
hitherto. But a little patience, and she would win--she must win, not
only for her love’s sake, but for her ambition. News had reached her of
the marriage of one of her most detested rivals, a girl younger than
herself. She could not face the world again without some weapon in her
hand to crush the woman she hated and bring back her lost power. It
was as Stuart Crosbie’s wife that she determined her triumph should
come. He bore no title; but his name was as prominent as any in the
land, his wealth would be untold, and, as _chatelaine_ of Crosbie
Castle and Beecham Park, her social position would be undeniable. Even
Mrs. Crosbie did not guess the fire that burned beneath Vane’s calm
exterior; but her desire for the marriage was certainly as great in one
way as her niece’s. Lady Charteris, who had by this time recovered from
her surprise at her daughter’s strange freak in staying so long at the
castle, saw nothing, but chattered and slumbered away her days placidly
enough, content to know that Vane was happy.
Sir Douglas Gerant had disappeared as strangely and as suddenly as
he had arrived. Two days after the eventful drive to Chesterham he
took his departure, greatly to Miss Charteris’ and Mrs. Crosbie’s
satisfaction. There was something in his dry, cynical manner which
made them singularly uncomfortable, and their strict ideas of etiquette
were greatly disturbed by his many unorthodox acts. Stuart, at any
other time, would have regretted his cousin’s departure; but now it
made but little impression on him, and, while he exerted himself to bid
him farewell, his mind was with his trouble, and as Sir Douglas walked
away, he gave himself up again to his unhappy thoughts.
A fortnight passed uneventfully, and then Sir Douglas reappeared
as suddenly as he had left. Mrs. Crosbie met him with profuse but
insincere words of welcome. She was just enough to recognize how much
he had done for Stuart. Sir Douglas put aside all her gracious speeches.
“It is only a flying visit,” he said, tersely. “I want to have a few
words with Stuart.”
“Oh, I am so sorry you will not stay,” Mrs. Crosbie responded. “I had
hoped you had come for the shooting; Sholto expects a few guns down.
We should have had a party for the twelfth of August but for Stuart’s
accident. Can I not persuade you?”
“I should yield to your persuasion, cousin,” answered Sir Douglas, with
an old-fashioned bow and a gleam of merriment in his keen gray eyes--he
knew right well he was no favorite with madam--“but that unfortunately
time and tide wait for no man, and I sail for the antipodes at the end
of the week.”
“The antipodes!” cried Mrs. Crosbie; and she would have questioned him
further but that he ended the interview by walking away in search of
Stuart.
He found the young man strolling listlessly about the grounds, attended
by all his canine pets. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of the
pleasure on Stuart’s face when he saw his cousin; but Sir Douglas was
quick to notice the worn look and the gloom that almost immediately
settled again on his features.
“How is the arm?” he asked, quietly.
“Mending rapidly,” Stuart answered. “I shall have it out of the splints
in another fortnight.”
“Don’t hurry it,” said Sir Douglas, as he turned and strolled beside
the young man; “it was a nasty fracture, you know.”
They walked on in silence until they reached a quiet spot, and then Sir
Douglas halted.
“Stuart,” he said, “I have come down here on purpose to see you. I want
you to give me a promise.”
“It is already given,” Stuart answered, roused from himself for a
while, and stretching out his hand.
“You know that I have made you my heir, that I have willed all I
possess to you with certain conditions.”
“Yes, I know,” Stuart answered, his face flushing a little. “Do not
think me ungrateful if I say I wish it were not so. I do not want your
property; I----”
“I am aware of that,” interrupted Sir Douglas, dryly. “If you had
wanted it, you would not have had it. But it is not of that I want to
speak; it is of the conditions. They are more to me than any fortune
you could name.”
“Whatever they are, I accept them willingly, with all my heart, and, if
it be in my power, they shall be fulfilled.”
Stuart spoke firmly, his eyes as steadfast as his words.
“Thank you, Stuart,” responded Sir Douglas, quietly. “I felt--I knew
you would answer me so.” He paused a little, then went on slowly. “I
leave England again at the end of the week on a search that has lasted
my lifetime--hopeless, alas, in the years that are gone, but touched
now with the blessedness of hope! Yes, thank Heaven, I have a clew!”
Stuart looked in wonder at his cousin’s face; it was illuminated with
color, and there was an unusual glow in the eyes.
“I cannot bring myself to speak to you now, Stuart, on this subject;
but if I am successful, I will open my heart to you; if not, and
anything should happen to me, this letter”--taking an envelope from an
inner pocket--“will tell you all--will give you the secret of my life.
Guard it well, and, if the time should come soon, swear to do what I
have asked you in it.”
“I swear,” said Stuart, solemnly, his hand closing over the letter.
“Now I start with a lighter heart than I have had for years. The days
will pass quickly, and, when I reach Australia, who knows----”
“Australia!” broke in Stuart, his face drawn and pale. “You are going
to Australia?”
“I said at the end of the week. What is it, Stuart?”
“Oh, that I were free to go with you!” muttered Stuart.
Like a flame of fire, the word “Australia” had set the passion of
jealousy running through his veins, calling up the dormant longing for
revenge that had found a resting-place in his heart. Could he not leave
all that distressed and oppressed him, and rush away to that distant
land, to face him who had stolen the most precious jewel of his life,
to bring shame on her who had deceived and tricked him? The picture of
Margery’s loveliness rose before him and made his heart beat wildly
with the rush of wrath and love that came over him.
“Stuart,” Sir Douglas said, quietly, almost tenderly, “I would ask you
to go with me gladly but for one thing--you are not free--your father
needs you. He could not live without you; go from him, and he will sink
before your return. He is not strong; this summer, he has told me many
times, has tried him terribly, and your accident was a shock.”
“Yes, you are right,” responded Stuart, gloomily, after a moment’s
pause. “I will stay here. And yet it is hard.”
Sir Douglas did not catch the last words.
“I have always loved Sholto,” he said, “and to rob him of you would be
cruel. No, Stuart, your place is here.”
They moved on and approached the house; but before they entered, Sir
Douglas stretched out his hand.
“Heaven bless you, lad!” he said, tenderly. “We may never meet again.
May you have all the happiness and sunshine in your life that a man
such as you ought to expect! Remember your promise.”
“I have sworn, and I will keep it.”
They returned to the castle; and, soon after that, Sir Douglas Gerant
left for London.
His cousin’s visit broke the spell of Stuart’s morbid inactivity. The
monotonous quiet of Hurstley seemed suddenly to appall him. He could no
longer sit and nurse himself; he was restless, almost feverish in his
movements. He went out early in the morning and did not return till
the day was spent; and, though he tried to banish every memory of his
brief dream from his mind, Vane detected the nervous restlessness in
his face. In her heart she rejoiced at these signs of awakening; they
were but the forerunners of that proud, contemptuous mood which she had
longed to see reveal itself. Life was dull at the castle; but, though
she yawned and was inexpressibly bored, she did not intend to give way;
and at last she had the satisfaction of feeling that success was hers
when her aunt announced that Stuart wished the whole party to leave
Crosbie and go to London.
If he remained much longer at Hurstley, Stuart said to himself, the
monotony and inactivity would drive him mad. So, to Vane’s and his
mother’s delight, he proposed a fortnight’s stay in town, a round of
theatres, and such gayeties as a slack season offered, and then a
return to the castle with a large party for the shooting.
It was then that Vane began to reap her reward. Stuart seemed to
remember all she had done for him, all her thoughtfulness, gentleness,
womanly kindness; and it was to her he turned in a frank, friendly
fashion, which at once delighted her and deceived her by its ring of
apparently genuine forgetfulness.
To London they all went, save the squire, and, in leaving him, Stuart
thought of his absent cousin’s words; but it was only for a fortnight,
and then he would be back again, brave in forced courage, steady in his
pride, to walk over the very ground wherein his whole love lay buried.
It was a delightful time to Vane; she rode, walked, went sight-seeing,
with Stuart always in close attendance, and, though few of her
acquaintances were in town, she noticed with pleasure that some of
her “dear friends” were passing through London on their way from
the Continent to the country, and she left them to draw their own
conclusions as to her relationship with Stuart Crosbie. As for Stuart,
he lived for the moment in a whirl of forced excitement and pleasure.
He determined with reckless swiftness to give way to sorrow no more; he
buried the memory of Margery, and set his foot, as he thought, firmly
on the grave of his love; he even thrust recollection from him; he
laughed, rode, chatted with Vane, and gradually her influence made
itself felt. If, in the night, visions of his love floated through his
dreams, pride in the morning dispelled his weakness by recalling her
falseness; and he turned to Vane as a woman whom, though he could never
love, he could respect and trust. To the world his devotion had but one
name, that of a suitor; and, heedless of people’s tongues, heedless of
Vane’s triumphant eyes, Stuart went on his way, living for a time in a
dream of reckless excitement that would soon pass and leave him plunged
in as deep an abyss of despair as before.
It was in one of these moments that Margery had seen him beneath the
trees, bending his handsome head to gaze into Vane’s eyes. The action
meant nothing to him--Vane was his cousin, his confidante, his friend.
Had his gaze but wandered to the carriage drawn beside the rails, and
rested on the sweet face, pallid and drawn by the agony of pain that
had come to her, he would have forgotten his cousin’s existence, and
rushed with a madness of joy, a delirium of happiness, to Margery’s
side. But Margery was unseen; the cousins paced by slowly, and the
image of that face, that form with the right arm still hung in a sling,
those eager eyes, was graven on her memory in characters the clearness
of which tortured her, and the steadfastness of which nothing could
remove.
CHAPTER XIX.
“Man’s love is like the restless waves,
Ever at rise and fall;
The only love a woman craves
It must be all in all.
Ask me no more if I regret--
You need not care to know;
“A woman’s heart does not forget--
Bid me good-by, and go.
You do not love me--no;
Bid me good-by, and go.
Good-by, good-by--’tis better so;
Bid me good-by, and go.”
Margery moved dreamily; she opened her eyes. A flood of glorious
sunshine filled the room. She felt strangely weak; her hands were
almost numb, her head was heavy; she could do nothing but lie back and
rest--rest, and listen to the sound of a rich voice singing, somewhat
near, a plaintive, sighing song:
“You do not love me--no;
Bid me good-by, and go.
Good-by, good-by--’tis better so;
Bid me good-by, and go.”
Margery moved again. This time her eyes wandered round the room; it was
strange to her. Where was she? What place was this?
While a look of perplexity and pain was dawning on her pure, pale face,
some one bent over her.
“Miladi is better?”
“Where am I?” asked Margery, faintly.
“Miladi has been ill,” replied the quiet, soothing voice--“very ill.
She is by the sea now. Does not miladi hear the waves?”
A faint rippling sound was borne in on the silence, mingling with the
song without.
“The sea!” murmured Margery, vaguely. “Where? Am I dreaming?”
“Miladi does not forget me? I am Pauline.”
“Pauline!” repeated the girl, striving to dispel the dense cloud that
shrouded her memory.
“Yes, miladi. I dressed you for your marriage that sad, sad morning.”
Pauline spoke slowly. “Can miladi not remember now?” she added, softly.
Margery looked at her strangely and intently.
“I can remember nothing--I seem to be in a dream.”
She put up her left hand to push back the clusters of her hair, and
as it fell again to the silken coverlet she gazed at it intently. It
looked frail and white, and on the third finger was a ring--a plain,
wide band of gold.
The maid touched her hand.
“It is miladi’s wedding ring,” she said, divining the thoughts of
wonder and the speculation that were filling Margery’s mind.
“My wedding ring!” echoed the girl, still wonderingly. “Am I married,
then?”
Pauline looked at her mistress in alarm. Had the fever really touched
her brain? She almost feared it.
“Miladi will remember,” she whispered, tenderly. “She was married
one morning so early, by Lady Enid’s deathbed. Miladi has been
ill--delirious since--but she is better now. Miladi must think--must
try to remember now for milord’s sake.”
“By Lady Enid’s deathbed!” whispered Margery; then the cloud vanished
suddenly from her memory, and, with bitter pain, she remembered all.
Pauline stood by, distressed, yet relieved, as her mistress put her two
thin hands to her face and the great tears rolled through the slender
fingers--the weeping might agitate for a time, but it would do good
in the end. For three weeks Margery had lain between life and death.
Her overwrought mind and body had given way suddenly beneath the shock
of Lady Enid’s death; she had been so tired, so shaken by her former
trouble and despair, that the excitement of her marriage, the supreme
agony when she realized that the sweet friend and sister had passed
away, were too much for her, and she sunk beneath the weight. Nugent,
Earl of Court, sat and watched beside her couch. He saw the struggle
that took place between the terrible fever and Margery’s delicate yet
healthy constitution, not daring to give words to his fears. She knew
nothing during those days--her lustrous eyes met his unmeaningly. She
was his wife, the treasured bequest of his dying sister; but all his
devotion, his tenderness, the greatness of his new passion for her, was
unknown--her mind was a blank.
When the fever passed away she grew better in body, but the vacant look
lingered in her eyes, and her memory had not returned. The doctors
spoke hopefully, and ordered a change of air, and so they removed her
to the seaside, and waited for the moment to come when the dark cloud
which obscured her mind would lift, and she would be the Margery of
old. For a week there was no improvement, but on this day nature seemed
to wake from its trance, and, when Pauline spoke, as she had spoken
many times before, the veil fell, and Margery’s memory came back to her.
Presently the tears stopped, her hands fell to her side, and she
raised herself feebly into a sitting position. She was not in bed, but
dressed in a loose, white silk gown, resting on a couch. She looked
around, critically taking in the costly appointments of the room.
Pauline watched her curiously, and noted each sign of pleasure that
flitted across the lovely, pale face.
“It is beautiful,” Margery declared, after a time; “and the sea is
there”--pointing to the large bay window through which the sunlight
streamed. “I will look at it, Pauline; I have never seen the sea.”
The maid passed her arm round the slender figure, and guided it to the
window, pushing forward a large, luxurious chair as they reached it,
into which Margery sunk with a sigh of fatigue. She closed her eyes for
one minute, then opened them on a picture of such new, such wondrous,
startling beauty that her pulses thrilled with the momentary delight.
It was the sea--
“The sea, the sea, the open sea--
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!”
Everything was forgotten in that moment’s supreme pleasure. She had
conjured up visions of the ocean, fed by pictures she had seen; but
no canvas could ever portray the boundless dignity, the majesty, the
rippling beauty of the sea as it appeared to Margery on that October
afternoon.
Margery gazed and gazed, her wonderment growing greater as she looked,
and her mind flew back to the afternoon when Stuart had spoken of the
sea, dwelling on its beauties so lovingly that she thought she had
realized it in all its grandeur and majesty. Now she knew that not even
his tongue could convey a true idea of its mightiness. She sat very
silent, watching the rolling waves; the song without had ceased, and
Pauline had retired to the further end of the room. Suddenly the weird
sadness of the sea’s music struck a chord in her heart. It seemed to
be singing a dirge, and her mind woke again to its load of sorrow. For
the first time the real facts of her marriage came home to her. A look
of despair gathered in her eyes, her thin white hands were pressed to
her lips. Enid--dear, sweet Enid--was gone! The brief friendship,
strong as though it had been cemented by years, was broken, and she was
alone, alone with her husband, a man whom she had pitied, respected,
liked, but a man whom she could never love, to whom she must ever wear
a mask, for love was dead within her to all but one, and for that one
it lived as strongly as of yore. What had she done? Bound herself for
life, given a sacred vow, while every pulse in her thrilled for that
other man, despite his cruelty and his humiliating insults! Oh, that
she had spoken openly to Lady Enid! This marriage then would never have
taken place. But her silence had produced this result; the sister’s
tenderness, the friend’s affection, had prompted the dead woman to
speak her wish, and at such a moment Margery had yielded. She did not
regret her promise to Enid. The thought that her marriage had soothed
the dying came almost as a gleam of pleasure. It was for her husband’s
sake she sorrowed, and for her own. Could aught but misery follow such
a hasty union? Would not they both repent in bitterness and despair?
Margery rose slowly from her seat, feeling weak and wretched. The
spirit of the sea, entrancing at first, had brought with it a host of
sad thoughts that destroyed its beauty, and made her shudder at its
music.
Pauline had retired quietly from the room. Margery did not notice her
absence; and, as she regained her feet and put one hand on the chair to
steady herself, she said, faintly, with half a smile:
“You must help me, Pauline. I am very foolish; but----”
A hand clasped hers--not Pauline’s, but a firm, strong hand. It was her
husband’s.
Lord Court drew the slender, white-robed figure gently to his arms.
“It is not Pauline, my darling; it is I. Nay, do not look so
frightened! You are still very weak, my poor one! Pauline came to bring
me the good news that you had recovered your memory, and I hastened to
you at once--my wife--my sweet one!”
Margery rested quietly in his arms--she had not strength to move--but a
tumult of thoughts surged in her brain. Now she must speak, must tell
this man of her weakness, of her love. It must be done now in the
beginning of their married life; she must not delay; it would be so
difficult afterward. And he must know the truth--know that for Enid’s
sake she had uttered words that should never have been spoken, that
would be as emptiness in her eyes.
“I wish to speak,” she murmured, faintly; but the words did not reach
her husband’s ears. She was nervously excited, and her strength was
already spent.
The earl drew her still closer to his breast.
“Let me hold you in my arms for one instant, my wife,” he said,
tenderly and gravely; “it comes as such a blessed happiness after weeks
of misery and suspense that I have endured. Margery, my darling, ours
was a strange marriage; but it was tenderly blessed by the smile of
one we both loved. Ah, Enid could read the heart well! She saw into
the very depths of mine; she knew that its sterile ground had brought
forth a pure, holy plant--my love for you! She saw the misery of the
past banished from my life by the tender influence of that love, and
she realized that life might once more be made bright and beautiful to
me--that earthly trust, faith and happiness might yet be mine; and so
she gave you, darling, to me, to fill the void her flight would make,
to lead me by your sweetness, your tenderness, to things better and
purer, like your own self.”
A pang of remorse pierced Margery’s heart. Could she speak, and at one
word blast this new-found happiness, the Heaven-inspired hopes? No, she
had not the courage. She must bury the past. Henceforth Margery Daw,
with all that appertained to her, was banished, and Margery, Countess
of Court, lived in her stead, strong in the determination to keep her
vows and prove herself worthy of the devotion of her husband.
She raised her pale, lovely face to his, and a steadfast light shone in
her great, blue eyes.
“By Heaven’s help,” she responded faintly yet clearly, “I will do it!”
Lord Court bent his head, and pressed his lips to hers; then, lifting
her tenderly, he bore her to the couch, and laid her once more on the
pillows.
“You are very frail Margery,” he said, kindly, contemplating her as
she lay back wearily; “but now you must make great efforts to get
well, and you shall soon go out and feel the sea breezes on your
cheeks--perhaps they will bring a little color to them.”
“I am always pale,” she whispered, in reply. “How long have I been ill?”
“A month now. Ah, I had almost begun to despair--you were so long
recovering.”
“And--and Enid?”
“Is at her old home at last,” said the earl, in a constrained voice.
“We carried her down and laid her in the old churchyard. She always
wished to be buried there.”
“I must go down and see the grave,” murmured Margery.
“When you are able, you shall, my darling. Court Manor is waiting for
its mistress. Ah, Margery, little did I think years ago that I should
so gladly return to my home, all pain and bitterness rooted out of
my heart forever, and in their place the sweet fragrance of love and
happiness, brought me by a spirit of peace and purity--my wife!”
Margery moved her head restlessly on the silken pillow; his deep
tenderness and devotion touched her wounded heart with healing
gentleness, yet her burden was none the less, for she could never
repay such great love, she could never give him what he gave her.
Her pride had suffered such humiliation beneath the cold cruelty of
Vane Charteris’ tongue that her heart might have thrilled now with
satisfaction in the knowledge that she was--in the world’s eyes--a
great person--Countess of Court, a peeress of the realm. But there was
no pride in her heart. Her husband’s tender words only brought back
with a sudden rush the memory of the great chasm between them. She drew
her hand slowly from his, with the touch of his lips still clinging to
it.
“You know,” she whispered, meeting his gaze with her great starlike
eyes--“you know--Enid told you that I am quite alone in the world--a
waif, a stray?”
“Yes, I know it, my darling.”
“And you care for me just the same?”
“I love you,” he answered, smiling; “I loved you from the very first.
Yes, Enid told me your sad story, and it only binds you still closer to
me; henceforth I must be mother, father, brother, sister, husband, all
in one. Do not hold a thought in your heart that such a circumstance
could make any difference. Remember--
“‘For unto every lord his own lady is
All ladies and all beauties and all mysteries,
The breathing multiple of roses passionate,
Of perfect pearls, of birds with happy melody--
Ay, a mere girl, yet in herself a universe.’
“A poet sung that, Margery, and it is the very echo of my heart.”
“You are very good,” she murmured, gently; and then, bending to touch
her cheek with his lips, Lord Court went slowly from the room.
Margery lay silent, his words ringing in her ears, and again and again
she told herself that she could not destroy this man’s new-found peace,
his life’s happiness. She must strive to crush all love and remembrance
from her heart, turn her face from the past, with all its store of
sweetness and bitterness, and look upon the future, where the path of
duty lay straight before her. Loyalty and honor demanded the sacrifice,
and she would obey them.
“I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,
Fill the days of my daily breath
With fugitive things not good to treasure--
Do as the world doth, say as it saith.
But, if we had loved each other,
Oh, sweet!”
CHAPTER XX.
Days glided on, and Margery grew gradually stronger. October was
nearing its close, but still the sunshine was warm and genial, and
the wind from the sea soft and gentle. It was quite a little fishing
village where the Earl and Countess of Court were staying, a rambling,
quaint, three-cornered place, inhabited by healthy, strong-limbed
fisher folk. Lord Court had brought his wife down to Wavemouth by the
advice of two London physicians, and, when the first week of anxiety
was passed, and he saw signs of returning health on her sweet face,
he was thankful beyond words. The village people were honored and
awestruck by the presence of an earl and countess in their midst;
they had few grand visitors at Wavemouth. An artist now and then paid
the place a visit--indeed, there was one staying there when Margery
arrived. He sketched the ruddy-faced children and made his way to the
mothers’ hearts by his sweet, clear voice and gentle manners.
Margery learned afterward that the song she had heard so clearly that
afternoon when she woke to remembrance had come from this artist’s
lips; but she never saw the singer--he quitted the village soon
afterward, and left the children and maidens lamenting.
Lord Court had brought a low, easy carriage down with them, and he
drove his wife about the picturesque village, watching with a throb
of pleasure the interest dawn in her face. Wavemouth was so quiet,
so peaceful, so completely in keeping with her desire for rest, that
Margery loved the place.
She was still far from strong, and the sea breezes brought a sense of
relief and freshness to her spirit. She was fighting a hard battle with
herself, striving with all her might to crush out her old love and
turn to her husband, whose depths of goodness and generosity she was
learning to know better each day. But as she grew stronger the struggle
was more bitter; her thoughts would fly to Hurstley, to the dead Mary
Morris whose memory she held so dear, and then to that other who was,
despite all her efforts, so inextricably bound up with her existence.
The earl, totally ignorant of the secret in his wife’s breast, reveled
in his new-found happiness, rejoiced in the possession of his treasure.
Day by day he was drawn closer to this girl whose sweetness had been
sung by the lips of his dead sister. It was so great a change to him
after those four years of ceaseless pain, distrust and darkness! Often
in those days he had tried to escape from the remembrance of his life’s
mistake; but he could find no relief till that evening when he stood
in the doorway listening to the sweet, girlish voice ringing through
the room, and then suddenly misery and despair vanished, and hope
revived--hope that afterward became a sweet reality.
“Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy--
They heed not our expectancy;
But round some corner in the streets of life
They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”
And now Margery was his wife--his very own; there was none to claim
her, none to share the treasure of her love. Was not this blessing
too great? His earnest eyes, dark with tenderness, were never tired
of watching her lovely, unconscious face as she sat buried in her
memories of the past, the look of unutterable sadness that had touched
him in their earlier acquaintance seeming to him now caused but by the
recollection of her childhood’s history, her mother’s death.
At last the sunshine died, the sea’s calm was gone, the tiny rippling
movement was changed into gigantic rolling waves, crested with white
foam, and dashing on to the beach in angry majesty, with a sound as of
thunder. Margery loved the sea in its fury; she would sit and watch it
for hours, her heart beating fast, and her nerves thrilling at the rage
in its fierce waves and dashing spray. The anger, the wildness of the
elements, relieved her overwrought mind, and the very tumult brought
her peace.
