CHAPTER XVII.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck eight in clear, silvery chimes; Margery paused in her walk to and fro in the boudoir, and looked at it. Three hours since they had returned, and carried Enid’s poor, fragile form to the bedroom, her face as white as death itself. The agony of Margery’s suspense was unbearable; she had been alone, listening for, yet, she scarcely knew why, dreading to hear Dr. Fothergill’s step on the stair. All thought of self was banished now; she could think only of the sweet angel-woman who had been a spirit of goodness to her, and of the look of speechless grief on the earl’s face as he carried his sister into the house. Downstairs, in another room, a man was sitting, with head bent forward as with age. It was the Earl of Court. He had returned from his sister’s couch, after placing her there, and, dropping into the chair beside the fire, had never moved during the three weary hours that passed. He heard the doctor slowly descend the stairs; yet he, like Margery, dared not approach him because of the unspeakable dread that was in his heart, and he heard the street door close with a slight shudder at the fears that possessed him.
It was not till the door was gently opened that he roused himself from his trance of despair; then, raising his head, he saw Margery, pale and agitated, standing before him.
“Enid wishes for you,” she said, faintly.
He started to his feet in an instant.
“You have seen her?” he murmured.
“No,” Margery shook her head. “I will come after you; she has asked for us both, and——” She stopped—her voice failed her.
The earl pressed his hands over his eyes, and followed her from the room.
Lady Enid was lying back on her pillows, very pale and faint. She could not move her hand as her brother entered, but he saw the look of pleasure that illuminedher face. He bent low over her, and heard her voice come only in a whisper, and that with a painful effort.
“You are better, Enid?” he murmured, hoarsely. “Oh, say you are better, my darling!”
“I shall be soon, Nugent,” she answered. “Have you seen Dr. Fothergill?”
He shook his head, and he thought he saw a look of pain gather on her face.
“I am sorry,” she said, faintly, “for I must tell you myself.”
“Tell me what, Enid?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible.
She did not answer at once, but after a while she raised her weak hand and passed it over his brow.
“Nugent,” she faltered, her tones a little clearer, “I want you to give me a promise, dear.”
“Need you ask for one?” he answered, pressing her hand to his lips, then clasping it firmly within his own.
“I want you to be a friend to Margery; she has no one, and I love her. Nugent, my darling, do not look at me like that—there is no hope. Oh, don’t cry, my own dear brother! Listen! I have deceived you”—her voice grew fainter—“I have been growing weaker and weaker every day. This is the finish.”
The earl had sunk upon his knees; his face was almost hidden. Lady Enid’s hand, wandering over his hair, touched his eyes—they were wet with tears.
“Don’t, don’t! Oh, Nugent, you break my heart!”
He was up again in an instant, his grief repressed by an iron will.
“You promise?” she said, eagerly.
“I promise all you ask,” he answered. “Oh, why cannot I die, instead of you?”
“You must live and keep your promise,” Lady Enid whispered; then she closed her eyes for a minute, and, in despair, he beckoned to the maid to moisten the pale lips.
The heavy lashes were raised, and the girl’s eyes smiled again.
“I have one great, great wish,” she murmured, faintly.
“It is granted. What would I not do for you, Enid?”
“Make Margery Daw your wife!”
The earl started, and his color deepened.
“If she consents,” he answered, after a moment’s pause, “I will.”
“She is so good—ah, Nugent, you do not know how good! I have grown to love her as a sister. She will watch over you for my sake—when I am gone!”
She lay back silent for a minute, then turned her eyes on her maid.
“Ask Miss Daw to come now.”
The earl moved away and buried his face in his folded arms on the mantelpiece. Margery came in softly, then, with one deep sigh, crouched beside the bed and put her lips to the thin hands.
“Margery,” whispered Lady Enid—“my dear Margery!”
“You are better—oh, tell me you are better, Enid!” faltered Margery.
“Darling, listen to me. I am dying. My poor Margery, be brave. I have known it a long time; the shock to-day has—has—only hastened it. But I want you to do something for me. Margery, do not promise till you have heard what it is. Nugent!” The earl came to her with slow steps. “You shall not be left alone, Margery, when I am gone. Margery, you have loved me—you know all; I want you to be my brother’s wife!”
Margery drew back for an instant, and stood with her hands pressed against her bosom, her mind distracted, the words just uttered ringing in her ears.
