Margery was strangely affected when she learned that Sir Douglas Gerant
was dead. She could not banish from her mind the thought that in some
way her presence had caused him distress. The earl saw her pained face,
and immediately determined to put all business affairs aside and take
his wife down to Court Manor. So, on the afternoon following her visit
to the late baronet, Margery was carried away from London to her new
home.
When she arrived it was too dark for her to see her surroundings; but
the pure freshness of the country air, the silence after the bustle
and noise of the London streets, the faint soughing of the wind in the
trees, brought a thrill of peace and gladness to her, and as she stood
at the low, wide door and gazed around the quaint, rambling hall she
looked so pleased and comforted that the earl’s heart rejoiced. It
was a delightful old-world place. The corners and crevices, the rooms
filled with serviceable furniture of no modern date, the smell of the
flowers, the glow of the firelight--all seemed to speak of home. It was
a haven of rest and quiet after the storm of the past few months. And
if at night this feeling came, it was even stronger in the morning.
As she drew her curtains aside and looked out over the wide vista of
country, Margery gave a little sigh of relief. Here she had nothing
to fear, nothing to remind her of the past; here it would be easy to
forget and grow content.
The pain that contracted Nugent’s heart as he stood once more in his
old home ceased when he saw the glow of hope, love, and happiness on
his wife’s delicate, lovely face, and he pictured to himself a future
all brightness and gladness. In both their hearts, as they entered the
house, the same memory lived--the memory of Lady Enid. Margery sent
up a little prayer to Heaven that she might prove grateful to the man
whose heart was so tender and true, whose sufferings had been so great,
and he mutely thanked his angel-sister that ere she went she bequeathed
so great a treasure to him as Margery.
His whole being was so impregnated with his great love that he had
failed to discover the true cause of Margery’s passive gentleness. It
was true he did not think her heart held so deep a love as his own; but
she was young, the marriage was hurried, love must have time to grow.
In time his great devotion must reap its reward. The liking she now had
would change to love. He must be patient and wait. So he reasoned in
his happiness, dwelling with a thrill of joy on the memory that Margery
had neither relatives nor friends. This girl, the star of his life,
had none but him to tend her, none but him to whom she could turn. The
pleasure that Margery showed in her new home struck the final chord of
happiness in his heart.
The girl found much to occupy her in her new position, and her lovely
face and kind words soon won the servants’ hearts, already disposed to
love her for her gracious influence over their master.
It was about the end of the week that Margery learned accidentally
from her husband that he had neglected his business in town on purpose
to bring her away, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she begged him
to return and complete his arrangements. The earl demurred, but at
last, satisfied that she would not be lonely, he agreed, and departed,
leaving many tender injunctions with her to take great care of herself
in his absence.
The young wife felt a pang of remorse at the relief and pleasure she
experienced when quite alone. She struggled hard with herself day and
night; but to forget was so hard, and to remember so easy. Though
she was surrounded by all that the world holds dear, she found no
satisfaction in her wealth; her mind was lost to the present--it would
persistently wander to the past--that past which, despite its pain and
humiliation, was so sweet. The return to the country had brought back
so much that was linked with her brief love-dream that the struggle
seemed to grow greater day by day.
Pauline noticed her mistress’ grave, sad face, but attributed it to
his lordship’s absence, and, to cheer her, would repeat the servants’
tales and anecdotes of his goodness, little thinking that every word
went to Margery’s heart like a sword thrust. She regretted with a deep,
unspeakable grief, that she had been silent with Lady Enid; had she but
spoken of Stuart and of her unhappiness, all would have been different,
and she would not have pledged her vows to this man, the depth of whose
generosity, tenderness, and devotion touched her with acute pain. If
she could but give him in return one-half the love he bestowed on her,
she would be happier; but her love was dead, buried in a past summer
dream, and she had nothing left for him.
“The loves and hours of the life of a man,
They are swift and sad, being born of the sea--
Hours that rejoice and regret for a span,
Born with a man’s breath mortal as he--
Loves that are lost ere they come to birth,
Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth,
I lose what I long for, save what I can--
My love, my love, and no love for me!
“It is not much that a man can save
On the sands of life, in the straits of time,
Who swims in sight of the great third wave
That never a swimmer shall cross or climb--
Some waif washed up with the strays and spars
That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars,
Weed from the water, grass from the grave,
A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.”
