That she possessed some strange magnetic influence over Sir Douglas
Gerant, Margery did not doubt, but what it was she could not tell; it
seemed so vague, so mysterious, and yet her heart was filled with great
and unfathomable emotions. What had she in common with Sir Douglas
Gerant? Why should he gaze at her so eagerly? She sat very quiet in her
carriage, yet every nerve was thrilling.
The earl noticed her manner, but attributed it to the sympathy she
felt for the sick man. He regretted now that he had taken her to see
his old friend, but Sir Douglas had seemed quite convalescent in the
morning, and he had thought the visit might do him good.
On reaching her room, Margery let her husband remove her heavy mantle
and her cap without a word; then as he stood looking undecided beside
her, she turned to him.
“Please go back to him. I am all right, and I should like to know how
he is now.”
“Are you sure you are better, darling? You were quite frightened.”
“Yes, yes! Go; perhaps you may be of some service.”
The earl stooped and kissed her, and was soon rattling away in a
hansom, while she sat silently thinking and wondering over what had
occurred.
Lord Court found Sir Douglas restored to consciousness, but too weak to
utter a word. Already there was a great alteration in the worn face,
and the sick man’s eyes, as they wandered with a restless eagerness
round the room, struck the earl with sudden sadness.
“I’ve sent down to the castle,” said Murray, who was watching his
beloved master; “and I’ve also sent to Mr. Stuart’s club. He may be in
London; if so, he’ll come as quickly as he can. I hope he is, for Sir
Douglas would like to see him, I know. Many and many a time I’ve wanted
to let Mr. Stuart know, but he wouldn’t let me; he was always thinking
he’d be better in a day or two, and was longing to be off. He has
fretted so through his illness, my lord, it has quite worn him out.”
“Have you sent for the doctors?” asked the earl.
“They’ve just gone, my lord. They didn’t say much. ‘Give him a
teaspoonful of brandy every half hour,’ they said; and I know what that
means, my lord.”
“How wasted he is,” thought the earl--“how changed! I wish he could
speak; he looks as if he wished to say something.”
He bent and asked Sir Douglas if there was anything he specially
wanted; but the rigid lips did not move--only the eyes seemed to plead
more than before. The earl’s presence appeared to give him pleasure,
for, if Lord Court moved, the thin, trembling hand went out toward
him, and Murray construed this into a wish for his friend to remain.
An hour passed without change, and the earl was thinking of sending
a message to Margery, explanatory of his long absence, when the door
opened, and the sick man’s face suddenly altered. He made a feeble
attempt to rise, his hands moved restlessly to and fro, and his lips
parted to speak, as a young man bent over his couch. It was Stuart
Crosbie.
“Cousin,” he said, hurriedly, with real pain on his face and in his
voice, “my dear cousin, oh, why did you not send for me before?” Then,
turning to the servant, he added: “Murray, you should have let me know!
Six weeks ill, and I thought him in Australia! It has distressed me
more than I can say.”
“Sir Douglas would not let me write, sir,” replied Murray, as he put
the brandy to the invalid’s lips. “Lord Court came in to-day, and he’s
the first person as has been.”
“It was a shock to me, too, Mr. Crosbie,” remarked the earl. “Gerant
and I have been old friends for years. I am heartily glad you have
come.”
“You are very kind,” said Stuart, putting out his hand; “but cannot he
have something to give him strength?” Then, turning to the invalid, he
added: “You want to speak to me, cousin?”
He knelt down by the bedside as he spoke, and looked eagerly into the
sick man’s face.
“Sir Douglas has tried to speak, but he cannot, Mr. Stuart--yet.”
“Hush!” interrupted Stuart, putting up his hand--the pale lips were
moving.
“You--will--not forget----”
“My promise?” finished Stuart, gently. “No; everything you wish shall
be done.”
Sir Douglas fixed his eyes on Lord Court, and a faint sound came from
his lips. The earl bent his head the better to hear.
“I cannot hear,” he murmured sadly to Stuart.
“Give me the brandy, Murray,” said Stuart. “Come, that is right; we
shall have you well and hearty soon, cousin,” he added to the sick
man. “Do not distress yourself; I will do all I promised.”
Sir Douglas looked at him earnestly, as if his dark eyes would read his
inmost heart. Then a change came over his face, and he smiled faintly.
