Days glided on, and Margery grew gradually stronger. October was
nearing its close, but still the sunshine was warm and genial, and
the wind from the sea soft and gentle. It was quite a little fishing
village where the Earl and Countess of Court were staying, a rambling,
quaint, three-cornered place, inhabited by healthy, strong-limbed
fisher folk. Lord Court had brought his wife down to Wavemouth by the
advice of two London physicians, and, when the first week of anxiety
was passed, and he saw signs of returning health on her sweet face,
he was thankful beyond words. The village people were honored and
awestruck by the presence of an earl and countess in their midst;
they had few grand visitors at Wavemouth. An artist now and then paid
the place a visit--indeed, there was one staying there when Margery
arrived. He sketched the ruddy-faced children and made his way to the
mothers’ hearts by his sweet, clear voice and gentle manners.
Margery learned afterward that the song she had heard so clearly that
afternoon when she woke to remembrance had come from this artist’s
lips; but she never saw the singer--he quitted the village soon
afterward, and left the children and maidens lamenting.
Lord Court had brought a low, easy carriage down with them, and he
drove his wife about the picturesque village, watching with a throb
of pleasure the interest dawn in her face. Wavemouth was so quiet,
so peaceful, so completely in keeping with her desire for rest, that
Margery loved the place.
She was still far from strong, and the sea breezes brought a sense of
relief and freshness to her spirit. She was fighting a hard battle with
herself, striving with all her might to crush out her old love and
turn to her husband, whose depths of goodness and generosity she was
learning to know better each day. But as she grew stronger the struggle
was more bitter; her thoughts would fly to Hurstley, to the dead Mary
Morris whose memory she held so dear, and then to that other who was,
despite all her efforts, so inextricably bound up with her existence.
The earl, totally ignorant of the secret in his wife’s breast, reveled
in his new-found happiness, rejoiced in the possession of his treasure.
Day by day he was drawn closer to this girl whose sweetness had been
sung by the lips of his dead sister. It was so great a change to him
after those four years of ceaseless pain, distrust and darkness! Often
in those days he had tried to escape from the remembrance of his life’s
mistake; but he could find no relief till that evening when he stood
in the doorway listening to the sweet, girlish voice ringing through
the room, and then suddenly misery and despair vanished, and hope
revived--hope that afterward became a sweet reality.
“Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy--
They heed not our expectancy;
But round some corner in the streets of life
They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”
And now Margery was his wife--his very own; there was none to claim
her, none to share the treasure of her love. Was not this blessing
too great? His earnest eyes, dark with tenderness, were never tired
of watching her lovely, unconscious face as she sat buried in her
memories of the past, the look of unutterable sadness that had touched
him in their earlier acquaintance seeming to him now caused but by the
recollection of her childhood’s history, her mother’s death.
At last the sunshine died, the sea’s calm was gone, the tiny rippling
movement was changed into gigantic rolling waves, crested with white
foam, and dashing on to the beach in angry majesty, with a sound as of
thunder. Margery loved the sea in its fury; she would sit and watch it
for hours, her heart beating fast, and her nerves thrilling at the rage
in its fierce waves and dashing spray. The anger, the wildness of the
elements, relieved her overwrought mind, and the very tumult brought
her peace.
She stood at the window one afternoon gazing at the expanse of dull,
leaden-green water. There were no waves; it was as if a titanic
movement from below agitated the surface and caused the heavy, sudden
motion. As she stood thus, her husband approached her.
“Not tired of the sea yet, my darling?” he said, with a smile. “I shall
be afraid to suggest a migration if this devotion lasts much longer.”
“It is so wonderful,” Margery answered, dreamily. “I can see such
strange pictures, imagine such things, as I watch it. I have never seen
it as it is to-day.”
“There will be a storm to-night. I have just seen one of the fishermen,
and he says they expect very rough weather.”
“It looks an angry, discontented sea,” Margery said, still dreamily,
“as if its passion would be terrible when it did break forth.”
“Look at the foot of the Templar’s Rock! It is beginning already;
the foam is as white as snow. There is, as you say, Margery, sullen
discontent in its look; but there is also a wildness of despair. It
reminds me, looking at that whirling rush round the rock, of Tennyson’s
words:
“‘Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me!’”
With a little shudder Margery turned from the window.
“To-day has broken the spell,” she said, hurriedly, with forced
lightness. “I think I am tired of the sea at last.”
“You shall leave it when you will--to-night even, if you wish it, my
darling; it is still early afternoon. I will telegraph for rooms.
Pauline shall accompany you; the others can remain, with the exception
of my man, and follow to-morrow.”
“But it is so much trouble,” began Margery.
“Trouble, my sweet, where you are concerned! You would like a change?
Yes, I see it in your eyes! We will go, and this, Margery, shall be
the beginning of our married life, henceforth to be spent hand in hand
together. I will go at once and give my orders; we will start by the
first train. I believe there is one about half-past four.”
