It had been Lord Court’s intention to travel with his wife straight
down to Court Manor, after resting a day or two in London; but the
death of his aunt, Lady Merivale, immediately on their arrival,
necessitated his presence in town, as her affairs were left in his
hands. Margery at first felt disappointed at the delay, but, after a
week had passed she grew content. They had a suite of rooms at the
Bristol, and, to Pauline’s delight, were in the very heart of London.
Horses and carriages were brought up for the Countess of Court’s
use during her brief stay, and the slender, black-robed girl, with
sweet, pathetic face, and crown of red-gold hair, provoked universal
admiration. The earl had not many near relatives; but such of his
connections as were in town paid an early visit to Lady Court, and
found their anticipations of dislike turn to wonder at the gracious
dignity and sweetness of Margery’s presence. She soon learned that her
strange, romantic marriage was the one topic of the moment in society,
that every one was eager to see the unknown girl who had won the
heart of Nugent, Earl of Court, so eligible, yet so disappointing a
_parti_. It gave Margery no pleasure to receive and return the visits
of the stately ladies who claimed to be her husband’s friends; still,
she forced herself to do it, as the beginning of her path of duty.
Every day, as she drove out, she dreaded to see those two faces whose
images she could not banish from her memory; and she would shrink back
in the corner of the luxurious carriage as she passed a riding party,
forgetful for the minute that her own features were hidden beneath the
thick, black veil, which, despite all Pauline’s protests, she would
wear, forgetful, too, of the fact that, were she to meet Vane Charteris
and Stuart, they would never associate Margery Daw with the Countess of
Court. For no mention of her name before her marriage had crept out.
The world knew that the earl had taken his sister’s companion for his
wife, and there its information ended. Miss Lawson and Dr. Fothergill
and his wife were alone in the secret, and with them it was safe.
One afternoon, at the beginning of the second week of their stay in
town, a trial came to Margery’s pride. Lord Court was claimed by the
lawyers, and, after a morning spent among her books, Margery prepared
for a drive and some visits. Pauline dressed the slender, graceful
figure in the black garments and fastened the sable mantle while she
uttered exclamations of delight at her mistress’ appearance. She made a
slight protest as the veil was produced, but Margery was firm, and the
delicate face, with its great blue eyes, was completely hidden beneath
the thick folds.
The first visit was to an old marchioness who had fallen a victim to
Lady Court’s charm and sweetness, and Margery made great progress
toward friendship. Several ladies were present, and from one and all
she received kind congratulations.
“But now I want to beg a favor, dear Lady Court,” said the hostess,
after a while; “it is rude of me, perhaps, but I hope you will forgive
it. Will you not remove that thick veil? We cannot see your fair young
face, and nature has been so lavish to you, child, you can afford to be
generous.”
Margery laughed softly, and put up her hand to unpin the veil, when
the door opened, and a voice announced:
“Lady Charteris--Miss Charteris!”
Margery felt the blood surge in her ears and a mist rose before her
eyes; she saw again the beautiful, cold, cruel creature who had spoken
words that stabbed her to the very heart.
She acknowledged the introduction with a slight bend of the head, then,
murmuring a few words of regret and farewell, went swiftly from the
room to her carriage, her breast full of stormy emotions.
“I am so sorry you did not see Lady Court; she has the face of an
angel,” said the hostess, as Margery disappeared.
“She is very tall,” observed Vane, in her most bored manner--“almost
too tall for a woman--and she seems to have red hair. I hate red hair,”
she added, a vision of a sweet, girlish face, framed in red-gold curls,
rising before her as she spoke.
“Your taste, dear Vane, is always good,” observed the old lady, dryly,
and then the conversation drifted into other channels.
Margery gave her orders in a quiet, stifled voice, and was driven back
to the hotel. The fear, the dread she had suffered in anticipation of
this meeting was as nothing compared with the agony of pride and pain
she now endured. She had thought herself strong, thought she was braced
for whatever might happen, and at one blow the barriers she had been
building were thrown to the ground, and she was the broken-hearted,
humiliated girl once again. The sight of Vane recalled all her despair,
and knowledge that Stuart--her love--was lost to her forever. She sat
in deep thought as the carriage rolled along, and it was not till it
drew up at the hotel that she woke from her meditations. Then, in a
moment, came the memory of her position--of her husband. She was now
far above such insults, and she had one who would avenge them. The
first rush of agitation had died away, and, when she reached her rooms,
she paced up and down till her mind was restored to tranquillity.
She would be braver in the future, and, if fate forced her to meet
either of those two, she would go through the ordeal unflinchingly. It
would be bitter, she knew, for, painful as the sight of Vane Charteris
had been, it recalled only wounded pride; with the other her experience
would be different, for the sight of Stuart’s face would bring back the
memory of her unrequited love and despair.
She threw off her mantle and hat, and turned suddenly to the piano. In
moments of great emotion music soothed her--it relieved her overcharged
heart.
“We know not whether death be good,
But life at least it will not be;
Men will stand sadd’ning as we stood,
Watch the same fields and sky as we,
And the same sea.
“Let this be said between us here--
One love grows green when one turns gray,
This year knows nothing of last year,
To-morrow has no more to say
To yesterday.
“Live and let live, as I will do--
Love and let love, and so will I;
But sweet for me no more with you,
Not while I live, not though I die.
Good-night, good-by!”
It was a new song, sent in, with many others, by the earl. Margery
played it through, and sang the words in a low, sad voice, till the
passion of the music awoke a chord within her; and then, as she neared
the end, her tones rang out clear and sweet through the large room.