His head was raised for a minute from the pillow, and a whisper fell on
their anxious ears:
“Gladys--wife--it--has--come--to--Margery--little--Mar--gery--thank--
Heaven!”
The voice died away, a convulsive tremor seized the heavy eyelids,
which closed slowly over the dark eyes, glazed with a film now, the
head sank back, and with a sigh the spirit of Douglas Gerant fled from
its earthly abode.
Stuart knelt on, while hot tears were stealing down his cheeks. A
solemn trust was confided to his care--of what nature he knew now. The
ne’er-do-well, the wandering nature, the truant from home, had not
been alone all his life. The name of “wife” passed from his lips as
death closed his eyes. Some tale of sadness, of disappointment, was to
come, and with it was linked a name that had destroyed Stuart’s joy and
youth--the name of “Margery.”
A strange thrill ran through the young man’s frame when at last he rose
from his knees. There was now a bond of sympathy stronger than had ever
existed in life between himself and his dead cousin.
* * * * *
“It is not true! I will not believe it! The whole thing is a romance
from beginning to end. Douglas Gerant always----”
“Mother, do not forget you are speaking of a dead man,” broke in Stuart
Crosbie, quietly and sternly. “I will not listen to such words.”
Mrs. Crosbie turned and faced her son. Stuart was leaning against the
mantelpiece in a room of a London hotel, his face pale, yet determined.
Mrs. Crosbie, dressed in heavy black robes half-hidden with crape, was
walking to and fro, vexed and wrathful.
“Do you mean to say you will not dispute this iniquitous will?” she
asked, sharply.
“Certainly not. I have no right. It is a most just one.”
“And you will let Beecham Park pass from your hands into the clutches
of some low-born girl who has no more right to it than a beggar in the
street?”
“Except the right of a daughter.”
“Daughter!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie, with scorn. “There was no marriage,
and, even if such was the case, the girl is not to be found; he lost
trace of the mother and child for sixteen years, and now has conjured
up some romance about a likeness in a village wench.”
“Mother, you are not just or temperate. Douglas Gerant has set forth in
this letter the sorrow of his life. With his dying lips he claimed my
promise to fulfill his wishes, and I shall do so.”
“You are mad, Stuart!” declared his mother, coldly. “But,” she added,
with a sneer, “I need not look very far for your motive; it is for
the sake of this girl, this Margery Daw, that you are determined to
sacrifice everything. Had Sir Douglas seen a resemblance in any other
woman, the desire to carry out his wishes might not have been so
strong. You have no pride, Stuart, not a----”
“I have honor, mother,” Stuart interrupted, his brow clouded, his face
stern. “You wrong me and insult me. The past is gone. Why bring it
back? I shall do my duty for Douglas Gerant’s sake, for honor, justice,
right and truth’s sake, and for nothing else. I shall seek out Margery
Daw; I have pledged myself to the dead, and shall keep my word.”
“And what will Vane say to this quixotic course?”
“Vane is a true-hearted woman; she will say I am right. But, should she
not, then I cannot help it--I am resolved.”
Stuart turned to the fire as he spoke, and looked into the blaze with a
pained, weary expression on his face.
“The world will call you mad,” observed Mrs. Crosbie, crossing to the
window and sinking into a chair, “and Vane will be greatly displeased.”
“Vane loves me--so you say,” replied Stuart, quietly; then he turned to
the table, and began to write rapidly.
On the night after Sir Douglas Gerant’s death, in the seclusion of
his room, Stuart had broken the covering of the packet intrusted to
his care, and read the contents. The funeral was over now, and the
will read. Beecham Park was left to Stuart, with the proviso that he
fulfilled certain conditions contained in a letter already placed in
his hands.
The writing was close and crabbed, but it was distinct, and Stuart read
it easily.
“When I first decided upon making you my heir, Stuart, I determined to
couple that decision with another that would perhaps prove as irksome
to you as it has been sorrowful and disappointing to me. But a new
influence has since come into my life--hope, sweet, bright, glorious
hope, with peace and gladness behind it. Let me tell you my story.
