CHAPTER XIV.
“Margery! Margery!”
The light of the setting sun was gilding the branches of the few trees standing in the center of the square garden. A girl was sitting in a bay window in one of the largest and gloomiest of the houses in the square, apparently watching the sunset; but really the sunset had no charm for her. She was so deep in thought that the sweet tones coming from the further end of the room did not reach her.
“Margery!”
The girl turned quickly, her musings disturbed by the touch of plaintive wistfulness in the last word.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Enid,” she said, hurriedly, moving from the window.
“I am sorry to disturb your dreams, Margery,” observed Lady Enid, gently, “but I should like to sit up for a while, and no one can help me like you.”
She smiled affectionately as she spoke, her beautiful, dark eyes resting with pleasure on the figure of her young companion; she looked so dainty, so frail, yet so lovely, lying back on her cushions, that it was hard to imagine so fair a form was aught but perfect. It was an angel’s face, pale and sweet, surrounded by short, wavy locks of rich, dark-brown hair, and lighted by a pair of luminous brown eyes.
Margery bent quickly and took away the silken coverlet from the couch, then, putting her arm under the slight figure, raised it easily into a sitting position; thence, after a moment’s pause, she assisted the invalid to a large, luxurious chair drawn close at hand.
“Thank you,” said Lady Enid, as she reclined against the well-padded, upright back. “How good you are, Margery! What should I do without you?”
Margery smiled, and, pushing up another chair, seated herself near the speaker.
Two months had passed since she left Hurstley—two long, peaceful months; and, though she could not say she was happy, she was content. She seemed in those eightweeks to have put all girlishness from her; her figure, in the simple gray gown that fitted to perfection, was already touched with the grace of a woman; her face, as lovely as of yore, bore, nevertheless, the traces of thought and the expression of a deep, all-searching mind. She wore her red-gold tresses curled high on her small head, and this gave her a dignified and maturer air.
“Do not talk of my goodness,” she answered, lightly. “What are my little efforts, compared with all the kindness you have shown me?”
“You cannot guess, Margery, how different my life has been since you came to me. Now, don’t shake your head! I can never say it often enough. Do you know, I had a presentiment that we should become friends the very instant Mrs. Fothergill mentioned your name? Margery Daw! There is a sweetness about it, a touch of romance. I was quite eager you should come, and I was so happy when the letter arrived saying that you would. I am afraid, dear,” Lady Enid added, with a sigh, “that sometimes it is very lonely and dull for you here, with only a poor sick girl for company.”
Margery slipped to her knees beside the slight form in its cardinal-colored silk wrapper.
“Never say that again—never,” she said, “for I will not listen.”
Lady Enid smiled; and Margery bent her lips to the thin, white hand.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked, gently.
“Quite. Now stay here, Margery, and let us chat together. When the lamps come, I will hear you sing; but this is what I enjoy. I have been thinking to myself, as I lay on my couch, what a delight it would be to find out the truth about your poor young mother. How glad I should be if we could discover a clew!”
“I have given up all hope,” Margery responded, dreamily.
“Then it is wrong of you,” Lady Enid said, reprovingly, while she stroked Margery’s soft curls caressingly. “I do not mean to do so if you do. I have thought of all sorts of plans; but the best of them all is to put the whole affair into Nugent’s hands.”
“But, my dear Lady Enid, your brother, Lord Court,will have other and more important things to employ him.”
“Nugent always does anything that gives me pleasure, and this would be pleasure, indeed. You know, Margery, I have written so much about you; and only in his last letter he said he was so delighted to hear that I had at last secured a real friend and companion.”
“He is very fond of you, I know,” Margery responded, softly. She knew that on the theme of this beloved brother Lady Enid would talk for hours, and she welcomed any subject that interested the poor young patient, being content herself to listen, for it banished more painful thoughts.
“Nugent has loved me as a father, mother, brother, all in one; we were left orphans so young; and, oh, Margery, you could never fathom how dear he is to me! When I was well and could run about I can remember that my greatest treat was to have a holiday with Nugent. Then, when my illness came, and I was crippled for life, it was Nugent who brought all the happiness, all the light into my existence. We were alone in the world, and he treasured me as the greatest jewel till——” Lady Enid paused. “Margery,” she went on, after a brief silence, “I dare say you have often wondered why Nugent does not come home, why he has left me here so long alone?”
“I have, sometimes,” confessed Margery.
