CHAPTER V.
“Get on your bonnet, child, and trot away! I shall be content till you come back.”
“Mother, I don’t like to leave you to-day, you seem so weak. Miss Lawson will not mind—let her stay with you.”
Mrs. Morris put out her weak hand and caressed the soft silky hair.
“No, no, child,” she persisted, gently. “You must go to yer lessons. Reuben will be ’ome directly; he’ll make me a cup of tea; don’t you worrit yourself. It’s yer day of German, too, and I want you to be well got on by the time her ladyship comes home.”
Margery rose slowly from her knees.
“Well, I will go,” she said, regretfully; “but let me make you comfortable. There is your book—why, you are getting on quite fast, mother!—and here are the grapes Mr. Stuart sent, close to your hand.”
“Heaven bless him for a kind, true-hearted gentleman! Ah, there are few like him, Margery, my lass!”
“He is good, indeed,” replied the girl, a soft spot of color appearing in her cheeks. “Now, I will go; but first of all I will run into Mrs. Carter’s and ask her to come and sit with you.”
She bent and kissed the transparent cheek, tied on her sunbonnet, took up her books, and, with a parting smile, went out of the doorway.
Her message delivered at Mrs. Carter’s cottage, Margery went slowly up the hill, past the wall inclosing thewood, on past the gate leading to the Weald, Sir Hubert Coningham’s country-house, on and on, till she reached the village. The rectory stood a little way beyond the schoolhouse, close to the church, and, by the time she reached the side gate, Margery had learned her lesson by heart. The heat was quite as great as it was on the afternoon she walked to Farmer Bright’s, now four days ago; and she looked round anxiously at the sky, dreading a cloud until Wednesday was gone and the picnic with Mr. Stuart a thing of the past.
Somehow Margery found her lesson not so delightful to-day; her attention would wander, and Miss Lawson had to repeat a question three times in one of these moments before she got a response. The governess put down the girl’s absence of mind and general listless manner to the heat, and very kindly brought the lesson early to a close and dismissed her pupil.
Margery for the first time gave vent to a sigh of relief when she received permission to go home, and she sauntered through the village almost wearily. She was gazing on the ground, ignorant of what was going on about her, when the sound of ponies’ feet and the noise of wheels behind her caused her to turn, and, looking up, she saw Mrs. Crosbie, seated in her small carriage, close at hand.
“Good-afternoon, Margery,” Mrs. Crosbie said, in her haughty, cold manner. “I am glad to have met you. How is your mother?”
“Good-afternoon, madame,” replied the girl, calling Mrs. Crosbie by the name the village always used, and bending her head gracefully. “Thank you very much, but I am afraid mother is very bad to-day; I did not want to leave her, but she insisted. She grows very weak.”
“Has Dr. Metcalf seen her to-day?”
“Yes, madame, but he said nothing to me—he looked very grave.”
“I was going to send her down some beef tea and jelly, but as I have met you it will save the servant a journey. Get in beside Thomas; I will drive you to the castle, and you can take the things to your mother.”
Mrs. Crosbie pointed to a seat beside the groom. Shewas for some reason always annoyed when she came in contact with this girl. In the first place, Margery spoke and moved as her equal; she never dropped the customary courtesy, nor appeared to grasp for an instant the magnitude of the castle dignity. Mrs. Crosbie was wont to declare that the girl was being ruined; that Catherine Coningham had behaved like an idiot; that, because the child had worn delicate clothes and the dead woman had seemed in every way a lady, Margery should be brought up and educated as such was preposterous. It was all absurd, Mrs. Crosbie affirmed, a mere shadow of romance. The letter in the mother’s pocket had plainly stated her position—she was a maid, and nothing else, and all speculation as to an honorable connection was ridiculous and far-fetched. Mrs. Crosbie did not quarrel with Lady Coningham for rescuing the baby from the workhouse—charity she upheld in every way—but she maintained that Margery should have been placed with Mrs. Morris as her child, and that she should have learned her A, B, C with the other village children in the village school, and that the story of the railway accident and her mother’s death should have been carefully withheld from the child. Now the girl’s head was full of nothing but herself. The mistress of Crosbie Castle opined that she was fit for no situation, and consequently would come to no good.
