Two days passed, and the earl announced his intention of going down to
his tenants at the end of the week. They were two peaceful, pleasant
days, and Margery found much to occupy her. She would have remained in
her own room during her spare moments if Lady Enid would have allowed
it, but, with pretty tyranny, the invalid refused any such concession,
and so Margery brought her painting into the boudoir. Lady Enid seemed
never tired of watching her as she sat bending over her canvas, and
every now and then she would touch her brother gently, and by a sign
call his attention to the girl’s beauty. Margery liked Lord Court. She
was pleased at the graceful deference he showed her, and happy because
of the joy his presence brought to Lady Enid. He was a most agreeable
companion; his wanderings about the world had provided him with a fund
of anecdote and information, and Margery listened delightedly to his
voice, though her heart would sink at times at the memory of that other
who had spoken of the same scenes. She found that the earl was an
artist of more than ordinary ability, and was grateful to him for his
many hints, entering into long discussions with a zest that delighted
Lady Enid. The earl, too, found it a strange pleasure to listen to her,
and he would start a conversation simply for the sake of hearing her
speak, and to watch the ever-changing expression of her sweet face.
He gave himself up now entirely to his sister; his fears were banished,
her own hopefulness kindled his, and the delicate flush that appeared
on her white cheeks led him to believe that her strength was returning.
Margery, too, shared his eager delight in Lady Enid’s recovery; yet
amid it all she could not repress a vague feeling of discomfort
sometimes, and alarm would rise unbidden when she looked up quickly and
saw the unspeakable sadness in Lady Enid’s face; but she kept her fears
to herself, and, indeed, dismissed them as fancies when she heard the
brother and sister laughing and chatting together.
Lord Court was absent a week, but he sent dispatches daily to town,
with hampers of flowers and fruit. The two girls were ardent lovers of
flowers, and Margery would flit about arranging them till the room was
scarcely recognizable.
On the day of the earl’s return she began the pleasant task of
decorating, and, when all the vases were filled, she turned to Lady
Enid with the great clusters that remained in her hand.
“Shall I send these up to Lady Merivall, Enid?” she asked--by Lady
Enid’s special desire she discarded the title when speaking to her
friend and mistress.
“Aunt Hannah!” Lady Enid laughed. “Oh, she cannot bear flowers,
Margery! She would declare that we wished to kill her if we put them in
her room!”
Margery buried her face in the flowers.
“How I pity her!” she said, slowly. “To me they are as life itself.
Yet, do you know, Enid, sometimes the thought comes to me that we are
cruel when we cut the blossoms off so ruthlessly--they die so soon.”
She gazed admiringly at a small, delicate white rose as she spoke; it
looked so desolate without its setting of green leaves. A curious fancy
seized her--was not her life like this poor flower’s, separated from
all she loved?
“She is thinking of her grief,” thought the invalid girl. “You are too
tender, darling,” she said, gently; “flowers are sent for our use; and,
after all, we die as they do.” She paused a little, and then went on,
“I will tell you where to put those, if you will. Nugent loves flowers
as we do. Ask Morgan to give you some glasses, and arrange them on his
table, will you?”
“Of course! Why did I not think of this before?” and, gathering them in
her hands, Margery went swiftly from the room.
Lady Enid lay back very still as she disappeared, a strange yearning
look on her face.
“If that only might be,” she murmured to herself, “I could go in
happiness, I think.” She looked toward the door, and her eyes suddenly
gleamed with joy. “Nugent,” she cried, “you have come back! How good of
you to be so early!”
Lord Court bent and kissed her.
“Where is Miss Daw? You are alone.”
Lady Enid saw his eager glance.
“She has just left me to put some flowers in your room. Oh, Nugent, how
sweet they are! I breathe the country air again in their scent.”
“As you will breathe it in reality, darling, soon. What does Fothergill
say?”
“I am progressing slowly,” Lady Enid replied, in a quiet voice, though
the flush on her cheeks deepened; “it must be another week yet, Nugent,
before I can think of starting.”
“A week will soon pass,” the earl responded, tenderly, not noticing her
labored manner--“a week, and then, Enid, my darling, we shall return to
the home where we were so happy, to the haunts you loved! My life shall
henceforth be spent for you and with you, as of old.”
Lady Enid put her hand on her brother’s.
“You do not dread it?” she whispered.
“All dread is gone--it is buried in the past,” he answered, firmly,
looking into her eyes.
Lady Enid sighed, and Margery entered the room as he released her hand.