She stood at the window one afternoon gazing at the expanse of dull,
leaden-green water. There were no waves; it was as if a titanic
movement from below agitated the surface and caused the heavy, sudden
motion. As she stood thus, her husband approached her.
“Not tired of the sea yet, my darling?” he said, with a smile. “I shall
be afraid to suggest a migration if this devotion lasts much longer.”
“It is so wonderful,” Margery answered, dreamily. “I can see such
strange pictures, imagine such things, as I watch it. I have never seen
it as it is to-day.”
“There will be a storm to-night. I have just seen one of the fishermen,
and he says they expect very rough weather.”
“It looks an angry, discontented sea,” Margery said, still dreamily,
“as if its passion would be terrible when it did break forth.”
“Look at the foot of the Templar’s Rock! It is beginning already;
the foam is as white as snow. There is, as you say, Margery, sullen
discontent in its look; but there is also a wildness of despair. It
reminds me, looking at that whirling rush round the rock, of Tennyson’s
words:
“‘Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me!’”
With a little shudder Margery turned from the window.
“To-day has broken the spell,” she said, hurriedly, with forced
lightness. “I think I am tired of the sea at last.”
“You shall leave it when you will--to-night even, if you wish it, my
darling; it is still early afternoon. I will telegraph for rooms.
Pauline shall accompany you; the others can remain, with the exception
of my man, and follow to-morrow.”
“But it is so much trouble,” began Margery.
“Trouble, my sweet, where you are concerned! You would like a change?
Yes, I see it in your eyes! We will go, and this, Margery, shall be
the beginning of our married life, henceforth to be spent hand in hand
together. I will go at once and give my orders; we will start by the
first train. I believe there is one about half-past four.”
“You are so good!” Margery murmured.
He bent, and raised her hands to his lips.
“Never say that again, my darling; my whole life is for you.”
As he left, and looked at the sea, Margery turned once more to the
window. Yes, she must go.
Suddenly the misery, the weight of her struggle seemed to overcome
her. She had sat and dreamed much; she must now put aside all dreams,
and turn to life in real earnest. The sea no longer comforted her, and
the words her husband had quoted strengthened the desire that had been
growing within her to leave it.
“The tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me!”
The truth, the agony in those words, struck her with bitter force. She
roused herself with a great effort, determined to fling aside all her
weakness and face her duty.
The entrance of Pauline checked her musings.
“Miladi is really going!” exclaimed the maid, delight shining in her
great black eyes. “Ah, but I am glad! Miladi will be so much better
away from this dismal place; it is enough to give one the _migraine_.
Miladi is wise.”
“You are glad to go, Pauline?” questioned Margery, smiling, as she
watched the maid bring out a costly mantle and furs for her coming
journey.
“_Ma foi, mais oui_, miladi! I love London--the sea is so _triste_.
Miladi will take her jewels with her, _sans doute_?”
“My jewels, Pauline! I have none.”
“_Mais_, how _stupide_! Miladi has never been even shown her beautiful
jewels! Ah, miladi must see them--they are _magnifiques_!”
Pauline brought the richly-inlaid case to a table near, and spread the
contents of the numerous morocco cases on the cloth. Margery looked at
the jewels in silence; she did not touch one of the glittering rings or
bracelets, or lift the tiara of diamonds from its velvet throne.
Their beauty amazed, but did not please her; ambition for such things
had no place in her nature. She smiled faintly at Pauline’s delight and
many ejaculations.
“Milord had them all brought down from the manor for miladi. See--she
will wear this when she is presented. Does not miladi like them, and
the case with the arms and the letters of miladi’s name? See--how
beautiful!”
“Yes, they are very beautiful,” replied Lady Court, quietly; “but I
shall not wear them just yet, Pauline.”
“But miladi must put on a few rings above her _bague de mariage_--_mais
oui_--just a simple one; it will look better.”
Margery hesitated; then, hearing a slight noise, she turned and met her
husband’s tender eyes.
“Pauline has been showing me my jewels; they are beautiful--too
beautiful. I thank you for them all. She tells me that I must wear some
rings above my wedding one. Will you put them on?”
Pauline had disappeared on a murmured pretext. Lord Court took the
slender white hand in his.
“It wants no rings to enhance its beauty,” he said, with a smile; “but
Pauline is right--you must do as others do, and wear some to guard this
band of gold. I have two that will please you, I think, my darling--two
I have intended giving you for the past week.”
He touched a small spring in the case and disclosed a little drawer. In
this two rings were lying; he took them out.
“This hoop of diamonds, Margery,” he said, gently, “was my mother’s; it
is old-fashioned now, and perhaps----”
“Let me wear it,” she whispered, hurriedly.
In silence he slipped the circlet over the tiny finger, then pressed
his lips to it.
“This one you know”--taking up the other. “You have seen it often--the
sapphires will match your eyes, sweet--it was Enid’s ring.”
Tears sprung to Margery’s eyes as she looked at the glistening stones,
and remembered how often she had seen them flashing on the frail, white
hand of the dead girl.
“They are sacred to me--I shall treasure them both,” she said,
reverently, then turned aside with trembling lips.
Pauline returned in two minutes, and the jewels were restored to their
cases and packed in their iron-bound box for the journey.
Margery, wrapped in her furs, took her last look at the sea, its
sullen surface already broken by flecks of white. The vast expanse of
dull-green water bordered by the gray sky struck her suddenly with a
sense of gloom.
She turned from it with a sigh of relief; and, as she left it,
determined to banish all the dreams and sad recollections it had
brought her, burying all memories in its dark, unfathomable depths.
So she went away from the quiet village back to London and to life,
back to duty, firm in her new-born strength and will.
“Ah, they are happy, milord and miladi, both!” sighed Pauline to her
companion and fellow traveler, the earl’s valet. “She is so simple and
so pretty--and they have love. Ah, monsieur, how great is that wondrous
love!”
The husband and wife sat silent during the greater part of the journey.
Margery, resting her head against the cushions, sat with closed eyes.
The earl thought she slept, but sleep was far from her. A vague longing
seized her that she might step back into the far distant past, when she
knew neither the greatness of joy nor the bitterness of sorrow. If she
could be once more the simple-minded girl, living in all contentment
her peaceful village life, her studies the one excitement of her days!
She was happier then, before she had learned the mystery of her own
heart, before childhood had vanished and womanhood had come in its
place.
CHAPTER XXI.
It had been Lord Court’s intention to travel with his wife straight
down to Court Manor, after resting a day or two in London; but the
death of his aunt, Lady Merivale, immediately on their arrival,
necessitated his presence in town, as her affairs were left in his
hands. Margery at first felt disappointed at the delay, but, after a
week had passed she grew content. They had a suite of rooms at the
Bristol, and, to Pauline’s delight, were in the very heart of London.
Horses and carriages were brought up for the Countess of Court’s
use during her brief stay, and the slender, black-robed girl, with
sweet, pathetic face, and crown of red-gold hair, provoked universal
admiration. The earl had not many near relatives; but such of his
connections as were in town paid an early visit to Lady Court, and
found their anticipations of dislike turn to wonder at the gracious
dignity and sweetness of Margery’s presence. She soon learned that her
strange, romantic marriage was the one topic of the moment in society,
that every one was eager to see the unknown girl who had won the
heart of Nugent, Earl of Court, so eligible, yet so disappointing a
_parti_. It gave Margery no pleasure to receive and return the visits
of the stately ladies who claimed to be her husband’s friends; still,
she forced herself to do it, as the beginning of her path of duty.
Every day, as she drove out, she dreaded to see those two faces whose
images she could not banish from her memory; and she would shrink back
in the corner of the luxurious carriage as she passed a riding party,
forgetful for the minute that her own features were hidden beneath the
thick, black veil, which, despite all Pauline’s protests, she would
wear, forgetful, too, of the fact that, were she to meet Vane Charteris
and Stuart, they would never associate Margery Daw with the Countess of
Court. For no mention of her name before her marriage had crept out.
The world knew that the earl had taken his sister’s companion for his
wife, and there its information ended. Miss Lawson and Dr. Fothergill
and his wife were alone in the secret, and with them it was safe.
One afternoon, at the beginning of the second week of their stay in
town, a trial came to Margery’s pride. Lord Court was claimed by the
lawyers, and, after a morning spent among her books, Margery prepared
for a drive and some visits. Pauline dressed the slender, graceful
figure in the black garments and fastened the sable mantle while she
uttered exclamations of delight at her mistress’ appearance. She made a
slight protest as the veil was produced, but Margery was firm, and the
delicate face, with its great blue eyes, was completely hidden beneath
the thick folds.
The first visit was to an old marchioness who had fallen a victim to
Lady Court’s charm and sweetness, and Margery made great progress
toward friendship. Several ladies were present, and from one and all
she received kind congratulations.
“But now I want to beg a favor, dear Lady Court,” said the hostess,
after a while; “it is rude of me, perhaps, but I hope you will forgive
it. Will you not remove that thick veil? We cannot see your fair young
face, and nature has been so lavish to you, child, you can afford to be
generous.”
Margery laughed softly, and put up her hand to unpin the veil, when
the door opened, and a voice announced:
“Lady Charteris--Miss Charteris!”
Margery felt the blood surge in her ears and a mist rose before her
eyes; she saw again the beautiful, cold, cruel creature who had spoken
words that stabbed her to the very heart.
She acknowledged the introduction with a slight bend of the head, then,
murmuring a few words of regret and farewell, went swiftly from the
room to her carriage, her breast full of stormy emotions.
“I am so sorry you did not see Lady Court; she has the face of an
angel,” said the hostess, as Margery disappeared.
“She is very tall,” observed Vane, in her most bored manner--“almost
too tall for a woman--and she seems to have red hair. I hate red hair,”
she added, a vision of a sweet, girlish face, framed in red-gold curls,
rising before her as she spoke.
“Your taste, dear Vane, is always good,” observed the old lady, dryly,
and then the conversation drifted into other channels.
Margery gave her orders in a quiet, stifled voice, and was driven back
to the hotel. The fear, the dread she had suffered in anticipation of
this meeting was as nothing compared with the agony of pride and pain
she now endured. She had thought herself strong, thought she was braced
for whatever might happen, and at one blow the barriers she had been
building were thrown to the ground, and she was the broken-hearted,
humiliated girl once again. The sight of Vane recalled all her despair,
and knowledge that Stuart--her love--was lost to her forever. She sat
in deep thought as the carriage rolled along, and it was not till it
drew up at the hotel that she woke from her meditations. Then, in a
moment, came the memory of her position--of her husband. She was now
far above such insults, and she had one who would avenge them. The
first rush of agitation had died away, and, when she reached her rooms,
she paced up and down till her mind was restored to tranquillity.
She would be braver in the future, and, if fate forced her to meet
either of those two, she would go through the ordeal unflinchingly. It
would be bitter, she knew, for, painful as the sight of Vane Charteris
had been, it recalled only wounded pride; with the other her experience
would be different, for the sight of Stuart’s face would bring back the
memory of her unrequited love and despair.
She threw off her mantle and hat, and turned suddenly to the piano. In
moments of great emotion music soothed her--it relieved her overcharged
heart.
“We know not whether death be good,
But life at least it will not be;
Men will stand sadd’ning as we stood,
Watch the same fields and sky as we,
And the same sea.
“Let this be said between us here--
One love grows green when one turns gray,
This year knows nothing of last year,
To-morrow has no more to say
To yesterday.
“Live and let live, as I will do--
Love and let love, and so will I;
But sweet for me no more with you,
Not while I live, not though I die.
Good-night, good-by!”
It was a new song, sent in, with many others, by the earl. Margery
played it through, and sang the words in a low, sad voice, till the
passion of the music awoke a chord within her; and then, as she neared
the end, her tones rang out clear and sweet through the large room.
As the echoes died away, the door opened, and the footman ushered
in a lady. Margery rose quickly, gave one look, then, with a sudden
exclamation of pleasure, hastened forward and threw her arms round the
newcomer.
“Miss Lawson!” she cried, with honest joy. “I am so glad--so glad to
see you once again!”
Miss Lawson kissed the fair cheek in silence, while tears glistened
in her eyes. If ever she had doubted the warmth, the generosity, the
goodness of Margery’s nature for an instant, the genuine pleasure and
affection of the girl now would have shamed her. She was still the
Margery of old, the sweet, loving Margery she knew so well.
“You are glad, child?” she said, quietly. “So am I to see your dear
face again; the months have seemed long since you went, though your
letters have told me all you have done. You are the same Margery; yet
you are changed, dear.”
“I am older and--a married woman,” Margery responded, with a forced
little laugh. “My dignity makes me older. But come and sit with me. How
much I have to say, and yet I scarcely know where to begin!”
Miss Lawson let her remove her bonnet and cloak and push her with
affectionate hand into an easy-chair in the inner room, close to a
blazing fire. With undisguised pleasure her eyes rested on the girlish
figure. It was not until Margery had gone from the village that the
rectory governess realized how deeply the waif had crept into her heart.
“You are not surprised to see me?” she said, after a while, as Lady
Court seated herself on a stool at her feet.
“I have been thinking of you so much and so often that you seem part of
my life. You are come to stay with me, dear Miss Lawson? Yes, yes, you
must stay; I shall not let you go.”
“I must return to-morrow; Mrs. Carr will expect me. I left Hurstley on
purpose to see you, Margery.”
“How good of you!” exclaimed Margery, warmly, fondling the worn hand
between her two soft palms. “This is just what I wanted to complete
everything.”
“You are happy?” asked Miss Lawson, abruptly.
“I am content,” answered the girl, and her great blue eyes met the gray
ones with a steadfast look. “And now tell me all the news. Am I quite
forgotten in the village? Do none of them ask for me in Hurstley?”
“Margery, I will be candid with you. When you first went I heard very
little about you, you know--I seldom go into the village--but in a very
short time the news came that you had gone to Australia with Reuben and
Robert Bright. The people were hard, dear, and blamed you. The Brights
are heartbroken at Robert’s leaving them, and all the fault is laid at
your door. They do not speak kindly of you, child, and, when I first
heard them, I had great difficulty in holding my tongue. But you had
begged for secrecy and silence, and I had given my word. I meant to
have written to or seen you, but then came poor Lady Enid’s death, your
marriage, and your illness. I could do nothing but wait. I have waited,
and now, Margery, I have come here for the very purpose of asking you
to take the seal from my lips, that I may explain to the village and
silence slander.”
Margery had risen to her feet, her hands pressed to her bosom, her face
deadly pale.
“How cruel the world is,” she murmured, bitterly, “how terribly cruel!
They know nothing, yet they speak harshly. They do not know how I
begged, how I entreated Robert to go back to his home. You remember how
stunned I was when first I learned that he had joined Reuben?”
“I know,” answered Miss Lawson, “and I would have all the world do
you justice. You are now great; let them know you as you are, and
crush their calumny. I do not blame the Brights--their whole life was
centered in Robert--but----”
“And for the rest I do not care,” interrupted Margery, proudly. “The
Brights will hear from Robert soon, and then they will learn the truth
and know how they have wronged me. What had I done to the village that
at the very beginning of my life they should think ill of me? Oh, Miss
Lawson, is the world all like this?”
“The world is cruel, Margery, bitter, hard,” the elder woman said, with
a sigh; then she added, regretfully, “I am sorry you will not disclose
your secret, but you know best, dear, and I have done what I considered
my duty.”
“You have done as you have done so often--treated me as though I were
your own child--and I thank you.”
“And have you not been my own?” said the elder woman, with a new light
of tenderness on her face. “I have seen you spring up from a tiny child
to womanhood; I have loved you through all, and I am proud of you. You
are to me what the poet says:
“‘For years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower
On earth was never seen;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.”’”
“And nature did that, Margery. No rules of mine could do what she did.
You had the germ within you of all that makes a grand, good woman, and
it has come to perfection.”
Margery bent and kissed the lips that spoke the grateful words.
“You always comforted me, dearest, truest friend! Ah, why will you not
stay with me always, to be my counselor and guide in the years to come?
You have worked so hard; now is your time for rest. Promise me that
when you are tired you will make your home with me.”
“I will come to you whenever I can, but I will not live with you. It
would not be wise. Now tell me of all the strange things that have
happened since we parted. Thank Heaven, my child, your lot has fallen
upon the golden side of life! Your troubles are over, now begins your
happiness.”
Margery’s hand had wandered to her heart-shaped locket, which day and
night she always wore. She raised it, and gazed at the image of her
mother’s face.
“It seems like a fairy story,” she said, slowly and dreamily. “I wonder
does the knowledge that I have so much, that the babe she left alone
in the wide, wide world has great riches and lives in luxury make her
happy?”
“It would make her happier, dear child,” Miss Lawson added, quietly,
“to see that your companion and friend for life, your husband, is so
good and true a man. He is well known to me, Margery. You see, my
sister has told me all about his nobleness and worth, and from my heart
I congratulate you--more, I rejoice with you.”
Margery did not answer; her hand was still closed round her locket, her
eyes fixed on the fire. The light flickering and dancing on her pale,
lovely face found no smile there, only a depth of pain in the wondrous
starlike eyes.
CHAPTER XXII.
The fortnight’s stay of the Crosbie Castle party in town was extended
to nearly six weeks; then Stuart escorted his mother home, and Vane
Charteris remained in London. She was now thoroughly vexed and wearied.
In spite of all her scheming, she was no nearer the goal. Indeed,
she began almost to fear that Stuart would slip through her fingers
altogether. She grew cross and worried, driving her mother almost
frantic by her return to what she called ill-health. The suspense
was really telling upon her, and with the birth of fear came strong
determination. For her own pride’s sake, she must win now; the bitter
mortification, the humiliation of failure would be too terrible to
bear. Had she not tacitly encouraged the idea that her marriage
with the heir of Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park was a foregone
conclusion? Already she had experienced the pleasure of seeing envy and
disappointment gather on several of her rivals’ faces. What barrier now
remained? Stuart had, to all outward appearances, blotted the foolish
episode of Margery Daw from his memory--there was no other influence to
combat hers. Why, then, did he not wake to the reality and complete her
satisfaction? The delay was annoying, the suspense killing.
Stuart, little guessing the workings of Vane’s mind, was recovering
gradually from the wound that his heart had received. His reckless mood
had gone now, and he was once more his calm, manly self; but the happy
brightness of his nature was dulled, his light, laughter-loving ways
had fled forever. His love for Margery had never died; he treasured
it now as a beautiful dream, too great a happiness to be realized on
earth. The first agony of surprise, doubt and grief over, he grew
to judge her as he judged all woman now--he thought of her, not as
Margery, the pure, sweet, fresh young girl, but Margery the worldly,
selfish, artificial coquette, of the same nature as the fashionable
butterflies he met in town. His love for her was a thing apart from her
memory; he deemed her unworthy of so great, so true a feeling; he had
worshiped an ideal, and he kept that ideal still shrined in his heart.
Growing weary of life in town, Stuart went back to the castle, thankful
for the breath of the fresh country air, the rural quiet. He intended
to leave England, to travel once again, but his father’s worn face
recalled Sir Douglas Gerant’s words, and so, with a little sigh, he
buried his own wishes, and gave himself up to minister to the parent
who loved him so dearly, and whom he treasured in return. To his mother
Stuart was a puzzle. Never once was Margery’s name on his lips, yet
his undoubted love for her, as revealed in their one interview, had
considerably startled her. She was surprised at his quietness, his
acquiescence in her every wish, grew uneasy at his sudden gravity and
the sadness of his face, and almost wished for a display of the strong
will which for so many years she had deplored. She, too, was anxious
that his marriage should be arranged, but had made no remark to him on
the subject, deeming the affair best left in Vane’s able hands.
Stuart had locked the thick letter which Sir Douglas had confided to
his care among the few treasures he possessed, and he waited, expecting
news from his cousin every day, but none came. At times Stuart grew
uneasy; he saw the announcement of the arrival of the vessel in which
Sir Douglas had sailed, and yet his cousin made no sign. All he could
do was to wait and hope.
He turned his attention to the business connected with the lands
and estates of Crosbie Castle, and spent long days with the farmers
and laborers, winning their hearts by his warm, generous nature,
and the interest he took in their welfare. But this state of things
displeased Mrs. Crosbie beyond words. She was an ambitious woman--she
longed to see her son enter the world’s lists for fame, and to watch
him gradually developing into a quiet farm-owner was more than she
could bear. It roused her pride to think that her son should have the
whole of his life altered through the sentimental folly of a plebeian
romance, and she determined to speak to him openly upon the subject of
his career on the first opportunity.
It was now about the middle of November, and Stuart was fully occupied
with altering and restoring his cottages before the severe weather
set in. He went out early and returned late, so that his mother found
the desired opportunity long in coming. At last, one afternoon, she
perceived him striding up the avenue, and, leaving her boudoir, she met
him in the hall.
“Well, mother,” said Stuart, smiling, “not out to-day? You are wise--it
is ankle-deep in mud. Don’t come near me--I am not fit to approach you.
I have come back for an agreement I made about Cullam’s cottage; I must
be off directly.”
“What is your hurry, Stuart?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. “Cannot you
spare me a few minutes? I have long wanted to speak to you, but really
you are so much engaged, I have had no chance.”
“Of course I am ready, mother, if you wish it,” Stuart replied, though
not readily. He never cared for these brief intervals of conversation
with his mother; they invariably annoyed him.
“Come to my boudoir for a few minutes.”
He followed Mrs. Crosbie in silence; then, as she closed the door, he
walked to the window and leaned against the ledge.
“Well, mother?” he said, in a tone of impatience.
Mrs. Crosbie stirred the fire, then warmed her white hands. She looked
at her son, and the sight of his grave, handsome face strengthened her
purpose. It was such a faint likeness to the merry, bright face of a
few months back.
“Stuart,” she began, quietly, “I wish to speak to you seriously. Do you
intend to lead this kind of life always?”
“What kind of life, mother?”
“This dull, monotonous, farmerlike existence. Have you no aim--no
ambition?”
“None,” Stuart answered, laconically.
His mother moved impatiently in her seat.
“Pray, be sensible, Stuart,” she said, sharply; “you were never like
this before. It galls me, it wounds me to see you wasting your days
down here, pottering about on the farms, and for what?”
“Some one must look after things, mother; my father cannot, and you
have often complained to me of the bad management, so I have determined
to relieve you of further anxiety.”
“Pshaw! Do I want my son to turn steward? I have to-day received a
letter from Lady Bayliffe strongly recommending me a manager, and I
have all but settled to engage him.”
“Then don’t do it,” promptly replied Stuart. “He is not wanted.”
“He is wanted! I shall not allow you, Stuart, to do this kind of work.”
“My dear mother, I am of age!”
Mrs. Crosbie was silent, and Stuart, looking up, saw the pain and
perplexity on her face.
“Forgive me, mother,” he added, moving toward her. “I am very selfish.
Tell me what you want me to do, and if it is in my power I will
undertake it.”
“I want you to rise in the world; I want you to be famous, Stuart.”
“Fame is not to be bought, mother.”
“It is within your reach. Contest Chesterham at the next election. You
will be returned with an immense majority. The rest will follow.”
“I have no brains for politics,” declared Stuart. “I cannot do it.”
“There is no such word as ‘cannot!’” returned Mrs. Crosbie, vigorously.
“If I were in your place, Stuart, how differently I would act! You are
wasting your life.”
Stuart walked back to the window.
“I will not give you a decided answer now, mother,” he said. “Give me
two days to consider.”
“Willingly,” she agreed, “and weigh all things well. Remember, you will
afford me the greatest happiness in life if you agree to this and to
another wish.”
“To make you happy, mother, I would do much,” Stuart responded, raising
her hand to his lips. “What is it?”
Mrs. Crosbie drew a long breath.
“That you will marry.”
“Marry!” repeated Stuart, dropping her hand, while his face grew white
and his brow darkened. “That, mother, is impossible.”
“I have not spoken to you on this subject before, Stuart, though it has
been one very near my heart. You have been troubled; but you are not my
son if you have not pride sufficient to drown and wash away forever any
trace of your trouble. It is not for a Crosbie to submit to insult and
humiliation.”
“I submit to none!” retorted Stuart, in a quiet, clear voice.
“You have been deceived,” his mother declared, coldly and proudly; “by
one who was not worthy even a second thought.”
“Mother!” he exclaimed, hurriedly, and then stopped. What could he
say in defense of Margery? She was, indeed, all this. “Your wish is
sudden,” he added, after a pause. “It comes to me quite unexpectedly;
but I have only one answer to it--I shall never marry!”
Mrs. Crosbie compressed her lips and turned away.
“Just now you called yourself selfish,” she observed. “I think you were
right.”
“Why should I marry, mother?” he cried, suddenly. “You know, or perhaps
you can never know, what the past meant to me. I am not a vane to be
turned by every wind. I have loved, and I shall not love again.”
