CHAPTER III.
“Stuart, where are you going?”
The question was put in a cold, sharp voice, and came from a lady sitting at her writing-desk in a spacious window-recess overlooking extensive grounds. She was a handsome woman, with rather massive features and a profusion of dark-brown hair artistically arranged. Her eyes, of a light green-gray shade, were fixed at this moment on a young man standing in an easy, graceful attitude outside the French window.
“Going, mother?” he responded. “Nowhere in particular. Do you want me?”
Mrs. Crosbie examined her firm white hands for one brief second.
“Have you forgotten what to-day is?” she asked, quietly.
The young man pondered, puckered his handsome brows, and pretended to be lost in doubt.
“I really forget,” he answered, after a while, looking up with a mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. “Thursday, I believe; but you have your almanac close to your hand, mother.”
“This is Thursday, the twenty-second of July, Stuart,” observed Mrs. Crosbie, putting down her pen and looking fixedly at her son. “And this afternoon your Aunt Clara and Cousin Vane will arrive, and you are expected to meet them at Chesterham station.”
“By Jove,” exclaimed Stuart, with a soft whistle, “I had clean forgotten them!” He pushed his hands into his tennis-coat pockets and regarded his shoes with almost a real pucker on his brow. “What time are they due?” he asked, after a brief silence.
Mrs. Crosbie took up a letter and read aloud:
“We shall arrive at Chesterham by the twelve express from Euston, reaching the junction about six-thirty. Pray let somebody meet us.”
“We shall arrive at Chesterham by the twelve express from Euston, reaching the junction about six-thirty. Pray let somebody meet us.”
“I call that cool,” observed the young man shortly. “But I suppose Aunt Clara cannot do a thing for herself. However, it need not entail my going; she only says ‘somebody,’ and I am nobody.”
“Your father will expect his sister to be treated with respect,” was his mother’s icy reply.
“And I trust he will not be disappointed,” responded Stuart; “but to trudge to Chesterham in this heat will be enough to roast a fellow.”
“I have ordered the barouche,” Mrs. Crosbie told him. “Vane must lean back comfortably—she is so delicate.”
Stuart Crosbie buried his toe in the well-kept lawn and made no answer to this. His mother watched him keenly, though he was unaware of her scrutiny.
“Well?” she said at last.
“Well?” he replied, looking up.
“Stuart, I do not often express my wishes, but to-day I particularly desire you should go to Chesterham and meet your aunt and cousin.”
Stuart removed his felt tennis-hat and bowed low.
“My lady-mother,” he said lightly, “your wishes shall be obeyed.”
He put on his hat and strolled away, while a frown settled on his mother’s face. She tapped her writing-table with her pen, in evident vexation; but after a while her brow cleared, as if some new thought had come into her mind and by its bright magic dispelled the cloud.
Stuart Crosbie sauntered on over the lawn. A moment before he had grumbled at a prospective walk in the heat when the day would be declining, yet now he made no haste to get out of the sun’s rays, although trees whose spreading branches promised shade and coolness studded his path. He had pushed his hat wellover his eyes, and with his hands still in his pockets dawdled on, as if with no settled purpose in his mind.
He had strolled in a circuitous route, for, after progressing in this fashion for some time, he looked up and found himself almost opposite to the window—though at a distance—from which he had started. His mother’s head was clearly discernible bent over her writing, and, waking suddenly from his dreams, he left the lawn, betook himself to a path, and made for a gate at the end. The lodgekeeper’s wife was seated at her door, having brought her work into the air for coolness. She rose hurriedly as she perceived the young squire striding down the path, and opened the gate.
“Why did you trouble, Mrs. Clark?” said Mr. Crosbie, courteously. “I could have managed that myself.”
“Law sakes, Master Stuart, my good man would be main angry if he thought I’d let you do such a thing!”
“Jim must be taught manners,” Stuart laughed lightly. “How do you like this weather?”
Mrs. Clark mopped her brow with her apron.
“It’s fair killing, sir,” she answered; “I never remind me of such a summer. But folks is never content. Mayhap what tries me is good for others—your young lady cousin, for one, sir. Mrs. Martha tells me she is very weakly like. She be coming to-day.”
“I have vivid recollections of Vane as a child,” Stuart remarked, more to himself than to the woman; “and certainly I can testify to her strength then, for she boxed my ears soundly.”
“Laws, Master Stuart!” ejaculated Mrs. Clark. “What a little vixen!”
“But these are tales out of school,” laughed the young man; “and I fancy I tormented her pretty freely in those days. Ta-ta, Mrs. Clark! Go back and have a nap—sleep is the best way to pass these hot days.”
