“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.”