Could she link herself to one whom she could never love, though she deeply respected him? Could she give herself to another while she believed herself pledged to Stuart Crosbie forever? Her eyes met the sweet brown ones, already dim with pain, turned wistfully upon her. A flood of pity filled her; she dropped upon her knees, and breathed:
“I will.”
Lady Enid waited a moment; then, grasping Margery’s hand, she held it toward the earl, and across her bed the compact was sealed.
“There is one—thing more,” she whispered, with difficulty; “the—end may be soon. I could die—happier if—if you were made man and wife now.”
The earl was silent; but Margery raised her head, her cheeks as pale as those lying on the pillow.
“It shall be so,” she said, clearly; “be comforted.”
The earl stooped, and pressed his lips to his sister’s; a sigh burst from his overcharged heart.
“As Margery says, I say; we will be married here in the morning. I will arrange it.”
Then, without another word, he passed out of the room.
Margery hardly moved all through the long, terrible night that followed. Lady Enid held her hand within her own, and, fearful of disturbing her few moments of slumber, Margery did not stir, though she grew faint and stiff as the hours passed. What were her thoughts during the interval? She could not have told; but the dominant feeling was one of bitter grief, an agony of regret and sorrow as she looked at the pale young face with the seal of death already upon it. The promise she had given did not come home to her in those silent moments; she was striving to gauge the depths of Enid’s great and noble nature. How brave, how strong she had been, with the knowledge that she was doomed, ever present in her breast! What courage had filled that poor, fragile frame, what an infinity of love that feebly-beating heart! Ah, what a lesson was it to the girl crouched in that sickroom to bury self and live for others!
Toward early dawn—the girl was worn out with fatigue and sorrow—Margery’s eyes closed; and, with her wealth of red-gold curls spread over the coverlet, she slumbered peacefully. Lady Enid woke early. She was faint, even weaker than the night had left her; yet, as she saw the daylight creep into the room, her heart almost leaped with joy—her mind was at rest. Her eyes lingered with tenderness on Margery’s tired head; and, as the first rays of the morning sun touched the luxuriant tresses of hair, making them as a ruddy, golden halo, she murmured: “Nugent will be content by and by,” and lay back, waiting till her maid or Margery should awake.
The sun was well up before Margery raised her heavily-fringed eyelids; but, once aroused, she was angry with herself for sleeping.
“My sweet Margery,” whispered Lady Enid, “my poor, tired darling!”
“Forgive me,” murmured Margery.
“Forgive you! You were worn out. Listen, darling! Nugent will be here soon. Go to your room, and put on a white gown.” She smiled faintly. “I—I wish it; you shall have no bad omens at your wedding, Margery. Pauline, attend mademoiselle.”
Margery hesitated, and then obeyed silently.
“Heaven give me strength!” prayed Enid, as she felt herself growing faint. “But this one thing, this marriage over, and I shall die content.”
Margery went to her room, and listlessly allowed the maid to wave her hair and adjust the simple white cambric dress; but her hands were trembling and her senses numb. A wedding! It seemed like a dream. The prayer book the maid handed her recalled her to the reality; and with faltering steps she went back to the dying woman.
Three men were in the room as she entered, but she was scarcely conscious of their presence. She went straight to Lady Enid, and sat down beside her, her hand clasped in hers, her head bowed.
Then she felt herself raised to her feet, she saw Dr. Fothergill bend and put a vial to Enid’s rigid lips, and the next minute a solemn voice sounded through the room, and the marriage service began. Margery felt her hand clasped in a firm hold; she uttered her responses in a voice that sounded far away; but her eyes never left the pale face lying back on the pillows, with a gleam of joy in the sweet eyes.
The ceremony was over, the blessing was spoken, and together Lord Court and his wife knelt beside Enid’s bed to catch the faint whispers that fell from her pallid lips; they saw her eyes gaze into theirs with a glow of heavenly radiance, they saw her hand move feebly toward them, they seemed to hear the prayer uttered for their happiness; and then the dying girl’s eyelids drooped, a fluttering sigh escaped her lips, her head fell forward, and—Margery knew no more.
Nugent, Earl of Court, saw the servants bear his wife from the room; but he remained kneeling by his sister’sbody, gazing on the calm, marblelike face, the still form of her he had loved so well.