“Now, if he ain’t the best and kind-heartedest boy in the whole world!” mused Mrs. Clark, watching him as he strode along the lane. “Just like his father, poor gentleman!”
Mr. Crosbie went along the road at a fast pace, and did not slacken his speed till he sighted a few cottages that denoted a village. Then he moderated his pace, andsauntered into the one street, hot and parched with thirst.
“Phew!” he exclaimed to himself, taking off his hat and waving it to and fro vigorously. “I must have something to drink. I wonder if Judy keeps soda-water?”
“Judy” was the owner of a small shop, the one window of which displayed a heterogeneous mass of articles—comestibles, wearing apparel, tops, and scissors. It did not look very inviting, but thirst must be quenched, and better things might be in store behind the counter. So Stuart raised the latch and entered the cottage.
“Soda-water, Master Stuart?” repeated Mrs. Judy, in amazement. “I scarce count on what you mean. There’s pump-water, if you like, or may be a glass of milk.”
Mr. Crosbie hesitated for a moment, then decided for the latter.
“It is a long time since I drank so innocent a beverage, Judy,” he observed, putting down the glass with a slight shudder.
“Ay, there ain’t much ’arm in milk,” responded Judy. “But, laws, Master Stuart, you do look warm! Will you ’ave a chair and set in the doorway to cool a bit? There’s a little bit of wind springing up.”
Mr. Crosbie shook his head.
“No, thanks, Judy; I must get on. There”—throwing a shilling upon the small counter—“take that for your kindness.”
“Eh, but, Master Stuart, I’d like you for a customer every day!” exclaimed the woman; and with a smile and a nod Mr. Crosbie strode away.
He passed through the narrow street, deserted now—for the sound of the children’s voices was wafted from the village school—and turned into a wide country-lane that led to the left of the cottages. After sauntering a few yards, he came in sight of a wood inclosed by a high wall, while through the branches of the trees glimpses of a gray-stone house were visible. Mr. Crosbie’s steps grew slower and slower as he approached this wall, and he walked past it in a very desultory fashion. Presently he reached a large iron gate through which a wide even drive was seen. Evidently Mr. Crosbie had no acquaintance with this drive, for he passed on, still down hill, tillhe came to a tiny spring trickling and babbling by the side of the road; and here he paused. He was out of the sun’s glare now, and felt almost cool; to his right hand stretched the path he had just traversed, to his left lay two lanes, one leading through the distant fields, the other turning abruptly. He thought for an instant, then turned in the direction of the latter, and just before him stood three cottages at equal distances from each other. He passed the first, and with a quick nervous hand unlatched the gate of the second, and went up the sweet-smelling garden.
The door was ajar, and as he knocked a faint, weak voice answered:
“Come in.”
Stuart Crosbie pushed open the door and entered the cottage. A woman was lying on a sofa, propped up with pillows, the whiteness of which rivaled her face in purity. She had a woolen shawl round her shoulders, although the heat was so oppressive, and looked very ill.
Stuart bent over her.
“How are you to-day, Mrs. Morris?” he asked, gently.
“Much about the same, thank you, Mr. Stuart. Were you wanting Reuben, sir?”
“Yes. I did rather want to see him,” replied the young man a little hesitatingly. “I am anxious to hear about that poaching affair the other night.”
“It weren’t nothing at all, sir,” Mrs. Morris said, in her low, weak voice. “Reuben was out nigh most of the night, but couldn’t see a soul.”
“Well, I’m glad of it,” observed Mr. Crosbie warmly, “for between ourselves, Mrs. Morris, I confess my sympathies go entirely with the poachers.”
Mrs. Morris smiled faintly.
“Ah, you ain’t Sir Hubert, sir! He don’t hold them views. You would give the whole village welcome to the birds; but he’s different.”
“Yes, we are rather opposed in some ways,” remarked the young squire, dryly. “Is it true, Mrs. Morris, that Sir Hubert and Lady Coningham are coming home?’
“Yes, sir; Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, come to see me yesterday, and she says her ladyship is expected nextweek. Ah, I am glad I shall see her again! I began to fear I should die before she came back.”
“You must cheer up,” said Stuart, gently, “and not talk about dying. Why are you here all alone? Where is Margery?”
“She’s gone out, sir. She would go all the way to Farmer Bright’s to fetch me some fresh eggs; our hens are bad at laying just now. But she ought to be in directly, sir. She started at dinner-time, and it’s now close on three o’clock.”
