“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.