“You are so good!” Margery murmured.
He bent, and raised her hands to his lips.
“Never say that again, my darling; my whole life is for you.”
As he left, and looked at the sea, Margery turned once more to the
window. Yes, she must go.
Suddenly the misery, the weight of her struggle seemed to overcome
her. She had sat and dreamed much; she must now put aside all dreams,
and turn to life in real earnest. The sea no longer comforted her, and
the words her husband had quoted strengthened the desire that had been
growing within her to leave it.
“The tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me!”
The truth, the agony in those words, struck her with bitter force. She
roused herself with a great effort, determined to fling aside all her
weakness and face her duty.
The entrance of Pauline checked her musings.
“Miladi is really going!” exclaimed the maid, delight shining in her
great black eyes. “Ah, but I am glad! Miladi will be so much better
away from this dismal place; it is enough to give one the _migraine_.
Miladi is wise.”
“You are glad to go, Pauline?” questioned Margery, smiling, as she
watched the maid bring out a costly mantle and furs for her coming
journey.
“_Ma foi, mais oui_, miladi! I love London--the sea is so _triste_.
Miladi will take her jewels with her, _sans doute_?”
“My jewels, Pauline! I have none.”
“_Mais_, how _stupide_! Miladi has never been even shown her beautiful
jewels! Ah, miladi must see them--they are _magnifiques_!”
Pauline brought the richly-inlaid case to a table near, and spread the
contents of the numerous morocco cases on the cloth. Margery looked at
the jewels in silence; she did not touch one of the glittering rings or
bracelets, or lift the tiara of diamonds from its velvet throne.
Their beauty amazed, but did not please her; ambition for such things
had no place in her nature. She smiled faintly at Pauline’s delight and
many ejaculations.
“Milord had them all brought down from the manor for miladi. See--she
will wear this when she is presented. Does not miladi like them, and
the case with the arms and the letters of miladi’s name? See--how
beautiful!”
“Yes, they are very beautiful,” replied Lady Court, quietly; “but I
shall not wear them just yet, Pauline.”
“But miladi must put on a few rings above her _bague de mariage_--_mais
oui_--just a simple one; it will look better.”
Margery hesitated; then, hearing a slight noise, she turned and met her
husband’s tender eyes.
“Pauline has been showing me my jewels; they are beautiful--too
beautiful. I thank you for them all. She tells me that I must wear some
rings above my wedding one. Will you put them on?”
Pauline had disappeared on a murmured pretext. Lord Court took the
slender white hand in his.
“It wants no rings to enhance its beauty,” he said, with a smile; “but
Pauline is right--you must do as others do, and wear some to guard this
band of gold. I have two that will please you, I think, my darling--two
I have intended giving you for the past week.”
He touched a small spring in the case and disclosed a little drawer. In
this two rings were lying; he took them out.
“This hoop of diamonds, Margery,” he said, gently, “was my mother’s; it
is old-fashioned now, and perhaps----”
“Let me wear it,” she whispered, hurriedly.
In silence he slipped the circlet over the tiny finger, then pressed
his lips to it.
“This one you know”--taking up the other. “You have seen it often--the
sapphires will match your eyes, sweet--it was Enid’s ring.”
Tears sprung to Margery’s eyes as she looked at the glistening stones,
and remembered how often she had seen them flashing on the frail, white
hand of the dead girl.
“They are sacred to me--I shall treasure them both,” she said,
reverently, then turned aside with trembling lips.
Pauline returned in two minutes, and the jewels were restored to their
cases and packed in their iron-bound box for the journey.
Margery, wrapped in her furs, took her last look at the sea, its
sullen surface already broken by flecks of white. The vast expanse of
dull-green water bordered by the gray sky struck her suddenly with a
sense of gloom.
She turned from it with a sigh of relief; and, as she left it,
determined to banish all the dreams and sad recollections it had
brought her, burying all memories in its dark, unfathomable depths.
So she went away from the quiet village back to London and to life,
back to duty, firm in her new-born strength and will.
“Ah, they are happy, milord and miladi, both!” sighed Pauline to her
companion and fellow traveler, the earl’s valet. “She is so simple and
so pretty--and they have love. Ah, monsieur, how great is that wondrous
love!”
The husband and wife sat silent during the greater part of the journey.
Margery, resting her head against the cushions, sat with closed eyes.
The earl thought she slept, but sleep was far from her. A vague longing
seized her that she might step back into the far distant past, when she
knew neither the greatness of joy nor the bitterness of sorrow. If she
could be once more the simple-minded girl, living in all contentment
her peaceful village life, her studies the one excitement of her days!
She was happier then, before she had learned the mystery of her own
heart, before childhood had vanished and womanhood had come in its
place.