“And you have thought him unkind. Ah, I will not have him judged wrongly! I will tell you why he wanders abroad, leaves his old home and me, his little sister. Yes, I will tell you.”
“If it pains you, do not speak of it,” broke in Margery, seeing the pale face contract a little.
“It is dead and gone, and I need grieve no more. Nugent and I never speak of the past, but it will do me good to open my heart to you. When, as I have told you before, the doctors said I should be a cripple for life, I thought my brother’s heart would break. He grew almost ill with trouble, and it was not until he saw that I was resigned and content that he recovered. He was so good to me then; no one was allowed to touch me but he; he lifted me and carried me from my couch to the chairor to the bed; he regulated his whole life and career by me. But for my illness he would have found a prominent place in the government, and doubtless have become a great man in the political world; but he renounced all his ambitions—everything for me. We were living then in our dear old home, Court Manor, of all Nugent’s possessions the one we most cherished. I should like to take you there, Margery, to show you its quaint rooms and corridors, let you lose yourself in the pleasance and gardens. I was quite happy. Nugent never left me; together we read, studied, sung; we wanted nothing more than our two selves. Well, a day came that ended it all.
“Court Manor is in Westshire, in one of the most picturesque parts, and the village of Court consists of about half-a-dozen cottages and a tiny church. There are several country houses about, and the one nearest to us is a large, rambling old place called the Gill. This has been unoccupied, although richly furnished, for many years, the owner living abroad; but suddenly one morning we heard that the Gill was to have an occupant, and a few days later that occupant arrived. We neither saw nor heard anything of the new neighbor, till one afternoon, as Nugent was reading to me, the lower gate clanged, sounds were heard on the gravel path, and a moment later a woman on horseback passed the window. She asked to be admitted to me; but I begged Nugent to excuse me, and he received her alone. I questioned him closely when the visitor was gone; but he gave me little information about her appearance, and only said, in rather a constrained way, that she was a widow—a Mrs. Yelverton—who had taken the Gill for the hunting season.
“I dismissed her from my mind, and life went on as usual for a few days; then it seemed to me that Nugent was out a great deal more than formerly. He was hurried, almost ill at ease, during our readings; and, when I asked him the reason, he at last confessed that Mrs. Yelverton had organized regular hunting parties at her house, and had begged him to join them. I submitted gladly, for I had long thought the life was dull for him; and so the days passed on slowly, and we drifted graduallyapart. I saw Mrs. Yelverton only once, and then I was almost dazzled by the brilliancy of her beauty. Her coloring was so rich, so vivid, that others paled beside her, and her eyes, of a most unprepossessing tawny shade, filled me with vague alarm. Apparently, she did not care for me, for she never repeated her visit; and I was left in peace till the end came.
“I will not linger over the rest, Margery; you can guess it. Nugent had grown to love her—he was bewitched by her beauty; and he whispered to me one evening that she had promised to become his wife. I tried to murmur words of happiness; but my heart failed me, and I could do nothing but look into his dear face with eyes that would speak my distress. Nugent left me that night, hurt at my coldness; but all thought of me was banished in the golden glory of his brief love-dream. Brief! It was but three months after his betrothal that his dream was shattered.”
Lady Enid moved restlessly in her chair, and Margery, noticing her agitation, pressed tenderly the hot hands that were clasped together.
“Do not go on,” she whispered; “it pains you.”
“No, no! I like to tell you, dear,” replied Lady Enid hurriedly. “Nugent was starting one morning to ride to the Gill; he had come into my room to kiss and greet me, and was eager to be gone, when the footman entered with a note. Nugent broke the seal and read it hurriedly, then, with a face like death, staggered to a chair. I begged in piteous tones that he would speak to me, tell me what had happened—for, alas! I could not move!—and after a while he thrust the note into my hands. It was from a man signing himself ‘Roe,’ stating that he had heard his wife was about to commit bigamy with the Earl of Court, under the assumed name of Mrs. Yelverton, and he warned Nugent against her in words that were more than forcible. I tried to speak to my brother; but his looks checked the words on my lips, and he strode out of the room, mounted his horse, and tore like a madman to the Gill.
