At midnight, while the clouds were driven across the moon by the wind,
Stuart Crosbie sat in his chamber at Court Manor, his arms folded, his
head bent dejectedly upon his breast. He was stunned by the strange
events of the past day. He could never tell how he had borne himself
through the long evening, though every incident was graven on his heart
forever. He could not grasp the meaning of what had taken place. He met
the earl at his club, having a little time to spare before the vessel
sailed, and he accepted Lord Court’s invitation with a vague feeling
that he should escape the reproaches, mute and open, which otherwise
he must hear in town. The earl had taken a sudden liking to the young
man, and some rumor reaching his ears as to Stuart’s proposed voyage
to Australia, he begged the nephew of his old friend to honor him with
a short visit before his departure. So Stuart had assented, hardly
heeding whither he went, his mind occupied with the task before him
to find his cousin Margery; and in the twilight, with the firelight
revealing her loveliness, he had, with a shock that stunned him, come
suddenly face to face with the girl he sought, the girl he loved.
It was so strange, so incomprehensible. A feeling of acute pain came to
him. At the sight of Margery his love rose up again in all its vigor,
full of bitterness and despair, however, for she was a wife. He sat on
in the chill night hours, his brain full of disturbing thought. The
mystery, the suddenness of the whole thing, seemed to stun him, to
crush his very being. During the whole evening he had sat listening
to his host’s voice, and answering in monosyllables. Margery did not
appear; of that he was only too distinctly conscious. The rest was a
blank. And now he was alone, bewildered, tormented by pain, despair,
love. His journey was ended before it had commenced, for he had found
Sir Douglas Gerant’s daughter, found the owner of Beecham Park. In the
morning he must unfold his tale, and then--go from her forever.
He rose and, approaching the window, opened it. How came Margery
hither? he asked himself. What strange fate had brought him to her
at that very moment? What story would he hear on the morrow? Had he
wronged--doubted his love? A cold shudder seized him at the very
thought. With an effort he put it from him. What could Margery say in
self-defense? She had deceived--cruelly deceived him. Whatever the
cause, he could not forget that. What explanation would she give him?
Perhaps none; and he had no right to demand any. The difficulties of
the situation seemed to become greater and greater as he pondered it in
his mind. He moved from the window, and walked slowly up and down the
room. Margery, the girl he had loved, trusted, revered, the girl he was
about to seek in a far-distant clime, was under the same roof with him
at that very instant, the wife of his host, the Earl of Court. It was
inexplicable. His mind could find no solution to the problem; he could
but wait for morning light.
Stuart was not the only one who was awake and disturbed that night.
Margery, clad in a silk dressing-gown as white as her cheeks, was
pacing the floor of her chamber. She had pleaded illness, and begged
to be left with Pauline; and, once alone, she sent her maid into the
dressing-room and fought the battle with herself in solitude. If
sorrow, despair, anguish, had come to her before, they visited her
now with redoubled force. It seemed to her the very irony of fate, a
mockery of her good intentions, that she should be so tried at such
a moment--a moment when she had thought herself a conqueror over her
weakness. Of what avail had been her struggles, her earnest prayers,
her resolutions? The sight of Stuart’s grave, handsome face, the
intoxication of his presence, had left her weak; the memory of his
insults, his deceit, had banished everything but the knowledge that she
loved him still. She longed for the weary night to pass, yet dreaded
the coming of morning, when she must meet him, speak to him, when his
every word would be as a dagger thrust into her heart.
Dawn was creeping over the sky when, thoroughly wearied and ill,
she flung herself upon her bed. As she lay, her eyes fell on the
sapphire ring that she wore, and the memory of Enid--her patience, her
suffering, her courage--stole into her heart. Then her mind wandered to
her husband, and to all his great goodness; and, remembering this, she
sent up a fervid prayer for strength to do her duty to this man; and,
as the sighing plea left her heart, she grew comforted.
“And grief shall endure not forever, I know;
As things that are not shall these things be;
We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow,
And none be grievous as this to me.
We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears
The sound of time, the rhyme of the years;
Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow
As tender things of a springtide sea.”
* * * * *
Stuart left his room early, and, despite the cold, gloomy morning, made
his way into the grounds to think and nerve himself for the coming
ordeal. He looked pale and wan; his eyes had never closed all night,
his restless thoughts had never left him. His task was ended, he told
himself--his cousin was found. He must just state the truth, and then
go away from her fair, false sweetness back to the long, straight path
of duty, back to the woman who had loved him so long and so well, back
to his pledged word and the burden of life.
He was walking to and fro beneath the leafless trees, his heart almost
as dead and withered as the leaves beneath his feet, when a cheery
voice hailed him, and, turning, he saw the earl.
“You are out early, Crosbie,” cried Lord Court, as he approached. “I
saw you from my windows.” Then, in a tone of surprise, he added: “But
you look ill. Is anything the matter?”
“I did not sleep well,” returned Stuart, hurriedly, “for I have had a
shock. I am going to tell you all about it.”
“A shock!” repeated the earl, with a smile. “Don’t say the manor is
haunted. I believe it is most unorthodox not to have a family ghost,
but I have never heard yet that we have one.”
“It is not a ghost--it is a reality! I meant to have spoken to you last
night, but I was so surprised that I could hardly realize the truth of
what I saw. I will explain now.”
“Come indoors,” said Lord Court, looking a little bewildered. “It is
sultry out here. Now, Crosbie, I am all attention--begin,” as they
entered the house.
“You are aware I was about to start for Australia next week. Do you
know why?”
“No,” answered the earl. “And, to tell you the candid truth, I was just
a little puzzled as to the cause of your hasty departure.”