“You will have heard of your cousin, Douglas Gerant, as a scamp, a
profligate, a disgrace. I was wild, perhaps foolish and hot-headed;
but, Stuart, I never dishonored my name or my father’s memory. My
brother Eustace and I were never on good terms. He hated me for my wild
spirits, my good looks, and my success with women, and I, on my side,
had little sympathy with his narrow, cramped life and niggardly ways;
so one day we agreed to part and never meet except when absolutely
necessary. I left him in his dull home at Beecham Park, where his one
idea of enjoyment was to scan rigidly the accounts of the estate and
curtail the expenses, and went to London.
“From my mother I inherited a small income, which proved about
sufficient for my extravagances, and I passed my days with a crowd of
boon companions, traveling when and whither I pleased, just as the mood
seized me. Among my acquaintances was one whom I held dearer than all;
we were bound together by the firmest bond--true friendship. Conway was
a handsome fellow, with a reckless, dare-all style that suited my wild
nature, and an honest heart; we were inseparable. And next to him in
my friendship was a man called Everest, a strong-willed being with a
plain face, but having the manners of a Crichton, together with a fund
of common sense. Everest was a barrier to Conway’s and my wildness, and
to him we owed many lucky escapes. We were with one accord railers at
matrimony, and a very bad time of it any poor fellow had who deserted
our ranks to take unto himself a wife. I laughed and bantered like the
others, deeming myself invulnerable; yet, when I laughed the loudest,
I fell wounded. My raillery was over, my whole nature changed. The
laughter and jokes of my comrades jarred on me; my soul revolted from
the lazy, useless life I was leading. I grew earnest and grave--I had
fallen in love. I had seen a woman who suddenly changed the current of
my life.
“Gladys, my angel, my sweet star! She was the niece of one of my
mother’s old friends. I rarely visited any of the old set, but one
day the mood seized me to pay a visit to a Lady Leverick, with whom
as a boy I used to be a great favorite; and at her house I saw my
darling. What need to tell you all that followed? I haunted the house,
unconscious that Lady Leverick grew colder and colder, heedless of all
but Gladys’ sweet face and glorious eyes.
“At last the dream was dispelled; her aunt spoke to me. Gladys was an
orphan under her charge; she was penniless, dependent on her charity,
and she would not have so wild, so dissolute a man propose for the
girl’s hand. I was mad, I think, for I answered angrily; but in the
midst of the storm came a gleam of golden light. Gladys entered the
room, and, in response to her aunt’s commands to retire, put out her
fair, white hands to me, and, leaning her head on my breast, whispered
that she loved me, and that nothing would separate us.
“We were married. Lady Leverick refused to see, or even receive a
letter from my darling; and my brother Eustace, in lieu of a wedding
present, sent a curt note informing me that I was a madman. A madman I
was, but my mania was full of joy. Could heaven be fuller of bliss than
was my life in those first three months? My income was all we had, but
Gladys had had little luxury, and we laughed together over our poverty,
resolutely determining to be strictly economical. We took a small house
in St. John’s Wood, and then began my first real experience of life.
I sighed over the money I had wasted, but Gladys never let me sigh
twice, and always declared that she would manage everything. Out of
all my old friends, I invited only two to our home, Guy Conway and Hugh
Everest; but very happy little reunions we had.
“We were quite alone, and though Gladys tried over and over again to
reinstate herself with her aunt, from affectionate desire only, she
failed. Lady Leverick would not see her or own her, and my darling had
only me in the wide world.
“How happy I was then! Through Everest’s influence, I obtained a
secretaryship of a good club, and the addition to our income was most
welcome and helpful.
“The months slipped by with incredible swiftness and sweetness till a
year was gone and our baby born. All this time Conway and Everest were
our beloved and most intimate friends, and Gladys seemed to like them
both. We christened the child Margery, but she was to me no earthly
being--her beauty and delicacy seemed scarcely mortal. She was like her
mother, and both were marvels of loveliness, so much so that Conway,
who was a bit of an artist, insisted on painting them in angel forms.
“Have you ever seen a storm gather in a summer sky and in one moment
darken the brightness of the sunshine with gray, heavy clouds? Yes?
Then you can conceive how my life was changed by a swift, fell stroke
that almost crushed my manhood. I was much occupied at the club, and
was away from home many hours. Sometimes it struck me, when I returned
at night, that my wife’s face was disturbed and sad, but the feeling
did not last, and as soon as we were together the expression changed.
“One evening I was leaving the club, and, in passing out of the door to
enter the cab--I could afford that luxury now--I felt myself touched
on the arm, and, turning, found myself face to face with Hugh Everest.