As the echoes died away, the door opened, and the footman ushered
in a lady. Margery rose quickly, gave one look, then, with a sudden
exclamation of pleasure, hastened forward and threw her arms round the
newcomer.
“Miss Lawson!” she cried, with honest joy. “I am so glad--so glad to
see you once again!”
Miss Lawson kissed the fair cheek in silence, while tears glistened
in her eyes. If ever she had doubted the warmth, the generosity, the
goodness of Margery’s nature for an instant, the genuine pleasure and
affection of the girl now would have shamed her. She was still the
Margery of old, the sweet, loving Margery she knew so well.
“You are glad, child?” she said, quietly. “So am I to see your dear
face again; the months have seemed long since you went, though your
letters have told me all you have done. You are the same Margery; yet
you are changed, dear.”
“I am older and--a married woman,” Margery responded, with a forced
little laugh. “My dignity makes me older. But come and sit with me. How
much I have to say, and yet I scarcely know where to begin!”
Miss Lawson let her remove her bonnet and cloak and push her with
affectionate hand into an easy-chair in the inner room, close to a
blazing fire. With undisguised pleasure her eyes rested on the girlish
figure. It was not until Margery had gone from the village that the
rectory governess realized how deeply the waif had crept into her heart.
“You are not surprised to see me?” she said, after a while, as Lady
Court seated herself on a stool at her feet.
“I have been thinking of you so much and so often that you seem part of
my life. You are come to stay with me, dear Miss Lawson? Yes, yes, you
must stay; I shall not let you go.”
“I must return to-morrow; Mrs. Carr will expect me. I left Hurstley on
purpose to see you, Margery.”
“How good of you!” exclaimed Margery, warmly, fondling the worn hand
between her two soft palms. “This is just what I wanted to complete
everything.”
“You are happy?” asked Miss Lawson, abruptly.
“I am content,” answered the girl, and her great blue eyes met the gray
ones with a steadfast look. “And now tell me all the news. Am I quite
forgotten in the village? Do none of them ask for me in Hurstley?”
“Margery, I will be candid with you. When you first went I heard very
little about you, you know--I seldom go into the village--but in a very
short time the news came that you had gone to Australia with Reuben and
Robert Bright. The people were hard, dear, and blamed you. The Brights
are heartbroken at Robert’s leaving them, and all the fault is laid at
your door. They do not speak kindly of you, child, and, when I first
heard them, I had great difficulty in holding my tongue. But you had
begged for secrecy and silence, and I had given my word. I meant to
have written to or seen you, but then came poor Lady Enid’s death, your
marriage, and your illness. I could do nothing but wait. I have waited,
and now, Margery, I have come here for the very purpose of asking you
to take the seal from my lips, that I may explain to the village and
silence slander.”
Margery had risen to her feet, her hands pressed to her bosom, her face
deadly pale.
“How cruel the world is,” she murmured, bitterly, “how terribly cruel!
They know nothing, yet they speak harshly. They do not know how I
begged, how I entreated Robert to go back to his home. You remember how
stunned I was when first I learned that he had joined Reuben?”
“I know,” answered Miss Lawson, “and I would have all the world do
you justice. You are now great; let them know you as you are, and
crush their calumny. I do not blame the Brights--their whole life was
centered in Robert--but----”
“And for the rest I do not care,” interrupted Margery, proudly. “The
Brights will hear from Robert soon, and then they will learn the truth
and know how they have wronged me. What had I done to the village that
at the very beginning of my life they should think ill of me? Oh, Miss
Lawson, is the world all like this?”
“The world is cruel, Margery, bitter, hard,” the elder woman said, with
a sigh; then she added, regretfully, “I am sorry you will not disclose
your secret, but you know best, dear, and I have done what I considered
my duty.”
“You have done as you have done so often--treated me as though I were
your own child--and I thank you.”
“And have you not been my own?” said the elder woman, with a new light
of tenderness on her face. “I have seen you spring up from a tiny child
to womanhood; I have loved you through all, and I am proud of you. You
are to me what the poet says:
“‘For years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower
On earth was never seen;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.”’”
“And nature did that, Margery. No rules of mine could do what she did.
You had the germ within you of all that makes a grand, good woman, and
it has come to perfection.”
Margery bent and kissed the lips that spoke the grateful words.
“You always comforted me, dearest, truest friend! Ah, why will you not
stay with me always, to be my counselor and guide in the years to come?
You have worked so hard; now is your time for rest. Promise me that
when you are tired you will make your home with me.”
“I will come to you whenever I can, but I will not live with you. It
would not be wise. Now tell me of all the strange things that have
happened since we parted. Thank Heaven, my child, your lot has fallen
upon the golden side of life! Your troubles are over, now begins your
happiness.”
Margery’s hand had wandered to her heart-shaped locket, which day and
night she always wore. She raised it, and gazed at the image of her
mother’s face.
“It seems like a fairy story,” she said, slowly and dreamily. “I wonder
does the knowledge that I have so much, that the babe she left alone
in the wide, wide world has great riches and lives in luxury make her
happy?”
“It would make her happier, dear child,” Miss Lawson added, quietly,
“to see that your companion and friend for life, your husband, is so
good and true a man. He is well known to me, Margery. You see, my
sister has told me all about his nobleness and worth, and from my heart
I congratulate you--more, I rejoice with you.”
Margery did not answer; her hand was still closed round her locket, her
eyes fixed on the fire. The light flickering and dancing on her pale,
lovely face found no smile there, only a depth of pain in the wondrous
starlike eyes.