CHAPTER VIII.
The sun was growing ruddy in its glory, filling the heavens with a radiant, beautiful light. Margery had parted with Stuart at the Weald gate, and, urged by the wonder and fullness of her happiness, she turned back again to the spot henceforth engraved on her memory with a golden touch. She stood beneath the tree that had reared its branches over her unconscious head through the past hours, and her heart thrilled again and again at the thought of the marvelous treasure that had come to her. Stuart Crosbie loved her—loved her—Margery Daw—a girl without even a name to call her own! She covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shield them from the memory of his passionate glances. What had she ever done to deserve this happiness? Had not her soul murmured often, fretted beneath the cloud of mystery that hung over her? Ah, how wrong she had been! Even while she had murmured, a gift was coming to her, a gift beside which all else faded away and vanished. A sudden impulse moved the girl. She was alone; save for the occasional note of the birds, the faint flutter of the leaves, there was not a sound to break the silence. On the very spot where she had stood when Stuart uttered his earnest, fervent vows she knelt and sent up words of thankfulness. Then she sank upon the ground and, nestling close to the tree, let her fancy wander to the future. She felt at times as if she could not be the Margery of the morning—so far away now—and she almost doubted whether it was not all a dream, till a sudden recollection of her lover’s voice—the memory ofhis words—returned, and she knew it was a blissful reality.
The minutes slipped away, and it was not till the chiming of a distant clock fell on her ear that Margery began to realize how long she had sat and how late it was. She rose hurriedly and made her way through the wood to the path. She had her secret to whisper to the poor, sick mother at home, and the thought lent speed to her feet. What joy she would bring to that tender heart! What happiness to share her new delights with such a one!
She ran down the hill, the ripple of the stream sounding in her ears like music, and approached the garden gate. A lady was seated in the cottage doorway, and, as Margery was hurrying up the path, she rose and came to meet her.
“Miss Lawson!” exclaimed Margery, in surprise.
“I have been waiting here nearly an hour,” the governess returned; “your mother has been extremely unwell, and——”
“Mother ill!” exclaimed Margery, with a sudden pang. “Oh, let me go to her!”
Miss Lawson put a detaining hand upon the girl’s arm.
“You must not disturb her; she has just dropped off to sleep. Reuben has gone to fetch Dr. Metcalf, and Mrs. Carter is sitting indoors to see to her.”
Margery’s face had grown very sad.
“What is it?” she asked, in a low voice. “She was weak when I left her to-day, but not more than usual.”
“She had a severe fit of coughing, and it brought on an attack of the hemorrhage again; it has stopped now, but it has left her very weak. You can do nothing just now, Margery, and I came purposely to talk to you.”
Miss Lawson was a small, thin woman with a quiet, determined face, which from long contact with the world had grown almost stern; but there were gleams of warmth and kindliness from the clear, gray eyes and a touch even of tenderness about the mouth sometimes. Now, though she spoke in her keen, dry way, there was an expression of kindness, almost affection, on her featuresas she looked at Margery. The girl turned back from the door at once.
“Shall I bring you a chair here, Miss Lawson?” she asked, quietly—this news of her mother’s illness had fallen as a cloud on the brilliancy of her joy.
“No. Come outside and stroll part of the way home with me,” said Miss Lawson. “I have something of importance to say to you—indeed, I have wanted to speak to you for several days past; but I had nothing very definite in my mind at the time. To-day I have.”
Margery followed the rectory governess down the path in silence.
“Margery,” began Miss Lawson, abruptly, “have you ever thought about your future? Have you ever thought what will become of you when Mary Morris dies?”
The flush called up by the first sentence died away quickly, and Margery’s face paled. She put her hand suddenly to her heart.
“Is she going to die so soon?” she murmured, involuntarily. “Oh, Miss Lawson, you do not think she will die soon?”
