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.