CHAPTER XIX.
“Man’s love is like the restless waves,Ever at rise and fall;The only love a woman cravesIt must be all in all.Ask me no more if I regret—You need not care to know;“A woman’s heart does not forget—Bid me good-by, and go.You do not love me—no;Bid me good-by, and go.Good-by, good-by—’tis better so;Bid me good-by, and go.”
“Man’s love is like the restless waves,Ever at rise and fall;The only love a woman cravesIt must be all in all.Ask me no more if I regret—You need not care to know;“A woman’s heart does not forget—Bid me good-by, and go.You do not love me—no;Bid me good-by, and go.Good-by, good-by—’tis better so;Bid me good-by, and go.”
“Man’s love is like the restless waves,Ever at rise and fall;The only love a woman cravesIt must be all in all.Ask me no more if I regret—You need not care to know;
“Man’s love is like the restless waves,
Ever at rise and fall;
The only love a woman craves
It must be all in all.
Ask me no more if I regret—
You need not care to know;
“A woman’s heart does not forget—Bid me good-by, and go.You do not love me—no;Bid me good-by, and go.Good-by, good-by—’tis better so;Bid me good-by, and go.”
“A woman’s heart does not forget—
Bid me good-by, and go.
You do not love me—no;
Bid me good-by, and go.
Good-by, good-by—’tis better so;
Bid me good-by, and go.”
Margery moved dreamily; she opened her eyes. Aflood of glorious sunshine filled the room. She felt strangely weak; her hands were almost numb, her head was heavy; she could do nothing but lie back and rest—rest, and listen to the sound of a rich voice singing, somewhat near, a plaintive, sighing song:
“You do not love me—no;Bid me good-by, and go.Good-by, good-by—’tis better so;Bid me good-by, and go.”
“You do not love me—no;Bid me good-by, and go.Good-by, good-by—’tis better so;Bid me good-by, and go.”
“You do not love me—no;Bid me good-by, and go.Good-by, good-by—’tis better so;Bid me good-by, and go.”
“You do not love me—no;
Bid me good-by, and go.
Good-by, good-by—’tis better so;
Bid me good-by, and go.”
Margery moved again. This time her eyes wandered round the room; it was strange to her. Where was she? What place was this?
While a look of perplexity and pain was dawning on her pure, pale face, some one bent over her.
“Miladi is better?”
“Where am I?” asked Margery, faintly.
“Miladi has been ill,” replied the quiet, soothing voice—“very ill. She is by the sea now. Does not miladi hear the waves?”
A faint rippling sound was borne in on the silence, mingling with the song without.
“The sea!” murmured Margery, vaguely. “Where? Am I dreaming?”
“Miladi does not forget me? I am Pauline.”
“Pauline!” repeated the girl, striving to dispel the dense cloud that shrouded her memory.
“Yes, miladi. I dressed you for your marriage that sad, sad morning.” Pauline spoke slowly. “Can miladi not remember now?” she added, softly.
Margery looked at her strangely and intently.
“I can remember nothing—I seem to be in a dream.”
She put up her left hand to push back the clusters of her hair, and as it fell again to the silken coverlet she gazed at it intently. It looked frail and white, and on the third finger was a ring—a plain, wide band of gold.
The maid touched her hand.
“It is miladi’s wedding ring,” she said, divining the thoughts of wonder and the speculation that were filling Margery’s mind.
“My wedding ring!” echoed the girl, still wonderingly. “Am I married, then?”
Pauline looked at her mistress in alarm. Had the fever really touched her brain? She almost feared it.
“Miladi will remember,” she whispered, tenderly. “She was married one morning so early, by Lady Enid’s deathbed. Miladi has been ill—delirious since—but she is better now. Miladi must think—must try to remember now for milord’s sake.”
“By Lady Enid’s deathbed!” whispered Margery; then the cloud vanished suddenly from her memory, and, with bitter pain, she remembered all.
Pauline stood by, distressed, yet relieved, as her mistress put her two thin hands to her face and the great tears rolled through the slender fingers—the weeping might agitate for a time, but it would do good in the end. For three weeks Margery had lain between life and death. Her overwrought mind and body had given way suddenly beneath the shock of Lady Enid’s death; she had been so tired, so shaken by her former trouble and despair, that the excitement of her marriage, the supreme agony when she realized that the sweet friend and sister had passed away, were too much for her, and she sunk beneath the weight. Nugent, Earl of Court, sat and watched beside her couch. He saw the struggle that took place between the terrible fever and Margery’s delicate yet healthy constitution, not daring to give words to his fears. She knew nothing during those days—her lustrous eyes met his unmeaningly. She was his wife, the treasured bequest of his dying sister; but all his devotion, his tenderness, the greatness of his new passion for her, was unknown—her mind was a blank.