“It is impossible to say,” returned the elder woman, quietly. “Mrs. Morris has been gradually sinking all this summer; she may linger for months, or she may pass away at any moment. It is not her present illness that has caused me to speak; as I tell you, I have intended doing so for days past. I have considered it my duty to put matters clearly before you.”
She paused for an instant. Margery’s face was pained and sad; her heart was heavy with sorrow and dread; all sunshine seemed suddenly to have gone from her life, and, for the moment, Stuart, her lover, was forgotten.
“Perhaps you will think me harsh,” Miss Lawson went on, “when I say that I consider it time you began to plan your future life. Remember, you are now about seventeen, and in another year—indeed, now—should take upon yourself the responsibilities of life. Hitherto you have been tended and cared for by two women. Lady Coningham has opened her purse generously, poor Mary Morris has lavished the wealth of her whole heart on you; but now, when she is taken from you, you willhave but Lady Coningham to fall back upon; and, unless I judge you wrongly, I think you will grow weary of your dependence and long to be free. Don’t think me unkind, child,” continued Miss Lawson, putting a hand on the girl’s slender shoulder. “If I did not like you so much—if I did not know the good in your nature—I should not speak so plainly. But you must review your position. You are grown now almost to womanhood; you are educated above the level of many a girl of wealthier station; you have natural gifts that will aid you; and I say distinctly, you should shake yourself free, not with ingratitude, but with a sense of duty and independence. Believe me, Margery, in the long run you will be far happier.”
“Yes, you are right,” the girl assented. She had followed each word and grasped the meaning instantly. Her natural pride was roused in one moment, and she felt a thrill of desire to add no more to her heavy debt of kindness—to be indeed free.
“Understand me—you must not turn suddenly and be selfishly murmuring over the past,” urged Miss Lawson, who had been closely watching the girl. “Whatever happens, be grateful, Margery.”
“I am—I am,” cried Margery, “thankful to all, and to you, for you have done so much for me, and now you come to help me again!”
“As I shall always help you, I hope,” returned the governess. “I knew you would understand me, Margery—I felt you would be true to your nature. I waited only till I had something definite to propose before I spoke to you.” She drew out a letter from her pocket as she finished. “You have heard me speak of my sister, Mrs. Fothergill. This is from her. She has married a doctor in London, a man who is fast becoming celebrated as a specialist. I have written many times about you, and, when we have met, I have chatted to her, till she thoroughly realizes what you are. This letter came only this morning, and it contains something that I thought would just suit you.”
“Yes?” said Margery, simply.
Miss Lawson unfolded the letter.
“‘You have often heard me mention Lady EnidWalsh,’” she read, “‘the poor young creature whom John has been attending during the past year. I was sitting with her yesterday. She seems to have taken a fancy to me, and during our conversation she asked me to help her to find a companion. She has a lady with her now, an officer’s widow; but she is not a pleasant woman, and they are going to part. I feel so sorry for Lady Enid—young, with beauty and rank, and a cripple for life! She leads such an isolated existence!—for her aunt, Lady Merivale, at whose house she resides, is very old, and almost always confined to her room, and Lady Enid’s only brother, the Earl of Court, is never in England. She welcomes me so warmly, and opens her heart to me! She told me that she would like a bright young girl for companion—if possible from the country. Lady Enid adores the country; but she is compelled to live in London to be near the doctors and under the so-called care of her aunt. Immediately she spoke of a country girl my thoughts flew to your pupil, Margery Daw. From your accounts I feel sure she is the very person to suit the poor young invalid. Do you think this could be managed? She would have a luxurious home, a really magnificent salary, and I feel sure would soon grow to love Lady Enid—no one could help doing so. I half said I knew of some one, and she adopted the idea eagerly; so I hasten to write you.