I welcomed him warmly, yet something in his manner sent a chill to my
heart.
“‘Dismiss your cab and walk a little way with me; I want to speak to
you,’ he said. I turned to the cabman and did as my friend wished.
“‘Now what is your important business, Everest?’
“‘Have you seen Conway to-day?’ he asked, abruptly.
“‘Conway? Yes. He came to say good-by; he starts for Monte Carlo
to-night. Nothing wrong with him, I hope?’
“‘Not with his health.’
“I turned and looked at Everest; he was deadly pale and greatly
agitated.
“‘If you have anything to tell me,’ I said, firmly, ‘do so at once. I
cannot stand suspense.’
“‘Then prepare for the worst. Conway has gone to Monte Carlo alone, but
he will be joined in Paris by a woman to-morrow night. That woman is
your wife.’
“My hand flew to his throat, but he was prepared, and pushed me with
almost superhuman strength against some railings close by. We were at
the corner of Pall Mall, and, suddenly putting his arm through mine, he
dragged me toward the steps of St. James’ Park. Here it was quiet. I
loosened myself from his grasp.
“‘You are a coward and a villain!’ I exclaimed. ‘Your words maddened me
at first, but I am sane now. Great heavens, that you should have dared
to utter such a lie and be alive!’
“He grasped my hand with his.
“‘Keep your head cool,’ he said. ‘If I had not proof, do you think I
should speak as I have done?’
“‘Proof!’
“I staggered to the steps and sank down, burying my face in my hands.
“‘This afternoon,’ he went on, quickly, ‘I called at your house. Your
wife was in, the maid said, and I entered the drawing-room. I waited
several minutes, and then the maid returned, saying that her mistress
was not at home, after all, and, leaving a message for her, I took my
departure. At the gate I picked up this note in Conway’s hand; you can
see it by the light of this lamp. It says, “Come to my studio at once
for final arrangements. To-morrow I trust will see the end of all your
trouble, suspense and anxiety. Then will come my reward; for you will
trust in me henceforth forever, will you not?” I was stunned when I
read it,’ Everest went on. ‘My first impulse was to tear it into shreds
and to cast it from me; but I thought of you, Douglas, and a vague
sense of danger stayed me. It was still early, and I determined to go
to Conway’s studio and reason with him--demand an explanation. I went.’
“Everest’s voice grew husky for a moment, Stuart, while every word he
uttered went to my heart like a knife; my youth died in that moment of
supreme agony.
“‘I went,’ he continued, ‘and asked to see Conway; he came to me for
a second, looking strangely agitated. I suggested staying with him
till he started that evening, but he refused to let me, and hurried
me away. I took my departure, ill at ease; for, despite his repeated
asseverations that he had much to do, I felt he had a visitor; and my
suspicions were only too well grounded, for, on turning my head when
I reached the road, I saw your wife standing with him in the studio
talking earnestly. Then I came to you.’
“‘To crush my happiness!’ I exclaimed, recklessly. ‘It was thoughtful!’
“‘You judge me as I feared,’ he answered, sadly. ‘Well, I have done
what I considered my duty; the rest is for you.’
“‘The rest will be forgotten,’ I answered.
“‘What--you will submit to dishonor, you will stand deceit! You will
receive her kisses to-night, remembering her lover’s this afternoon!
You are no longer a man, Gerant!’
“His words fanned the flame of my jealous passion to madness. Hitherto
I had spoken mechanically, remembering my wife’s purity and sweetness;
but at his taunts the blood in my veins became like fire. I wanted
nothing but revenge.
“Everest tried to calm me, but it was useless; he had set the match to
a train that would not be extinguished.
“The remainder of that night is like a hideous nightmare to me. I can
see myself now hurrying him from the steps to the street and into a
cab. I can remember how sharp was the pain at my heart when I repeated
the vague, yet self-condemning words of Conway’s note. I can see again
the houses seeming to fly past us as we dashed homeward. I can feel
again the agony I endured when, in answer to my hoarse inquiry, the
maid said my wife was not at home. Again I can feel the agony of
suspense, rage, madness I suffered as I strode up and down the road
before the house, with Everest standing a little way off, watching me
with a calm, anxious face, till the sound of light feet came to our
ears, and I stood before Gladys.