“What has that to do with marriage?”
“I would not ask any woman to be a wife on such empty terms; it would
be a sin. But it is not necessary. I would do anything, mother, in my
power to please you; but this I cannot.”
“Are you my child?” asked his mother, quietly and coldly. “Can you
waste your whole life, like a misanthrope, because a village coquette
has laughed at and mocked you? There are good women’s hearts still
in the world, women of our world, who can love and suffer as such
creatures never can.”
“I will offer no woman my life without my love,” declared Stuart,
firmly.
“What would you say if I were to tell you that there is one who would
take it gladly, one who has watched and worked for you all these months
in silence, and who, through everything, is steadfast and true as
steel?”
Mrs. Crosbie’s hand fell on her son’s shoulder as she spoke. She felt
it was her last card; it might win the game. Stuart looked into his
mother’s eyes; a flush rose to his face.
“You mean,” he began.
“Your cousin, Vane,” she broke in.
“Vane!”
His mother’s hand slipped from its hold; but he did not move. He was in
a very whirlwind of surprise, pain and doubt.
“You have not known? No; she hid her secret too well! There is a woman
fit to be your wife--proud, loving, courageous, a companion to cheer, a
helpmate to stimulate your ambition. Had you not been so blind, Stuart,
you might have seen this. What do you say now?”
“I can say nothing,” he answered, still in the same low tones. “This
has stunned me. You must let me think, mother; I have not the power to
speak now.”
“Yes, think--and think well,” Mrs. Crosbie said gently. Something told
her that she had won; Vane’s devotion had touched the right chord.
She watched her son move to the door in silence.
“We will speak of this again another time,” he said, with constraint.
A wave of compunction passed through Mrs. Crosbie’s mind when she was
alone. Would Vane, after all, bring him happiness? She had tricked and
deceived him. But this momentary feeling was soon lost in the glad
thrill of ambition that stirred her breast. Stuart married, and in
Parliament, she had nothing more to wish for.
In a maze of troubled thoughts Stuart strode down the wet paths.
Vane loved him; and yet she had put her own feelings on one side and
ministered tenderly, thoughtfully, kindly to him! What depths of
womanly sweetness in such a sacrifice--what a generous, noble nature!
His heart warmed with gratitude toward her, though it cooled again as
he remembered that she loved him. What could he do--whither turn in
this dilemma? Vane was dear to him as a friend, as a sister, but not
as the woman he would make his wife. And to make any woman his wife
now, when such sadness darkened his life, was almost impossible. What
must he do? Could he let her live on alone, with the sorrow he knew
from experience to be so bitter wearing out her heart? Would it be a
generous return for all she had done, for the noble tenderness with
which she had tried to bring him happiness? No, no, a thousand times
no! If he could no longer have joy, if gladness were gone forever,
he had still the peaceful pleasure of bringing gladness to another’s
heart. His mother was right--it was his duty to face the world, and
Vane should be his wife.
Even while he thought thus, his brow contracted with pain, a spasm of
undying regret shot through him, the dream of his first love in all its
sweetness returned and enthralled him once more. It was impossible! He
paced up and down under the wet, dripping trees, trying to calm the
tumult in his breast, with a longing for solitude and peace one moment,
and a piteous thought of Vane’s great love the next. It was a terrible
struggle, and it lasted through the night hours, never ceasing till the
dawn, when, pale and worn, yet with a steadfast look of determination
about his mouth and in his handsome eyes, he conquered it. He was
brave and strong--sorrow could not crush him; but Vane--poor, delicate
Vane--she could not endure trouble; and so, if indeed his mother had
spoken aright, he would go to Vane, and ask her to be his wife.
The gloomy weather in London did not tend to lessen Miss Charteris’
despondent mood. She was peevish, bored, discontented, longing to leave
England and go to a warmer climate, yet feeling that she could not give
up her desire and declare herself defeated. She was waiting only for a
week or two to pass, and then she would go down once more to Crosbie
Castle and make a final effort. This idea was occupying her mind as she
sat one dull, wet afternoon gazing out into the dismal streets, with a
gloomy look spoiling her pretty face. She heard the door open, but did
not stir, imagining it to be her mother. The stillness that followed
caused her to turn; and, looking around, she met Stuart’s eyes.
“Stuart!” she exclaimed, her face flushing. “You have given me quite a
start! I did not know----”
“I have been watching you for the last two minutes, Vane; you
were lost in thought. Whose memory were you honoring by such deep
meditation?”
Stuart looked very handsome, and something in his manner thrilled her
with joy.
“I was thinking of Crosbie,” she answered. “Come to the fire, Stuart;
you must be frozen. And how is Aunt Constance--and why have you come? I
am very glad to see you.”
Stuart stood silent, slowly removing his gloves; then he moved nearer
to her side by the fire. Vane was looking lovely; the plaintive sadness
of her face, which was tinged with a delicate flush, touched him. He
had read it well in the first moment of his entrance, and traced, as he
thought, the marks of her trouble.
“I have come to see you, Vane,” he told her quietly, “because I have
something to ask you.”
Vane felt her heart beat wildly.
“Yes, Stuart,” she said, faintly.
“Vane, you must know my inmost heart--you were my confidante, my
friend. I want you to continue to be my friend, the best and truest of
companions--I want a helpmate, a counselor. I want you to be my wife.”
Vane stood silent, her head bent. She felt faint, and, now that success
had come at last, she could not speak.
“I cannot offer you great love,” Stuart went on, taking her hand. “I
will not deceive you, Vane--it is buried in the past; but I will give
you affection, devotion--true and sincere devotion, if you will accept
it. The gift is poor, Vane. Reject it if you will.”
“Reject it, Stuart!” murmured Vane, turning her luminous blue eyes on
him. “No; I accept it, for I love you--I have loved you through it all,
and I am happy at last!”
Stuart pressed his lips to hers; and the compact was sealed.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Miss Lawson kept to her word and departed on the following day for
Hurstley, despite all Margery’s pleading and wishes. The short visit
had been a great pleasure to them both. To Margery the very sight of
her governess had brought back a wave of her brief past happiness, and
unconsciously soothed her; and Miss Lawson had felt her heart thrill
with pride and gladness to see her pupil grown so fair and lovely a
woman, and surrounded by all that she could desire. Yet the strange
sadness in Margery’s eyes would haunt her. What could be the secret
that had destroyed her girlishness and brought such an expression to
the young face? Miss Lawson pondered this deeply, but could arrive
at no solution of the mystery, and indeed would have been no little
astonished had she learned what link it was that bound Margery’s heart
to Hurstley. She knew the girl had been acquainted with Stuart Crosbie;
but that fact was not strange, for Stuart had a kind word and smile for
every one in the village, and Margery, of course, shared this general
friendship with the rest.
Lord Court had welcomed Miss Lawson warmly and courteously, and even
in their brief meeting a mutual liking sprung up between them. The
earl was delighted to see the flush of pleasure, called up by her
presence, on Margery’s face, and he added his entreaties to his wife’s
to urge the governess to stay longer; but their pleadings were vain,
and Margery could only kiss her true friend and let her depart, having
first extracted from her a promise of an early visit to Court Manor.
The afternoon on which Miss Lawson left was gloomy and wet, and Margery
felt sad and a little lonely as she sat with her books and work. Her
husband had gone to the club before luncheon, and she had decided to
make the best of a long afternoon when the door opened and he appeared.
“Do you feel inclined to go out, my darling?” he asked, tenderly,
bending to imprint a kiss on her brow.
Margery looked up inquiringly.
“Because,” he explained, “I should like to take you with me to call on
an old friend who is ill. I had no idea he was in England. As a rule,
he is wandering round the world in a most extraordinary fashion. But
I saw Notteway at the club, and he told me Gerant has been down with
rheumatic fever for the last six weeks and was quite alone. So I looked
in on him for a few minutes, and, having mentioned my young wife, he
pressed me to bring you around to see him, if you had nothing better to
do.”
“I will go with pleasure,” replied Margery, rising. “Who is he, Nugent?”
“Sir Douglas Gerant. I knew him years ago in England; but we met abroad
principally, and I liked him very much. He is a peculiar, almost
uncouth, man, but so kind and good--as tender as a woman and most
unselfish. For these weeks past he has been very ill; but he would not
let his people know, and has been attended only by his servant, who has
been his companion in all his travels.”
“And he would really like to see me?” queried Lady Court, putting her
dainty work into its basket.
“He seemed to wish it. I happened to mention that I was married; and,
when I spoke of my happiness, he said, in his old abrupt manner: ‘Bring
her to see me, Court, if she will not be frightened by such an old
savage;’ so I came at once. But if you would rather not go----”
“Oh, I should like to see him!” broke in Margery. “Poor man, all alone!
And I have nothing to do this afternoon. I will not be long, Nugent.”
With a tender smile the earl watched her graceful figure flit through
the doorway; then he walked to the fireplace, and, leaning his back
against it, gave himself up to pleasant thoughts. The careworn look,
the expression of trouble and pain was gone from his face; hope seemed
written on every manly feature, and the handsome, dark eyes flashed
with a light of gladness that spoke plainly of his altered life.
Margery was soon back. She had put on her sables, a round cap of the
same rich fur surmounting her red-gold curls, and for once she wore no
veil. She had determined to hide herself no longer. She had nothing
to fear; it was she who had been wronged and insulted. Pride lent her
strength, and she felt that her eyes could meet Vane’s clearly and
coldly now, even though her heart still ached with the pain Stuart
Crosbie had caused.
The earl settled her comfortably in the carriage, and then stepped in
himself.
“This weather is terrible,” he said, as they started. “Once this law
business is settled, Margery, I think I shall take you to a warmer
climate, to see the sunshine and breathe the scent of flowers.”
“There is one pilgrimage I must make before we do that,” returned
Margery, in a low voice. “I cannot rest till I have visited Enid’s
grave.”
The earl raised her little black-gloved hand to his lips.
“You speak only of my heart’s thoughts, my own; but I hesitated to take
you to the manor in this wet, gloomy weather. I thought the sunshine
would----”
“Sunshine is beautiful; but the manor is home, and is near her.”
Margery smiled faintly; she was compelled to speak these words, for she
felt almost overpowered by this tender devotion, and suffered miserably
as she thought how poorly she could return it. Henceforth it mattered
little to her where she lived; but, if her choice of the manor brought
him pleasure, she was glad.
“Home!” repeated Lord Court, tenderly. “Ah, Margery, you cannot know
what a wealth of happiness there is in that word! Thank you, dear, for
uttering it. Yes, we will go home.”
They were silent after this till they reached a quiet street in an
unfashionable quarter, and presently the earl handed Margery into the
doorway of a tall, gloomy-looking house.
“Gerant always stays here,” he said, as they went upstairs. “Will you
remain here, my dearest, till I see if he is ready to receive you?”
Margery smiled, and waited in a room that looked cozy and picturesque
in the fireglow. The walls were hung with weapons of all nations; a
heterogeneous mass of quaint, curious things were grouped in corners;
carved and painted gourds were placed here and there, with ivory
ornaments and rare bits of china. It represented a strange contrast to
the dull, ordinary exterior of the house, and Margery found much to
attract her till her husband returned.
“Now, my darling, come with me. Loose that heavy cloak, or you will be
too warm; and, if the old man asks you to sing, will you gratify him?”
“With all my heart.”
Lord Court led his wife across a passage, and pushed open a door hung
with curtains. The room that she entered was almost dark, but Margery
saw a low, flat couch pulled near the fire, with a gray head resting on
the pillow. She could not see the invalid’s face properly, but a faint
something in the dark eyes struck her as familiar.
“I have brought my wife to see you, as I promised, Gerant,” said the
earl, cheerfully, leading Margery to the couch.
“It is kind of you to come, Lady Court,” the sick man answered, in a
faint, weak voice. “I have known your husband a long, long time--years,
eh, Court?”
Where had Margery heard that voice before? It sounded familiar, faint
and husky as it was.
“I am very glad to come,” she responded, simply, and took the chair the
servant pushed forward.
“And Margery will sing for you, if you like.”
“Margery!” whispered the sick man; and then he tried to raise his head
from the pillow. “Margery!” he repeated.
“I think Sir Douglas is ill,” said Margery, rather frightened, turning
to the servant.
“It is weakness, my lady,” returned the man.
“Let me raise him a little,” said the earl. “I think he wants to
speak.” In a lower tone he added to the servant: “He’s much weaker than
he was this morning; what is it?”
“Spasms at the heart, my lord; his heart is very weak.”
“Don’t be alarmed, my darling,” whispered the earl to Margery. Then he
put his arm round the sick man, and raised him easily into a sitting
posture.
Sir Douglas tried to murmur thanks, but for a few seconds his weakness
was too great. Then, as his strength came back, he stretched out a
thin, white hand to the girl sitting in the shadow.
“Come into the light,” he whispered, “that I might see your face.”
Margery slipped her hand into the speaker’s weak, trembling one, and
bent toward him as the earl stirred the fire into a blaze.
The girl’s eyes met the sick man’s hollow, dark ones, which were full
of strange eagerness and excitement, and again she seemed to remember
them.
Sir Douglas closed his long fingers over hers, and drew her nearer and
nearer, till she bent over him.
“Closer,” he murmured. “Yes--I--can see--it is! Heaven is--good! You
are----”
His strength seemed to fail entirely. Margery bent still nearer as he
sunk back upon the cushion, and her heart-shaped locket escaped and
dangled against his withered hand.
“He is fainting!” she said, hurriedly. “Look how pale he is!”
His eyes opened as he spoke, and wandered from her face to the little
gold locket. A spasm of pain caused his mouth to twitch; his breath
came in gasps; he tried to open the locket, and his eyes spoke words
that his lips refused to utter. Then, as the earl drew Margery back,
the lids closed over them, and the face became calm.
“It is only a faint. Come away, my darling! I wish I had not brought
you; but he was almost well this morning.”
Margery suffered her husband to lead her into the other room and place
her in a chair. Her nerves were unstrung, and she was full of vague,
incomprehensible excitement.
“Go back to him,” she murmured. “I am quite well. I cannot leave till I
know that he is better. Poor man! How strange he looked!”
The earl obeyed her; and, when she was alone, Margery put her hands
over her eyes and tried to think what the memory was the sick man had
brought back to her.
“Is he better?” asked Lord Court, on his return to Sir Douglas’ side.
“It was only a faint, Murray?”
The man looked up from his prostrate master, and shook his head sadly.
“It is the end, I fear. May I make so bold as to ask you, my lord, to
ring that bell? I shall send to his cousin immediately. Mr. Stuart
should come at once. I hope her ladyship is not frightened? Sir
Douglas always seemed strange when he heard the name of Margery.”
“She is anxious to know how he is. I will take her home, and return as
soon as possible. Yes, send for his relatives, Murray. The Crosbies,
you say? Well, they ought to come. Poor old Gerant!”
“Thank you kindly, my lord; I will. He will be glad to see you, I know,
if he recovers; but I never saw him so bad as this before.”
The earl waited till he saw the heavy eyelids raised, then he returned
to Margery.
“Yes, he is better, darling,” he said, in answer to her eager inquiry.
“Come--I will take you home, and then I will return to learn how he is
progressing. Murray is going to send to his people, the Crosbies, of
Crosbie Castle, and they will look after him.”
“The Crosbies, of Crosbie Castle!” The words rung in Margery’s ears. In
an instant she remembered where she had met this man before. She saw
once again the hot, dusty lane, the lodgekeeper’s wife, the strange man
who had questioned her so curiously and spoken the terrible words that
blighted her young heart, and she knew that Sir Douglas Gerant and that
man were one and the same. She stood silent, almost overcome by the
conflicting feelings within her breast, and was scarcely conscious that
the earl led her downstairs, and she was driving home.
CHAPTER XXIV.
That she possessed some strange magnetic influence over Sir Douglas
Gerant, Margery did not doubt, but what it was she could not tell; it
seemed so vague, so mysterious, and yet her heart was filled with great
and unfathomable emotions. What had she in common with Sir Douglas
Gerant? Why should he gaze at her so eagerly? She sat very quiet in her
carriage, yet every nerve was thrilling.
The earl noticed her manner, but attributed it to the sympathy she
felt for the sick man. He regretted now that he had taken her to see
his old friend, but Sir Douglas had seemed quite convalescent in the
morning, and he had thought the visit might do him good.
On reaching her room, Margery let her husband remove her heavy mantle
and her cap without a word; then as he stood looking undecided beside
her, she turned to him.
“Please go back to him. I am all right, and I should like to know how
he is now.”
“Are you sure you are better, darling? You were quite frightened.”
“Yes, yes! Go; perhaps you may be of some service.”
The earl stooped and kissed her, and was soon rattling away in a
hansom, while she sat silently thinking and wondering over what had
occurred.
Lord Court found Sir Douglas restored to consciousness, but too weak to
utter a word. Already there was a great alteration in the worn face,
and the sick man’s eyes, as they wandered with a restless eagerness
round the room, struck the earl with sudden sadness.
“I’ve sent down to the castle,” said Murray, who was watching his
beloved master; “and I’ve also sent to Mr. Stuart’s club. He may be in
London; if so, he’ll come as quickly as he can. I hope he is, for Sir
Douglas would like to see him, I know. Many and many a time I’ve wanted
to let Mr. Stuart know, but he wouldn’t let me; he was always thinking
he’d be better in a day or two, and was longing to be off. He has
fretted so through his illness, my lord, it has quite worn him out.”
“Have you sent for the doctors?” asked the earl.
“They’ve just gone, my lord. They didn’t say much. ‘Give him a
teaspoonful of brandy every half hour,’ they said; and I know what that
means, my lord.”
“How wasted he is,” thought the earl--“how changed! I wish he could
speak; he looks as if he wished to say something.”
He bent and asked Sir Douglas if there was anything he specially
wanted; but the rigid lips did not move--only the eyes seemed to plead
more than before. The earl’s presence appeared to give him pleasure,
for, if Lord Court moved, the thin, trembling hand went out toward
him, and Murray construed this into a wish for his friend to remain.
An hour passed without change, and the earl was thinking of sending
a message to Margery, explanatory of his long absence, when the door
opened, and the sick man’s face suddenly altered. He made a feeble
attempt to rise, his hands moved restlessly to and fro, and his lips
parted to speak, as a young man bent over his couch. It was Stuart
Crosbie.
“Cousin,” he said, hurriedly, with real pain on his face and in his
voice, “my dear cousin, oh, why did you not send for me before?” Then,
turning to the servant, he added: “Murray, you should have let me know!
Six weeks ill, and I thought him in Australia! It has distressed me
more than I can say.”
“Sir Douglas would not let me write, sir,” replied Murray, as he put
the brandy to the invalid’s lips. “Lord Court came in to-day, and he’s
the first person as has been.”
“It was a shock to me, too, Mr. Crosbie,” remarked the earl. “Gerant
and I have been old friends for years. I am heartily glad you have
come.”
“You are very kind,” said Stuart, putting out his hand; “but cannot he
have something to give him strength?” Then, turning to the invalid, he
added: “You want to speak to me, cousin?”
He knelt down by the bedside as he spoke, and looked eagerly into the
sick man’s face.
“Sir Douglas has tried to speak, but he cannot, Mr. Stuart--yet.”
“Hush!” interrupted Stuart, putting up his hand--the pale lips were
moving.
“You--will--not forget----”
“My promise?” finished Stuart, gently. “No; everything you wish shall
be done.”
Sir Douglas fixed his eyes on Lord Court, and a faint sound came from
his lips. The earl bent his head the better to hear.
“I cannot hear,” he murmured sadly to Stuart.
“Give me the brandy, Murray,” said Stuart. “Come, that is right; we
shall have you well and hearty soon, cousin,” he added to the sick
man. “Do not distress yourself; I will do all I promised.”
Sir Douglas looked at him earnestly, as if his dark eyes would read his
inmost heart. Then a change came over his face, and he smiled faintly.
His head was raised for a minute from the pillow, and a whisper fell on
their anxious ears:
“Gladys--wife--it--has--come--to--Margery--little--Mar--gery--thank--
Heaven!”
The voice died away, a convulsive tremor seized the heavy eyelids,
which closed slowly over the dark eyes, glazed with a film now, the
head sank back, and with a sigh the spirit of Douglas Gerant fled from
its earthly abode.
Stuart knelt on, while hot tears were stealing down his cheeks. A
solemn trust was confided to his care--of what nature he knew now. The
ne’er-do-well, the wandering nature, the truant from home, had not
been alone all his life. The name of “wife” passed from his lips as
death closed his eyes. Some tale of sadness, of disappointment, was to
come, and with it was linked a name that had destroyed Stuart’s joy and
youth--the name of “Margery.”
A strange thrill ran through the young man’s frame when at last he rose
from his knees. There was now a bond of sympathy stronger than had ever
existed in life between himself and his dead cousin.
* * * * *
“It is not true! I will not believe it! The whole thing is a romance
from beginning to end. Douglas Gerant always----”
“Mother, do not forget you are speaking of a dead man,” broke in Stuart
Crosbie, quietly and sternly. “I will not listen to such words.”
Mrs. Crosbie turned and faced her son. Stuart was leaning against the
mantelpiece in a room of a London hotel, his face pale, yet determined.
Mrs. Crosbie, dressed in heavy black robes half-hidden with crape, was
walking to and fro, vexed and wrathful.
“Do you mean to say you will not dispute this iniquitous will?” she
asked, sharply.
“Certainly not. I have no right. It is a most just one.”
“And you will let Beecham Park pass from your hands into the clutches
of some low-born girl who has no more right to it than a beggar in the
street?”
“Except the right of a daughter.”
“Daughter!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie, with scorn. “There was no marriage,
and, even if such was the case, the girl is not to be found; he lost
trace of the mother and child for sixteen years, and now has conjured
up some romance about a likeness in a village wench.”
“Mother, you are not just or temperate. Douglas Gerant has set forth in
this letter the sorrow of his life. With his dying lips he claimed my
promise to fulfill his wishes, and I shall do so.”
“You are mad, Stuart!” declared his mother, coldly. “But,” she added,
with a sneer, “I need not look very far for your motive; it is for
the sake of this girl, this Margery Daw, that you are determined to
sacrifice everything. Had Sir Douglas seen a resemblance in any other
woman, the desire to carry out his wishes might not have been so
strong. You have no pride, Stuart, not a----”
“I have honor, mother,” Stuart interrupted, his brow clouded, his face
stern. “You wrong me and insult me. The past is gone. Why bring it
back? I shall do my duty for Douglas Gerant’s sake, for honor, justice,
right and truth’s sake, and for nothing else. I shall seek out Margery
Daw; I have pledged myself to the dead, and shall keep my word.”
“And what will Vane say to this quixotic course?”
“Vane is a true-hearted woman; she will say I am right. But, should she
not, then I cannot help it--I am resolved.”
Stuart turned to the fire as he spoke, and looked into the blaze with a
pained, weary expression on his face.
“The world will call you mad,” observed Mrs. Crosbie, crossing to the
window and sinking into a chair, “and Vane will be greatly displeased.”
“Vane loves me--so you say,” replied Stuart, quietly; then he turned to
the table, and began to write rapidly.
On the night after Sir Douglas Gerant’s death, in the seclusion of
his room, Stuart had broken the covering of the packet intrusted to
his care, and read the contents. The funeral was over now, and the
will read. Beecham Park was left to Stuart, with the proviso that he
fulfilled certain conditions contained in a letter already placed in
his hands.
The writing was close and crabbed, but it was distinct, and Stuart read
it easily.
“When I first decided upon making you my heir, Stuart, I determined to
couple that decision with another that would perhaps prove as irksome
to you as it has been sorrowful and disappointing to me. But a new
influence has since come into my life--hope, sweet, bright, glorious
hope, with peace and gladness behind it. Let me tell you my story.
“You will have heard of your cousin, Douglas Gerant, as a scamp, a
profligate, a disgrace. I was wild, perhaps foolish and hot-headed;
but, Stuart, I never dishonored my name or my father’s memory. My
brother Eustace and I were never on good terms. He hated me for my wild
spirits, my good looks, and my success with women, and I, on my side,
had little sympathy with his narrow, cramped life and niggardly ways;
so one day we agreed to part and never meet except when absolutely
necessary. I left him in his dull home at Beecham Park, where his one
idea of enjoyment was to scan rigidly the accounts of the estate and
curtail the expenses, and went to London.