“‘The question is whether Margery would like the life. It would be dull, very dull; but Lady Enid is a most charming and intellectual companion, and very unselfish. I know you have been anxious about your pupil; and this seems such a wonderful chance that I cannot help saying I shall be disappointed if it falls through. I suppose Lady Coningham would not object to herprotégée’sbecoming independent? Write by return, and let me know what you think of my proposal; and, if you approve, try to arrange it as quickly as possible, as the widow lady leaves in a fortnight.’”
Miss Lawson folded the letter slowly, and put it back into her pocket.
“That is all,” she said, quietly. “Now, Margery, it remains for you to express your feelings.”
“It is so sudden,” responded Margery, faintly; herhands were clasped together; her face, hidden behind the flopping sunbonnet, was perplexed, pained and troubled.
What must she do? How could she leave Hurstley, where every tree and stone was precious to her, and where her heart was bound? Should she speak openly of her love at once, her future marriage with the young squire of Crosbie Castle? The words were on her lips—and then she hesitated. Instinctively she felt that Miss Lawson would not approve of the engagement, and she vividly recalled madame’s unceasing dislike. No, she could not speak of it yet; it was so new, so strange; perhaps, after all, it might not be—and her hands pressed her heart closely. She would leave all to him; he must speak out, she could not. And what, then, must she say to this proposal? Could she leave Hurstley—go from the sun which gave her being life, into a lonely, strange world—leave all that she knew and loved so well—the tiny cottage, the sweet-smelling woods and lanes, and the poor, sick woman, a mother in all but truth? That last thought came as a golden gleam.
“Mother!” she said, hurriedly, “I cannot leave her.”
“Then you renounce all thought of independence,” she observed, coldly, watching the girl’s face with something like a frown on her own.
“I do not,” replied Margery, firmly. “I have listened to your advice, and I will take it; but I must first think of her. She will miss me, Miss Lawson—I know she will.”
“Well,” said Miss Lawson, after a pause, “that is true. It would be cruel to leave her now. I will write to my sister and thank her in your name, and explain why you refuse.”
“You are not cross with me?” Margery murmured, putting out her hand suddenly.
“Cross? No, my child. I wish it might have been arranged; but you are right; it is your duty to stay with Mary Morris, and help to cheer her sad life. In the future, if ever you want help, come to me, and what I can do I will.”
Margery’s eyes met the governess’ steady gaze, and then she bent forward and kissed her.
“I will come to you,” she said, simply; and the two women separated.
Margery hurried down the hill toward home. She felt weary, almost exhausted; it had been a day of extreme mental excitement. As she passed the woods and the stream, her thoughts went back to Stuart, and she felt again the power of his love. Why should she have doubted him? Why not have spoken bravely of their love? Had he not said himself that storms might come, but he would face them all? To-morrow she would seek Miss Lawson, and, strong in the knowledge of Stuart’s great, honest heart, tell her all. Now she must hasten to the sick woman, and watch beside her with tender care and hope.
Stuart Crosbie strode home to the castle, feeling that he had left behind him everything that made life happy. His love for Margery had been growing slowly, but surely, during the past three months that had elapsed since his return home. Her beauty bewitched and enthralled him, her freshness and sweetness linked him still more strongly, her daintiness and natural refinement appealed to him through all. He knew there would be trouble; that his mother would denounce his choice; but his mind was made up, his will, the will of which she was so proud herself, would be firm as iron. Let all the world rage, Margery should be his wife. Though she was nameless, a waif, a nobody, was she not a pure, sweet girl? Were these worldly considerations stains on her fair character? No; his heart was given, his mind made up, and nothing should move him. He raised his head proudly at this thought, a look of determination on his face. He was armed for the fray; but, while he gloried in his own strength, there came the thought of Margery’s weakness. Would she brave the storm as he could? Would not the bitterness of his mother’s anger wound and humiliate her? His face softened. He must shield his sweet love from the fierceness of the battle, tenderly protect her from the cruel wind of harshness and coldness that would most assuredly greet her at Crosbie Castle.
