“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.