CHAPTER XX.
Days glided on, and Margery grew gradually stronger. October was nearing its close, but still the sunshine was warm and genial, and the wind from the sea soft and gentle. It was quite a little fishing village where the Earl and Countess of Court were staying, a rambling, quaint, three-cornered place, inhabited by healthy, strong-limbed fisher folk. Lord Court had brought his wife down to Wavemouth by the advice of two London physicians,and, when the first week of anxiety was passed, and he saw signs of returning health on her sweet face, he was thankful beyond words. The village people were honored and awestruck by the presence of an earl and countess in their midst; they had few grand visitors at Wavemouth. An artist now and then paid the place a visit—indeed, there was one staying there when Margery arrived. He sketched the ruddy-faced children and made his way to the mothers’ hearts by his sweet, clear voice and gentle manners.
Margery learned afterward that the song she had heard so clearly that afternoon when she woke to remembrance had come from this artist’s lips; but she never saw the singer—he quitted the village soon afterward, and left the children and maidens lamenting.
Lord Court had brought a low, easy carriage down with them, and he drove his wife about the picturesque village, watching with a throb of pleasure the interest dawn in her face. Wavemouth was so quiet, so peaceful, so completely in keeping with her desire for rest, that Margery loved the place.
She was still far from strong, and the sea breezes brought a sense of relief and freshness to her spirit. She was fighting a hard battle with herself, striving with all her might to crush out her old love and turn to her husband, whose depths of goodness and generosity she was learning to know better each day. But as she grew stronger the struggle was more bitter; her thoughts would fly to Hurstley, to the dead Mary Morris whose memory she held so dear, and then to that other who was, despite all her efforts, so inextricably bound up with her existence.
The earl, totally ignorant of the secret in his wife’s breast, reveled in his new-found happiness, rejoiced in the possession of his treasure. Day by day he was drawn closer to this girl whose sweetness had been sung by the lips of his dead sister. It was so great a change to him after those four years of ceaseless pain, distrust and darkness! Often in those days he had tried to escape from the remembrance of his life’s mistake; but he could find no relief till that evening when he stood in the doorway listening to the sweet, girlish voice ringingthrough the room, and then suddenly misery and despair vanished, and hope revived—hope that afterward became a sweet reality.
“Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy—They heed not our expectancy;But round some corner in the streets of lifeThey on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”
“Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy—They heed not our expectancy;But round some corner in the streets of lifeThey on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”
“Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy—They heed not our expectancy;But round some corner in the streets of lifeThey on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”
“Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy—
They heed not our expectancy;
But round some corner in the streets of life
They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.”
And now Margery was his wife—his very own; there was none to claim her, none to share the treasure of her love. Was not this blessing too great? His earnest eyes, dark with tenderness, were never tired of watching her lovely, unconscious face as she sat buried in her memories of the past, the look of unutterable sadness that had touched him in their earlier acquaintance seeming to him now caused but by the recollection of her childhood’s history, her mother’s death.
At last the sunshine died, the sea’s calm was gone, the tiny rippling movement was changed into gigantic rolling waves, crested with white foam, and dashing on to the beach in angry majesty, with a sound as of thunder. Margery loved the sea in its fury; she would sit and watch it for hours, her heart beating fast, and her nerves thrilling at the rage in its fierce waves and dashing spray. The anger, the wildness of the elements, relieved her overwrought mind, and the very tumult brought her peace.
She stood at the window one afternoon gazing at the expanse of dull, leaden-green water. There were no waves; it was as if a titanic movement from below agitated the surface and caused the heavy, sudden motion. As she stood thus, her husband approached her.
“Not tired of the sea yet, my darling?” he said, with a smile. “I shall be afraid to suggest a migration if this devotion lasts much longer.”
“It is so wonderful,” Margery answered, dreamily. “I can see such strange pictures, imagine such things, as I watch it. I have never seen it as it is to-day.”
“There will be a storm to-night. I have just seen one of the fishermen, and he says they expect very rough weather.”
“It looks an angry, discontented sea,” Margery said,still dreamily, “as if its passion would be terrible when it did break forth.”