“From my mother I inherited a small income, which proved about
sufficient for my extravagances, and I passed my days with a crowd of
boon companions, traveling when and whither I pleased, just as the mood
seized me. Among my acquaintances was one whom I held dearer than all;
we were bound together by the firmest bond--true friendship. Conway was
a handsome fellow, with a reckless, dare-all style that suited my wild
nature, and an honest heart; we were inseparable. And next to him in
my friendship was a man called Everest, a strong-willed being with a
plain face, but having the manners of a Crichton, together with a fund
of common sense. Everest was a barrier to Conway’s and my wildness, and
to him we owed many lucky escapes. We were with one accord railers at
matrimony, and a very bad time of it any poor fellow had who deserted
our ranks to take unto himself a wife. I laughed and bantered like the
others, deeming myself invulnerable; yet, when I laughed the loudest,
I fell wounded. My raillery was over, my whole nature changed. The
laughter and jokes of my comrades jarred on me; my soul revolted from
the lazy, useless life I was leading. I grew earnest and grave--I had
fallen in love. I had seen a woman who suddenly changed the current of
my life.
“Gladys, my angel, my sweet star! She was the niece of one of my
mother’s old friends. I rarely visited any of the old set, but one
day the mood seized me to pay a visit to a Lady Leverick, with whom
as a boy I used to be a great favorite; and at her house I saw my
darling. What need to tell you all that followed? I haunted the house,
unconscious that Lady Leverick grew colder and colder, heedless of all
but Gladys’ sweet face and glorious eyes.
“At last the dream was dispelled; her aunt spoke to me. Gladys was an
orphan under her charge; she was penniless, dependent on her charity,
and she would not have so wild, so dissolute a man propose for the
girl’s hand. I was mad, I think, for I answered angrily; but in the
midst of the storm came a gleam of golden light. Gladys entered the
room, and, in response to her aunt’s commands to retire, put out her
fair, white hands to me, and, leaning her head on my breast, whispered
that she loved me, and that nothing would separate us.
“We were married. Lady Leverick refused to see, or even receive a
letter from my darling; and my brother Eustace, in lieu of a wedding
present, sent a curt note informing me that I was a madman. A madman I
was, but my mania was full of joy. Could heaven be fuller of bliss than
was my life in those first three months? My income was all we had, but
Gladys had had little luxury, and we laughed together over our poverty,
resolutely determining to be strictly economical. We took a small house
in St. John’s Wood, and then began my first real experience of life.
I sighed over the money I had wasted, but Gladys never let me sigh
twice, and always declared that she would manage everything. Out of
all my old friends, I invited only two to our home, Guy Conway and Hugh
Everest; but very happy little reunions we had.
“We were quite alone, and though Gladys tried over and over again to
reinstate herself with her aunt, from affectionate desire only, she
failed. Lady Leverick would not see her or own her, and my darling had
only me in the wide world.
“How happy I was then! Through Everest’s influence, I obtained a
secretaryship of a good club, and the addition to our income was most
welcome and helpful.
“The months slipped by with incredible swiftness and sweetness till a
year was gone and our baby born. All this time Conway and Everest were
our beloved and most intimate friends, and Gladys seemed to like them
both. We christened the child Margery, but she was to me no earthly
being--her beauty and delicacy seemed scarcely mortal. She was like her
mother, and both were marvels of loveliness, so much so that Conway,
who was a bit of an artist, insisted on painting them in angel forms.
“Have you ever seen a storm gather in a summer sky and in one moment
darken the brightness of the sunshine with gray, heavy clouds? Yes?
Then you can conceive how my life was changed by a swift, fell stroke
that almost crushed my manhood. I was much occupied at the club, and
was away from home many hours. Sometimes it struck me, when I returned
at night, that my wife’s face was disturbed and sad, but the feeling
did not last, and as soon as we were together the expression changed.
“One evening I was leaving the club, and, in passing out of the door to
enter the cab--I could afford that luxury now--I felt myself touched
on the arm, and, turning, found myself face to face with Hugh Everest.
I welcomed him warmly, yet something in his manner sent a chill to my
heart.
“‘Dismiss your cab and walk a little way with me; I want to speak to
you,’ he said. I turned to the cabman and did as my friend wished.
“‘Now what is your important business, Everest?’
“‘Have you seen Conway to-day?’ he asked, abruptly.
“‘Conway? Yes. He came to say good-by; he starts for Monte Carlo
to-night. Nothing wrong with him, I hope?’
“‘Not with his health.’
“I turned and looked at Everest; he was deadly pale and greatly
agitated.
“‘If you have anything to tell me,’ I said, firmly, ‘do so at once. I
cannot stand suspense.’
“‘Then prepare for the worst. Conway has gone to Monte Carlo alone, but
he will be joined in Paris by a woman to-morrow night. That woman is
your wife.’
“My hand flew to his throat, but he was prepared, and pushed me with
almost superhuman strength against some railings close by. We were at
the corner of Pall Mall, and, suddenly putting his arm through mine, he
dragged me toward the steps of St. James’ Park. Here it was quiet. I
loosened myself from his grasp.
“‘You are a coward and a villain!’ I exclaimed. ‘Your words maddened me
at first, but I am sane now. Great heavens, that you should have dared
to utter such a lie and be alive!’
“He grasped my hand with his.
“‘Keep your head cool,’ he said. ‘If I had not proof, do you think I
should speak as I have done?’
“‘Proof!’
“I staggered to the steps and sank down, burying my face in my hands.
“‘This afternoon,’ he went on, quickly, ‘I called at your house. Your
wife was in, the maid said, and I entered the drawing-room. I waited
several minutes, and then the maid returned, saying that her mistress
was not at home, after all, and, leaving a message for her, I took my
departure. At the gate I picked up this note in Conway’s hand; you can
see it by the light of this lamp. It says, “Come to my studio at once
for final arrangements. To-morrow I trust will see the end of all your
trouble, suspense and anxiety. Then will come my reward; for you will
trust in me henceforth forever, will you not?” I was stunned when I
read it,’ Everest went on. ‘My first impulse was to tear it into shreds
and to cast it from me; but I thought of you, Douglas, and a vague
sense of danger stayed me. It was still early, and I determined to go
to Conway’s studio and reason with him--demand an explanation. I went.’
“Everest’s voice grew husky for a moment, Stuart, while every word he
uttered went to my heart like a knife; my youth died in that moment of
supreme agony.
“‘I went,’ he continued, ‘and asked to see Conway; he came to me for
a second, looking strangely agitated. I suggested staying with him
till he started that evening, but he refused to let me, and hurried
me away. I took my departure, ill at ease; for, despite his repeated
asseverations that he had much to do, I felt he had a visitor; and my
suspicions were only too well grounded, for, on turning my head when
I reached the road, I saw your wife standing with him in the studio
talking earnestly. Then I came to you.’
“‘To crush my happiness!’ I exclaimed, recklessly. ‘It was thoughtful!’
“‘You judge me as I feared,’ he answered, sadly. ‘Well, I have done
what I considered my duty; the rest is for you.’
“‘The rest will be forgotten,’ I answered.
“‘What--you will submit to dishonor, you will stand deceit! You will
receive her kisses to-night, remembering her lover’s this afternoon!
You are no longer a man, Gerant!’
“His words fanned the flame of my jealous passion to madness. Hitherto
I had spoken mechanically, remembering my wife’s purity and sweetness;
but at his taunts the blood in my veins became like fire. I wanted
nothing but revenge.
“Everest tried to calm me, but it was useless; he had set the match to
a train that would not be extinguished.
“The remainder of that night is like a hideous nightmare to me. I can
see myself now hurrying him from the steps to the street and into a
cab. I can remember how sharp was the pain at my heart when I repeated
the vague, yet self-condemning words of Conway’s note. I can see again
the houses seeming to fly past us as we dashed homeward. I can feel
again the agony I endured when, in answer to my hoarse inquiry, the
maid said my wife was not at home. Again I can feel the agony of
suspense, rage, madness I suffered as I strode up and down the road
before the house, with Everest standing a little way off, watching me
with a calm, anxious face, till the sound of light feet came to our
ears, and I stood before Gladys.
“I can see her pale, startled face, her shrinking form, as in a
suppressed voice I demanded to know where she had been. She did not
answer at once, and her hesitation maddened me. I lost all manliness,
Stuart. It haunts me now--the misery of her face, the pleading of her
lips. But I would listen to nothing. In a flood of passionate words I
denounced her, thrust aside her hands when they would have held me, and
then, telling her we should never meet again, I rushed away, leaving
her dumb and pallid as a figure of stone.
“Once I turned to go to her--a moment of remorse in my madness--but
Everest pushed me on, and so we parted. Everest never left me all
night; he took me to his rooms, and sat watching me like a mother, with
his grave face and strange, earnest eyes. I was waiting only for the
morning; then I started for Paris--for Conway and revenge!
“Gladys I would never see again. I left my money and the settlement
of my affairs in Everest’s hands in case of my death, and he promised
me to look after Gladys; for, though I deemed her dishonored, I could
not let her starve. He was anxious to stay in England, but I kept him
beside me and refused to let him go.
“I crossed to Paris the next day, and sought everywhere for Conway,
but could not find him. Everest grew impatient, but still I would not
release him; and two days passed without incident. On the third day I
learned that Conway had never left England, that he was seized with
sudden and severe illness at Dover; and, when I reached that place he
was dead.
“Robbed of my revenge, I sunk into gloomy despondency. Everest went to
London to look after my wife. My body seemed paralyzed; I seemed no
longer a man. My friend was away a week, and then returned suddenly
and told me, with a strange, pale face, that Gladys was gone--had
disappeared with her child, and could not be found.
“My misery was so great, I scarcely realized the horror of this. My
brain was dulled by intense pain. As in a dream I listened to him,
hardly heeding him, and conscious only of a vague relief as he left me
to go abroad, to shake off, he said, the anxiety he had suffered.
“I stayed on another week or so at Dover, still in the same condition.
Then my brain suddenly cleared; but my misery returned in greater
force. I was mad once more with an agony of pain. I left Dover; it
was hateful to me. I traveled to London. A longing, a craving seized
me to see Gladys, to look on her once more, though she was dead to me
forever. I drove to the house; and the memory of Everest’s words came
back to me then--that she was gone. Pale and faint with anxiety, I
alighted at the well-known gate, and I saw at a glance that the house
was deserted.
“What had become of Gladys? How had she managed? Was she starving--lost
in London, with not a friend in the world? In an instant my rage was
quenched. I saw her only in her sweetness, her beauty, and I leaned
against the gate, overwhelmed with the flood of miserable thoughts that
crowded upon me.
“But it was not a time for dreams. I felt I must act. So I hurried to
the house-agents, feeling sure that they could tell me something. From
them I gleaned the barest information. My wife had visited them early
in the morning following that dreadful night, paid them the rent to the
end of the quarter, and left the key. I questioned them closely and
eagerly, but could gather nothing more, and then I went away, feeling
like a man whose life was almost ended. Over and over again I whispered
to myself, with a twinge of remorse, that Gladys was innocent, and
would have explained all if I had only let her. Then the memory of
Everest’s words, the damning evidence of Conway’s note, returned, and I
knew not what to think; but on one point I was certain--henceforth life
held no duty for me till Gladys was found. Though the golden dream of
our joy was ended, though I doubted her, she must be found and cared
for.
“I began a search--a search, Stuart, that has lasted all my life.
By good hap at this time a distant cousin, dying, bequeathed me his
property, which, though not large, came like a godsend at the moment,
for every available penny I had, had been expended in my search. I
was haunted by my wife’s pale, horror-stricken face gleaming in the
moonlight, by the memory of my baby child, whose prattle had sounded
like music in my ears. I knew too well the miseries, the horrors, of
London, and I could not bear to think that the woman I had held so near
and--Heaven help me!--still treasured in my heart, was thrown into its
terrible jaws and left to perish without a helping hand.
“I pray Heaven, Stuart, you may never know the darkness of those days,
the unspeakable anguish, the depth of despair! Weeks passed. I could
find no trace, and when I was tortured with the conflicting emotions
which surged within me an event occurred that put the last stroke to my
misery, added the ghastly weight of a wrong to my burden, a wrong which
I could never wipe away.
“I had resigned my post at the club, and, in my eager restlessness,
wandering about the London streets, either alone or with one of my
detectives, I was lost even to the remembrance of the frequenters of my
old haunts. One day, however, I met a man who had been very friendly
with me, and in the course of conversation--I would gladly have avoided
him if I could--he told me there were several letters awaiting me at
the club. None knew where to send them.
“I went for the letters, urged by a wild hope that Gladys might have
written. She had. It was a letter that is graven on my heart in
characters of blood. Heaven give me strength to tell you; for even
now, after so many years, I grow faint when I think of it! It was a
long, hurriedly-written letter--the letter of a distraught woman. I
will not give it to you here; there were no reproaches, but there was
a clear statement of facts given by a broken heart. In my anxiety I
could scarcely read the first lines, but some words further on caught
my eyes, and held them as by magnetic power. They spoke, Stuart, of
the persecution she had endured for weeks from Hugh Everest. Again and
again, Gladys wrote, she felt urged to speak to me, but she knew I
valued him as a friend, and she trusted that his honor, his manliness,
would overcome his baser feelings, and that he would go away. Of Guy
Conway she spoke tenderly and earnestly. The letter I had brought
forward as a proof of their guilt was indeed written by him; but it
referred to a painting he was engaged upon of herself and her child,
which she had intended leaving at her aunt’s house, hoping that the
sight of the baby’s angel-face would break down the icy barrier which
caused her such pain. This had been a little plan of his, suggested
when he saw how the estrangement troubled her. She was at Conway’s
studio, but only for the purpose of discussing the delivery of the
picture; and, catching sight of Hugh Everest, in a moment of agitation
and dislike she openly expressed a wish not to see him. Conway at once
undertook to prevent their meeting, with what terrible result you know.
My wife ended her letter by stating that she was gone from my life
forever with her child. The shock of my suspicions had destroyed all
joy or happiness evermore for her; but, though separated, she would
live as became my wife and the mother of my child, for whose sake alone
she could now endure life. This ended it; there was no sign, no clew,
no word to lead me to her.
“I was not a man, Stuart, when I had read that letter; I was a brute--a
savage animal. Had Hugh Everest been near me, I should have torn his
cruel heart from his body, and his tongue from his false, lying lips.
A fury seized me to find him--find him, though I searched the world
round; face to face with him, I could breathe out the passion, remorse,
revenge, scorn, and agony of my bursting heart. But I could not leave
England till I knew where my darling was, my sweet, wronged angel--till
I had knelt in the dust at her feet, and bowed my head in shame; and so
my search went on.
“Years passed, but only a slight clew turned up now and then, always
with the same ending. I have wandered--led by these disheartening
clews--from one country to another; and at last the men I employed
grew weary, and I had to work alone. But I was kept alive by my love
and my desire for revenge. Everest never came to England--coward and
villain--but the day came, a day not long past, when we met, and on his
dying bed I forced him to confess his wrong and own his deceit. Then,
when he was gone, the misery of my wasted life returned, and I sunk for
a while beneath my load of care.
“Hope was almost dead forever when I visited you at Crosbie; and then
suddenly by one of those strange, unexpected chances that come to us at
times, it burst into a living, glowing flame once more. All through the
past years I had prayed that, should Gladys be gone, my child might be
spared; and, Stuart, my prayer was granted. At Crosbie one morning I
came face to face with a girl at sight of whom I seemed to have stepped
back into the past. I was startled by the image of my sweet wife. I
spoke to the girl, learned her name--Margery Daw--and not until she
had gone did hope wake in my breast, bringing once more the feeling of
eager gladness that I thought dead forever.
“I waited a day or two, but quietly made inquiries, and obtained all
the information I wanted; then, having first tested the truth and
honesty of your nature, I determined to confide all to you, and claim
my child; for that she is my child there is no doubt. But happiness was
not to be grasped at once; again fate was unkind. When I made my way to
the cottage where Margery lived, it was to find her gone--gone across
the sea to Australia. The sudden pain and disappointment aside, I was
myself again. Australia was nothing to me; I would start at once, and
clasp my child yet in my arms before I died.
“So, Stuart, I leave this in your hands. If I succumb, seek out my
Margery and give her her rights. To you I leave all, for I know you
will do as I wish; and remember she is your cousin and your equal.
Guard her, Stuart, from harm, if it be in your power, and may Heaven
bless and reward you for all you may do! It will be necessary to
explain how I discovered Margery to be my child. As I told you, I made
most minute inquiries, learning all particulars from people both in
Chesterham and Hurstley. I sought for Dr. Scott, the medical man who
had attended during the railway accident; he had left Chesterham many
years before, but he remembered the incident well, and his description
of the poor dead woman only confirmed my hopes and fears. Acting upon
his advice, I went to Newton, and by dint of money and able men traced
my darling’s life during two long years of misery. The story of her
sufferings, of her daily toil, her heart-broken life, I cannot dwell
on. Heaven grant you may never know the terrible agony of hopeless
remorse and longing that I am now enduring! Despair seizes me when I
remember my madness, her wrong--my angel-wife! Even the joy of finding
my child cannot bring me peace. The happiness I experience in the
knowledge of her existence is tinged with never-dying bitterness and
sorrow, for she recalls her mother.
“But I weary you with my moans, Stuart; let me get on with my story.
Gladys then, without a friend in the world--for her aunt would have
nothing to say to her, being especially bitter when she learned we were
separated--doubted and wronged, had, in addition to her other troubles,
the hardship of poverty to face. She struggled to get employment, with
little success however; from time to time she managed to make money
by teaching, but this never for long. Still, through all her trials,
her courage never forsook her; she lived for her child. I have spoken
with some who knew her in those days; they dwelt on her sadness, her
sweetness, her innate refinement, little knowing how their words
rent my heart. It would be useless to describe the hopelessness, the
misery of her life; she parted with all her jewelry, and at last in
desperation answered an advertisement for a situation as maid.
“Beyond this I cannot write positively, but my heart tells me the
truth. The situation that Gladys had obtained meant separation from
her child. She had heard me speak of my cousins, the Crosbies; and I
am convinced she was on her way to seek protection from your mother
and shelter for the baby before taking up her new duties, when death
claimed her and ended her sorrows.
“I inclose with this letter the certificates of our marriage and of
Margery’s birth. My lawyers have in their possession a small box,
which after my death they will hand to you. It contains the jewelry
that belonged to my wife. Give it to Margery. And now, Stuart, I
have finished. Pray befriend and guard my child as far as lies in
your power. My heart is full of gratitude when I think of the good,
kind women who took her, a weak, helpless babe, and tended her so
well. I have written to Lady Coningham words of gratitude that sound
empty compared with the feelings that prompt them; would that I could
have done so to the others--Mrs. Graham and Mary Morris! But death
has garnered them, and the power is taken from me. One thing more,
Stuart--lay me beside Gladys in the little country churchyard where
kind, strange hands laid her; though in life we were separated so
ruthlessly, let us in death be together.”
Stuart had sat long after he had read the letter, his heart aching with
pity for his dead cousin. The tale of sorrow was so heavy that for a
time it banished his own grief; but, as he rose and paced the room, the
memory of his duty brought all back clearly, and he saw the bitterness
of the task before him. A faint wave of gladness for her sake was
checked by the reflection that they were parted forever. Still he would
be firm; he was pledged to the dead; and, even were the pain deadly, he
would keep his word, seek out Margery, and give her her rights as his
cousin, and heiress to Beecham Park.
The news that caused Mrs. Crosbie such wrath and annoyance brought
alarm and fear unspeakable to Vane Charteris’ breast. This unexpected
blow following on her unexpected success almost crushed her by its
suddenness. Stuart would meet Margery, learn the truth, and she would
be humiliated and disgraced. Moved by her anxiety, she added her
voice to his mother’s, and endeavored to shake his determination to
sail for Australia. She did not betray herself by word or look; she
only spoke prettily of her loneliness, and of how it would be a wiser
course to send out an agent to the antipodes in search of his new
cousin, and not to go himself. She stored her speech with references
to Margery’s faithlessness, hoping they would take effect; but it was
all to no purpose. Stuart was firm, and refused to be turned from his
determination. Had his father added his voice to the others, he might
have yielded; but the squire was eager that Stuart should fulfill his
promise, and declared truthfully that his health was so much stronger
that his son might leave him without any hesitation. So, instead of the
clear sky which Vane had pictured to herself, clouds were gathering on
all sides, and fear planted thorns at every step in her path, making
her faint with apprehension and dread of exposure and disgrace.
CHAPTER XXV.
Margery was strangely affected when she learned that Sir Douglas Gerant
was dead. She could not banish from her mind the thought that in some
way her presence had caused him distress. The earl saw her pained face,
and immediately determined to put all business affairs aside and take
his wife down to Court Manor. So, on the afternoon following her visit
to the late baronet, Margery was carried away from London to her new
home.
When she arrived it was too dark for her to see her surroundings; but
the pure freshness of the country air, the silence after the bustle
and noise of the London streets, the faint soughing of the wind in the
trees, brought a thrill of peace and gladness to her, and as she stood
at the low, wide door and gazed around the quaint, rambling hall she
looked so pleased and comforted that the earl’s heart rejoiced. It
was a delightful old-world place. The corners and crevices, the rooms
filled with serviceable furniture of no modern date, the smell of the
flowers, the glow of the firelight--all seemed to speak of home. It was
a haven of rest and quiet after the storm of the past few months. And
if at night this feeling came, it was even stronger in the morning.
As she drew her curtains aside and looked out over the wide vista of
country, Margery gave a little sigh of relief. Here she had nothing
to fear, nothing to remind her of the past; here it would be easy to
forget and grow content.
The pain that contracted Nugent’s heart as he stood once more in his
old home ceased when he saw the glow of hope, love, and happiness on
his wife’s delicate, lovely face, and he pictured to himself a future
all brightness and gladness. In both their hearts, as they entered the
house, the same memory lived--the memory of Lady Enid. Margery sent
up a little prayer to Heaven that she might prove grateful to the man
whose heart was so tender and true, whose sufferings had been so great,
and he mutely thanked his angel-sister that ere she went she bequeathed
so great a treasure to him as Margery.
His whole being was so impregnated with his great love that he had
failed to discover the true cause of Margery’s passive gentleness. It
was true he did not think her heart held so deep a love as his own; but
she was young, the marriage was hurried, love must have time to grow.
In time his great devotion must reap its reward. The liking she now had
would change to love. He must be patient and wait. So he reasoned in
his happiness, dwelling with a thrill of joy on the memory that Margery
had neither relatives nor friends. This girl, the star of his life,
had none but him to tend her, none but him to whom she could turn. The
pleasure that Margery showed in her new home struck the final chord of
happiness in his heart.
The girl found much to occupy her in her new position, and her lovely
face and kind words soon won the servants’ hearts, already disposed to
love her for her gracious influence over their master.
It was about the end of the week that Margery learned accidentally
from her husband that he had neglected his business in town on purpose
to bring her away, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she begged him
to return and complete his arrangements. The earl demurred, but at
last, satisfied that she would not be lonely, he agreed, and departed,
leaving many tender injunctions with her to take great care of herself
in his absence.
The young wife felt a pang of remorse at the relief and pleasure she
experienced when quite alone. She struggled hard with herself day and
night; but to forget was so hard, and to remember so easy. Though
she was surrounded by all that the world holds dear, she found no
satisfaction in her wealth; her mind was lost to the present--it would
persistently wander to the past--that past which, despite its pain and
humiliation, was so sweet. The return to the country had brought back
so much that was linked with her brief love-dream that the struggle
seemed to grow greater day by day.
Pauline noticed her mistress’ grave, sad face, but attributed it to
his lordship’s absence, and, to cheer her, would repeat the servants’
tales and anecdotes of his goodness, little thinking that every word
went to Margery’s heart like a sword thrust. She regretted with a deep,
unspeakable grief, that she had been silent with Lady Enid; had she but
spoken of Stuart and of her unhappiness, all would have been different,
and she would not have pledged her vows to this man, the depth of whose
generosity, tenderness, and devotion touched her with acute pain. If
she could but give him in return one-half the love he bestowed on her,
she would be happier; but her love was dead, buried in a past summer
dream, and she had nothing left for him.
“The loves and hours of the life of a man,
They are swift and sad, being born of the sea--
Hours that rejoice and regret for a span,
Born with a man’s breath mortal as he--
Loves that are lost ere they come to birth,
Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth,
I lose what I long for, save what I can--
My love, my love, and no love for me!
“It is not much that a man can save
On the sands of life, in the straits of time,
Who swims in sight of the great third wave
That never a swimmer shall cross or climb--
Some waif washed up with the strays and spars
That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars,
Weed from the water, grass from the grave,
A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.”
Yes, that was all that remained now, “a broken blossom, a ruined
rhyme.” Her life might be sweet again, but it would never be as it was
on that evening in Weald Wood, when her young heart was first touched
by love.