“It was to fulfill a wish of my dead cousin, Douglas Gerant. He left a
daughter; it was in search of her I was to sail on Thursday next.”
“A daughter! Why, I never knew Gerant was married!”
“It was a secret,” said Stuart; “but I have the whole history in a
letter which he confided to my care. Now comes the strange part of the
story. This daughter was thought to be in Australia, was even traced to
that part of the world, when suddenly, as I am about to start to find
her, by one of those extraordinary turns of fate, I come face to face
with the cousin I seek--here--in your house!”
Lord Court stood still and looked at Stuart earnestly.
“In my house!” he echoed, slowly, as if doubting his ears. “Who is it?”
“Your wife.”
“My wife? Margery? You are jesting!”
“Jesting!” repeated Stuart, grimly. “I was never so serious in all my
life! Sir Douglas Gerant’s lost daughter bore the name of Margery Daw.
She was placed in a home in Hurstley--my native village. Evidence was
forthcoming that she had gone to Australia with Reuben Morris, the
husband of the woman she had called mother. I knew her well; and last
night, when I came face to face with her, I was overwhelmed by the
discovery that Margery Daw and the Countess of Court were one and the
same person.”
Lord Court passed his hand across his brow.
“I cannot think clearly yet,” he said, slowly; “the news is rather
sudden.” He paused for a little. “There is no mistake--you are sure?”
“I am sure,” answered Stuart, emphatically.
The earl was silent for a minute, then his face cleared and brightened.
He put out his hand to Stuart, who grasped it silently.
“I can think and speak now. My darling has found her rights, and she is
your cousin. The feeling of friendship for you which came so strongly
to me, Crosbie, has now a solid basis beneath it. How happy she will
be! And yet it is sad, at one and the same moment, almost, to find a
father and to lose him. Fate must have led her to his bedside on that
day. Thank Heaven, he saw her once before he died! Come--let us go in
and tell her. Words seem so feeble to-day that I cannot express half
of what I feel. The mystery of her birth has hung over my darling like
a dark cloud; and now, by Heaven’s mercy, it is gone, and she will be
free and happy.”
They turned and walked in silence along the hall. Pauline was tripping
down the stairs.
“Miladi is in the south room--she would attend the _déjeuner_,” the
girl said; and the earl walked quickly down a long corridor to a door
hung with heavy curtains.
“We will tell her now,” he whispered; and in another moment they were
in the room.
Stuart’s vision was obscured for the first few seconds, then it
cleared, and he saw a slender, graceful girl, with fair, pale cheeks
and a wreath of red-gold curls, before him. She had her hand clasped in
the earl’s; and, as his senses returned, Stuart saw her deep-blue eyes
grow dark with surprise, and her face become whiter than the folds of
the heavy serge gown that draped her.
In a soft, low voice, tender and passionate, the earl told her all; and
Margery stood beside him, hearing nothing save the words:
“Sir Douglas Gerant’s daughter, the cousin of Crosbie, my friend.”
Stuart drew back while the earl murmured soothing words in her ear, and
she gradually awoke to the reality.
“He was my father,” she said, dreamily; then, with a sudden rush of
remembrance: “Ah, now I understand all!” She sank into a chair and
buried her face in her hands. Presently she rose, saying to the earl:
“Tell me everything.”
Lord Court put his lips to her hand.
“Crosbie will do that, my darling; he is your cousin now, you must
remember. Give him your hand, and bid him welcome to your home as your
kinsman and your friend; you were too ill last night to do so.”
Margery’s heart seemed to stand still; then, nerving herself for the
effort, she stretched out her hand.
“You are welcome, cousin,” she said, in a faint voice.
Their fingers met for an instant, then dropped apart; and Margery
turned away, feeling that the agony of this meeting was almost greater
than she could bear.
The earl drew her gently toward him. She was too weak to offer any
resistance--was even glad of the support; and, standing with her
husband’s arm around her, Margery heard the story of her father’s
sorrow and her mother’s martyrdom slowly but distinctly from Stuart
Crosbie’s lips. The words went home to her heart; the despair, the
misery caused her unspeakable pain, and tears rained from her eyes.
The earl, wrapped up in his thoughts for his wife, took no notice of
Stuart’s agitation and pallor. He did not think it strange that the
young squire of Crosbie Castle should have been so surprised at seeing
Margery. His sister had told him the girl’s history, as she had heard
it from Miss Lawson, and, remembering that his wife had been called
a village girl, it was not likely her action would be known at the
castle. He only felt a great wave of gratitude and happiness fill his
heart. The mystery of her birth solved, Margery would now be content,
and there would be no barrier to their complete happiness.
As Stuart spoke of Beecham Park, Margery raised her head.
“The estate is mine?” she said, slowly.
“You are the next heir,” answered Stuart.
“Therefore you are a great lady,” put in Lord Court, smiling. “Beecham
Park is one of the finest places in England. But come, Crosbie; sit
down. This has been a morning of surprises, but we must eat, or we
shall sink beneath them altogether. You must pay us a long visit now,
for you have no reason to go--has he, Margery? When there was Australia
to consider, it was another thing.”
So the earl chatted on, eager to rouse Margery from the dreams into
which she had fallen; and with a glance at Stuart, he adroitly turned
the conversation and plunged into other topics.
Margery sat silent. She could not eat--her brain was in a whirl; and at
last she could bear her distress no longer, and with a murmured apology
she went slowly to the door.
“Yes, rest, my darling,” said Lord Court, as he followed her; “this
news has been too much for you. But, before you go, tell your cousin
that if he departs, it will be at the risk of your grave displeasure.”
Stuart had risen, and their eyes met.
“You will stay,” she said, faintly; and then the door closed, and she
was gone.