Margery was ignorant of all this; but she was never entirely comfortable in Mrs. Crosbie’s presence. The waif had within her the germ of pride every whit as great and strong as that possessed by Stuart’s mother. Hitherto she had had no reason to intrench herself in this natural fortress, for all the village loved her; the very fact that Lady Coningham had adopted and educated her raised Margery in their eyes. So the girl had received kindness, in many cases respect; and she was as happy as the lark, save when a wave of mournful thought brought back the memory of her mother.
Mrs. Crosbie wronged her. Margery had not a spice of arrogance in her composition—she had only the innate feeling that she was not of the village class, and, with the true delicacy and instinct of a lady, forbore even to express this.
There was plenty of room on the front seat, but Mrs. Crosbie would not have dreamed of bidding the girl to sit there—she relegated her to what she considered her proper place, among the servants. Margery’s face flushed a little.
“If you will allow me,” she said, with her natural grace, “I will walk up to the castle, thank you very much.”
“Do as I tell you,” commanded Mrs. Crosbie, quietly. “Thomas, make room for Margery Daw.”
Margery bit her lip and hesitated for a moment, then the memory of the poor sick woman at home came to her. If she offended madame, mother would have no more delicacies, so, without another word, she stepped in and was driven briskly out of the village. She sat very quiet beside the shy groom, and, opening her book, a collection of short German stories, soon lost her vexation in their delights.
Mrs. Crosbie was unduly pleased with herself for bringing this girl to her level, and she was determined to lose no opportunity of continuing it in the future. As they stopped at the lodge gates she turned to Margery:
“Get down and go along that path to the back part of the house, and wait in the kitchen till I send for you.”
Margery obediently descended, and turned down the sidepath as the ponies started off along the sweeping avenue to the castle entrance. Why was madame so stern and Mr. Stuart so kind? Margery pondered as she walked on. Had she done anything wrong? Her mind accused her of no fault; she could therefore arrive at no solution of the mystery.
The path she was following was one used by the gardeners, and she soon arrived at a small gate, which, on opening, led her to the paddock and kitchen gardens. Margery toiled through the heat up to the courtyard, and, after crossing this, entered a large door standing wide open.
The cook and her handmaidens were indulging in five-o’clock tea, and the mistress of the kitchen rose with genial hospitality to press her visitor to partake of some, too.
“Now, do!” she urged, as Margery shook her head. “You look fair fagged out.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Drew,” Margery said, simply; unconsciously she recoiled from accepting anything that came from Mrs. Crosbie. “I am not really tired. Madame has driven me here from the village. I am to take some things back to mother. If you don’t mind, I will wait outside—it is rather hot in here.”
“Ay, do, child,” the cook answered; and she handed out a large stool. “Put this just in the doorway, and you’ll catch a little draught.”
With a smile Margery took the stool, and, placing it in a shady corner, sat down and began to read. The courtyard stretched along a quadrangle leading to the stables, and, looking up now and then from her book, Margery caught glimpses of the castle horses lazily switching their tails in their comfortable boxes. The pony carriage was driven in while she waited, and she watched with much interest the small, sturdy ponies being unharnessed and led away. It was a quaint, picturesque spot—the low-roofed stables, the larger coach-house, a portion of the gray-stone castle jutting out in the distance, with a background of branches and faintly moving leaves. Margery shut her book and let her eyes wander to the clear blue sky seen in patches through the trees. She felt cool in her little nook, and enjoyed the rest. The groom had discarded his smart livery, and, in company with another lad, was busily employed in cleaning the pony carriage, the hissing sound with which he accompanied his movements not sounding unmusical from a distance; and Margery found herself smiling at his exertions and the confidence that had succeeded his bashfulness. Suddenly, while she was watching them, she saw the groom and his companion draw themselves up and salute some one; and then the next moment a figure came round the corner—a figure in white tennis costume, with a white silk shirt and large flapping hat. Margery felt her cheeks grow warm, then they as quickly colored. Another figure stood beside the tall one of the man, a dainty, delicate, lovely form in a dress of ethereal blue, holding a large sun-shade of the same color above her beautiful head.
Unconsciously Margery felt her heart sink. Never hadshe seen so fair a vision before; and the sight of those two figures, so well matched and so close together, brought a strange vague pain to her, the nature of which she could not guess. She dropped her eyes to her book again, and shrunk back into her corner, hoping to escape notice. She was too far away to hear what was said, and she began to breathe freely again after a few minutes, when the faint sound of a musical voice was borne on the air and the tones of a deep, clear voice she knew well came nearer and nearer. She pulled her sunbonnet well over her eyes and bent still lower over her book as the voices drew closer.