Lord Court was absent two days; then he suddenly announced his intended
return. Margery was wandering in the gardens and the pleasance
when Pauline brought the telegram to her. With a vague sense of
apprehension, Margery tore it open.
“Your master returns to-night, and brings a guest. Tell Mrs. Perry to
see that the rooms are prepared, Pauline.”
Pauline nodded her head in a self-satisfied manner.
“I am glad. Milord will be welcome; it is so gloomy here for miladi
alone. Ah, and miladi will make a grand toilet to-night?”
“I leave myself in your hands, Pauline,” returned Lady Court, with a
faint smile, which vanished when she was left alone.
Her husband was returning again! Once more she would suffer the agony
of pain and remorse in his presence; but she must be strong, and
remember only her duty and how much she owed him.
The afternoon wore away, and evening was drawing on. It was dark and
gloomy, one of those unpleasant days that come in November. Margery
walked to and fro, till she was wearied, and then turned into a small
room that she had chosen for her boudoir. She gave the order for the
carriage to be sent to meet the earl, and sunk down before the fire,
resting her head on a low velvet chair. She wore a heavy mourning-robe,
simple yet costly, and her delicate face and throat gleamed with so
dark a setting. She was altered from the Margery of the summer, yet her
face was only a child’s face. Her youth, the purity of her countenance,
her deep sapphire eyes, her curly silken masses of red-gold curls, were
the admiration of Pauline. She brought her mistress some tea, served in
fragile Sèvres china, and then stood for an instant and looked down on
the face that was so fair in the fireglow.
“Miladi is tired,” she said, sympathetically; “she walks so much.”
“I am a little weary,” Margery answered, waking from her thoughts; “but
that is ended now, I hope.”
She spoke to herself more than to the maid; her mind was on the one
subject that had engrossed her all the afternoon. Pauline smiled; she
thought she understood the meaning of her words.
“Ah, milord is to return!” she decided, and went away to her room.
Margery sat on before the fire. The tea had revived her, yet she
seemed strangely agitated as the time drew near for her husband’s
arrival. A vague sense of approaching trouble had come over her,
and she put her hand to her heart to try to stay its quick, hurried
beat. She had been thinking so deeply that her nerves were unstrung.
The solitude had tried her, she told herself; yet, even as she
whispered this, her heart began to flutter again. It was a strange,
incomprehensible feeling, a feeling she had never experienced before,
and she longed for, yet dreaded, her husband’s return.
At last the sound of wheels caught her ear, and she rose from her seat.
“I will be firm--I must forget!” she whispered. “My love, good-by,
good-by!”
Then she heard the sound of voices in the hall and knew that her
husband was close at hand. She turned to greet him as the door opened,
and in the dim light she saw two men enter.
“Margery, my wife!” said Nugent’s grave, tender voice; and his lips
touched hers.
His companion not coming forward, the earl still holding Margery’s
hand, looked around.
“I have brought a friend home, darling. It is only a flying visit, as
he is off to Australia; but I persuaded him to come for a few days.
There will be a bond of friendship between you through poor Gerant.
Crosbie, let me introduce you to the Countess of Court.”
The stranger moved forward mechanically into the light. Margery’s hand
grasped her husband’s. She raised her eyes, and, with a sudden agony of
pain, saw her lover, Stuart, before her.
She tried to offer her hand, but the effect was too much. A mist dimmed
her vision, her brain reeled, and she fell to the ground, pale and
unconscious, at her husband’s feet.
Pauline rushed in as the bell rang loudly. She pushed aside the earl
as, in terror and alarm, he knelt beside his wife, never noticing
that Stuart Crosbie stood silent in the center of the room, his hand
grasping a chair.
“It is nothing!” cried the maid, raising Margery’s beautiful head.
“Miladi will walk, and bring the fatigue. Miladi has been _désolée_ in
milord’s absence and now it is the joy. See, she recovers, milord!
Leave me with her alone. She will be well.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
At midnight, while the clouds were driven across the moon by the wind,
Stuart Crosbie sat in his chamber at Court Manor, his arms folded, his
head bent dejectedly upon his breast. He was stunned by the strange
events of the past day. He could never tell how he had borne himself
through the long evening, though every incident was graven on his heart
forever. He could not grasp the meaning of what had taken place. He met
the earl at his club, having a little time to spare before the vessel
sailed, and he accepted Lord Court’s invitation with a vague feeling
that he should escape the reproaches, mute and open, which otherwise
he must hear in town. The earl had taken a sudden liking to the young
man, and some rumor reaching his ears as to Stuart’s proposed voyage
to Australia, he begged the nephew of his old friend to honor him with
a short visit before his departure. So Stuart had assented, hardly
heeding whither he went, his mind occupied with the task before him
to find his cousin Margery; and in the twilight, with the firelight
revealing her loveliness, he had, with a shock that stunned him, come
suddenly face to face with the girl he sought, the girl he loved.
It was so strange, so incomprehensible. A feeling of acute pain came to
him. At the sight of Margery his love rose up again in all its vigor,
full of bitterness and despair, however, for she was a wife. He sat on
in the chill night hours, his brain full of disturbing thought. The
mystery, the suddenness of the whole thing, seemed to stun him, to
crush his very being. During the whole evening he had sat listening
to his host’s voice, and answering in monosyllables. Margery did not
appear; of that he was only too distinctly conscious. The rest was a
blank. And now he was alone, bewildered, tormented by pain, despair,
love. His journey was ended before it had commenced, for he had found
Sir Douglas Gerant’s daughter, found the owner of Beecham Park. In the
morning he must unfold his tale, and then--go from her forever.
He rose and, approaching the window, opened it. How came Margery
hither? he asked himself. What strange fate had brought him to her
at that very moment? What story would he hear on the morrow? Had he
wronged--doubted his love? A cold shudder seized him at the very
thought. With an effort he put it from him. What could Margery say in
self-defense? She had deceived--cruelly deceived him. Whatever the
cause, he could not forget that. What explanation would she give him?
Perhaps none; and he had no right to demand any. The difficulties of
the situation seemed to become greater and greater as he pondered it in
his mind. He moved from the window, and walked slowly up and down the
room. Margery, the girl he had loved, trusted, revered, the girl he was
about to seek in a far-distant clime, was under the same roof with him
at that very instant, the wife of his host, the Earl of Court. It was
inexplicable. His mind could find no solution to the problem; he could
but wait for morning light.
Stuart was not the only one who was awake and disturbed that night.
Margery, clad in a silk dressing-gown as white as her cheeks, was
pacing the floor of her chamber. She had pleaded illness, and begged
to be left with Pauline; and, once alone, she sent her maid into the
dressing-room and fought the battle with herself in solitude. If
sorrow, despair, anguish, had come to her before, they visited her
now with redoubled force. It seemed to her the very irony of fate, a
mockery of her good intentions, that she should be so tried at such
a moment--a moment when she had thought herself a conqueror over her
weakness. Of what avail had been her struggles, her earnest prayers,
her resolutions? The sight of Stuart’s grave, handsome face, the
intoxication of his presence, had left her weak; the memory of his
insults, his deceit, had banished everything but the knowledge that she
loved him still. She longed for the weary night to pass, yet dreaded
the coming of morning, when she must meet him, speak to him, when his
every word would be as a dagger thrust into her heart.
Dawn was creeping over the sky when, thoroughly wearied and ill,
she flung herself upon her bed. As she lay, her eyes fell on the
sapphire ring that she wore, and the memory of Enid--her patience, her
suffering, her courage--stole into her heart. Then her mind wandered to
her husband, and to all his great goodness; and, remembering this, she
sent up a fervid prayer for strength to do her duty to this man; and,
as the sighing plea left her heart, she grew comforted.
“And grief shall endure not forever, I know;
As things that are not shall these things be;
We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow,
And none be grievous as this to me.
We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears
The sound of time, the rhyme of the years;
Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow
As tender things of a springtide sea.”
* * * * *
Stuart left his room early, and, despite the cold, gloomy morning, made
his way into the grounds to think and nerve himself for the coming
ordeal. He looked pale and wan; his eyes had never closed all night,
his restless thoughts had never left him. His task was ended, he told
himself--his cousin was found. He must just state the truth, and then
go away from her fair, false sweetness back to the long, straight path
of duty, back to the woman who had loved him so long and so well, back
to his pledged word and the burden of life.
He was walking to and fro beneath the leafless trees, his heart almost
as dead and withered as the leaves beneath his feet, when a cheery
voice hailed him, and, turning, he saw the earl.
“You are out early, Crosbie,” cried Lord Court, as he approached. “I
saw you from my windows.” Then, in a tone of surprise, he added: “But
you look ill. Is anything the matter?”
“I did not sleep well,” returned Stuart, hurriedly, “for I have had a
shock. I am going to tell you all about it.”
“A shock!” repeated the earl, with a smile. “Don’t say the manor is
haunted. I believe it is most unorthodox not to have a family ghost,
but I have never heard yet that we have one.”
“It is not a ghost--it is a reality! I meant to have spoken to you last
night, but I was so surprised that I could hardly realize the truth of
what I saw. I will explain now.”
“Come indoors,” said Lord Court, looking a little bewildered. “It is
sultry out here. Now, Crosbie, I am all attention--begin,” as they
entered the house.
“You are aware I was about to start for Australia next week. Do you
know why?”
“No,” answered the earl. “And, to tell you the candid truth, I was just
a little puzzled as to the cause of your hasty departure.”
“It was to fulfill a wish of my dead cousin, Douglas Gerant. He left a
daughter; it was in search of her I was to sail on Thursday next.”
“A daughter! Why, I never knew Gerant was married!”
“It was a secret,” said Stuart; “but I have the whole history in a
letter which he confided to my care. Now comes the strange part of the
story. This daughter was thought to be in Australia, was even traced to
that part of the world, when suddenly, as I am about to start to find
her, by one of those extraordinary turns of fate, I come face to face
with the cousin I seek--here--in your house!”
Lord Court stood still and looked at Stuart earnestly.
“In my house!” he echoed, slowly, as if doubting his ears. “Who is it?”
“Your wife.”
“My wife? Margery? You are jesting!”
“Jesting!” repeated Stuart, grimly. “I was never so serious in all my
life! Sir Douglas Gerant’s lost daughter bore the name of Margery Daw.
She was placed in a home in Hurstley--my native village. Evidence was
forthcoming that she had gone to Australia with Reuben Morris, the
husband of the woman she had called mother. I knew her well; and last
night, when I came face to face with her, I was overwhelmed by the
discovery that Margery Daw and the Countess of Court were one and the
same person.”
Lord Court passed his hand across his brow.
“I cannot think clearly yet,” he said, slowly; “the news is rather
sudden.” He paused for a little. “There is no mistake--you are sure?”
“I am sure,” answered Stuart, emphatically.
The earl was silent for a minute, then his face cleared and brightened.
He put out his hand to Stuart, who grasped it silently.
“I can think and speak now. My darling has found her rights, and she is
your cousin. The feeling of friendship for you which came so strongly
to me, Crosbie, has now a solid basis beneath it. How happy she will
be! And yet it is sad, at one and the same moment, almost, to find a
father and to lose him. Fate must have led her to his bedside on that
day. Thank Heaven, he saw her once before he died! Come--let us go in
and tell her. Words seem so feeble to-day that I cannot express half
of what I feel. The mystery of her birth has hung over my darling like
a dark cloud; and now, by Heaven’s mercy, it is gone, and she will be
free and happy.”
They turned and walked in silence along the hall. Pauline was tripping
down the stairs.
“Miladi is in the south room--she would attend the _déjeuner_,” the
girl said; and the earl walked quickly down a long corridor to a door
hung with heavy curtains.
“We will tell her now,” he whispered; and in another moment they were
in the room.
Stuart’s vision was obscured for the first few seconds, then it
cleared, and he saw a slender, graceful girl, with fair, pale cheeks
and a wreath of red-gold curls, before him. She had her hand clasped in
the earl’s; and, as his senses returned, Stuart saw her deep-blue eyes
grow dark with surprise, and her face become whiter than the folds of
the heavy serge gown that draped her.
In a soft, low voice, tender and passionate, the earl told her all; and
Margery stood beside him, hearing nothing save the words:
“Sir Douglas Gerant’s daughter, the cousin of Crosbie, my friend.”
Stuart drew back while the earl murmured soothing words in her ear, and
she gradually awoke to the reality.
“He was my father,” she said, dreamily; then, with a sudden rush of
remembrance: “Ah, now I understand all!” She sank into a chair and
buried her face in her hands. Presently she rose, saying to the earl:
“Tell me everything.”
Lord Court put his lips to her hand.
“Crosbie will do that, my darling; he is your cousin now, you must
remember. Give him your hand, and bid him welcome to your home as your
kinsman and your friend; you were too ill last night to do so.”
Margery’s heart seemed to stand still; then, nerving herself for the
effort, she stretched out her hand.
“You are welcome, cousin,” she said, in a faint voice.
Their fingers met for an instant, then dropped apart; and Margery
turned away, feeling that the agony of this meeting was almost greater
than she could bear.
The earl drew her gently toward him. She was too weak to offer any
resistance--was even glad of the support; and, standing with her
husband’s arm around her, Margery heard the story of her father’s
sorrow and her mother’s martyrdom slowly but distinctly from Stuart
Crosbie’s lips. The words went home to her heart; the despair, the
misery caused her unspeakable pain, and tears rained from her eyes.
The earl, wrapped up in his thoughts for his wife, took no notice of
Stuart’s agitation and pallor. He did not think it strange that the
young squire of Crosbie Castle should have been so surprised at seeing
Margery. His sister had told him the girl’s history, as she had heard
it from Miss Lawson, and, remembering that his wife had been called
a village girl, it was not likely her action would be known at the
castle. He only felt a great wave of gratitude and happiness fill his
heart. The mystery of her birth solved, Margery would now be content,
and there would be no barrier to their complete happiness.
As Stuart spoke of Beecham Park, Margery raised her head.
“The estate is mine?” she said, slowly.
“You are the next heir,” answered Stuart.
“Therefore you are a great lady,” put in Lord Court, smiling. “Beecham
Park is one of the finest places in England. But come, Crosbie; sit
down. This has been a morning of surprises, but we must eat, or we
shall sink beneath them altogether. You must pay us a long visit now,
for you have no reason to go--has he, Margery? When there was Australia
to consider, it was another thing.”
So the earl chatted on, eager to rouse Margery from the dreams into
which she had fallen; and with a glance at Stuart, he adroitly turned
the conversation and plunged into other topics.
Margery sat silent. She could not eat--her brain was in a whirl; and at
last she could bear her distress no longer, and with a murmured apology
she went slowly to the door.
“Yes, rest, my darling,” said Lord Court, as he followed her; “this
news has been too much for you. But, before you go, tell your cousin
that if he departs, it will be at the risk of your grave displeasure.”
Stuart had risen, and their eyes met.
“You will stay,” she said, faintly; and then the door closed, and she
was gone.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Should he go or stay? was the burning question in Stuart’s mind all
that morning. Duty and honor bade him tear himself away; yet there was
something mysterious and altogether apart from the inthrallment of
Margery’s presence that kept him. He spent the long hours walking about
the grounds with the earl, forcing himself to discuss the all-important
subject of Margery’s birth the while he was growing faint and weary
with the struggle that raged within him.
The surprise, the sleepless night, the agitation at last began to tell;
and, as the afternoon advanced, Stuart was obliged to confess that he
was quite exhausted and could walk no farther.
The earl was full of contrition for his thoughtlessness.
“Come back to the house. Would you prefer to go to your own room? If
not, rest in my ‘den.’ I can answer for its silence and coziness.”
Stuart preferred the “den;” the mystery of the previous night haunted
him--he hated the thought of his luxurious bedroom. The earl led the
way to the north wing of the house, and, going to the extreme end
of a corridor, pushed open the door of an apartment that seemed to
warrant his statement. It was three-cornered and quaint, and at the end
branched off into another room, which led through a long French window
to the grounds. Lord Court closed the door between the two rooms, and,
pushing a chair to the fire, made his guest comfortable, handing him at
the same time the batch of newspapers that had just arrived from London.
“Now you are settled,” he said, genially. “You look as if sleep would
not come amiss; and, such being the case, I shall have no hesitation
in leaving you. I must drive to Beverley Town, a good distance away; I
have an important interview on hand with a troublesome tenant. I shall
be back, however, before dinner. Are you sure you won’t be bored?”
Stuart replied in the negative, and, after seeing him cozily ensconced,
Lord Court quitted the room, and made his way to the stables.
Left to himself, Stuart leaned back wearily, and gave way to thought.
Once again the struggle raged between duty and desire. The love that
he had thought was treasured only for his ideal lived for the woman
who had deceived him, and swept away all memory of that other girl
who, through all her trouble and sorrow, had soothed and helped him.
There was everything to call him away, yet he felt he could not go
until he had gazed once more on the delicate beauty that had seemed to
him the personification of truth and sweetness in the summer that was
gone. There was something altogether strange and incomprehensible in
Margery’s marriage. The earl had casually mentioned the love that his
dead sister had had for his wife, and Stuart would have followed up the
remark in order to learn how it was that the village girl had became
the Countess of Court; but the earl would talk of nothing but Sir
Douglas Gerant and the wonderful discovery of his daughter.
Stuart took up his paper and forced himself to read; but the words
seemed to run into each other, and his mind refused to be diverted
from the mystery and perplexity that tormented it. As he lay back,
wearily gazing into the glowing coals, he saw his duty clearly--he must
leave the manor and put every barrier between Margery and himself.
Vane had been true, faithful, devoted; to her he would return, and by
earnestness and determination try to thrust out all remembrance of his
false love from his heart, and forget that she even existed.
The struggle was ended now, he told himself; his path was clear and
well defined. A sense of peace stole over him, the firelight flickered
amid the fast-growing shadows. Stuart’s head drooped, his eyes closed,
and his troubled spirit was soothed in slumber.
The afternoon grew into winter dusk; the fire had settled in a glowing
mass of red embers, and not a sound disturbed the silence. Presently
the door was opened gently, a white hand pushed aside the curtain, and
Margery stood in the room. As her eyes fell on Stuart’s motionless
form, her heart gave one great leap, then sunk again; she let her gaze
rest with unspeakable sadness and tenderness on her lost lover’s face,
then she turned to go. She moved away softly, and her hand was on the
door, when a sound came from behind:
“Margery!”
She turned at once, to see Stuart with his hand outstretched.
“I am sorry,” she faltered, faintly. “I did not know you were here. I
came to find my husband. I have disturbed you.”
Stuart’s hand fell, and he bowed his head to the arm of the chair.
“You are ill!” Margery went on, quickly. “Let me----”
Stuart raised his head and rose to his feet, steadying himself with one
hand on the chair.
“I was dreaming,” he answered, hurriedly; “but I am awake now, Lady
Court.”
The color faded from Margery’s face.
“Your husband has gone to Beverley Town,” Stuart continued, in a voice
that sounded strange in his own ears. “He settled me comfortably in
his own ‘den’ before starting, and told me that he would be home to
dinner.”
Margery bowed her head and turned toward the door, when Stuart moved
forward as if to arrest her.
“As I shall leave you this evening,” he said, hurriedly, “I will take
the present opportunity of informing you that the letter and proofs I
spoke of this morning shall be sent to you as soon as possible.”
“You are very kind,” responded Margery, as calmly as possible. “Thank
you for all you have done.”
There was a pause. Margery felt as if some strong, unknown power held
her to the spot. She wished to move away, yet could not; and Stuart let
his eyes rest on her fair loveliness, feeling that his resolution to
depart was growing weaker and weaker as he gazed.
“I have done nothing,” he said, almost harshly, trying to hide his
agitation.
“It is all so new and strange,” murmured the girl, putting one hand to
her throat and speaking as if to herself. “How often we have discussed
the story of my mother, yet how far we were from the truth! And we were
cousins all the time.”
“What use is there in recalling the past?” asked the young man,
hoarsely. “It can bring nothing but pain.”
Margery looked up at his pale, drawn face.
“Pain?” she repeated, slowly. “I wonder if you know what pain I have
suffered!”
She spoke unconsciously, urged by the memory of all her sorrow, her
girlish despair and her humiliation.
“What should give you pain?” cried Stuart, harshly, folding his arms in
his agitation. “You have riches, title; you can do as you will; you are
Lady Court.”
The bitterness of his voice went to her very heart.
“How cruel you are!” she murmured, her head dropping upon her breast.
“Cruel?” he repeated, moving to her side, mad with the intoxication of
his love and the remembrance of her deceit. “Were you not cruel when
you coquetted with me, led me on, lied to me, and then deceived me?”
“Deceived you! What do you mean?”
Stuart met her clear, blue eyes, startled, yet strangely steadfast.
“Why do you say such wicked, such cruel things of me?” she asked.
Stuart hesitated for a moment. A sudden strange fear crept into his
heart.
“You may give them other names,” he said, huskily; “I call it deceit,
I call it wickedness to act as you did--to laugh at me, to send false,
tender messages the while you were fooling another man, and suddenly
to leave the village for him, forgetting me and all the words you had
spoken only three days before.”
Margery had moved slowly to the table. She still wore the long robe
of white serge that she had donned in the morning. She looked up at
Stuart, mystified and pained by his words. She put one hand on the
table and gazed at her old lover, whose arms were still folded across
his breast.
“I do not understand,” she said, distinctly yet faintly. “You accuse me
of deceit.”
“Let me recall the past,” returned Stuart, letting his hands drop to
his sides, while he moved nearer to her. “On the day we plighted our
troth, the words I spoke, Margery, were from my heart, not lightly
meant or lightly given, but solemn and serious; while yours----”
“While mine,” she cried, raising her head proudly, “live as truly in my
heart now as they did on that day! Ah, what have I said?”
She moved to a chair, and, flinging herself into it, buried her face in
her hands, while he stood as he was, hardly realizing what it was that
caused the sudden glow within his breast, the unspeakable happiness
that possessed him. In a moment, however, Margery rose; pride had come
to her aid. She looked at him steadily, her two small hands clasped.
“You have accused me of deceit,” she said, “spoken words insulting
to a true woman; but it is what I should have expected from the man
who trampled on a girl’s heart, her life, as you did on mine. Ah, how
wrongly I judged you! I thought you a hero, a king; you proved yourself
mean, dishonorable, despicable!”
She drew a quick breath, then went on, not noticing that his face had
grown as pale as her own.
“I was only a village girl, a plaything of the hour, sufficient to
amuse you when you were dull, a toy to be tossed aside when I had given
you all the amusement you wanted. It was nothing to you what might
come to me--I served your purpose. In my foolish ignorance I gave you
all my heart; I let you see how deeply I loved you; and, in return,
you went back to your cousin, your equal, and laughed at my foolish
weakness as a good joke. You to talk of deceit, of lies--you, who
offered me such insults, sending me money through her--money, Stuart,
when my heart was breaking!”
She paused, her hands pressed close to her heart, which beat most
painfully. Stuart moved nearer to her; he put one hand on her arm.
“Insults--money!” he echoed, in a hard, quiet voice between his
clinched teeth. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? I mean the humiliation you offered me when you sent
that cruel, beautiful woman, your cousin, to me, with cold, insulting
words and an offer of money as a cure for all I might suffer!”
Stuart’s hold tightened on her arm.
“Vane offered you insults--money!” he said, incredulously.
“Yes,” replied Margery. Then, as he turned away with a groan, she
added, hurriedly: “You did not send her, Stuart?”
“Send her? Great Heavens! you ask me that?”
The girl drew back, frightened by the agony in his voice, and he moved
to the fireplace, leaning one arm on it for support, with his face
turned from her.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, after a brief pause.
Margery drew a quick breath, and then, in a low, sad voice, she spoke
of her sorrow at Mary Morris’ death, her trouble because of his
accident, her meeting with Sir Douglas Gerant, and the words he had
spoken. Then she told him of Robert Bright’s proposal, and of the
sorrow and agony of Vane’s visit, the result of which was that she
determined to leave the village at once, and to that end sought the
help of Miss Lawson. A few sad words told of Enid’s death and her
marriage.
Stuart never moved during the recital; his heart seemed turned to
stone. He dared not think of his love--the misery of his loss maddened
him; it was of the treachery and cruelty he thought; and his brain
whirled at the memory.
“And you believed that of me?” he asked, almost mechanically.
“It seemed so true,” murmured the girl, wistfully; then, pressing her
hands together, she whispered: “And it was not?”
“It was false from beginning to end!”
Their eyes met, and a shudder passed over each. Margery felt her heart
grow cold as ice, a lump rise in her throat.
“We were deceived,” she said, faintly.
“Yes.”
“Forgive me--oh, forgive me!” she cried. “How I have wronged you!”