“It’s a long walk to Bright’s farm,” observed Mr. Crosbie, rising and strolling to the window, and stooping apparently to sniff the bowl of flowers standing on the ledge, but in reality to have a good look down the hot, dusty lane.
“Ay, it is, sir; but Margery would go. She takes such count on me, sir; and it’s her lesson day and all.”
“Is she still studying with the rector’s governess?”
“Yes, sir; her ladyship, when she wrote last, desired her to continue the lessons, and Miss Lawson speaks main well of Margery’s cleverness. I expect Lady Coningham won’t know her when she sees her again.”
“Ten years would make a difference, Mrs. Morris,” Stuart said, looking round with a smile; “and Margery was only about seven when Lady Coningham went to India. What a jolly little thing she was, too! We had some fun in those days.”
“Margery is a bit of a tomboy now,” the sick woman observed, with a loving light in her eyes.
“Is she? Well, I never see it; she always seems as sedate as—well, as the rector’s governess herself. But I must be off. Tell Reuben I looked in to hear about the poachers, and that I don’t sympathize with him a bit for spending the night in the wood.” He bent and took one of the invalid’s thin white hands in his. “And now don’t get low-spirited about yourself, Mrs. Morris; you will feel better when this heat passes. I shall send you some fruit down from the castle. I dare say you can manage a few grapes.”
“Many, many thanks, Mr. Stuart, and Heaven bless you, sir! You are very good to me.”
Tears rolled down Mrs. Morris’ pale face, and theyoung squire turned away with a sudden expression of sorrow. At the door he hesitated for a minute, then said hurriedly:
“I shall walk a little way along Linton’s Lane, Mrs. Morris. I want to ask Margery about Bright’s crops.”
“Ay, do, sir,” replied the sick woman, warmly; “she will be rare glad to see you.”
Mr. Crosbie strode down the path, and let the gate swing behind him. He turned to the right, and walked quickly along in the glaring heat, with his eyes fixed in an almost eager way on the long straight road before him. Away in the distance appeared an object—a patch of something pink moving very slowly toward him. His pace increased, the distance lessened between this object and himself, and gradually the pink patch melted into the slender form of a girl, her bent head covered with a flapping white sunbonnet, a small basket on her right arm, and a book between her two little brown hands. She came on very slowly; apparently the heat had no effect on her, although the sun was beating on her with scorching force. Mr. Crosbie slackened his pace as they drew nearer, and at last came to a standstill. The girl was so deeply absorbed in her book that she was unaware of his presence till, looking up suddenly, she saw him just in front of her. The book dropped, a flush of color mantled her clear, transparent face, and a look of intense pleasure shone in her great blue eyes.
“Mr. Stuart! Oh, how you startled me!”
“Did I, Margery?” returned Stuart, removing his felt hat and grasping her hand firmly. “What are you made of? You must be a salamander to live in this heat; yet here you are walking along as if it were in Iceland; and you look as cool as”—hesitating for a smile—“as a cucumber.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a little sunshine!” said the girl, with a slightly contemptuous curl of her short upper lip. “In fact, I don’t feel it. But where are you going, Mr. Stuart? Have you seen mother?”
“Yes,” replied the young man, turning beside her and taking the basket from her arm. “She told me you had gone to Bright’s farm, and I am anxious to know how his crops are.”
“He is grumbling, of course,” Margery answered; “but I fancy he is, on the whole, well satisfied.”
Their eyes met, and they both burst into a merry fit of laughter.
“You don’t care a bit about the crops—you know you don’t!” remarked Margery, severely, as she tried to banish the merriment from the corners of her mouth.
“Well, strictly between ourselves, I don’t. It is a fearful confession for a farm-owner to make, but it is the truth.”
“Ah, I am glad you do tell the truth sometimes!” said the girl, with a bright glance from her glorious eyes.
“You must be a witch or some sort of fairy,” Stuart declared suddenly, “for prevarication, let alone untruths, always fail when I meet you.”
He was watching her with intense earnestness, enjoying the sweet witchery of her beauty. For she was beautiful; her form was so slender and lithe; every limb, from the tiny feet in the rough country shoes, which could not hide their daintiness, to the small, delicately-shaped hands, browned and tanned as they were, spoke of grace and loveliness. Her head had a certain imperious carriage that made the simple cotton gown appear a queenly robe, and the face beneath the flapping sunbonnet was one to inthrall a sterner man than Stuart Crosbie. The complexion of pale cream white, which even the sun could not kiss to a warmer shade, the sweet, rosy mouth, the great wondrous eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes, and the mass of ruddy golden curls that twined about the brow and delicate throat were but a few of the attractions that Margery possessed. One of her greatest charms was the simplicity and unaffectedness of her manner; perhaps it was that as yet none had whispered flattery in her shell-like ear, none had tried to sweep away her girlish frankness and youthfulness by adulation and undue admiration. But Margery never seemed to think she possessed beauty, nor even that that beauty was such as a queen might sigh for. She found more pleasure in tossing the hay, romping with the children, or, in quieter moods, diving into her books, than in posing before her mirror; and she was quite unconscious of the exact meaning of StuartCrosbie’s eyes, which filled with a fire of admiration and ecstasy whenever they rested on her.