He chose the path through the paddock, and walkedthrough the courtyard just as the tower clock chimed a quarter to eight. He had but a few minutes to change his tennis suit for his dinner garb, and he ran hurriedly from the coachhouse round to the lawn, determined to make a rush to his room. He dismissed his dog with a word, sped fleetly across the grounds till he reached the colonnade, and entered it, when suddenly, by some mischance, his foot slipped. He made a vain effort to save himself; his head swum; he was conscious of a sudden sharp twinge of pain, and, falling heavily, he knew no more.
Sir Douglas Gerant, after a lengthened chat with his cousin, mounted to his room, and dressed himself with due regard for the exigencies of polite society. The hard, cynical look that had rested on his face during his conversation with Vane Charteris, and in the political argument with the squire, had now vanished. He looked worn and ill as he walked slowly up and down his room; his eyes were sad; his head drooped. He seemed to be thinking deeply; at last, with a deep-drawn sigh, he seated himself at the table and wrote a letter. It was a summons to his lawyer, bidding him draw up a will, and fixing a day for him to come to Crosbie Castle. This done, Sir Douglas leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand for several minutes. The entrance of his valet, a man who had been his faithful servant and companion for years, roused him; and, bidding the valet dispatch the letter quickly, Sir Douglas left his room and descended the broad staircase. As he passed through the wide hall to the colonnade, its white pillars, gleaming against the background of green, tinged now with the ruddy gold of the setting sun, made a picture gratifying to his artistic eye. He sauntered on, determining to seek the grounds, when his eyes fell on Stuart’s prostrate form and pale face. In an instant he was kneeling beside the young man, and his clear voice rang out to the butler, who happened to be passing to the dining-room.
The man hurried up with some brandy, and Sir Douglas, with almost professional dexterity, lifted Stuart’s head and poured a few drops between the closed lips. Hewatched the color slowly return, and the eyes open, with a look of anxiety and tenderness on his face.
“That is right!” he said, gently, as he met Stuart’s gaze. “Are you hurt?”
“My arm!” murmured the young man, faintly, as the butler and Sir Douglas helped him to rise.
The baronet cast a keen glance at the right hand, hanging limp and swollen.
“You have had an ugly fall,” he said, briefly. “Your arm is broken—how did it happen?”
He pushed Stuart gently into a chair near at hand, and, while he spoke, he deftly cut away the slight tennis sleeve from the wounded limb with a pair of scissors taken from his pocket.
“I can’t quite remember,” Stuart replied, speaking with an effort, and passing his left hand over his eyes. “I came an awful cropper, I know, and must have banged my head. Is the arm broken? If so, you had better send for Metcalf and have it set.”
The butler was moving away; but Sir Douglas stopped him.
“There is no need to send to the village—I can manage this. Go up to my room and send down my man; it is not the first time he has helped me in this sort of thing.”
Stuart lay back in his chair; he was still feeling faint and weak. He caught Sir Douglas’ eye, and smiled a little.
“I feel rather like what the boys used to call a ‘jolly duffer,’” he said, slowly. “I can’t think what made me so stupid; I don’t usually fall about in this way. I wonder how long I was insensible—and I have never thanked you for helping me.” Stuart was gradually recovering himself, and woke to the fact that this was a stranger. “I beg your pardon.”
“It is granted, Cousin Stuart.”
Stuart looked mystified, and then said, suddenly putting out his left hand:
“You are Douglas Gerant; I am very glad to see you.”
Sir Douglas grasped the hand.
“Thanks, my lad,” he said, quietly; then, looking round: “Here is Murray. Now sit quiet, and don’t speak, and we’ll settle you in a trice.”
Stuart watched his cousin curiously as he prepared the bandages and improvised some splints; he scarcely felt the long, white fingers as they moved over his wounded arm, and winced only as the bones clicked together. But he grew fainter as the bandages were wound round; and, as the operation was finished, Sir Douglas, without a word, held the brandy to his lips again and forced him to drink some.