Stuart clasped her hand with his own, then dropped upon his knees at
her feet, and pressed his lips to her fingers.
“Forgive you!” he said, passionately. “It is from you forgiveness must
come, my sweet, my love! I shall kneel at your feet till you have
pardoned me, Margery, my darling!”
“Oh, hush!” she whispered. “Forgive you? Yes, a hundred times! Indeed,
it is all forgotten now, forgotten and done with.”
“Forgotten!” cried Stuart. “Ah, no!”
“We were brave in words on that day, Stuart,” said Margery, gazing at
the fire. “How little we guessed that the battle would begin that very
moment, the fight be so long! We were so happy, and now----”
“And now,” he said, hoarsely, rising to his feet, “life is ended
forever! You are not free. I find you and lose you forever at the same
time. What have we done that fate should be so hard, so cruel!”
Margery felt the gladness, the triumphant joy, die out of her heart,
her senses grow numb and heavy; she came back from the happy past to
the present; she remembered all.
“Stuart,” she said, slowly and impressively, “it is too late to speak
of that; we must part now, never to meet again.”
“Never to meet again!” he repeated, raising his head from his hands.
“Oh, no, no--that is too much! Let me see you, hear you speak. If you
are taken from me now, the darkness will be too terrible. Ah, Margery,
have some pity! Think of our love, our dream; do not send me from you.”
He seized her hands in his, and half drew her into his arms; but, as
his eyes fell on her pale, troubled face, he loosed his hold, and,
standing upright before her, said, rapidly: “Yes, I will go--I will go
to the uttermost parts of the earth--to death--if only you will tell me
that you love me, have ever loved me, and me only!”
Margery buried her face in her hands. She was silent for a few seconds,
and then she looked up.
“I am a wife, Stuart,” she replied, slowly drawing her breath as if
in pain; “at the side of a deathbed I took upon me the most solemn
and sacred vows. My husband is good; the depths of his nobility and
generosity you could never fathom. To speak such words would be
dishonorable, would be a sin. I can say no more.”
Stuart’s head fell forward on his breast; the soft, sad tones touched
his manliness to the core.
“Forgive me!” he said, huskily. “You are right--we must part; I will
leave Court Manor as soon as possible.”
“It will be best.”
The words fell almost coldly from her lips; her eyes were closed in
pain, her face was pale and drawn. She paused an instant, then moved
slowly from the fire, from the proximity of the man bowed down by his
despair. She seemed almost overwhelmed by the magnitude of this new
sorrow; but, though she looked so frail and delicate, she possessed
unusual courage. Her pride and honor supported her in this worst of all
her troubles. The future, with its bitterness, stood before her; she
had to face life--
“If that may be called life
From which each charm of life has fled--
Happiness gone with hope and love
In all but breath already dead.”
And brave the struggle she would, though it broke her heart.
At the door she turned. The sight of Stuart’s grief struck her
painfully; she held out her hand, urged by an uncontrollable impulse.
“Stuart!” she said, faintly.
He was beside her in an instant.
“If you value what I say,” she whispered, as he clasped her hand, “you
will be brave. Do not speak of your life as ended. We both have duties.
We have been tried; but Heaven has been very good, for the clouds of
doubt and suspicion that hung over our hearts have been dispelled. To
know the truth is happiness and comfort--let us be grateful and not
murmur. Now, good-by.”
Their eyes met, and he bent his head till his lips touched her small,
cold, trembling hand.
“I will remember, cousin,” he responded; “good-by.”
The curtain was moved aside, then fell back again to its place, and
Stuart Crosbie was alone.
“Then came the bitter hours, and broke
Thy heart from mine away,
And tearfully the words we spoke
We were so loath to say.
Farewell, farewell, world so fair!
Farewell, joy of soul!
“Farewell. We shall not meet again
As we are parting now;
I must my beating heart restrain,
Must veil my burning brow.
Oh, those are tears of bitterness
Wrung from the beating heart,
When two, blest in their tenderness,
Must learn to live apart!”
* * * * *
Stuart stood by the fire alone, heedless that the embers were slowly
dying, heedless of the dusk that filled the room, heedless of all save
his burden of misery. He was too weak to grapple with his sorrow--too
prostrate, from the freshness and poignancy of his grief, to overcome
it. At last he roused himself; he had to act, not think. He raised his
head, looked round in a dazed, troubled way, and, with a weary step,
went slowly from the room.
As the sound of his footsteps died away, the door of the inner room
was opened and a man approached the fire--a man from whose face all
joy and happiness had fled, in whose dark eyes a world of speechless
agony glowed, round whose mouth dwelt the desolation of hopelessness.
He stood erect for an instant, then, with a deep groan, buried his face
in his hands and sunk into a chair.
It was Margery’s husband--Nugent, Earl of Court.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Blustering March had come round, and gossip had worn to a thread the
story of Lady Court’s romantic birth. It had seized on the history of
Sir Douglas Gerant’s long-lost daughter with avidity, for it was not
often that society’s jaded appetite was regaled with so delightful a
morsel. Many things had happened since dull November, but foremost
among them were two events--Lord and Lady Court were abroad, to the
great annoyance of society, as it was thus debarred from beholding her
ladyship in person, and the engagement between Stuart Crosbie, heir to
Crosbie Castle, and Miss Vane Charteris, his cousin, came to an abrupt
and strange termination just as the congratulations were pouring in.
Many reasons were given in strict confidence for this unsatisfactory
affair. It was averred that Miss Charteris had quarreled with her
aunt, Mrs. Crosbie, and that Stuart, like a dutiful son, had espoused
his mother’s cause; that cold, beautiful Vane refused to become her
cousin’s wife when she discovered that Beecham Park had passed away
from him; and that Miss Charteris had grown tired of her affianced
husband. These and numerous other explanations were whispered; but no
one knew the truth--none but three people--the cousins themselves and
the mistress of Crosbie Castle.
Stuart had not reproached his mother; but his mental suffering caused
her much uneasiness and genuine shame. She never knew what took place
between Vane Charteris and her son, for Stuart was silent, and her
niece left town with her mother for Cannes immediately after the
rupture. She felt that Vane must be suffering disappointment, but she
could never guess the humiliation, the sullen revenge and anger that
were gnawing at her niece’s heart. Go where she would, at every turn
Vane had Stuart’s contemptuous face before her, heard his bitter words,
saw herself again as he had shown her, in her true light, dishonorable
and despicable. That the marriage should have been broken off was
acute disappointment; but the odium she had brought on herself in his
eyes was even harder to bear. The malicious spite she had felt toward
Margery deepened now into actual hatred; it galled her to desperation
to know that the village girl should have become so great a person,
her equal in birth, her superior by marriage. Poor Lady Charteris was
overwhelmed with sorrow at the abrupt termination of her daughter’s
engagement, and fretted herself to a shadow because of Vane’s
irritability and peevishness. She lavished all her heart’s tenderness
on her daughter, hoping and trusting to see her regain her spirits; but
it was weary work. Vane, crushed by her own deceit and wrong-doing, was
rapidly changing into an envious, soured, miserable woman.
Mrs. Crosbie was ignorant of the whole of Vane’s cruel falsehoods and
insults; and, knowing this, Stuart accepted as truly genuine her proud
words of sorrow and vexation for her share in the matter. It had been
a startling disclosure to Mrs. Crosbie when she found that Margery Daw
had become the Countess of Court; but, when surprise had died away, she
felt unconsciously gratified that her new relative should hold so high
a social position, and was even disposed to be friendly toward her,
although she had deprived Stuart of Beecham Park. She wrote a courteous
note to the young wife when her excitement had cooled, welcoming her as
her kinswoman, and offering her warm congratulations.
Margery was in Rome when this letter reached her. She read it through
slowly, then, with a faint smile, folded it and put it away. It was not
in keeping with her generous nature to bear malice, so she replied to
Mrs. Crosbie’s epistle with a few words of acknowledgment written in a
kindly spirit. Margery received another letter at about the same time
which brought a flush of sincere pleasure to her face. It was written
by Miss Lawson in the name of the villagers of Hurstley, offering Lady
Court warm expressions of affection, respect and esteem from all her
old friends, and at the head of the list of names were the signatures
of Farmer Bright and his wife; Miss Lawson’s own letter explained
everything. Just after the news of Margery’s parentage was made public
to the village, a letter came from Robert Bright in Australia, from
which his mother gathered how unjustly she had wronged Margery in her
hasty suspicions; and, eager to make atonement, the good woman had
headed the village letter with her name. Robert spoke of returning
almost immediately, so Margery’s heart was lighter on that score. Miss
Lawson’s words of joy at her dear child’s prosperity and happiness
brought tears to Margery’s eyes; but they were tears of gratitude and
affection, not of pain.
She was strangely peaceful and content now; the memory of Stuart’s
supposed deception and insults, which had rankled so long in her
breast, was gone; she remembered only that his love for her had never
faltered. Her girlhood was buried in her short love-dream; she was a
woman now, brave and determined to fight the battle of life gallantly
to the end. She looked to her husband as a guide and a comforter and he
tended her with more than a husband’s care. A great, true affection had
sprung up in her heart for him; he was so tender, so good, so manly!
In her gratitude for all his thought and care she vowed always to keep
a smile for him while the secret of her love should be locked from his
sight forever. Sometimes she would sink into a reverie, then wake, to
find his eyes fixed on her with such intensity, such an agony of love
and pain in them, that it would startle her; but as she looked the
expression would fade and the smile would come, the tender, grave smile
that she knew so well. When Mrs. Crosbie’s second letter came, begging
the earl and countess to pay her a visit, it was he who replied; and,
as if divining her secret thoughts, he wrote that his wife regretted
she was unable to visit Crosbie Castle at present.
They had left the manor almost immediately after Stuart’s departure.
Lord Court suggested a short tour of the Continent and Margery eagerly
agreed; so they crossed the Channel without delay. But, as the winter
slipped away, it occurred to Margery that she should visit her
inheritance, Beecham Park. So, bidding farewell to the clear blue skies
and the world of delights that had been opened to her, they returned to
England.
Beecham Park was a huge, gloomy mansion, so deserted and
solitary-looking that, as they drove up the magnificent avenue of
chestnuts, Margery involuntarily shuddered. Sir Eustace Gerant had
neglected the estate, and, splendid though the building was within, it
did not bring the pleasure to its owner that Court Manor had.
“Are you disappointed, my darling?” asked the earl one morning, after
watching her carefully.
“It is very grand; the grounds and woods are beautiful; but it is not
home,” she answered, with a sigh.
However, there was much to be done--for they found that the steward,
who had had sole control of the estate, had neglected his duties most
disgracefully; so, placing all authority in the hands of her husband,
Margery turned her attention to the village near, burying all regrets
and vain hopes that assailed her in untiring work on behalf of her
tenants.
It was a weary trial at times, for, though she had courage, her
strength would occasionally fail, and her heart would yearn for the
love she had lost; but none knew of this struggle but herself--she had
learned to control her emotions and smile when the burden was heaviest.
“’Tis strange with how much power and pride
The softness is of love allied.
How much of power to force the breast
To be in outward show at rest,
How much of pride that never eye
May look upon its agony.
Ah, little will the lip reveal
Of all the burning heart can feel!”
Of Stuart she heard nothing; but she had faith in his courage and
manliness, and knew that, once the cloud which overshadowed him had
passed, he would fulfill his word and face the world. He was once more
her ideal, her hero, and she felt he would not fail in this duty to
himself.
Engrossed in her thoughts and daily tasks, she did not notice the
change that seemed to be coming over the earl. His tenderness never
failed, his courtesy and love were never lacking, and she had grown
so used to all his thoughtful care that it seemed but the adjunct of
everyday life. But she was suddenly awakened from this existence.
The Squire of Crosbie Castle had been one of the first among her new
relatives warmly to welcome Margery. He had loved her father, and for
his old affection’s sake had opened his heart to the young girl; when
therefore he learned that the Earl and Countess of Court had returned
to England and were staying at Beecham Park, he wrote immediately,
expressing a great wish to visit them. To this Margery and her husband
replied with genuine pleasure, begging the squire to come as soon as
possible.
Margery found a warm love spring up in her breast for Stuart’s father,
and the earl and the squire soon became good friends. It was the
squire who called Margery’s attention to Lord Court’s quiet manner and
worn appearance, as they were talking together one morning. Margery
listened with a sense of regret and remorse at her blindness, and,
making some excuse, she left the squire in the grounds where they had
been sauntering and hurried back to the house. It was a glorious spring
day; the sunshine illuminated the old mansion, darting in golden shafts
through the long, narrow windows. Margery crossed the hall, above which
was seen a massive dome and round which ran the gallery leading to the
upper apartments and bedrooms. Several servants were hurrying to and
fro; and, asking for the earl, she learned that he was in the study,
busy with the new steward.
Without hesitation she made her way to the room and opened the door.
The earl was alone, leaning his head upon his hand, reading some papers
which lay on the table.
“This lease is wrong, Robins,” he said, not looking up as the door
opened.
Margery moved forward softly, and then knelt at his feet.
“Nugent!” she said, with a little catch in her breath as she noted his
pale, worn face for the first time.
The earl turned with a smile so sweet and tender that it made Margery’s
lips tremble.
“My darling!” he exclaimed, gently. “You here?”
“Nugent, you are ill--worried! Ah, I have been blind not to see it
before! Oh, forgive me, forgive me!”
Lord Court raised her head tenderly.
“Why, Margery,” he said, lightly, “what is the matter? Who has been
frightening you?”
“I am nervous about you; you look so worn and ill. Nugent, you must put
away those deeds and writings. They distress me.”
“You shall not be distressed then, my darling; see--I have put them
away at once. But you are mistaken, Margery; I am not ill, only a
little tired.”
“Tired?” she repeated, putting her hands on his. “Yes, yes, of course!
How forgetful I am! I leave you all this tiresome business to do. I am
very selfish.”
“You are my dear, sweet Margery!” he said, lightly. “But what has
caused you this sudden fear, my darling?”
“You have been looking ill for so long! The squire has just spoken to
me, and it has frightened me; and, Nugent, I want to ask you something.
Will you promise to do it?”
“What can I refuse you, Margery?”
“Then let us leave here and go back to the manor--the squire is longing
to see our dear old home. You will come, dear?”
“Home!” repeated the earl, dreamily, as if the word brought content.
Then, with a sudden contraction of his brows, as if from pain, he
added, “But it will be lonely for you, my dear one; you will not care
for it.”
“I wish it with all my heart,” said Margery, quietly, glad to see that
this proposal brought a gleam of pleasure to his eyes.
“Then,” returned her husband, looking with a strange, sad steadfastness
into her glorious eyes--“then we will go home, Margery.”
CHAPTER XXIX.
Back at Court Manor, Margery banished for a while the sad memory of her
lost love. This spot was hallowed by the presence of Enid’s spirit, and
for that reason, apart from all others, was dear to her. The squire
reveled in the picturesque surroundings of the estate.
“They may call Beecham magnificent,” he said, dreamily, as he stood in
the old-fashioned gardens and gazed round on the fragrant flowers, “but
this is home.”
“Cousin Sholto, you indorse my opinion. I love the manor!”
Margery, clad in a long robe of creamy white, with just a knot of
black ribbons at her neck and in her broad-brimmed hat, glanced at her
husband as she spoke, and smiled at him.
The squire responded to his hostess by a poetical quotation:
“‘And primroses, pale gems of spring,
Lay on the green turf glistening
Close by the violet, whose breath
Is so sweet, in a dewy wreath.
And, oh, that myrtle--how green it grew,
With flowers as white as the pearls of dew
That shone beside! And the glorious rose
Lay like a beauty in warm repose,
Blushing in slumber.’”
Margery listened dreamily. Her thoughts had flown to the springtime of
her life, recalled by the breath of the flowers, the sweetness of the
air.
The earl had wandered across the lawn; and, though he looked less grave
and worn, the expression of his eyes as he turned from Margery was
unspeakably sad.
Margery’s reverie was disturbed by the squire, and she was soon deep in
an interesting scientific discussion with him. Presently her husband
returned, followed by one of the gardeners.
“I am going to the west part of the grounds, my darling,” he said.
“Marshall tells me the men are going to cut down that dead tree this
morning. It was struck by lightning in the autumn.”
“I will come with you, Court,” broke in the squire. “In my young days I
was rather good at that sort of thing.”
“Come, by all means. Marshall, see that there are two extra axes ready.”
“You are not going to help them, are you, Nugent?” Margery asked,
quickly and nervously.
“Yes, my darling. But don’t be afraid; I am, as schoolboys would say, a
‘big gun’ at wood-cutting--am I not, Marshall?”
“Indeed you are, my lord,” the gardener replied, solemnly.
“May I come and watch you?”
The earl hesitated.
“I should be afraid, darling, as the splinters fly about so rapidly;
but perhaps I can place you in a safe corner. Run and put on some
stronger shoes; the ground is damp down at that corner. You have good
ropes, Marshall?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I will follow you directly,” said Margery; then, as they turned, urged
by an uncontrollable impulse, she called, “Nugent!”
The earl came back at once.
“You are sure there is no danger?”
“Quite sure--as certain as any man can be.”
Margery smiled, raised her lips to his, and he kissed her. A faint
flush rose to his brow at the simple action; and then, with a swift,
tender look, he turned and walked rapidly away.
Margery went quickly to the house and changed her shoes for a stronger
pair; then, seeing the look of eagerness on Pauline’s face, she
good-naturedly told the maid to put on a hat, and they started together.
The sound of voices and of heavy blows led them to the exact spot,
and Pauline, in her excitement, could not repress little shrieks and
exclamations of astonishment. As they turned the corner the earl came
toward them; he had removed his coat, and, with his strong right hand
grasping the ax, his face flushed from the unwonted exercise, he looked
almost handsome.
“Come here, my darling,” he said, leading Margery to a safe nook.
“Crosbie, stand by my wife. We shall soon have it down, poor old tree!
How well I remember it in my schoolboy days! You are frightened,
Margery!”
“No,” she answered, with a smile, though her heart thrilled with
strange apprehension.
The squire came to her, looking rather despondent.
“I find that years have greatly lessened my strength,” he remarked,
with a little sigh, “and I must look on now.”
Margery did not answer; she was watching her husband. She heard his
clear, ringing voice directing the men, saw his straight even strokes,
and the excitement overcame her dread. It was a novel scene, and one
that pleased her, though the sight of the gray dead trunk, the remains
of a noble flourishing tree, saddened her somewhat. Pauline cowered and
shrieked as she heard the great, rough mass creak; but Margery never
moved; the bustle and vigor of the men roused her spirit--she almost
longed to assist. The earl, glancing now and then at the group of
watchers, caught the gleam of her eyes, and, smiling, he waved his hand
toward the girlish figure that looked so fair and graceful in its white
robes against the background of young trees and bushes.
“It was not such a tough job as it looked,” observed the squire, as he
watched the men throw stout ropes round the great trunk and knot them
firmly, preparatory to dragging the tree to earth.
Margery nodded her head absently; she was lost in the excitement of the
moment. She saw the earl wave them further back toward the bushes, felt
Pauline draw her on one side, though her eyes never left her husband’s
form, and then came a moment of silence. Suddenly a mighty crash
sounded in her ears, while a cloud of dust obscured her vision.
“Is it all over?” she asked, vaguely, turning to the squire; but her
cousin had left her side and was hurrying to the group of men.
“Miladi will return?” queried Pauline, with a little shudder. “Ah, what
terrible noise!”
“I will wait for Lord Court,” answered Margery; then, after a little
pause: “But, Pauline, what is the matter? Some one is hurt!”
“They crowd together--that is all, miladi. Shall I go and see?”
“No; I will.”
Drawing her skirts together, Margery left her retreat and approached
the group. As the men looked round and perceived her, she thought they
seemed alarmed and pained. She quickened her steps, and then the squire
came toward her.
“You must let me take you to the house, my dear,” he said hurriedly;
“your husband wishes it.”
“What is the matter? Some one is hurt! Cousin Sholto, don’t stop me! I
know now--it is Nugent!”
She pushed the squire’s trembling hand to one side, and with swift
steps approached the group. The men fell back in silence, and in an
instant she was on her knees beside a silent, prostrate form with face
of deathly hue.
“Nugent!” she cried, bending over him, in agony. Then, as he still lay
perfectly still, she looked round wildly. “What is it? Fetch a doctor
quickly--your master is hurt!”
The man Marshall stepped forward.
“We’ve sent for the doctor, my lady. It was done in an instant; the
tree swerved and brought his lordship down with it. We’ve just dragged
it off his body. He were sensible at first, and asked us to keep you
away; but he’s fainted now.”
Margery scarcely heard the explanation; with a heart full of dread she
was bending over the pale face, breathing words of agony and tenderness
that fell on silent ears. The squire came to her and tried to draw her
away; but she would not stir. They brought brandy from the house, and a
mattress with pillows on which to carry the injured man; but all were
afraid to touch him. Then, when her misery, her despair, was greatest,
the heavy lids were raised, and she met the gaze of the deep, dark
eyes. The white lips trembled and moved; she bent her head to catch the
whisper.
“It--is--nothing--my darling. Take me to----”
The labored speech died away in another faint; and, as she saw his
weakness and suffering, Margery rose to her feet with courage born of
despair.
“Carry your master to the house,” she said, steadily, never taking her
eyes from his face.
The men stooped, and, with tender, gentle hands lifted the inanimate
form on to the mattress; then, with slow, even steps, they carried
him through the sunlit gardens to the house. It was not far, yet by
the time they reached the entrance the doctor of the village was seen
riding furiously up the avenue. He leaped from his horse, and was at
the wounded man’s side in an instant. Margery turned her eyes from the
pale face of her husband and fixed them upon the doctor. As he scanned
the earl’s drawn countenance, her heart seemed to stand still. In that
moment she was conscious of nothing but an agony of dread, remorse and
pain so terrible that it almost overpowered her.
“Carry him into a room on the ground floor,” said the doctor,
decisively. “We must not risk the stairs.”
They carried him through the hall into the room where long before he
had sat by Enid’s couch. Margery walked with them, though what power
enabled her to move she knew not, for all life seemed dead within her.
The men withdrew quietly to the doorway, while she crouched down by the
still form and buried her face in her hands. The squire and the doctor
exchanged glances.
“Get her away!” murmured the latter. But Margery heard him.
“No, no!” she protested, rising to her feet. “Let me stay; I will be
brave, Cousin Sholto. You will let me stay--you must let me stay! I
cannot go!”
“Dr. Godfrey will let you remain if you have the strength,” the squire
said, soothingly. Then he took her two cold hands in his and drew her
to the wide window, while the doctor motioned the men away and closed
the door.
Margery’s eyes never left the pallid face of her husband. In
breathless, sickening anxiety she watched Dr. Godfrey pass his hand
over the injured man’s chest and fractured arm, unconscious that the
broken respirations that came from her lips told of the agony she was
enduring. The doctor looked around as the sound fell on his ears, and
in an instant he knew how to act.
“Lady Court, I want you to help me,” he said, gravely, advancing to
her. “Go at once, and fetch me brandy, some warm water, a sponge and
some old linen--as quickly as possible, please.”
In a moment she had turned and left the room. The squire glanced at the
doctor.
“It was to get her away,” explained the medical man. “The case is
hopeless; I can do nothing. The ribs are terribly crushed, the lungs
and heart vitally injured, and there is a severe fracture of the left
shoulder and arm. It is only a question of hours now--perhaps minutes;
but it will do her good to give her occupation. That tension of her
nerves was killing her, poor young creature!”
“I can do no good?” queried the squire, passing a trembling hand across
his brow.
“No,” answered Dr. Godfrey. “Let me advise you to go to your room. When
the change comes you shall know.”
The squire went away, feeling now more than ever that he was indeed a
weak old man. The doctor was alone and bending over the patient when
Margery came back, carrying all that he had asked for. She stood as
silent as a statue while he slowly poured a few drops of brandy between
the closed lips; then, as a sign of life came once more into the
deathlike face, she gave a sob of thankfulness and sunk upon her knees
by the couch.
The earl’s eyelids were raised with difficulty, and his dark eyes
wandered around slowly till they rested on his wife’s face; then the
faintest of smiles broke over his countenance, dying away the next
instant in a contraction of pain.
“Nugent, Nugent--oh, speak to me!” whispered Margery, wildly, putting
her trembling lips to his passive hand, all the goodness, the
generosity, the tenderness that this man had lavished upon her coming
back to her memory and maddening her.
Dr. Godfrey moistened the earl’s lips again; the breath came from the
injured chest in short, broken respirations; and then, as dew to a
parched flower, as golden light in direst darkness, fell the whisper of
her hubsand’s voice on Margery’s ears. He looked at the doctor, then
said, with difficulty:
“Leave us--alone.”