“You have been putting some flowers in my room, Miss Daw; that is kind
of you.”
“I did not know you liked flowers, Lord Court,” she answered, with the
grave smile that never brought any light to her eyes. “I will remember
in future.”
“I like all that is beautiful,” he said, involuntarily; then, turning
to his sister--“Enid, let us celebrate my return. You have not driven
out for weeks. Can you bear the fatigue to-day?”
“Yes,” replied Lady Enid, with a gleam of delight. “I shall enjoy it.”
“It is a lovely day,” went on the earl. “I long to drag you from this
gloomy room; a drive will do you good, I am sure.”
“Yes, I know it will.”
Margery knelt for an instant beside the couch.
“Are you quite sure?” she whispered. “Will Dr. Fothergill----”
“He has urged me to go many times,” Lady Enid interrupted, kissing her;
“so run and put on your hat.”
Margery went with a light heart, and in a few minutes followed the
slight figure on its straight, padded board to the luxurious barouche.
Lady Enid’s couch was placed in the carriage, for she was compelled to
retain her recumbent position, and, with a heart full of pity, Margery
took her seat beside the invalid.
London was very full, considering that the shooting season had
commenced, and many people came to the side of the carriage, either
to bow or to offer their greetings to Lady Enid. To all of these
acquaintances Margery was introduced as “my dear friend,” and her heart
swelled with gratitude to Lady Enid for her delicacy and consideration.
Lord Court, though he was busy talking, lost none of the varying
expressions that passed across her face. Gradually it was becoming
a pleasure to him to be near this girl whom his sister loved; he
recognized the rare beauty of her nature, her inborn refinement, and
her pride and grace won from him attentions that many another woman
had sighed for in vain. Margery was always gratified by his courtesy,
though his growing admiration was lost on her. She sat back in the
carriage listening to the conversation, speaking only when addressed.
The earl had judged rightly--the drive seemed to have brought new life
to his sister. She chatted gayly, breathing the soft air with avidity,
and his hope rose higher and higher as he gazed at her animated face.
They had turned into the park, which was filled with carriages and
equestrians, and Margery, who had been only once before in this part of
London, grew interested in watching the groups of people passing to and
fro.
Lord Court’s eyes wandered from his sister’s face to hers, and a sense
of peace such as he had never felt in the past four years crept into
his heart. Lady Enid saw his eyes turned on Margery, and she smiled to
herself a happy little smile; she felt that these two would be friends,
and the thought pleased her. Just as they were turning to leave the
park, a gentleman rode up to the carriage and entered into conversation
with the earl and Lady Enid. Margery sat back, and let her eyes and
thoughts wander. She watched, with a smile on her face, two children
struggling for a doll, heedless of the voice of their nurse; then
suddenly the smile faded, and her heart seemed to stand still. Beneath
the trees to their right a party of riders was just moving on--a woman
between two men, followed by two grooms. Margery’s cheeks blanched, and
her hands trembled; she knew that graceful form only too well. It was
Vane Charteris--Vane Charteris, with the smile of content, the glow
of perfect happiness on her lovely face; and beside her rode Stuart
Crosbie. Margery had looked but once, yet she saw only too well. Vane
had turned with a smile to her lover, and he, bending close to her, was
murmuring words the tenderness of which might have been guessed by the
earnest gaze that accompanied them.
Margery drew back in her seat as they passed; it was a moment of bitter
agony. She had thought herself schooled to meet sorrow, that she was
able to be firm, that she had cast out all love and despair from her
heart, and filled it with a desire for utter forgetfulness. Now she
saw herself in her weakness. The very sight of Vane Charteris brought
back the humiliation she had suffered, while the sight of Stuart, the
man who had deceived her, insulted her, wrecked her life at its very
beginning, brought back the tumultuous joy of that evening in the Weald
Wood, the never-ending sorrow of her loss. Ah, she might be as brave
as she would, away, but a glimpse of his face had broken down all the
barriers that pride had been setting up during these past weeks, and
left her as weak as before!
Turning to speak to her, Lord Court saw her pallor and look of pain.
“Something is troubling her,” he thought. “She is too young, too fair
to look so distressed.” Ignoring her apparent faintness, he gave his
orders to the footman, and they were driven home.