“Now,” she said, lightly, turning her book round and round in her hands after they had been conversing for several minutes, “since I am a fairy, I shall get this question answered. Why did Mr. Stuart take such a long walk in the broiling sun which does affect him if he does not care a scrap about Farmer Bright’s crops?”
“Why?” echoed the young man. “Why, to meet you, Margery!”
“Oh, how kind of you!” she returned, quietly; then, looking up with a smile, she added, “Come now—I shall begin to doubt my power. What——”
“But that is the real downright, honest truth. I told Mrs. Morris it was to ask about the crops, but I tell you the truth.”
“And why could you not tell mother the truth,” she asked, quickly—“why not say you wanted to see me? She would have been honored at such a thought.”
Stuart Crosbie bit his lip. His brow clouded for a second, then he answered quietly:
“Yes, you are quite right, Margery. I ought to have said so. Well, never mind—I will next time. And now tell me what you have been doing all this age. What is that book?”
“‘The Mill on the Floss’”—holding it out.
“Hum! Looks dry—is it?”
“Dry!” exclaimed Margery. “Oh, it is so beautiful! Have you never read it?”
“I hardly think so,” confessed the young squire. “I will look it out in the library when I get back, and dig into it to-night, when I am smoking.”
“Miss Lawson doesn’t approve of story-books,” said Margery; “but I am not so strict.”
“And how are you getting on?”
“Oh, all right! I am deep in German just now. I speak French every day when I go to the rectory. I want to be perfect by the time her ladyship comes back. Mother has told me all about her kindness to me. I can scarcely remember her when she went away, but she must be nice.”
“Nice!” exclaimed Mr. Crosbie. “She is a brick—amillion times too good for that old curmudgeon, Sir Hubert!”
“No one seems to like him,” Margery remarked, thoughtfully—her face had grown almost sad; “but mother is never tired of telling me all about Lady Coningham—how she took me when I was a baby, and my poor, dear real mother was killed, and put me with mother Morris. I am not very old, Mr. Stuart, but I feel I can never repay her ladyship all she has done for me. Sometimes I seem to have a faint, misty recollection of the days when I first came here, and I can see a face that was—oh, so pretty and kind!”
“My mother always says Catherine Coningham was very beautiful,” Stuart said, as the girl paused. “I remember her as a faded, pale woman, very kind, as you say.”
“There is one thing she did I can never, never forget,” Margery went on—“that was her goodness in burying my poor mother in such a pretty spot, and putting that cross on her grave. It does me good to go there, Mr. Stuart. I almost think my mother knows I go. She must have been sweet, she was so beautiful! I always wear my locket, you know”—she put up her hand and produced a tiny heart of gold—“it is such a comfort. I wonder who I really am!”
“I think you are a princess,” observed the young man, gravely; “you look it.”
Margery shook her head.
“We shall never know, I suppose,” she said, sadly, “and I shall always be the nursery rhyme girl ‘Margery Daw,’ as Lady Coningham christened me.”
“It is the prettiest name in the whole world!” cried Stuart, warmly. “And—and it suits you!”
“So you would say if you caught sight of me on the village see-saw;” and Margery laughed heartily. Then she added: “But we are home; and you have carried my basket all the way. It must be nearly four o’clock.”
“No!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “By Jove, I shall have to tear——” Then he stopped abruptly and asked: “Margery, when are we going to have that picnic we decided on a month ago?”
“Oh, some day!” she answered, going into the garden and closing the gate.
“But ‘some day’ is so vague. Shall we fix it for next Wednesday? That is your half-holiday, I know.”
His eyes were fixed on her face with such earnestness that for the first time she seemed to feel their power. She colored faintly and held out her hand.
“Yes, Wednesday, if you like—if mother is well enough to spare me. Good-by!”
“Good-by!” he answered.
He gave one last look and hurried up the hill. He had a good hour’s walk before him, his toilet to make, and the drive to Chesterham to accomplish as well. That Lady Charteris and her daughter Vane would be received at the station by the young squire of Crosbie Castle seemed very improbable, indeed.