“If you are ill after this, Cousin Vane,” she heard Stuart say, “I shall never forgive myself. The heat is terrific, you know. Are you quite sure you can manage it?”
“Quite,” answered the woman’s voice. “I want to see this poor doggie; besides, you tell me it is just as far back again as round this way.”
“Just as far. Well, here we are! Poor Sir Charles, I hope the old fellow is better.”
The two figures came into sight; they were about six yards from Margery, and were walking slowly. She could see the delicate blue drapery, the slender gauntleted hand, though she did not raise her eyes; and she drew back into her corner with a nervous dread such as she had never felt hitherto.
Mr. Crosbie led his cousin to a small outhouse immediately facing the kitchen door, and was about to open the door, when, looking round, he saw Margery. His face flushed for an instant; then, before his cousin could perceive it, his embarrassment was gone.
“There, Vane,” he said, easily, opening the door and pointing to a large collie lying on a heap of clean straw. “Don’t be afraid; he won’t hurt you. Poor Sir Charles—poor old fellow!” He stooped and took up a bandaged paw. “I shall have you about in a day or two. He wants some fresh water. Margery”—he left his cousin’s side a little, and looked straight at the girl sitting up in the corner—“Margery, will you kindly ask one of the maids to bring me some water for Sir Charles?”
Margery put down her book without a word, went indoors,brought a jug, then walked to the well a little to the left, and, having filled the jug, approached him.
“Thank you. Why did you trouble, Margery?” said Stuart, courteously. “How is your mother to-day?”
“She is no better, Mr. Stuart, thank you,” returned Margery, in her clear, refined voice. “I am waiting for some things madame is kindly going to send her.”
Vane Charteris had turned at the first sound of the girl’s voice, and she was almost alarmed at the beauty of the face before her. Beside the golden glory of that hair, the depths of pathetic splendor in those eyes, the pale transparency of that skin, her own prettiness simply faded away. She noted the grace and ease with which Margery moved, and immediately conceived a violent dislike to this village girl.
“Vane, let me present to you one of my old playfellows—Margery Daw. You were wanting some one to point out all the beauties of Hurstley. I am sure no one could do that half so well as Margery.”
Miss Charteris bent her head and smiled at her cousin.
“Many thanks, Stuart; but you forget we have planned to discover the mysteries of the country together without any assistance—a spice of adventure is always charming.”
Margery turned away, with a bow to Stuart—she did not speak, or look at his companion—and she overheard Miss Charteris say, with a scornful laugh, as she walked back to her seat:
“Dear Cousin Stuart, you should be more merciful; that girl’s hair is so painfully red, it makes me quite uncomfortable in this heat.”
Margery did not hear the reply—her lips were quivering and her hands trembling with mortification—and, when she looked up again, the housekeeper was handing her a basket, and the cousins were gone.
“Madame sends your mother some beef tea, a bottle of brandy, and some fruit and jelly,” said the housekeeper, closing the basket lid. “It is rather heavy; and mind you, carry it carefully. Can you manage it?”
“Yes,” said Margery, steadily. “Thank you; I am much obliged.”
She turned with her heavy load and walked across the courtyard, her heart no lighter than her basket.
That lovely looking stranger had made fun of her—fun—and to Mr. Stuart! Perhaps he had laughed, too. The thought was too painful. And was she not a sight? Look at her old pink gown, well washed and mended, her clumsy boots, her sunburned hands. The memory of that dainty figure looking like a fairy in her delicate garments rose to her mind, and her head drooped. Yes, she was a common village girl—madame treated her as such; and now Mr. Stuart would turn, too. Oh, why could she not tear aside the veil of mystery and know what she really was? Could that face treasured in her locket be only the face of a maid, or did her heart speak truly when it called that mother madame’s equal?
Margery was pained and troubled as she took her way along the paddock—pained not so much at the woman’s words as at the thought that the man had re-echoed them and deemed her stupid and plain. She had grown to look on Stuart Crosbie as something bright and delightful in her life. They had played together as children, and the memory of that friendship was the strongest link in the chain that held him as her hero. When he was away, Stuart had written once or twice to Margery, sending her views of the places he visited, and giving her long chatty accounts of his travels. When he came home, they renewed their intimacy; there was not a shadow of surprise or fear in Margery’s mind when the young squire came so frequently to see her.