“You can picture the misery of that day, Margery. I tossed and moaned alone—longing for, yet dreading Nugent’s return. At last he came, and I heard the end—theagony in his face and voice would have wounded you to the quick, Margery. The woman was indeed Roe’s wife, and, when Nugent reached the Gill, he found everything in the wildest confusion. The man and wife had had an interview, in which he informed her that Lord Court knew the truth; and this so incensed her that she drew out a revolver and fired at him. Fortunately, the bullet missed him, and the woman, finding herself baffled, fled. Roe told Nugent the story of his miserable life. His wife had deserted him, destroyed his whole career. He described her as a desperate character, and thoroughly abandoned. His words were true; for, Margery, it was discovered that she had gathered together all the treasures of the Gill, and would have eloped that very night with a man who had served her as groom during her stay there.
“Nugent seemed turned to stone when all was over; it almost killed me to see him wandering about listlessly, all happiness crushed out of his life. Then I spoke to him and tried to persuade him to go abroad, to leave Court Manor for a time. At first he would not listen to me; but, after a while, the idea seemed to please him, and he went, leaving me alone and miserable, and I came here, ostensibly to be under the London doctors. I have seen him only for a few days together in the four years that have passed since that time; but his letters of late have been brighter, and I live in the hope that he will return to me as he was before his life was clouded.”
“It is a sad story,” murmured Margery. She had risen, and was leaning against the broad chimney-board. Trickery and deceit—who knew better than she how bitter, how terrible they were? Did not her heart beat in warm sympathy for this man, with his wounded heart, his life spoiled by false vows? The story brought back the agony of by-gone days; it paled her face and made her hands tremble.
Lady Enid saw the distress she had produced, but attributed it to the girl’s sympathetic nature.
“Dear Margery,” she said, gently, “do not look so sad. You have a tender heart, dear; I am sorry I told you.”
“I am glad,” Margery murmured, “for it binds us closer together. What suffering there is in the world!”
“Sometimes it seems too great for us poor mortals; yet, Margery, this world is not all; we have a source of peace, a Comforter in our greatest trials. You know these lines:
“‘I know not what the future hathOf marvel or surprise,Assured alone that life and deathHis mercy underlies.’”
“‘I know not what the future hathOf marvel or surprise,Assured alone that life and deathHis mercy underlies.’”
“‘I know not what the future hathOf marvel or surprise,Assured alone that life and deathHis mercy underlies.’”
“‘I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.’”
“They are beautiful!” Margery answered. “But it is hard sometimes to believe them.”
“I do not think I should have lived through my trouble if I had not known the truth of them. You have health—while I——” Lady Enid gave a little sigh.
“I am selfish—cruelly selfish!” cried Margery, roused by the pathetic sound.
Lady Enid stretched out one small hand and drew Margery to her.
“You have a sorrow of your own, too!” she said, tenderly. “Ah, yes; I have seen—I know it! Kiss me, Margery! Some day, dear, perhaps you will tell me what it is, and, if I can, with all my heart I will help you.”
Margery knelt beside the chair for a few moments; then she raised her head.
“Some day I will,” she answered, steadily; then she rose.
When the footman appeared with the lamps, Margery turned to the piano. She had a sweet, sympathetic voice; but, though Miss Lawson had taught her music, Margery had had no singing lessons until she came to London to be companion to Lady Enid Walsh. Then, hearing her one night, the young invalid had been charmed, and insisted on Margery’s receiving lessons and studying under one of the best masters in town. She made rapid progress, for she loved all music well.
“What will you sing, Margery?” asked Lady Enid, leaning back, watching her young companion’s graceful form with loving eyes.
“Elaine’s song, the song of love and death. I have a new setting; it is very sweet.”
She played a few bars; then her voice filled the room with melody.
“Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain,And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.“Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death must be.Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die!“Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay—I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.”
“Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain,And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.“Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death must be.Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die!“Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay—I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.”
“Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain,And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.
“Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain,
And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;
I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.
“Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death must be.Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die!
“Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death must be.
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die!
“Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay—I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.”
“Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay—
I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.”
“It is too sad!” cried Margery, with forced lightness; the misery of her own lost love was almost choking her.
“It is very beautiful,” said some one standing in the doorway.
Margery rose quickly, and her eyes rested on the figure of a tall, well-built man, with a keen, dark face, a tawny-brown mustache hiding the mouth, and eyes of such liquid beauty that not even the long scar on the forehead could mar them.
Lady Enid uttered a cry of delight.
“Nugent—my brother! Oh, thank Heaven! I am so glad—so glad!”