Margery all that evening was quiet, almost depressed. She knew she
might have remained in her own room, had she so wished, but she shrank
from being left alone with her thoughts, from the confession of her own
weakness; and she sat with Lady Enid, who, full of the pleasure of her
drive, chatted and laughed gayly, not noticing her friend’s changed
manner. But, though it escaped her, it was quickly detected by her
brother, and the pale face of the young girl, the unspeakable depth of
sadness in her eyes, touched him with deep sympathy. He came easily and
gracefully to her rescue. He took the book from her hand when Lady Enid
asked her to read, with a playful remark as to Miss Daw’s needlework
progressing slowly, and he alone saw the slender figure leaning back
wearily on the wide window-ledge, her work forgotten in her thoughts.
He exerted himself to chat to his sister, and then, knowing that her
evening was never complete without music, seated himself at the piano,
and filled the room with the melody of a rich baritone voice.
Margery listened a while, then the sighing sadness of the music proved
too much for her, and, stooping to kiss Lady Enid, she retired to her
room.
The night hours passed slowly and heavily; she could not sleep. Her
mind was haunted by the vision of two forms with the radiance of a
great happiness in their eyes. Was London, then, so small that she must
be tortured by their faces wherever she went? And her secret--would
not that be discovered? They had not seen her to-day, but who could
tell whether she might not meet them again? She felt low-spirited and
disheartened for a time, then grew gradually easier in her mind. In a
week, perhaps, they would leave London, and down at Court Manor she
would have peace, if not happiness. Comforted by this thought, she fell
asleep just as the gray dawn was breaking, her troubles forgotten for
the time in dreams.
For the next three days life went on as it had before Lord Court
arrived. Margery took her solitary walks in the square garden, secure
from all fears there, and Lady Enid declared herself much better. As
the end of the week drew near, Margery felt her heart lighten. Only a
few hours more, and she would be safe for a long time!
“Have you your canvas and all the necessaries for our pictures,
Nugent?” asked Lady Enid, on the afternoon of the day before that fixed
for their departure.
“I have one or two little commissions to execute this afternoon,”
returned the earl; “then I shall be quite prepared for work.”
“Let us go with you; it is a lovely day.”
“But the fatigue!” he said, warningly. “Remember, Enid, there is the
journey to-morrow.”
“I should enjoy it,” Lady Enid murmured, a little plaintively.
“Then come, by all means, my darling.”
With a beating heart, Margery put on her hat; fain would she have
stayed at home, but she could think of no excuse, and she did not like
to spoil Lady Enid’s pleasure. She shrank from the idea of seeing those
two faces again, and the chance of being recognized.
The earl was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.
“Enid has sent me for you, Miss Daw,” he said, hurriedly, “but I was
most anxious to speak to you for a minute alone. Tell me honestly, do
you think she wishes this journey to-morrow? Sometimes I fancy I see a
hopeless longing in her eyes, and it almost makes my heart ache.”
“Indeed, Lord Court,” Margery answered, earnestly, “I am sure Lady Enid
lives in the very thought of going to her old home. She has talked of
it so often. Please do not distress yourself; I have seen that look in
her eyes, too, but I do not think it means more than a longing to be
well.”
She put out her hand timidly, and he raised it to his lips.
“Thank you,” he said, gently; “you always comfort me, Miss Daw.”
Their eyes met for an instant, and he saw again the deep sadness in
hers.
“Enid is waiting,” he said; “let us go to the carriage.”
This time they drove through the streets, and Margery forced herself
to talk and smile, though she was trembling with fear. If her smile
died away suddenly, and if her voice had not the true ring, it was only
the earl who remarked it. Lady Enid, lying back on her couch, was too
interested in all that was passing to see the effort and notice the
constraint.
At last all the commissions were executed, and it was with a sigh of
relief that Margery found the carriage was rolling homeward.
“Shall I ever learn her sorrow?” the earl wondered, as they bowled
along, noting her sweet face. “It is only one who has suffered as I
have who looks as she does--yet that is impossible in her young life.”
Margery met his earnest, questioning gaze; the color rose to her
cheeks, and she was about to make some remark, when suddenly, to her
amazement, the earl leaned forward and pulled her on one side; then
followed a sharp shock to the carriage. Dimly she saw a huge impending
mass above her, and heard voices raised in alarm; then her senses
cleared, and she saw the earl standing in the street, the footman
beside him, and a crowd of people hurrying forward.
“There is no damage,” cried the earl, getting into the carriage
again--“at least, none to us. You are not hurt?” His tone was intensely
eager.
“No, no,” Margery answered, quickly; “but Lady Enid----”
“Is all right. She told me so herself, with a smile, just this minute.”
Margery bent over the couch.
“Then she deceived you,” she said, hurriedly, looking up with blanched
cheeks; “for she has fainted.”