Yes, that was all that remained now, “a broken blossom, a ruined
rhyme.” Her life might be sweet again, but it would never be as it was
on that evening in Weald Wood, when her young heart was first touched
by love.
Lord Court was absent two days; then he suddenly announced his intended
return. Margery was wandering in the gardens and the pleasance
when Pauline brought the telegram to her. With a vague sense of
apprehension, Margery tore it open.
“Your master returns to-night, and brings a guest. Tell Mrs. Perry to
see that the rooms are prepared, Pauline.”
Pauline nodded her head in a self-satisfied manner.
“I am glad. Milord will be welcome; it is so gloomy here for miladi
alone. Ah, and miladi will make a grand toilet to-night?”
“I leave myself in your hands, Pauline,” returned Lady Court, with a
faint smile, which vanished when she was left alone.
Her husband was returning again! Once more she would suffer the agony
of pain and remorse in his presence; but she must be strong, and
remember only her duty and how much she owed him.
The afternoon wore away, and evening was drawing on. It was dark and
gloomy, one of those unpleasant days that come in November. Margery
walked to and fro, till she was wearied, and then turned into a small
room that she had chosen for her boudoir. She gave the order for the
carriage to be sent to meet the earl, and sunk down before the fire,
resting her head on a low velvet chair. She wore a heavy mourning-robe,
simple yet costly, and her delicate face and throat gleamed with so
dark a setting. She was altered from the Margery of the summer, yet her
face was only a child’s face. Her youth, the purity of her countenance,
her deep sapphire eyes, her curly silken masses of red-gold curls, were
the admiration of Pauline. She brought her mistress some tea, served in
fragile Sèvres china, and then stood for an instant and looked down on
the face that was so fair in the fireglow.
“Miladi is tired,” she said, sympathetically; “she walks so much.”
“I am a little weary,” Margery answered, waking from her thoughts; “but
that is ended now, I hope.”
She spoke to herself more than to the maid; her mind was on the one
subject that had engrossed her all the afternoon. Pauline smiled; she
thought she understood the meaning of her words.
“Ah, milord is to return!” she decided, and went away to her room.
Margery sat on before the fire. The tea had revived her, yet she
seemed strangely agitated as the time drew near for her husband’s
arrival. A vague sense of approaching trouble had come over her,
and she put her hand to her heart to try to stay its quick, hurried
beat. She had been thinking so deeply that her nerves were unstrung.
The solitude had tried her, she told herself; yet, even as she
whispered this, her heart began to flutter again. It was a strange,
incomprehensible feeling, a feeling she had never experienced before,
and she longed for, yet dreaded, her husband’s return.
At last the sound of wheels caught her ear, and she rose from her seat.
“I will be firm--I must forget!” she whispered. “My love, good-by,
good-by!”
Then she heard the sound of voices in the hall and knew that her
husband was close at hand. She turned to greet him as the door opened,
and in the dim light she saw two men enter.
“Margery, my wife!” said Nugent’s grave, tender voice; and his lips
touched hers.
His companion not coming forward, the earl still holding Margery’s
hand, looked around.
“I have brought a friend home, darling. It is only a flying visit, as
he is off to Australia; but I persuaded him to come for a few days.
There will be a bond of friendship between you through poor Gerant.
Crosbie, let me introduce you to the Countess of Court.”
The stranger moved forward mechanically into the light. Margery’s hand
grasped her husband’s. She raised her eyes, and, with a sudden agony of
pain, saw her lover, Stuart, before her.
She tried to offer her hand, but the effect was too much. A mist dimmed
her vision, her brain reeled, and she fell to the ground, pale and
unconscious, at her husband’s feet.
Pauline rushed in as the bell rang loudly. She pushed aside the earl
as, in terror and alarm, he knelt beside his wife, never noticing
that Stuart Crosbie stood silent in the center of the room, his hand
grasping a chair.
“It is nothing!” cried the maid, raising Margery’s beautiful head.
“Miladi will walk, and bring the fatigue. Miladi has been _désolée_ in
milord’s absence and now it is the joy. See, she recovers, milord!
Leave me with her alone. She will be well.”