“I can see her pale, startled face, her shrinking form, as in a
suppressed voice I demanded to know where she had been. She did not
answer at once, and her hesitation maddened me. I lost all manliness,
Stuart. It haunts me now--the misery of her face, the pleading of her
lips. But I would listen to nothing. In a flood of passionate words I
denounced her, thrust aside her hands when they would have held me, and
then, telling her we should never meet again, I rushed away, leaving
her dumb and pallid as a figure of stone.
“Once I turned to go to her--a moment of remorse in my madness--but
Everest pushed me on, and so we parted. Everest never left me all
night; he took me to his rooms, and sat watching me like a mother, with
his grave face and strange, earnest eyes. I was waiting only for the
morning; then I started for Paris--for Conway and revenge!
“Gladys I would never see again. I left my money and the settlement
of my affairs in Everest’s hands in case of my death, and he promised
me to look after Gladys; for, though I deemed her dishonored, I could
not let her starve. He was anxious to stay in England, but I kept him
beside me and refused to let him go.
“I crossed to Paris the next day, and sought everywhere for Conway,
but could not find him. Everest grew impatient, but still I would not
release him; and two days passed without incident. On the third day I
learned that Conway had never left England, that he was seized with
sudden and severe illness at Dover; and, when I reached that place he
was dead.
“Robbed of my revenge, I sunk into gloomy despondency. Everest went to
London to look after my wife. My body seemed paralyzed; I seemed no
longer a man. My friend was away a week, and then returned suddenly
and told me, with a strange, pale face, that Gladys was gone--had
disappeared with her child, and could not be found.
“My misery was so great, I scarcely realized the horror of this. My
brain was dulled by intense pain. As in a dream I listened to him,
hardly heeding him, and conscious only of a vague relief as he left me
to go abroad, to shake off, he said, the anxiety he had suffered.
“I stayed on another week or so at Dover, still in the same condition.
Then my brain suddenly cleared; but my misery returned in greater
force. I was mad once more with an agony of pain. I left Dover; it
was hateful to me. I traveled to London. A longing, a craving seized
me to see Gladys, to look on her once more, though she was dead to me
forever. I drove to the house; and the memory of Everest’s words came
back to me then--that she was gone. Pale and faint with anxiety, I
alighted at the well-known gate, and I saw at a glance that the house
was deserted.
“What had become of Gladys? How had she managed? Was she starving--lost
in London, with not a friend in the world? In an instant my rage was
quenched. I saw her only in her sweetness, her beauty, and I leaned
against the gate, overwhelmed with the flood of miserable thoughts that
crowded upon me.
“But it was not a time for dreams. I felt I must act. So I hurried to
the house-agents, feeling sure that they could tell me something. From
them I gleaned the barest information. My wife had visited them early
in the morning following that dreadful night, paid them the rent to the
end of the quarter, and left the key. I questioned them closely and
eagerly, but could gather nothing more, and then I went away, feeling
like a man whose life was almost ended. Over and over again I whispered
to myself, with a twinge of remorse, that Gladys was innocent, and
would have explained all if I had only let her. Then the memory of
Everest’s words, the damning evidence of Conway’s note, returned, and I
knew not what to think; but on one point I was certain--henceforth life
held no duty for me till Gladys was found. Though the golden dream of
our joy was ended, though I doubted her, she must be found and cared
for.
“I began a search--a search, Stuart, that has lasted all my life.
By good hap at this time a distant cousin, dying, bequeathed me his
property, which, though not large, came like a godsend at the moment,
for every available penny I had, had been expended in my search. I
was haunted by my wife’s pale, horror-stricken face gleaming in the
moonlight, by the memory of my baby child, whose prattle had sounded
like music in my ears. I knew too well the miseries, the horrors, of
London, and I could not bear to think that the woman I had held so near
and--Heaven help me!--still treasured in my heart, was thrown into its
terrible jaws and left to perish without a helping hand.
“I pray Heaven, Stuart, you may never know the darkness of those days,
the unspeakable anguish, the depth of despair! Weeks passed. I could
find no trace, and when I was tortured with the conflicting emotions
which surged within me an event occurred that put the last stroke to my
misery, added the ghastly weight of a wrong to my burden, a wrong which
I could never wipe away.