When the fever passed away she grew better in body, but the vacant look lingered in her eyes, and her memory had not returned. The doctors spoke hopefully, and ordered a change of air, and so they removed her to the seaside, and waited for the moment to come when the dark cloud which obscured her mind would lift, and she would be the Margery of old. For a week there was no improvement, but on this day nature seemed to wake from its trance, and, when Pauline spoke, as she had spoken many times before, the veil fell, and Margery’s memory came back to her.
Presently the tears stopped, her hands fell to her side,and she raised herself feebly into a sitting position. She was not in bed, but dressed in a loose, white silk gown, resting on a couch. She looked around, critically taking in the costly appointments of the room. Pauline watched her curiously, and noted each sign of pleasure that flitted across the lovely, pale face.
“It is beautiful,” Margery declared, after a time; “and the sea is there”—pointing to the large bay window through which the sunlight streamed. “I will look at it, Pauline; I have never seen the sea.”
The maid passed her arm round the slender figure, and guided it to the window, pushing forward a large, luxurious chair as they reached it, into which Margery sunk with a sigh of fatigue. She closed her eyes for one minute, then opened them on a picture of such new, such wondrous, startling beauty that her pulses thrilled with the momentary delight.
It was the sea—
“The sea, the sea, the open sea—The blue, the fresh, the ever free!”
“The sea, the sea, the open sea—The blue, the fresh, the ever free!”
“The sea, the sea, the open sea—The blue, the fresh, the ever free!”
“The sea, the sea, the open sea—
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!”
Everything was forgotten in that moment’s supreme pleasure. She had conjured up visions of the ocean, fed by pictures she had seen; but no canvas could ever portray the boundless dignity, the majesty, the rippling beauty of the sea as it appeared to Margery on that October afternoon.
Margery gazed and gazed, her wonderment growing greater as she looked, and her mind flew back to the afternoon when Stuart had spoken of the sea, dwelling on its beauties so lovingly that she thought she had realized it in all its grandeur and majesty. Now she knew that not even his tongue could convey a true idea of its mightiness. She sat very silent, watching the rolling waves; the song without had ceased, and Pauline had retired to the further end of the room. Suddenly the weird sadness of the sea’s music struck a chord in her heart. It seemed to be singing a dirge, and her mind woke again to its load of sorrow. For the first time the real facts of her marriage came home to her. A look of despair gathered in her eyes, her thin white hands were pressed to her lips. Enid—dear, sweet Enid—wasgone! The brief friendship, strong as though it had been cemented by years, was broken, and she was alone, alone with her husband, a man whom she had pitied, respected, liked, but a man whom she could never love, to whom she must ever wear a mask, for love was dead within her to all but one, and for that one it lived as strongly as of yore. What had she done? Bound herself for life, given a sacred vow, while every pulse in her thrilled for that other man, despite his cruelty and his humiliating insults! Oh, that she had spoken openly to Lady Enid! This marriage then would never have taken place. But her silence had produced this result; the sister’s tenderness, the friend’s affection, had prompted the dead woman to speak her wish, and at such a moment Margery had yielded. She did not regret her promise to Enid. The thought that her marriage had soothed the dying came almost as a gleam of pleasure. It was for her husband’s sake she sorrowed, and for her own. Could aught but misery follow such a hasty union? Would not they both repent in bitterness and despair?
Margery rose slowly from her seat, feeling weak and wretched. The spirit of the sea, entrancing at first, had brought with it a host of sad thoughts that destroyed its beauty, and made her shudder at its music.
Pauline had retired quietly from the room. Margery did not notice her absence; and, as she regained her feet and put one hand on the chair to steady herself, she said, faintly, with half a smile:
“You must help me, Pauline. I am very foolish; but——”
A hand clasped hers—not Pauline’s, but a firm, strong hand. It was her husband’s.
Lord Court drew the slender, white-robed figure gently to his arms.
“It is not Pauline, my darling; it is I. Nay, do not look so frightened! You are still very weak, my poor one! Pauline came to bring me the good news that you had recovered your memory, and I hastened to you at once—my wife—my sweet one!”
Margery rested quietly in his arms—she had not strength to move—but a tumult of thoughts surged in her brain. Now she must speak, must tell this man ofher weakness, of her love. It must be done now in the beginning of their married life; she must not delay; it would be so difficult afterward. And he must know the truth—know that for Enid’s sake she had uttered words that should never have been spoken, that would be as emptiness in her eyes.
“I wish to speak,” she murmured, faintly; but the words did not reach her husband’s ears. She was nervously excited, and her strength was already spent.
The earl drew her still closer to his breast.
“Let me hold you in my arms for one instant, my wife,” he said, tenderly and gravely; “it comes as such a blessed happiness after weeks of misery and suspense that I have endured. Margery, my darling, ours was a strange marriage; but it was tenderly blessed by the smile of one we both loved. Ah, Enid could read the heart well! She saw into the very depths of mine; she knew that its sterile ground had brought forth a pure, holy plant—my love for you! She saw the misery of the past banished from my life by the tender influence of that love, and she realized that life might once more be made bright and beautiful to me—that earthly trust, faith and happiness might yet be mine; and so she gave you, darling, to me, to fill the void her flight would make, to lead me by your sweetness, your tenderness, to things better and purer, like your own self.”
