Blustering March had come round, and gossip had worn to a thread the
story of Lady Court’s romantic birth. It had seized on the history of
Sir Douglas Gerant’s long-lost daughter with avidity, for it was not
often that society’s jaded appetite was regaled with so delightful a
morsel. Many things had happened since dull November, but foremost
among them were two events--Lord and Lady Court were abroad, to the
great annoyance of society, as it was thus debarred from beholding her
ladyship in person, and the engagement between Stuart Crosbie, heir to
Crosbie Castle, and Miss Vane Charteris, his cousin, came to an abrupt
and strange termination just as the congratulations were pouring in.
Many reasons were given in strict confidence for this unsatisfactory
affair. It was averred that Miss Charteris had quarreled with her
aunt, Mrs. Crosbie, and that Stuart, like a dutiful son, had espoused
his mother’s cause; that cold, beautiful Vane refused to become her
cousin’s wife when she discovered that Beecham Park had passed away
from him; and that Miss Charteris had grown tired of her affianced
husband. These and numerous other explanations were whispered; but no
one knew the truth--none but three people--the cousins themselves and
the mistress of Crosbie Castle.
Stuart had not reproached his mother; but his mental suffering caused
her much uneasiness and genuine shame. She never knew what took place
between Vane Charteris and her son, for Stuart was silent, and her
niece left town with her mother for Cannes immediately after the
rupture. She felt that Vane must be suffering disappointment, but she
could never guess the humiliation, the sullen revenge and anger that
were gnawing at her niece’s heart. Go where she would, at every turn
Vane had Stuart’s contemptuous face before her, heard his bitter words,
saw herself again as he had shown her, in her true light, dishonorable
and despicable. That the marriage should have been broken off was
acute disappointment; but the odium she had brought on herself in his
eyes was even harder to bear. The malicious spite she had felt toward
Margery deepened now into actual hatred; it galled her to desperation
to know that the village girl should have become so great a person,
her equal in birth, her superior by marriage. Poor Lady Charteris was
overwhelmed with sorrow at the abrupt termination of her daughter’s
engagement, and fretted herself to a shadow because of Vane’s
irritability and peevishness. She lavished all her heart’s tenderness
on her daughter, hoping and trusting to see her regain her spirits; but
it was weary work. Vane, crushed by her own deceit and wrong-doing, was
rapidly changing into an envious, soured, miserable woman.
Mrs. Crosbie was ignorant of the whole of Vane’s cruel falsehoods and
insults; and, knowing this, Stuart accepted as truly genuine her proud
words of sorrow and vexation for her share in the matter. It had been
a startling disclosure to Mrs. Crosbie when she found that Margery Daw
had become the Countess of Court; but, when surprise had died away, she
felt unconsciously gratified that her new relative should hold so high
a social position, and was even disposed to be friendly toward her,
although she had deprived Stuart of Beecham Park. She wrote a courteous
note to the young wife when her excitement had cooled, welcoming her as
her kinswoman, and offering her warm congratulations.
Margery was in Rome when this letter reached her. She read it through
slowly, then, with a faint smile, folded it and put it away. It was not
in keeping with her generous nature to bear malice, so she replied to
Mrs. Crosbie’s epistle with a few words of acknowledgment written in a
kindly spirit. Margery received another letter at about the same time
which brought a flush of sincere pleasure to her face. It was written
by Miss Lawson in the name of the villagers of Hurstley, offering Lady
Court warm expressions of affection, respect and esteem from all her
old friends, and at the head of the list of names were the signatures
of Farmer Bright and his wife; Miss Lawson’s own letter explained
everything. Just after the news of Margery’s parentage was made public
to the village, a letter came from Robert Bright in Australia, from
which his mother gathered how unjustly she had wronged Margery in her
hasty suspicions; and, eager to make atonement, the good woman had
headed the village letter with her name. Robert spoke of returning
almost immediately, so Margery’s heart was lighter on that score. Miss
Lawson’s words of joy at her dear child’s prosperity and happiness
brought tears to Margery’s eyes; but they were tears of gratitude and
affection, not of pain.
She was strangely peaceful and content now; the memory of Stuart’s
supposed deception and insults, which had rankled so long in her
breast, was gone; she remembered only that his love for her had never
faltered. Her girlhood was buried in her short love-dream; she was a
woman now, brave and determined to fight the battle of life gallantly
to the end. She looked to her husband as a guide and a comforter and he
tended her with more than a husband’s care. A great, true affection had
sprung up in her heart for him; he was so tender, so good, so manly!
In her gratitude for all his thought and care she vowed always to keep
a smile for him while the secret of her love should be locked from his
sight forever. Sometimes she would sink into a reverie, then wake, to
find his eyes fixed on her with such intensity, such an agony of love
and pain in them, that it would startle her; but as she looked the
expression would fade and the smile would come, the tender, grave smile
that she knew so well. When Mrs. Crosbie’s second letter came, begging
the earl and countess to pay her a visit, it was he who replied; and,
as if divining her secret thoughts, he wrote that his wife regretted
she was unable to visit Crosbie Castle at present.
They had left the manor almost immediately after Stuart’s departure.
