“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.