“I had resigned my post at the club, and, in my eager restlessness,
wandering about the London streets, either alone or with one of my
detectives, I was lost even to the remembrance of the frequenters of my
old haunts. One day, however, I met a man who had been very friendly
with me, and in the course of conversation--I would gladly have avoided
him if I could--he told me there were several letters awaiting me at
the club. None knew where to send them.
“I went for the letters, urged by a wild hope that Gladys might have
written. She had. It was a letter that is graven on my heart in
characters of blood. Heaven give me strength to tell you; for even
now, after so many years, I grow faint when I think of it! It was a
long, hurriedly-written letter--the letter of a distraught woman. I
will not give it to you here; there were no reproaches, but there was
a clear statement of facts given by a broken heart. In my anxiety I
could scarcely read the first lines, but some words further on caught
my eyes, and held them as by magnetic power. They spoke, Stuart, of
the persecution she had endured for weeks from Hugh Everest. Again and
again, Gladys wrote, she felt urged to speak to me, but she knew I
valued him as a friend, and she trusted that his honor, his manliness,
would overcome his baser feelings, and that he would go away. Of Guy
Conway she spoke tenderly and earnestly. The letter I had brought
forward as a proof of their guilt was indeed written by him; but it
referred to a painting he was engaged upon of herself and her child,
which she had intended leaving at her aunt’s house, hoping that the
sight of the baby’s angel-face would break down the icy barrier which
caused her such pain. This had been a little plan of his, suggested
when he saw how the estrangement troubled her. She was at Conway’s
studio, but only for the purpose of discussing the delivery of the
picture; and, catching sight of Hugh Everest, in a moment of agitation
and dislike she openly expressed a wish not to see him. Conway at once
undertook to prevent their meeting, with what terrible result you know.
My wife ended her letter by stating that she was gone from my life
forever with her child. The shock of my suspicions had destroyed all
joy or happiness evermore for her; but, though separated, she would
live as became my wife and the mother of my child, for whose sake alone
she could now endure life. This ended it; there was no sign, no clew,
no word to lead me to her.
“I was not a man, Stuart, when I had read that letter; I was a brute--a
savage animal. Had Hugh Everest been near me, I should have torn his
cruel heart from his body, and his tongue from his false, lying lips.
A fury seized me to find him--find him, though I searched the world
round; face to face with him, I could breathe out the passion, remorse,
revenge, scorn, and agony of my bursting heart. But I could not leave
England till I knew where my darling was, my sweet, wronged angel--till
I had knelt in the dust at her feet, and bowed my head in shame; and so
my search went on.
“Years passed, but only a slight clew turned up now and then, always
with the same ending. I have wandered--led by these disheartening
clews--from one country to another; and at last the men I employed
grew weary, and I had to work alone. But I was kept alive by my love
and my desire for revenge. Everest never came to England--coward and
villain--but the day came, a day not long past, when we met, and on his
dying bed I forced him to confess his wrong and own his deceit. Then,
when he was gone, the misery of my wasted life returned, and I sunk for
a while beneath my load of care.
“Hope was almost dead forever when I visited you at Crosbie; and then
suddenly by one of those strange, unexpected chances that come to us at
times, it burst into a living, glowing flame once more. All through the
past years I had prayed that, should Gladys be gone, my child might be
spared; and, Stuart, my prayer was granted. At Crosbie one morning I
came face to face with a girl at sight of whom I seemed to have stepped
back into the past. I was startled by the image of my sweet wife. I
spoke to the girl, learned her name--Margery Daw--and not until she
had gone did hope wake in my breast, bringing once more the feeling of
eager gladness that I thought dead forever.
“I waited a day or two, but quietly made inquiries, and obtained all
the information I wanted; then, having first tested the truth and
honesty of your nature, I determined to confide all to you, and claim
my child; for that she is my child there is no doubt. But happiness was
not to be grasped at once; again fate was unkind. When I made my way to
the cottage where Margery lived, it was to find her gone--gone across
the sea to Australia. The sudden pain and disappointment aside, I was
myself again. Australia was nothing to me; I would start at once, and
clasp my child yet in my arms before I died.
“So, Stuart, I leave this in your hands. If I succumb, seek out my
Margery and give her her rights. To you I leave all, for I know you
will do as I wish; and remember she is your cousin and your equal.