A pang of remorse pierced Margery’s heart. Could she speak, and at one word blast this new-found happiness, the Heaven-inspired hopes? No, she had not the courage. She must bury the past. Henceforth Margery Daw, with all that appertained to her, was banished, and Margery, Countess of Court, lived in her stead, strong in the determination to keep her vows and prove herself worthy of the devotion of her husband.
She raised her pale, lovely face to his, and a steadfast light shone in her great, blue eyes.
“By Heaven’s help,” she responded faintly yet clearly, “I will do it!”
Lord Court bent his head, and pressed his lips to hers; then, lifting her tenderly, he bore her to the couch, and laid her once more on the pillows.
“You are very frail Margery,” he said, kindly, contemplatingher as she lay back wearily; “but now you must make great efforts to get well, and you shall soon go out and feel the sea breezes on your cheeks—perhaps they will bring a little color to them.”
“I am always pale,” she whispered, in reply. “How long have I been ill?”
“A month now. Ah, I had almost begun to despair—you were so long recovering.”
“And—and Enid?”
“Is at her old home at last,” said the earl, in a constrained voice. “We carried her down and laid her in the old churchyard. She always wished to be buried there.”
“I must go down and see the grave,” murmured Margery.
“When you are able, you shall, my darling. Court Manor is waiting for its mistress. Ah, Margery, little did I think years ago that I should so gladly return to my home, all pain and bitterness rooted out of my heart forever, and in their place the sweet fragrance of love and happiness, brought me by a spirit of peace and purity—my wife!”
Margery moved her head restlessly on the silken pillow; his deep tenderness and devotion touched her wounded heart with healing gentleness, yet her burden was none the less, for she could never repay such great love, she could never give him what he gave her. Her pride had suffered such humiliation beneath the cold cruelty of Vane Charteris’ tongue that her heart might have thrilled now with satisfaction in the knowledge that she was—in the world’s eyes—a great person—Countess of Court, a peeress of the realm. But there was no pride in her heart. Her husband’s tender words only brought back with a sudden rush the memory of the great chasm between them. She drew her hand slowly from his, with the touch of his lips still clinging to it.
“You know,” she whispered, meeting his gaze with her great starlike eyes—“you know—Enid told you that I am quite alone in the world—a waif, a stray?”
“Yes, I know it, my darling.”
“And you care for me just the same?”
“I love you,” he answered, smiling; “I loved you fromthe very first. Yes, Enid told me your sad story, and it only binds you still closer to me; henceforth I must be mother, father, brother, sister, husband, all in one. Do not hold a thought in your heart that such a circumstance could make any difference. Remember—
“‘For unto every lord his own lady isAll ladies and all beauties and all mysteries,The breathing multiple of roses passionate,Of perfect pearls, of birds with happy melody—Ay, a mere girl, yet in herself a universe.’
“‘For unto every lord his own lady isAll ladies and all beauties and all mysteries,The breathing multiple of roses passionate,Of perfect pearls, of birds with happy melody—Ay, a mere girl, yet in herself a universe.’
“‘For unto every lord his own lady isAll ladies and all beauties and all mysteries,The breathing multiple of roses passionate,Of perfect pearls, of birds with happy melody—Ay, a mere girl, yet in herself a universe.’
“‘For unto every lord his own lady is
All ladies and all beauties and all mysteries,
The breathing multiple of roses passionate,
Of perfect pearls, of birds with happy melody—
Ay, a mere girl, yet in herself a universe.’
“A poet sung that, Margery, and it is the very echo of my heart.”
“You are very good,” she murmured, gently; and then, bending to touch her cheek with his lips, Lord Court went slowly from the room.
Margery lay silent, his words ringing in her ears, and again and again she told herself that she could not destroy this man’s new-found peace, his life’s happiness. She must strive to crush all love and remembrance from her heart, turn her face from the past, with all its store of sweetness and bitterness, and look upon the future, where the path of duty lay straight before her. Loyalty and honor demanded the sacrifice, and she would obey them.
“I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,Fill the days of my daily breathWith fugitive things not good to treasure—Do as the world doth, say as it saith.But, if we had loved each other,Oh, sweet!”
“I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,Fill the days of my daily breathWith fugitive things not good to treasure—Do as the world doth, say as it saith.But, if we had loved each other,Oh, sweet!”
“I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,Fill the days of my daily breathWith fugitive things not good to treasure—Do as the world doth, say as it saith.But, if we had loved each other,Oh, sweet!”
“I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,
Fill the days of my daily breath
With fugitive things not good to treasure—
Do as the world doth, say as it saith.
But, if we had loved each other,
Oh, sweet!”