Dr. Godfrey rose and turned to Margery.
“Do not agitate him,” he said, gently. “He has something to tell you, I
see. Moisten his lips with brandy if he grows faint. I will go out on
the terrace; I shall be close at hand if you want me.”
The earl’s eyes followed him; then they came back to Margery. He tried
to raise his hand to her head, but the effort was too much; it fell,
nerveless, to his side.
“My darling--my wife! You are sorry, then?” he gasped.
“Sorry?” whispered Margery, her voice thick with agony. “Oh, that I
could give my life for yours, Nugent! That I could spare you all!” She
could say no more.
The earl moved his head a little; his eyes closed. She put the brandy
to his lips.
“It has come at last!” he murmured. “Margery, listen, my darling! I
know your secret, your love story.” He wrestled for a moment with his
growing faintness; then went on, brokenly: “I was in my room that day
when you parted from Stuart, and I heard all, my brave darling--learned
how much you were suffering. My death will set you free. You will be
happy in the future, Margery, my sweet one!”
“Do not--oh, do not speak like that, Nugent!” she whispered, mad with a
fever of pain, regret, remorse. “You torture me!”
“Let me tell you how happy you have made me, wife. Death is near--you
must----” His voice sank; then, with a last effort, he went on:
“Promise to make Stuart happy. He loves you, Margery. Give me your
promise----”
“I cannot!” she broke in, in tearless agony. “Nugent, you break my
heart--you----” Then seeing the intense eagerness of his dark eyes, she
paused.
“Promise!” his lips formed rather than spoke.
She hesitated only for a moment.
“I promise,” she murmured, faintly.
A smile lighted up his face.
“Now all is ended!” The words came very faintly. “I am content. Kiss
me, my----”
Margery put her lips to his--their coldness filled her with dread. A
sigh came from the earl’s injured breast, his eyes closed.
“Nugent, I promise!” she murmured, wildly. “But you will not go--you
will not leave me! I want you! You must stay! Nugent, open your
eyes--speak to me--husband!”
She bent over him again, and as she did so a gentle hand was placed on
her shoulder, and she was raised from her knees. She saw the still,
pallid face, calm and passive in the sunlight; then a great blackness
came over her, and she knew no more.
CHAPTER XXX.
“Margery, the sea is beautiful to-day. Come out, child; it will do you
good.”
Miss Lawson spoke in her old abrupt, almost stern way; but she
experienced deep, heartfelt pain as she looked at the slight form in
its heavy mourning-robe, and at the girlish, beautiful face beneath the
widow’s cap.
Margery raised her eyes from her writing.
“I do not care for it, dear,” she answered, gently; “and I must finish
these letters for the post. Remember, Wavemouth is not London; we do
not go by steam down here.”
“Your letters can wait,” said Miss Lawson. “They are not of such
consequence as your health.”
“My tenants at Beecham do not say that,” returned Lady Court, with a
faint smile; “but, if you wish it very----”
“I do wish it very much; indeed, I am rather dull, Margery.”
The well-assumed plaintiveness of the elder woman’s last words was most
successful.
“Dull!” repeated Margery, putting down her pen at once. “Oh, forgive
me! How selfish I am, dear friend!”
“There, don’t waste time in self-reproach! Go and put on your
hat--not your heavy bonnet. The fresh air will do you more good than
sentimentalizing.”
Miss Lawson brushed away a tear as the slender figure left the room. A
year had gone--a sharp and trying spring, a summer of golden splendor,
an autumn of cheerless misery, a winter of frost and chill, and spring
was come again; and during all that time Margery had lived weighted
down by a burden of anguish and sorrow. Miss Lawson had gone to her at
the beginning of her grief, and, discarding all other ties, had given
herself up to her old pupil, who clung to her so despairingly; and it
was the elder woman’s one aim to drive the gloom and despondency from
the girlish brow, and bring joy and happiness back to the youthful
heart.
She knew Margery’s secret now. Stuart and she were leagued together;
but all through the year, though she had tried again and again, she
could not bring the lovers and cousins together. Margery shrunk from
meeting Stuart--shrunk with a heart full of remorse, pain and morbid
gloom. Was it right that she should be glad, have happiness, when one
who had loved her so truly and tenderly lay in the grave forgotten?
Once, only once, had she spoken on this subject to Miss Lawson; and,
like a wise woman, the governess said nothing, but decided to wait.
“It is but natural, after all. Margery’s sensitive, generous spirit has
received so terrible a shock that it has shattered all joy in life at
one blow.”
So spoke Miss Lawson as she reasoned with Stuart, who hungered for a
kind word, a sign, from his early love. He honored her for her fealty
to the dead, but he was human, and his heart cried out for peace after
so much misery. He had been more than touched by the noble, generous
thoughtfulness of the dying man; for, after all was over and the will
read, a letter was sent him, and, alone in his chamber, Stuart learned
the wish and desire of Nugent, Earl of Court.
The writer told how, on returning earlier than he had anticipated, he
had entered the house through the window of his “den” from the grounds.
This was barred after him by his servant; and thus he became an
unintentional eavesdropper to the sad meeting between his wife and her
cousin; and he ended by entreating Stuart to let no obstacle stand in
his path, but to consummate Margery’s and his own happiness by a speedy
marriage.
With the letter of the dead man close to his heart, Stuart buried all
compunction and regret, and waited and longed for Margery to speak;
but she was silent. She was racked by conflicting emotions. Day and
night the image of her dead husband hardly left her mind; for evidence
of his great love still surrounded her, Court Manor being her own
house, bequeathed to her when the rest of the estate passed to the next
heir. She could not banish the regret and remorse that had seized her.
Again and again she longed for the past to return, so that she might
act differently. And yet her love for Stuart had not grown less; he was
still her hero, her king. It was doubt, and nervous, sensitive pain
that kept her from him; and day by day the pain grew greater, till she
knew not what to do.
Had she been allowed, Margery would have remained at Court Manor,
in spite of the sad memories that clung to it; but Miss Lawson took
care not to sanction such an arrangement. She dictated to the young
Countess of Court as she had dictated in the old days to Margery
Daw; and unconsciously the girlish widow obeyed, as she had always
done, and allowed her friend to rule. They had spent the first six
months following the earl’s death at Beecham Park; then Miss Lawson
took Margery abroad before paying a brief visit to the manor. Now
she accompanied Lady Court to Wavemouth, at Margery’s own request.
Personally, she thought the little village too quiet for the girl,
but Margery seemed to like its peaceful monotony, so she raised no
objection. As time went on, however, and she found the sad apathy
increase, instead of decrease, the governess began to consider how she
ought to act.
Stuart had not been mentioned between them for weeks, though Miss
Lawson had to send a daily report to the eager, anxious man. Something
must be done, she declared, mentally, as she turned to meet Margery
entering the room in her heavy black robe and large black hat, to
banish the morbid remorse and sadness that were preying upon the life
of the young girl.
“I am glad to see you are sensible,” she observed, nodding at sight of
the hat. “Now come along; it is a beautiful afternoon.”
Margery smiled faintly at the sharp words yet gentle voice, and
together they left the house.
They walked on in silence to the very edge of the sea, and stood
watching the sunlit-crested waves come rolling in. Margery was deep in
thought, and Miss Lawson watched her anxiously. Her heart prompted her
to speak out, to urge the girl to cast off her burden of gloom and turn
once more to joy and happiness, but the sad young face looking across
the sea stopped her.
The afternoon sun descended lower and lower, and still Margery stood
gazing at the sea.
“The great sea, faultless as a flow’r,
Throbs trembling under beam and breeze
And laughs with love of th’ am’rous hour.”
At last, as a gray cloud obscured the golden light for a time, she
turned to Miss Lawson.
“Let us go back,” she said, hurriedly, with a little shudder. “I am
tired now.”
Miss Lawson walked with her in silence.
“I am an old woman,” she mused to herself, “this is beyond me. We have
waited long and wearily, and yet she gets no better. I shall give in,
and leave the rest to Stuart.”
* * * * *
A message sped swiftly from the fishing village to the great city. It
was short, yet it brought a thrill of intense joy to Stuart Crosbie’s
aching heart. There was no hope breathed in the words, but hope lived
within his breast, as it had lived through all his weary waiting. He
longed impatiently for the night to be gone--for the morning to come,
and when the sun rose over the still sleeping city, he was speeding
away from it to the sea.
“Where shall we land you, sweet?
On fields of strange men’s feet,
Or fields near home,
Or where the fire-flow’rs blow,
Or where the flow’rs of snow,
Or flow’rs of foam?
We are in love’s hand to-day.”
So sang his heart in glad anticipation of its joy. Happiness had been
so long absent, it must come now. Misery, despair, sorrow, were all
forgotten--he lived again!
* * * * *
“You will be back to-night?” asked Margery, as she put a waterproof
round Miss Lawson’s form. “You promise me?”
“I promise,” said Miss Lawson, briskly. “Ugh, what a day! Margery, take
my advice; don’t go out.”
“It will not hurt me; I like the wind and the spray.”
“Then wrap up well. Pauline”--turning to the maid--“if her ladyship
does go out, see that she puts on something sensible.”
“How little you trust me!” said Margery, with a faint smile. “But are
you sensibly clad, may I ask?”
“Two shawls, a waterproof, goloshes, and an umbrella,” observed Miss
Lawson, quietly. Inwardly she felt a thrill of satisfaction; Margery
seemed brighter, more natural, more her old self to-day.
“Then good-by, dear.” Margery put her lips to the elder woman’s. “Give
my love to Mrs. Fothergill and the doctor.”
Miss Lawson nodded and walked away.
“I am an old fool,” she declared, savagely, to herself, as she felt a
tear roll down her cheek, “and I only hope I shall keep out of the way
for some good!”
Left alone, Margery stood for a while at the window, gazing at the
rough, angry sea; then she asked Pauline for her cloak and hat.
“Will miladi that I go with her?” asked the maid, in her broken English.
Margery shook her head.
“I shall not go far; and this wind does you no good, Pauline.”
“Miladi is so kind. If she will permit, I think that hat will not be
wise. See this _capuchon_--so warm! It will be best.”
Margery agreed, and tied the comfortable hood round her delicate,
lovely face, looking sweetly fair with her halo of red-gold curls and
her deep, lustrous blue eyes. She turned toward the shore; the roaring
and dashing of the sea exhilarated her, the strong, soft wind seemed
to blow away the clouds of doubt and pain that hung over her. Her
sorrow was lost in the pleasurable excitement that thrilled her as
she stood, wind-blown and rain-drenched, and watched the great waves
come rolling in, with their thunderous voices and mountains of spray.
The tempest seemed to suit her humor; she reveled in the freedom and
wildness of the elements as in the birth of a new life--a life with
hope springing glorious within.
She moved on as quickly as the wind would allow, stopping every now
and then to gather her cloak closer around her. The gale had blown her
curls in rough fashion all over her hood; there was a light in her
eyes, a glow of color on her fair cheeks; for the moment she looked the
Margery of old, not the sad girl-widow of present days.
Few of the fisher-folk were about; but in the distance she could see
some children running to and fro on the shore, and the wind now and
then wafted their voices to her ears. Tired at last, her breath almost
spent, she turned inland in a cross direction, determining to rest
at one of the cottages before going home. The wind blew her along at
times, almost taking her off her feet; and she had to drop upon the
wet beach more than once to gather strength. At last she sighted the
cottages, and struggled to the first one. The women knew her well; she
was a great favorite, and they were never tired of dwelling on her
youth, beauty, sad history, and goodness and generosity.
She knocked at the rough door, and it was opened immediately.
“May I come in and rest, Mrs. David?” she asked, leaning back against
the doorpost, almost breathless.
“Lor’ bless me, my lady, in course! Come in at once!” exclaimed the
buxom fisherwoman. “It is a sight too wild for you to be out. It is
rough here, too, my lady. The chair is hard; but----”
“It is most acceptable,” sighed Margery, sinking, with a sigh of
fatigue, into the great wooden chair. “I have been walking along the
shore. How rough the sea is to-day! And how have you been, Mrs. David?
You look sad--are you in trouble? Oh”--catching sight of a small form
covered with blankets lying in a warm corner by the fire--“your child
is ill?”
Mrs. David put her apron to her eyes.
“He is better now, my lady,” she replied, with a sob in her voice; “but
he was all but gone this morning. Oh, dear me, it fair broke my heart
to see him--him, my only one, my lady!”
“What happened?” asked Margery, quickly, her heart full of sympathy.
She knew the child well--a beautiful, rosy-cheeked boy, the very light
and joy of his parents’ life. “Is he very ill?”
“He went out the morning, your ladyship. My mind misgive me as I saw
him go; but he loves the sea. My man is away over to the town to-day;
and Jim he begged to go out and watch the waves; and he went too near,
my lady, and got drawed in by the tide, and would have been washed away
if a strange gentleman--Heaven bless him!--hadn’t tore off his coat and
plunged in. I thought my Jim was dead when I see him carried in white
and all dripping; but the gentleman he rubbed him, and rolled him in
blankets. And now he’s sleeping like a lamb, you see, my lady. But; oh,
I nearly died!”
“It was dreadful!” said Margery, gently, rising and putting her soft,
white hand on the rough, tanned arm of the mother. “But don’t cry, Mrs.
David. Jim is all right now, poor little fellow. You are nervous and
upset. Can you send up to my house this evening? I will have some nice
things put together for him that will soon make him well.”
“Heaven bless you for your goodness, my lady!” returned Mrs. David. “I
ain’t one to give way to tears often; but you can understand----”
“Yes, I understand,” whispered Margery, standing and looking down at
the sleeping child, while Mrs. David went on with her account of the
accident.
“It were just the merest chance the gentleman were on the spot,” she
said. “He’d come from the town, and was walking to Wavemouth, along the
shore, when he saw little Jim washed off his feet, and he was in the
water in an instant.”
“He was brave!” Margery interjected, quietly.
“Ay, that he was; and it’ll never be forgotten by us, though we live
to hundreds! But won’t you sit down, my lady? I expects the gentleman
here every minute to inquire after Jim.”
“I am rested now, and I think I will make a start.”
Margery walked to the little window and looked out. The wind was raging
just as fiercely as ever, and the rain was beating furiously against
the panes.
“Let me give you some tea, my lady,” urged Mrs. David. “I’ll have it
ready in an instant.”
Margery shook her head.
“No, thank you, Mrs. David; I must be gone. I will----”
A sharp knock came at the door, and for some strange reason she moved
round so that nothing could be seen but her back, draped in the hood
and cloak, while Mrs. David bustled to the door.
“It is you, sir! Come in and welcome! He’s sleeping sound now, sir. Ah,
Heaven give you happiness, as you have given it to me to-day!”
A curious sensation stole over Margery’s heart--a sensation that
brought a vague touch of joy. The next moment the joy increased, for a
voice spoke, the tones of which recalled all the golden dream of her
early love.
It was Stuart, her lover! Her hands, clasped together, were clasped
against her throbbing heart, her lips murmured his name silently; but
still she stood motionless; and Stuart’s eye went from the unknown
woman in the hood and cloak to the child.
“He’s all right now, Mrs. David; there is no fever. You will have him
as jolly as ever in a day or two.”
“Oh, thank you, sir! And you yourself, sir--you ain’t got no harm?”
“Not a bit,” laughed Stuart, cheerily. “Sea water does not hurt me; I
am used to it. I have been in a gale or two at sea, you know. It is
rough weather, though, to-day, Mrs. David.”
“That it is, sir. Here’s her ladyship, sir, quite done up by the wind.
She’s honored me with resting a while.”
Stuart stared. How blind he had been! How could he have overlooked
that slender figure? His heart burned within his breast, he could
hardly restrain his joy. And Margery? In a moment her doubts, her sad
misgivings vanished; she knew that her love lived again in all its
strength and sweetness. It had been clouded, not overcome. She moved
from the window and put out her hand.
“I know this gentleman, Mrs. David,” she said, steadily, though her
limbs were trembling. “He is my cousin.”
“Your ladyship’s cousin?” exclaimed the woman, in surprise. “Oh, sir,
that brings you closer to my heart! I’ve told my lady all about it.”
“How brave you were!” murmured Margery, as she drew her hand from
Stuart’s firm clasp.
“Brave! I did nothing. But, come, cousin--you ought to be going. Shall
I see you home? Will you let me?”
“If you please.”
Margery bent and kissed the child softly, then put out her hand to Mrs.
David.
“I will come to-morrow and see how he is. Don’t forget to send
to-night.”
“I will not, thank you again and again, my lady!”
Margery smiled, and walked to the door. The small, homely room seemed
suddenly illumined by a strange, mysterious light, golden and strong as
the sun. Stuart drew the door after them, then put out his hand without
a word, and Margery placed her own in his.
He led her from the cottage to a sheltered spot, and then stood looking
down at her with eyes that shone like stars in the passion of his love.
“Margery,” he said, quietly, “I have come to you. Have you no word of
hope for me?”
She stood silent for an instant, then raised her lovelit eyes to his.
“One word,” she whispered--“stay!”
“My darling, my own, my own forever, it has come at last!”
THE END.
No. 111 of the NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY, entitled “The Sins of the
Father,” is a romance charmingly told, that contains many unusual
features, and is intensely interesting from beginning to end.
POPULAR COPYRIGHTS
New Eagle Series
PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS
Carefully Selected Love Stories
_Note the Authors!_
There is such a profusion of good books in this list, that it is an
impossibility to urge you to select any particular title or author’s
work. All that we can say is that any line that contains the complete
works of Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, Charles Garvice, Mrs. Harriet Lewis,
May Agnes Fleming, Wenona Gilman, Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller, and other
writers of the same type, is worthy of your attention, especially when
the price has been set at 15 cents the volume.
These books range from 256 to 320 pages. They are printed from good
type, and are readable from start to finish.
If you are looking for clean-cut, honest value, then we state most
emphatically that you will find it in this line.