Lord Court suggested a short tour of the Continent and Margery eagerly
agreed; so they crossed the Channel without delay. But, as the winter
slipped away, it occurred to Margery that she should visit her
inheritance, Beecham Park. So, bidding farewell to the clear blue skies
and the world of delights that had been opened to her, they returned to
England.
Beecham Park was a huge, gloomy mansion, so deserted and
solitary-looking that, as they drove up the magnificent avenue of
chestnuts, Margery involuntarily shuddered. Sir Eustace Gerant had
neglected the estate, and, splendid though the building was within, it
did not bring the pleasure to its owner that Court Manor had.
“Are you disappointed, my darling?” asked the earl one morning, after
watching her carefully.
“It is very grand; the grounds and woods are beautiful; but it is not
home,” she answered, with a sigh.
However, there was much to be done--for they found that the steward,
who had had sole control of the estate, had neglected his duties most
disgracefully; so, placing all authority in the hands of her husband,
Margery turned her attention to the village near, burying all regrets
and vain hopes that assailed her in untiring work on behalf of her
tenants.
It was a weary trial at times, for, though she had courage, her
strength would occasionally fail, and her heart would yearn for the
love she had lost; but none knew of this struggle but herself--she had
learned to control her emotions and smile when the burden was heaviest.
“’Tis strange with how much power and pride
The softness is of love allied.
How much of power to force the breast
To be in outward show at rest,
How much of pride that never eye
May look upon its agony.
Ah, little will the lip reveal
Of all the burning heart can feel!”
Of Stuart she heard nothing; but she had faith in his courage and
manliness, and knew that, once the cloud which overshadowed him had
passed, he would fulfill his word and face the world. He was once more
her ideal, her hero, and she felt he would not fail in this duty to
himself.
Engrossed in her thoughts and daily tasks, she did not notice the
change that seemed to be coming over the earl. His tenderness never
failed, his courtesy and love were never lacking, and she had grown
so used to all his thoughtful care that it seemed but the adjunct of
everyday life. But she was suddenly awakened from this existence.
The Squire of Crosbie Castle had been one of the first among her new
relatives warmly to welcome Margery. He had loved her father, and for
his old affection’s sake had opened his heart to the young girl; when
therefore he learned that the Earl and Countess of Court had returned
to England and were staying at Beecham Park, he wrote immediately,
expressing a great wish to visit them. To this Margery and her husband
replied with genuine pleasure, begging the squire to come as soon as
possible.
Margery found a warm love spring up in her breast for Stuart’s father,
and the earl and the squire soon became good friends. It was the
squire who called Margery’s attention to Lord Court’s quiet manner and
worn appearance, as they were talking together one morning. Margery
listened with a sense of regret and remorse at her blindness, and,
making some excuse, she left the squire in the grounds where they had
been sauntering and hurried back to the house. It was a glorious spring
day; the sunshine illuminated the old mansion, darting in golden shafts
through the long, narrow windows. Margery crossed the hall, above which
was seen a massive dome and round which ran the gallery leading to the
upper apartments and bedrooms. Several servants were hurrying to and
fro; and, asking for the earl, she learned that he was in the study,
busy with the new steward.
Without hesitation she made her way to the room and opened the door.
The earl was alone, leaning his head upon his hand, reading some papers
which lay on the table.
“This lease is wrong, Robins,” he said, not looking up as the door
opened.
Margery moved forward softly, and then knelt at his feet.
“Nugent!” she said, with a little catch in her breath as she noted his
pale, worn face for the first time.
The earl turned with a smile so sweet and tender that it made Margery’s
lips tremble.
“My darling!” he exclaimed, gently. “You here?”
“Nugent, you are ill--worried! Ah, I have been blind not to see it
before! Oh, forgive me, forgive me!”
Lord Court raised her head tenderly.
“Why, Margery,” he said, lightly, “what is the matter? Who has been
frightening you?”
“I am nervous about you; you look so worn and ill. Nugent, you must put
away those deeds and writings. They distress me.”
“You shall not be distressed then, my darling; see--I have put them
away at once. But you are mistaken, Margery; I am not ill, only a
little tired.”
“Tired?” she repeated, putting her hands on his. “Yes, yes, of course!
How forgetful I am! I leave you all this tiresome business to do. I am
very selfish.”
“You are my dear, sweet Margery!” he said, lightly. “But what has
caused you this sudden fear, my darling?”
“You have been looking ill for so long! The squire has just spoken to
me, and it has frightened me; and, Nugent, I want to ask you something.
Will you promise to do it?”
“What can I refuse you, Margery?”
“Then let us leave here and go back to the manor--the squire is longing
to see our dear old home. You will come, dear?”
“Home!” repeated the earl, dreamily, as if the word brought content.
Then, with a sudden contraction of his brows, as if from pain, he
added, “But it will be lonely for you, my dear one; you will not care
for it.”
“I wish it with all my heart,” said Margery, quietly, glad to see that
this proposal brought a gleam of pleasure to his eyes.
“Then,” returned her husband, looking with a strange, sad steadfastness
into her glorious eyes--“then we will go home, Margery.”