Guard her, Stuart, from harm, if it be in your power, and may Heaven
bless and reward you for all you may do! It will be necessary to
explain how I discovered Margery to be my child. As I told you, I made
most minute inquiries, learning all particulars from people both in
Chesterham and Hurstley. I sought for Dr. Scott, the medical man who
had attended during the railway accident; he had left Chesterham many
years before, but he remembered the incident well, and his description
of the poor dead woman only confirmed my hopes and fears. Acting upon
his advice, I went to Newton, and by dint of money and able men traced
my darling’s life during two long years of misery. The story of her
sufferings, of her daily toil, her heart-broken life, I cannot dwell
on. Heaven grant you may never know the terrible agony of hopeless
remorse and longing that I am now enduring! Despair seizes me when I
remember my madness, her wrong--my angel-wife! Even the joy of finding
my child cannot bring me peace. The happiness I experience in the
knowledge of her existence is tinged with never-dying bitterness and
sorrow, for she recalls her mother.
“But I weary you with my moans, Stuart; let me get on with my story.
Gladys then, without a friend in the world--for her aunt would have
nothing to say to her, being especially bitter when she learned we were
separated--doubted and wronged, had, in addition to her other troubles,
the hardship of poverty to face. She struggled to get employment, with
little success however; from time to time she managed to make money
by teaching, but this never for long. Still, through all her trials,
her courage never forsook her; she lived for her child. I have spoken
with some who knew her in those days; they dwelt on her sadness, her
sweetness, her innate refinement, little knowing how their words
rent my heart. It would be useless to describe the hopelessness, the
misery of her life; she parted with all her jewelry, and at last in
desperation answered an advertisement for a situation as maid.
“Beyond this I cannot write positively, but my heart tells me the
truth. The situation that Gladys had obtained meant separation from
her child. She had heard me speak of my cousins, the Crosbies; and I
am convinced she was on her way to seek protection from your mother
and shelter for the baby before taking up her new duties, when death
claimed her and ended her sorrows.
“I inclose with this letter the certificates of our marriage and of
Margery’s birth. My lawyers have in their possession a small box,
which after my death they will hand to you. It contains the jewelry
that belonged to my wife. Give it to Margery. And now, Stuart, I
have finished. Pray befriend and guard my child as far as lies in
your power. My heart is full of gratitude when I think of the good,
kind women who took her, a weak, helpless babe, and tended her so
well. I have written to Lady Coningham words of gratitude that sound
empty compared with the feelings that prompt them; would that I could
have done so to the others--Mrs. Graham and Mary Morris! But death
has garnered them, and the power is taken from me. One thing more,
Stuart--lay me beside Gladys in the little country churchyard where
kind, strange hands laid her; though in life we were separated so
ruthlessly, let us in death be together.”
Stuart had sat long after he had read the letter, his heart aching with
pity for his dead cousin. The tale of sorrow was so heavy that for a
time it banished his own grief; but, as he rose and paced the room, the
memory of his duty brought all back clearly, and he saw the bitterness
of the task before him. A faint wave of gladness for her sake was
checked by the reflection that they were parted forever. Still he would
be firm; he was pledged to the dead; and, even were the pain deadly, he
would keep his word, seek out Margery, and give her her rights as his
cousin, and heiress to Beecham Park.
The news that caused Mrs. Crosbie such wrath and annoyance brought
alarm and fear unspeakable to Vane Charteris’ breast. This unexpected
blow following on her unexpected success almost crushed her by its
suddenness. Stuart would meet Margery, learn the truth, and she would
be humiliated and disgraced. Moved by her anxiety, she added her
voice to his mother’s, and endeavored to shake his determination to
sail for Australia. She did not betray herself by word or look; she
only spoke prettily of her loneliness, and of how it would be a wiser
course to send out an agent to the antipodes in search of his new
cousin, and not to go himself. She stored her speech with references
to Margery’s faithlessness, hoping they would take effect; but it was
all to no purpose. Stuart was firm, and refused to be turned from his
determination. Had his father added his voice to the others, he might
have yielded; but the squire was eager that Stuart should fulfill his
promise, and declared truthfully that his health was so much stronger
that his son might leave him without any hesitation. So, instead of the
clear sky which Vane had pictured to herself, clouds were gathering on
all sides, and fear planted thorns at every step in her path, making
her faint with apprehension and dread of exposure and disgrace.