_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
1--Queen Bess By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2--Ruby’s Reward By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
7--Two Keys By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
9--The Virginia Heiress By May Agnes Fleming
12--Edrie’s Legacy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
17--Leslie’s Loyalty By Charles Garvice
(His Love So True)
22--Elaine By Charles Garvice
24--A Wasted Love By Charles Garvice
(On Love’s Altar)
41--Her Heart’s Desire By Charles Garvice
(An Innocent Girl)
44--That Dowdy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
50--Her Ransom By Charles Garvice
(Paid For)
55--Thrice Wedded By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
66--Witch Hazel By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
70--Sydney By Charles Garvice
(A Wilful Young Woman)
73--The Marquis By Charles Garvice
77--Tina By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
79--Out of the Past By Charles Garvice
(Marjorie)
84--Imogene By Charles Garvice
(Dumaresq’s Temptation)
85--Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold By Charles Garvice
88--Virgie’s Inheritance By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
95--A Wilful Maid By Charles Garvice
(Philippa)
98--Claire By Charles Garvice
(The Mistress of Court Regna)
99--Audrey’s Recompense By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
102--Sweet Cymbeline By Charles Garvice
(Bellmaire)
109--Signa’s Sweetheart By Charles Garvice
(Lord Delamere’s Bride)
111--Faithful Shirley By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
117--She Loved Him By Charles Garvice
119--’Twixt Smile and Tear By Charles Garvice
(Dulcie)
122--Grazia’s Mistake By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
130--A Passion Flower By Charles Garvice
(Madge)
133--Max By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
136--The Unseen Bridegroom By May Agnes Fleming
138--A Fatal Wooing By Laura Jean Libbey
141--Lady Evelyn By May Agnes Fleming
144--Dorothy’s Jewels By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
146--Magdalen’s Vow By May Agnes Fleming
151--The Heiress of Glen Gower By May Agnes Fleming
155--Nameless Dell By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
157--Who Wins By May Agnes Fleming
166--The Masked Bridal By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
168--Thrice Lost, Thrice Won By May Agnes Fleming
174--His Guardian Angel By Charles Garvice
177--A True Aristocrat By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
181--The Baronet’s Bride By May Agnes Fleming
188--Dorothy Arnold’s Escape By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
199--Geoffrey’s Victory By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
203--Only One Love By Charles Garvice
210--Wild Oats By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
213--The Heiress of Egremont By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
215--Only a Girl’s Love By Charles Garvice
219--Lost: A Pearle By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
222--The Lily of Mordaunt By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
223--Leola Dale’s Fortune By Charles Garvice
231--The Earl’s Heir By Charles Garvice
(Lady Norah)
233--Nora By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
236--Her Humble Lover By Charles Garvice
(The Usurper; or, The Gipsy Peer)
242--A Wounded Heart By Charles Garvice
(Sweet as a Rose)
244--A Hoiden’s Conquest By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
250--A Woman’s Soul By Charles Garvice
(Doris; or, Behind the Footlights)
255--The Little Marplot By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
257--A Martyred Love By Charles Garvice
(Iris; or, Under the Shadows)
266--The Welfleet Mystery By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
267--Jeanne By Charles Garvice
(Barriers Between)
268--Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake By Charles Garvice
272--So Fair, So False By Charles Garvice
(The Beauty of the Season)
276--So Nearly Lost By Charles Garvice
(The Springtime of Love)
277--Brownie’s Triumph By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
280--Love’s Dilemma By Charles Garvice
(For an Earldom)
282--The Forsaken Bride By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
283--My Lady Pride By Charles Garvice
287--The Lady of Darracourt By Charles Garvice
(Floris)
288--Sibyl’s Influence By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
291--A Mysterious Wedding Ring By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
292--For Her Only By Charles Garvice
(Diana)
296--The Heir of Vering By Charles Garvice
299--Little Miss Whirlwind By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
300--The Spider and the Fly By Charles Garvice
(Violet)
303--The Queen of the Isle By May Agnes Fleming
304--Stanch as a Woman By Charles Garvice
(A Maiden’s Sacrifice)
305--Led by Love By Charles Garvice
Sequel to “Stanch as a Woman”
309--The Heiress of Castle Cliffs By May Agnes Fleming
312--Woven on Fate’s Loom, and The Snowdrift,
By Charles Garvice
315--The Dark Secret By May Agnes Fleming
317--Ione By Laura Jean Libbey
(Adrien Le Roy)
318--Stanch of Heart By Charles Garvice
322--Mildred By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
326--Parted by Fate By Laura Jean Libbey
327--He Loves Me By Charles Garvice
328--He Loves Me Not By Charles Garvice
330--Aikenside By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
333--Stella’s Fortune By Charles Garvice
(The Sculptor’s Wooing)
334--Miss McDonald By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
339--His Heart’s Queen By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
340--Bad Hugh. Vol. I. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
341--Bad Hugh. Vol. II. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
344--Tresillian Court By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
345--The Scorned Wife By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
346--Guy Tresillian’s Fate By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
347--The Eyes of Love By Charles Garvice
348--The Hearts of Youth By Charles Garvice
351--The Churchyard Betrothal By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
352--Family Pride. Vol. I. By Mary J. Holmes
353--Family Pride. Vol. II. By Mary J. Holmes
354--A Love Comedy By Charles Garvice
360--The Ashes of Love By Charles Garvice
361--A Heart Triumphant By Charles Garvice
367--The Pride of Her Life By Charles Garvice
368--Won By Love’s Valor By Charles Garvice
372--A Girl in a Thousand By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
373--A Thorn Among Roses By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “A Girl in a Thousand”
380--Her Double Life By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
381--The Sunshine of Love By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “Her Double Life”
382--Mona By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
391--Marguerite’s Heritage By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
399--Betsey’s Transformation By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
407--Esther, the Fright By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
415--Trixy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
440--Edna’s Secret Marriage By Charles Garvice
449--The Bailiff’s Scheme By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
450--Rosamond’s Love By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “The Bailiff’s Scheme”
451--Helen’s Victory By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
456--A Vixen’s Treachery By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
457--Adrift in the World By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “A Vixen’s Treachery”
458--When Love Meets Love By Charles Garvice
464--The Old Life’s Shadows By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
465--Outside Her Eden By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “The Old Life’s Shadows”
474--The Belle of the Season By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
475--Love Before Pride By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
Sequel to “The Belle of the Season”
481--Wedded, Yet No Wife By May Agnes Fleming
489--Lucy Harding By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
495--Norine’s Revenge By May Agnes Fleming
511--The Golden Key By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
512--A Heritage of Love By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “The Golden Key”
519--The Magic Cameo By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
520--The Heatherford Fortune By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “The Magic Cameo”
525--Sweet Kitty Clover By Laura Jean Libbey
531--Better Than Life By Charles Garvice
534--Lotta, the Cloak Model By Laura Jean Libbey
542--Once in a Life By Charles Garvice
543--The Veiled Bride By Laura Jean Libbey
548--’Twas Love’s Fault By Charles Garvice
551--Pity--Not Love By Laura Jean Libbey
553--Queen Kate By Charles Garvice
554--Step by Step By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
557--In Cupid’s Chains By Charles Garvice
630--The Verdict of the Heart By Charles Garvice
635--A Coronet of Shame By Charles Garvice
640--A Girl of Spirit By Charles Garvice
645--A Jest of Fate By Charles Garvice
648--Gertrude Elliott’s Crucible By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
650--Diana’s Destiny By Charles Garvice
655--Linked by Fate By Charles Garvice
663--Creatures of Destiny By Charles Garvice
671--When Love Is Young By Charles Garvice
676--My Lady Beth By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
679--Gold in the Gutter By Charles Garvice
712--Love and a Lie By Charles Garvice
721--A Girl from the South By Charles Garvice
730--John Hungerford’s Redemption By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
741--The Fatal Ruby By Charles Garvice
749--The Heart of a Maid By Charles Garvice
758--The Woman in It By Charles Garvice
774--Love in a Snare By Charles Garvice
775--My Love Kitty By Charles Garvice
776--That Strange Girl By Charles Garvice
777--Nellie By Charles Garvice
778--Miss Estcourt; or Olive By Charles Garvice
818--The Girl Who Was True By Charles Garvice
826--The Irony of Love By Charles Garvice
896--A Terrible Secret By May Agnes Fleming
897--When To-morrow Came By May Agnes Fleming
904--A Mad Marriage By May Agnes Fleming
905--A Woman Without Mercy By May Agnes Fleming
912--One Night’s Mystery By May Agnes Fleming
913--The Cost of a Lie By May Agnes Fleming
920--Silent and True By May Agnes Fleming
921--A Treasure Lost By May Agnes Fleming
925--Forrest House By Mary J. Holmes
926--He Loved Her Once By Mary J. Holmes
930--Kate Danton By May Agnes Fleming
931--Proud as a Queen By May Agnes Fleming
935--Queenie Hetherton By Mary J. Holmes
936--Mightier Than Pride By Mary J. Holmes
940--The Heir of Charlton By May Agnes Fleming
941--While Love Stood Waiting By May Agnes Fleming
945--Gretchen By Mary J. Holmes
946--Beauty That Faded By Mary J. Holmes
950--Carried by Storm By May Agnes Fleming
951--Love’s Dazzling Glitter By May Agnes Fleming
954--Marguerite By Mary J. Holmes
955--When Love Spurs Onward By Mary J. Holmes
960--Lost for a Woman By May Agnes Fleming
961--His to Love or Hate By May Agnes Fleming
964--Paul Ralston’s First Love By Mary J. Holmes
965--Where Love’s Shadows Lie Deep By Mary J. Holmes
968--The Tracy Diamonds By Mary J. Holmes
969--She Loved Another By Mary J. Holmes
972--The Cromptons By Mary J. Holmes
973--Her Husband Was a Scamp By Mary J. Holmes
975--The Merivale Banks By Mary J. Holmes
978--The One Girl in the World By Charles Garvice
979--His Priceless Jewel By Charles Garvice
982--The Millionaire’s Daughter and Other Stories,
By Charles Garvice
983--Doctor Hathern’s Daughters By Mary J. Holmes
984--The Colonel’s Bride By Mary J. Holmes
988--Her Ladyship’s Diamonds, and Other Stories,
By Charles Garvice
998--Sharing Her Crime By May Agnes Fleming
999--The Heiress of Sunset Hall By May Agnes Fleming
1004--Maude Percy’s Secret By May Agnes Fleming
1005--The Adopted Daughter By May Agnes Fleming
1010--The Sisters of Torwood By May Agnes Fleming
1015--A Changed Heart By May Agnes Fleming
1016--Enchanted By May Agnes Fleming
1025--A Wife’s Tragedy By May Agnes Fleming
1026--Brought to Reckoning By May Agnes Fleming
1027--A Madcap Sweetheart By Emma Garrison Jones
1028--An Unhappy Bargain By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1029--Only a Working Girl By Geraldine Fleming
1030--The Unbidden Guest By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1031--The Man and His Millions By Ida Reade Allen
1032--Mabel’s Sacrifice By Charlotte M. Stanley
1033--Was He Worth It? By Geraldine Fleming
1034--Her Two Suitors By Wenona Gilman
1035--Edith Percival By May Agnes Fleming
1036--Caught in the Snare By May Agnes Fleming
1037--A Love Concealed By Emma Garrison Jones
1038--The Price of Happiness By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1039--The Lucky Man By Geraldine Fleming
1040--A Forced Promise By Ida Reade Allen
1041--The Crime of Love By Barbara Howard
1042--The Bride’s Opals By Emma Garrison Jones
1043--Love That Was Cursed By Geraldine Fleming
1044--Thorns of Regret By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1045--Love Will Find the Way By Wenona Gilman
1046--Bitterly Atoned By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
1047--Told in the Twilight By Ida Reade Allen
1048--A Little Barbarian By Charlotte Kingsley
1049--Love’s Golden Spell By Geraldine Fleming
1050--Married in Error By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1051--If It Were True By Wenona Gilman
1052--Vivian’s Love Story By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
1053--From Tears to Smiles By Ida Reade Allen
1054--When Love Dawns By Adelaide Stirling
1055--Love’s Earnest Prayer By Geraldine Fleming
1056--The Strength of Love By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1057--A Lost Love By Wenona Gilman
1058--The Stronger Passion By Lillian R. Drayton
1059--What Love Can Cost By Evelyn Malcolm
1060--At Another’s Bidding By Ida Reade Allen
1061--Above All Things By Adelaide Stirling
1062--The Curse of Beauty By Geraldine Fleming
1063--Her Sister’s Secret By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1064--Married in Haste By Wenona Gilman
1065--Fair Maid Marian By Emma Garrison Jones
1066--No Man’s Wife By Ida Reade Allen
1067--A Sacrifice to Love By Adelaide Stirling
1068--Her Fatal Gift By Geraldine Fleming
1069--Her Life’s Burden By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1070--Evelyn, the Actress By Wenona Gilman
1071--Married for Money By Lucy Randall Comfort
1072--A Lost Sweetheart By Ida Reade Allen
1073--A Golden Sorrow By Charlotte M. Stanley
1074--Her Heart’s Challenge By Barbara Howard
1075--His Willing Slave By Lillian R. Drayton
1076--A Freak of Fate By Emma Garrison Jones
1077--Her Punishment By Laura Jean Libbey
1078--The Shadow Between Them By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1079--No Time for Penitence By Wenona Gilman
1080--Norna’s Black Fortune By Ida Reade Allen
1081--A Wilful Girl By Lucy Randall Comfort
1082--Love’s First Kiss By Emma Garrison Jones
1083--Lola Dunbar’s Crime By Barbara Howard
1084--Ethel’s Secret By Charlotte M. Stanley
1085--Lynette’s Wedding By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1086--A Fair Enchantress By Ida Reade Allen
1087--The Tide of Fate By Wenona Gilman
1088--Her Husband’s Other Wife By Emma Garrison Jones
1089--Hearts of Stone By Geraldine Fleming
1090--In Love’s Springtime By Laura Jean Libbey
1091--Love at the Loom By Geraldine Fleming
1092--What Was She to Him? By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1093--For Another’s Fault By Charlotte M. Stanley
1094--Hearts and Dollars By Ida Reade Allen
1095--A Wife’s Triumph By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1096--A Bachelor Girl By Lucy May Russell
1097--Love and Spite By Adelaide Stirling
1098--Leola’s Heart By Charlotte M. Stanley
1099--The Power of Love By Geraldine Fleming
1100--An Angel of Evil By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1101--True to His Bride By Emma Garrison Jones
1102--The Lady of Beaufort Park By Wenona Gilman
1103--A Daughter of Darkness By Ida Reade Allen
1104--My Pretty Maid By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1105--Master of Her Fate By Geraldine Fleming
1106--A Shadowed Happiness By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1107--John Elliott’s Flirtation By Lucy May Russell
1108--A Forgotten Love By Adelaide Stirling
1109--Sylvia, The Forsaken By Charlotte M. Stanley
1110--Her Dearest Love By Geraldine Fleming
1111--Love’s Greatest Gift By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1112--Mischievous Maid Faynie By Laura Jean Libbey
1113--In Love’s Name By Emma Garrison Jones
1114--Love’s Clouded Dawn By Wenona Gilman
1115--A Blue Grass Heroine By Ida Reade Allen
1116--Only a Kiss By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1117--Virgie Talcott’s Mission By Lucy May Russell
1118--Her Evil Genius By Adelaide Stirling
1119--In Love’s Paradise By Charlotte M. Stanley
1120--Sold for Gold By Geraldine Fleming
1121--Andrew Leicester’s Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1122--Taken by Storm By Emma Garrison Jones
1123--The Mills of the Gods By Wenona Gilman
1124--The Breath of Slander By Ida Reade Allen
1125--Loyal Unto Death By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1126--A Spurned Proposal By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1127--Daredevil Betty By Evelyn Malcolm
1128--Her Life’s Dark Cloud By Lillian R. Drayton
1129--True Love Endures By Ida Reade Allen
1130--The Battle of Hearts By Geraldine Fleming
1131--Better Than Riches By Wenona Gilman
1132--Tempted By Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
1133--Between Good and Evil By Charlotte M. Stanley
1134--A Southern Princess By Emma Garrison Jones
1135--The Thorns of Love By Evelyn Malcolm
1136--A Married Flirt By Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller
1137--Her Priceless Love By Geraldine Fleming
NICK CARTER STORIES
New Magnet Library
PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS
_Not a Dull Book in This List_
Nick Carter stands for an interesting detective story. The fact that
the books in this line are so uniformly good is entirely due to the
work of a specialist. The man who wrote these stories produced no
other type of fiction. His mind was concentrated upon the creation of
new plots and situations in which his hero emerged triumphantly from
all sorts of trouble, and landed the criminal just where he should
be--behind the bars.
The author of these stories knew more about writing detective stories
than any other single person.
Following is a list of the best Nick Carter stories. They have been
selected with extreme care, and we unhesitatingly recommend each of
them as being fully as interesting as any detective story between cloth
covers which sells at ten times the price.
If you do not know Nick Carter, buy a copy of any of the New Magnet
Library books, and get acquainted. He will surprise and delight you.
_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
850--Wanted: A Clew By Nicholas Carter
851--A Tangled Skein By Nicholas Carter
852--The Bullion Mystery By Nicholas Carter
853--The Man of Riddles By Nicholas Carter
854--A Miscarriage of Justice By Nicholas Carter
855--The Gloved Hand By Nicholas Carter
856--Spoilers and the Spoils By Nicholas Carter
857--The Deeper Game By Nicholas Carter
858--Bolts from Blue Skies By Nicholas Carter
859--Unseen Foes By Nicholas Carter
860--Knaves in High Places By Nicholas Carter
861--The Microbe of Crime By Nicholas Carter
862--In the Toils of Fear By Nicholas Carter
863--A Heritage of Trouble By Nicholas Carter
864--Called to Account By Nicholas Carter
865--The Just and the Unjust By Nicholas Carter
866--Instinct at Fault By Nicholas Carter
867--A Rogue Worth Trapping By Nicholas Carter
868--A Rope of Slender Threads By Nicholas Carter
869--The Last Call By Nicholas Carter
870--The Spoils of Chance By Nicholas Carter
871--A Struggle With Destiny By Nicholas Carter
872--The Slave of Crime By Nicholas Carter
873--The Crook’s Blind By Nicholas Carter
874--A Rascal of Quality By Nicholas Carter
875--With Shackles of Fire By Nicholas Carter
876--The Man Who Changed Faces By Nicholas Carter
877--The Fixed Alibi By Nicholas Carter
878--Out With the Tide By Nicholas Carter
879--The Soul Destroyers By Nicholas Carter
880--The Wages of Rascality By Nicholas Carter
881--Birds of Prey By Nicholas Carter
882--When Destruction Threatens By Nicholas Carter
883--The Keeper of Black Hounds By Nicholas Carter
884--The Door of Doubt By Nicholas Carter
885--The Wolf Within By Nicholas Carter
886--A Perilous Parole By Nicholas Carter
887--The Trail of the Fingerprints By Nicholas Carter
888--Dodging the Law By Nicholas Carter
889--A Crime in Paradise By Nicholas Carter
890--On the Ragged Edge By Nicholas Carter
891--The Red God of Tragedy By Nicholas Carter
892--The Man Who Paid By Nicholas Carter
893--The Blind Man’s Daughter By Nicholas Carter
894--One Object in Life By Nicholas Carter
895--As a Crook Sows By Nicholas Carter
896--In Record Time By Nicholas Carter
897--Held in Suspense By Nicholas Carter
898--The $100,000 Kiss By Nicholas Carter
899--Just One Slip By Nicholas Carter
900--On a Million-dollar Trail By Nicholas Carter
901--A Weird Treasure By Nicholas Carter
902--The Middle Link By Nicholas Carter
903--To the Ends of the Earth By Nicholas Carter
904--When Honors Pall By Nicholas Carter
905--The Yellow Brand By Nicholas Carter
906--A New Serpent in Eden By Nicholas Carter
907--When Brave Men Tremble By Nicholas Carter
908--A Test of Courage By Nicholas Carter
909--Where Peril Beckons By Nicholas Carter
910--The Gargoni Girdle By Nicholas Carter
911--Rascals & Co. By Nicholas Carter
912--Too Late to Talk By Nicholas Carter
913--Satan’s Apt Pupil By Nicholas Carter
914--The Girl Prisoner By Nicholas Carter
915--The Danger of Folly By Nicholas Carter
916--One Shipwreck Too Many By Nicholas Carter
917--Scourged by Fear By Nicholas Carter
918--The Red Plague By Nicholas Carter
919--Scoundrels Rampant By Nicholas Carter
920--From Clew to Clew By Nicholas Carter
921--When Rogues Conspire By Nicholas Carter
922--Twelve in a Grave By Nicholas Carter
923--The Great Opium Case By Nicholas Carter
924--A Conspiracy of Rumors By Nicholas Carter
925--A Klondike Claim By Nicholas Carter
926--The Evil Formula By Nicholas Carter
927--The Man of Many Faces By Nicholas Carter
928--The Great Enigma By Nicholas Carter
929--The Burden of Proof By Nicholas Carter
930--The Stolen Brain By Nicholas Carter
931--A Titled Counterfeiter By Nicholas Carter
932--The Magic Necklace By Nicholas Carter
933--’Round the World for a Quarter By Nicholas Carter
934--Over the Edge of the World By Nicholas Carter
935--In the Grip of Fate By Nicholas Carter
936--The Case of Many Clews By Nicholas Carter
937--The Sealed Door By Nicholas Carter
938--Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men By Nicholas Carter
939--The Man Without a Will By Nicholas Carter
940--Tracked Across the Atlantic By Nicholas Carter
941--A Clew From the Unknown By Nicholas Carter
942--The Crime of a Countess By Nicholas Carter
943--A Mixed Up Mess By Nicholas Carter
944--The Great Money Order Swindle By Nicholas Carter
945--The Adder’s Brood By Nicholas Carter
946--A Wall Street Haul By Nicholas Carter
947--For a Pawned Crown By Nicholas Carter
948--Sealed Orders By Nicholas Carter
949--The Hate That Kills By Nicholas Carter
950--The American Marquis By Nicholas Carter
951--The Needy Nine By Nicholas Carter
952--Fighting Against Millions By Nicholas Carter
953--Outlaws of the Blue By Nicholas Carter
954--The Old Detective’s Pupil By Nicholas Carter
955--Found in the Jungle By Nicholas Carter
956--The Mysterious Mail Robbery By Nicholas Carter
957--Broken Bars By Nicholas Carter
958--A Fair Criminal By Nicholas Carter
959--Won by Magic By Nicholas Carter
960--The Piano Box Mystery By Nicholas Carter
961--The Man They Held Back By Nicholas Carter
962--A Millionaire Partner By Nicholas Carter
963--A Pressing Peril By Nicholas Carter
964--An Australian Klondyke By Nicholas Carter
965--The Sultan’s Pearls By Nicholas Carter
966--The Double Shuffle Club By Nicholas Carter
967--Paying the Price By Nicholas Carter
968--A Woman’s Hand By Nicholas Carter
969--A Network of Crime By Nicholas Carter
970--At Thompson’s Ranch By Nicholas Carter
971--The Crossed Needles By Nicholas Carter
972--The Diamond Mine Case By Nicholas Carter
973--Blood Will Tell By Nicholas Carter
974--An Accidental Password By Nicholas Carter
975--The Crook’s Bauble By Nicholas Carter
976--Two Plus Two By Nicholas Carter
977--The Yellow Label By Nicholas Carter
978--The Clever Celestial By Nicholas Carter
979--The Amphitheater Plot By Nicholas Carter
980--Gideon Drexel’s Millions By Nicholas Carter
981--Death in Life By Nicholas Carter
982--A Stolen Identity By Nicholas Carter
983--Evidence by Telephone By Nicholas Carter
984--The Twelve Tin Boxes By Nicholas Carter
985--Clew Against Clew By Nicholas Carter
986--Lady Velvet By Nicholas Carter
987--Playing a Bold Game By Nicholas Carter
988--A Dead Man’s Grip By Nicholas Carter
989--Snarled Identities By Nicholas Carter
990--A Deposit Vault Puzzle By Nicholas Carter
991--The Crescent Brotherhood By Nicholas Carter
992--The Stolen Pay Train By Nicholas Carter
993--The Sea Fox By Nicholas Carter
994--Wanted by Two Clients By Nicholas Carter
995--The Van Alstine Case By Nicholas Carter
996--Check No. 777 By Nicholas Carter
997--Partners in Peril By Nicholas Carter
998--Nick Carter’s Clever Protégé By Nicholas Carter
999--The Sign of the Crossed Knives By Nicholas Carter
1000--The Man Who Vanished By Nicholas Carter
1001--A Battle for the Right By Nicholas Carter
1002--A Game of Craft By Nicholas Carter
1003--Nick Carter’s Retainer By Nicholas Carter
1004--Caught in the Toils By Nicholas Carter
1005--A Broken Bond By Nicholas Carter
1006--The Crime of the French Café By Nicholas Carter
1007--The Man Who Stole Millions By Nicholas Carter
1008--The Twelve Wise Men By Nicholas Carter
1009--Hidden Foes By Nicholas Carter
1010--A Gamblers’ Syndicate By Nicholas Carter
1011--A Chance Discovery By Nicholas Carter
1012--Among the Counterfeiters By Nicholas Carter
1013--A Threefold Disappearance By Nicholas Carter
1014--At Odds With Scotland Yard By Nicholas Carter
1015--A Princess of Crime By Nicholas Carter
1016--Found on the Beach By Nicholas Carter
1017--A Spinner of Death By Nicholas Carter
1018--The Detective’s Pretty Neighbor By Nicholas Carter
1019--A Bogus Clew By Nicholas Carter
1020--The Puzzle of Five Pistols By Nicholas Carter
1021--The Secret of the Marble Mantel By Nicholas Carter
1022--A Bite of an Apple By Nicholas Carter
1023--A Triple Crime By Nicholas Carter
1024--The Stolen Race Horse By Nicholas Carter
1025--Wildfire By Nicholas Carter
1026--A _Herald_ Personal By Nicholas Carter
1027--The Finger of Suspicion By Nicholas Carter
1028--The Crimson Clue By Nicholas Carter
1029--Nick Carter Down East By Nicholas Carter
1030--The Chain of Clues By Nicholas Carter
1031--A Victim of Circumstances By Nicholas Carter
1032--Brought to Bay By Nicholas Carter
1033--The Dynamite Trap By Nicholas Carter
1034--A Scrap of Black Lace By Nicholas Carter
1035--The Woman of Evil By Nicholas Carter
1036--A Legacy of Hate By Nicholas Carter
1037--A Trusted Rogue By Nicholas Carter
1038--Man Against Man By Nicholas Carter
1039--The Demons of the Night By Nicholas Carter
1040--The Brotherhood of Death By Nicholas Carter
1041--At the Knife’s Point By Nicholas Carter
1042--A Cry for Help By Nicholas Carter
1043--A Stroke of Policy By Nicholas Carter
1044--Hounded to Death By Nicholas Carter
1045--A Bargain in Crime By Nicholas Carter
1046--The Fatal Prescription By Nicholas Carter
1047--The Man of Iron By Nicholas Carter
1048--An Amazing Scoundrel By Nicholas Carter
1049--The Chain of Evidence By Nicholas Carter
1050--Paid with Death By Nicholas Carter
1051--A Fight for a Throne By Nicholas Carter
1052--The Woman of Steel By Nicholas Carter
1053--The Seal of Death By Nicholas Carter
1054--The Human Fiend By Nicholas Carter
1055--A Desperate Chance By Nicholas Carter
1056--A Chase in the Dark By Nicholas Carter
1057--The Snare and the Game By Nicholas Carter
1058--The Murray Hill Mystery By Nicholas Carter
1059--Nick Carter’s Close Call By Nicholas Carter
1060--The Missing Cotton King By Nicholas Carter
1061--A Game of Plots By Nicholas Carter
1062--The Prince of Liars By Nicholas Carter
1063--The Man at the Window By Nicholas Carter
1064--The Red League By Nicholas Carter
1065--The Price of a Secret By Nicholas Carter
1066--The Worst Case on Record By Nicholas Carter
1067--From Peril to Peril By Nicholas Carter
1068--The Seal of Silence By Nicholas Carter
1069--Nick Carter’s Chinese Puzzle By Nicholas Carter
1070--A Blackmailer’s Bluff By Nicholas Carter
1071--Heard in the Dark By Nicholas Carter
1072--A Checkmated Scoundrel By Nicholas Carter
1073--The Cashier’s Secret By Nicholas Carter
1074--Behind a Mask By Nicholas Carter
1075--The Cloak of Guilt By Nicholas Carter
1076--Two Villains in One By Nicholas Carter
1077--The Hot Air Clue By Nicholas Carter
1078--Run to Earth By Nicholas Carter
1079--The Certified Check By Nicholas Carter
1080--Weaving the Web By Nicholas Carter
1081--Beyond Pursuit By Nicholas Carter
1082--The Claws of the Tiger By Nicholas Carter
1083--Driven From Cover By Nicholas Carter
1084--A Deal in Diamonds By Nicholas Carter
1085--The Wizard of the Cue By Nicholas Carter
1086--A Race for Ten Thousand By Nicholas Carter
1087--The Criminal Link By Nicholas Carter
1088--The Red Signal By Nicholas Carter
1089--The Secret Panel By Nicholas Carter
1090--A Bonded Villain By Nicholas Carter
1091--A Move in the Dark By Nicholas Carter
1092--Against Desperate Odds By Nicholas Carter
1093--The Telltale Photographs By Nicholas Carter
1094--The Ruby Pin By Nicholas Carter
1095--The Queen of Diamonds By Nicholas Carter
1096--A Broken Trail By Nicholas Carter
1097--An Ingenious Stratagem By Nicholas Carter
1098--A Sharper’s Downfall By Nicholas Carter
1099--A Race Track Gamble By Nicholas Carter
1100--Without a Clew By Nicholas Carter
1101--The Council of Death By Nicholas Carter
1102--The Hole in the Vault By Nicholas Carter
1103--In Death’s Grip By Nicholas Carter
1104--A Great Conspiracy By Nicholas Carter
1105--The Guilty Governor By Nicholas Carter
1106--A Ring of Rascals By Nicholas Carter
1107--A Masterpiece of Crime By Nicholas Carter
1108--A Blow For Vengeance By Nicholas Carter
In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.
To Be Published in July, 1923.
1109--Tangled Threads By Nicholas Carter
1110--The Crime of the Camera By Nicholas Carter
15c
is the right price--the fair price under present conditions.
Therefore, the
S. & S. Novels
sell at fifteen cents, no more, no less.
We have an established reputation for fair dealing acquired during
sixty years of active publishing.
The reduction in the price of our novels means that we are living up to
our reputation.
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
79 Seventh Avenue New York City
_Adventure Stories_
_Detective Stories_
_Western Stories_
_Love Stories_
_Sea Stories_
All classes of fiction are to be found among the Street & Smith novels.
Our line contains reading matter for every one, irrespective of age or
preference.
The person who has only a moderate sum to spend on reading matter will
find this line a veritable gold mine.
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION,
79 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by
the transcriber.
The first word on page 97 (before “Margery” in the sentence “but,
Margery, I am not sane, now!”) is illegible and has been omitted.
The word “gnawing” at the end of page 216 is a best guess; the source
text is nearly illegible.
Some inconsistent hyphenation has been retained from the original.
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