“You have pluck, Stuart,” he said, quietly. “You are of the stuff to make a man. Now, if you take my advice, you will go to your room and rest. I fancy that arm will trouble you rather to-night; so try to get some sleep now.”
“My head feels rather queer, I confess,” Stuart responded; and he gladly let his cousin draw his hand through his arm and lead him through the hall to the stairs.
Mrs. Crosbie was sailing down as they approached.
“Stuart,” she exclaimed, in genuine dismay, “what is the matter?”
“He has fallen and broken his arm,” Sir Douglas answered, quietly. “I am taking him to his room; it will be wiser to let him pass, Cousin Constance, as he has had a nasty touch on the head.”
“Arm broken!” cried Mrs. Crosbie, in alarm. “But it must be set! I will send for Dr. Metcalf at once!”
“You can send for the doctor, if you like,” Sir Douglas remarked, as he drew Stuart up the stairs; “but his arm is already set. I have had considerable experience in such cases, and I can assure you it is all right.”
Stuart smiled faintly at his mother, and she followed him up the stairs, a little annoyed, a little anxious, and, oddly enough, a little glad—annoyed because Sir Douglas had taken so much upon himself; anxious for her son, whom she loved better than anything on earth; and glad, because she saw in this illness a chance of bringing about the marriage between Vane and Stuart, which she so much desired.
Sir Douglas left the mother and son together when he had ensconced his patient comfortably in a large chair; and Mrs. Crosbie busied herself with many little offices about the room, quitting the apartment only when shesaw Stuart’s eyes close in slumber. She met Vane on the landing, and, with an affectionate glance, drew the girl’s hand through her arm.
“He is resting, dear,” she said, “so I shall leave him for a while. We must nurse him together, and we shall soon get him well.”
Vane’s face flushed a little.
“I will help you gladly,” she returned, and she spoke honestly. Her first thought, like her aunt’s, had been that this would bring Stuart and herself more together. She had another duty to perform, too. She must ingratiate herself with Sir Douglas Gerant, and try by every means in her power to wipe away the memory of her foolish mistake.
Stuart slept for an hour or two, and dreamed of Margery, but when he awoke the pain in his arm was so great that even her sweet image was banished from his thoughts. His mother came in as night fell, but Stuart was too ill to broach the subject of his love. The blow on the head was more severe than he had imagined, and he grew feverish as the day declined. He heard the tower clock chime the night hours, and whenever he moved his head, his eyes rested on the figure of Sir Douglas reading by the window, and ready at any moment to tend him.
And at the small cottage by the Weald another being sat and watched by a sickbed, watched with a heart that was growing sadder and sadder as the moments passed. Margery, still in the white cotton gown that she wore when she plighted her troth, knelt by Mary Morris’ couch, trying to alleviate the pain that was racking the poor, wasted frame. She was ignorant of her lover’s illness, and she thought of him only with a sense of peace and happiness. What a long, wonderful day it had been, she thought, as she sat beside the little window and watched the veil of night darken the sky—a day in which her girlhood was buried forever, a day in which the golden glory of all earthly happiness dawned for her! She turned from the window to watch the sick woman. The paroxysm of pain seemed past, and she was asleep. The house was quiet as a tomb. In another room the loving, faithful husband and companion was lost to trouble in slumber. Margery was alone; she moved softlyto the window and drew back the curtains, and immediately the room was bathed in the silver radiance of the moon.
She stood and gazed on at the dark-blue heavens, the glittering myriads of jeweled stars, the moonlit earth, till a cloud seemed to obscure her vision; and, when she gazed again, the stars were gone and a ruddy haze, pierced by the sun’s golden beams, illumined the sky.
She rose softly, moved on tiptoe to the bed, then, with a sudden shudder, dropped on her knees beside it. While her eyes had been closed in sleep, while the dawn had spread its roseate veil over the night, a spirit had flown from earth—Mary Morris was dead!