She had no suspicion that this friendship would annoy his mother or was in any way strange or uncommon. She liked Stuart Crosbie; she could talk to him of her studies, her pursuits—a sealed book in her home—and gradually grew to welcome him as a companion with whom she could converse easily and naturally, and as a friend who would never fail her. Mrs. Morris was too great an invalid to devote much thought to the girl’s amusements, nor would she have been greatly troubled had she known how intimate the young squire and Margery had become; so the girl had had no constraint put upon her; she met, walked, and chatted with StuartCrosbie as freely as she liked, and no cloud had dawned on her happy life till to-day.
The sight of that other girl, so different from herself, had brought a strange, sharp pang, but that was lost in the pain she endured when she thought that Stuart had agreed with the cruel remark, and that his friendship was gone forever. She wended her way along the paddock, and was turning through the gate to enter the gardeners’ path again, when a hand was stretched out from beside her, took the basket from her, and, putting a finger under her chin, raised her head from its drooping position.
“Well?” said Stuart, quietly.
“Give me my basket, please, Mr. Stuart,” Margery murmured, hurriedly, a crimson wave of color dyeing her cheeks.
“What for?” asked the young man, calmly.
“I must get home. I am very late as it is.”
“Well, why don’t you go?” Stuart inquired, watching the color fade from her cheeks.
“I cannot go without my basket,” Margery answered, trying to be at her ease. “Please give it to me, Mr. Stuart.”
“No,” he answered, briefly.
“Then I must go without it!” she exclaimed; and, suiting the action to the word, she began to move down the path.
Stuart followed at once, and put a detaining hand on her arm.
“Here is your basket, Margery. I was only teasing you. What a time you have been! I have been waiting here for you for the last five minutes.”
Margery’s heart grew lighter again.
“You might have been better employed,” she returned, with the quaint sharpness Stuart always admired. “But, if you have time to waste, I have not. Listen! There—it is striking six, and mother will wonder what has become of me.”
“Yes, that is six,” observed Mr. Crosbie, listening to the clock chiming from the castle. “You will get home by seven, Margery, if you start at once. Not that way!”—as she turned again down the path. “This is nearlyhalf a mile nearer.” He pushed open the gate and motioned her into the paddock again. “Now,” he continued, slinging the basket on his arm and turning beside her across the field, “why are you cross with me, Miss Margery?”
“I am not cross with you,” Margery answered, hurriedly.
“Not now, perhaps; but you were.”
Margery was silent.
“What was it, Margery?” he asked, gently.
“I heard what that lady said about me just now,” she replied, after a pause; “and—and——”
“You are angry with me. That is hardly fair—rough on an old friend, you know.”
“I thought you might have——” She stopped.
“Agreed with her. You ought to know me better than that, Margery.”
The grave tones went to her heart.
“Oh, forgive me!” she cried. “It was wrong; but—she is so beautiful, and I——”
“You are——”
“Only a village girl beside her.”
“I wonder if you know how different you are from her?” Stuart said, quietly.
Margery’s face flushed.
“I never felt I was—common till to-day,” she answered.
“Margery!”
She looked up quickly. Mr. Crosbie checked his words and laughed a little constrainedly.
“You must not grow vain,” he said.
“Am I vain? I will remember another time,” she responded, gravely.
“And remember this, too,” Stuart added—“that, whatever any one may say, my opinion of you does not change—never will.”
She smiled with delight.
“Thank you, Mr. Stuart,” she said, simply. “And now please give me my basket; you must not come any further.”
“I shall carry it home for you,” he answered. “We shall not be long, and this is tons too heavy for your littlehands. Tell me of your lesson. What have you done to-day, and what is that book?”
Margery immediately broke into a long account of her studies, and, with her happy serenity restored, she walked on beside him, heedless of the dust or the sun—content that their friendship was unaffected.
Stuart Crosbie listened with pleasure to the ripple of her voice, his eyes never tired of wandering to her sweet face, lovely in its innocence; but, when he had parted from her and strode home along the lanes, his brow was clouded and a puzzled expression rested upon his face.