Lord Court had left the door, and was bending over the slight figure of his sister. Margery, with tears of sympathy in her eyes, turned away, and was leaving the room, when Lady Enid noticed her.
“Margery,” she called, softly, “you must not go;” then, turning to her brother, she said, “Nugent, this is Margery Daw, whom I have so often written to you about; she is my dear friend.”
“I am heartily glad to welcome you,” said Lord Court, extending a hand to Margery. “I seem to know you already through my sister’s letters. Let me thank you in both our names for your kind attention to her.”
“My small services merit no thanks,” Margery responded, simply. “I would do all in my power for Lady Enid, for I love her.”
She moved forward and kissed the lips Lady Enid upheld to her; there was a flush of delight on the pale face of the invalid, a glow of unalloyed happiness in the lovely brown eyes.
“Ah, Nugent, it is like a gleam of sunshine to see you again! Where have you come from?”
“From Italy. I paused only one day in Paris. I was eager to see you, my darling.” Lord Court drew up a chair to his sister’s side, and took her hand in his. “You are looking better, Enid,” he added.
“That is due to Margery then. I am so happy with her.”
“Miss Daw is a most successful physician,” the earl remarked, smilingly.
“I give place to a better,” Margery replied; then, with a sweet smile, she left the room.
“Is she not sweet, Nugent?” cried Lady Enid.
“It is the most beautiful face I have ever seen,” the earl involuntarily declared.
The day succeeding the Earl of Court’s arrival was passed by Margery principally in her own room. She felt that the brother and sister had much to speak of that was of moment to themselves, and she shrank, with natural delicacy, from intruding. She employed her morning in writing a long letter to Miss Lawson and painting some handscreens for Lady Enid.
The afternoon sun tempted her to go out, and she wandered round the garden in the square, ignorant that a pair of dark eyes were fixed admiringly on her slight, graceful figure and on the wealth of red-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight. It was a dreary plot of ground to call a garden—the trees were begrimed with the smoke of the city, the flower beds were faded and dull, the very earth was hard and cold-looking—yet all its dreariness was lost on Margery. She paced its paths nearly every day; but she did not see her surroundings—her mind was too full of thought. In her moments of solitude her memory claimed her, though she was struggling hard to forget—the pain of her lost love was too new yet. Again and again she would go back to those two days standing out clear and distinct from all other days—the day of happiness unspeakable and the day when the sun had shone on the hot, dusty lane, and she had heard the words that drove that wonderful happiness from her tender young heart forever. She was content, gratefully content,in her present life, for she had peace and affection; but happy, she whispered to herself, she could never be again.
Her letters to Miss Lawson were cheerful and chatty, but the governess put them aside with a strange sensation of pity. She felt that there was some great sorrow, a sorrow which Margery must bear alone, that none could alleviate. She was gratified at the success of her pupil, and from her sister, Mrs. Fothergill, she heard of the warm friendship that already existed between Lady Enid Walsh and her companion. The girl’s heartfelt gratitude pleased and touched Miss Lawson, and she was glad to know that her judgment of the maid’s character had been right; that Margery was all she had expected. Gratitude, indeed, was the warmest feeling in Margery’s breast just now; she could not thank her governess enough for assisting her at a time when she most needed assistance. To have stayed at Hurstley would have been worse than death, she told herself. As she crept away in the freshness of the morning, she took her farewell of all that had been dearest and best to her, and, with a courage born of despair, faced the unknown future unfalteringly. Reuben Morris had accepted with little surprise the news of her hasty departure; he knew that Miss Lawson loved the girl in her quiet way, and would watch over her, and her speed to be gone matched his own plans, for the vessel started three days earlier than he had expected, and there was no time to be lost.
Margery traveled up to the great city, silent and sorrowful, her hand clasped in Reuben’s, with Miss Lawson by her side. Not till she reached the docks, whither she had pleaded to be allowed to accompany Reuben, did she learn that Robert Bright, too, sailed away from the old country in the same ship, and the news was the last drop in her already overflowing cup of grief. She spoke a few words to him, urging him to stay; but, when she learned that her love was all that could keep him, she was silent; it was impossible—it could never be. So the two men went together, and Margery stood beside Miss Lawson, the tears blinding her eyes as the huge vessel glided away. Then, in silence, they retraced their steps, and Margery was launched upon the world. Her secret wassafe. Hurstley chattered of her as in Australia, with Reuben Morris and her lover; but Miss Lawson’s lips were closed; she kept her promise.