“Look at the foot of the Templar’s Rock! It is beginning already; the foam is as white as snow. There is, as you say, Margery, sullen discontent in its look; but there is also a wildness of despair. It reminds me, looking at that whirling rush round the rock, of Tennyson’s words:
“‘Break, break, breakAt the foot of thy crags, O sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me!’”
“‘Break, break, breakAt the foot of thy crags, O sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me!’”
“‘Break, break, breakAt the foot of thy crags, O sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me!’”
“‘Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me!’”
With a little shudder Margery turned from the window.
“To-day has broken the spell,” she said, hurriedly, with forced lightness. “I think I am tired of the sea at last.”
“You shall leave it when you will—to-night even, if you wish it, my darling; it is still early afternoon. I will telegraph for rooms. Pauline shall accompany you; the others can remain, with the exception of my man, and follow to-morrow.”
“But it is so much trouble,” began Margery.
“Trouble, my sweet, where you are concerned! You would like a change? Yes, I see it in your eyes! We will go, and this, Margery, shall be the beginning of our married life, henceforth to be spent hand in hand together. I will go at once and give my orders; we will start by the first train. I believe there is one about half-past four.”
“You are so good!” Margery murmured.
He bent, and raised her hands to his lips.
“Never say that again, my darling; my whole life is for you.”
As he left, and looked at the sea, Margery turned once more to the window. Yes, she must go.
Suddenly the misery, the weight of her struggle seemed to overcome her. She had sat and dreamed much; she must now put aside all dreams, and turn to life in real earnest. The sea no longer comforted her, and the words her husband had quoted strengthened the desire that had been growing within her to leave it.
“The tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me!”
“The tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me!”
“The tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me!”
“The tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me!”
The truth, the agony in those words, struck her with bitter force. She roused herself with a great effort, determined to fling aside all her weakness and face her duty.
The entrance of Pauline checked her musings.
“Miladi is really going!” exclaimed the maid, delight shining in her great black eyes. “Ah, but I am glad! Miladi will be so much better away from this dismal place; it is enough to give one themigraine. Miladi is wise.”
“You are glad to go, Pauline?” questioned Margery, smiling, as she watched the maid bring out a costly mantle and furs for her coming journey.
“Ma foi, mais oui, miladi! I love London—the sea is sotriste. Miladi will take her jewels with her,sans doute?”
“My jewels, Pauline! I have none.”
“Mais, howstupide! Miladi has never been even shown her beautiful jewels! Ah, miladi must see them—they aremagnifiques!”
Pauline brought the richly-inlaid case to a table near, and spread the contents of the numerous morocco cases on the cloth. Margery looked at the jewels in silence; she did not touch one of the glittering rings or bracelets, or lift the tiara of diamonds from its velvet throne.
Their beauty amazed, but did not please her; ambition for such things had no place in her nature. She smiled faintly at Pauline’s delight and many ejaculations.
“Milord had them all brought down from the manor for miladi. See—she will wear this when she is presented. Does not miladi like them, and the case with the arms and the letters of miladi’s name? See—how beautiful!”
“Yes, they are very beautiful,” replied Lady Court, quietly; “but I shall not wear them just yet, Pauline.”
“But miladi must put on a few rings above herbague de mariage—mais oui—just a simple one; it will look better.”
Margery hesitated; then, hearing a slight noise, she turned and met her husband’s tender eyes.
“Pauline has been showing me my jewels; they are beautiful—too beautiful. I thank you for them all. She tells me that I must wear some rings above my wedding one. Will you put them on?”
Pauline had disappeared on a murmured pretext. Lord Court took the slender white hand in his.
“It wants no rings to enhance its beauty,” he said, with a smile; “but Pauline is right—you must do as others do, and wear some to guard this band of gold. I have two that will please you, I think, my darling—two I have intended giving you for the past week.”
He touched a small spring in the case and disclosed a little drawer. In this two rings were lying; he took them out.
“This hoop of diamonds, Margery,” he said, gently, “was my mother’s; it is old-fashioned now, and perhaps——”
“Let me wear it,” she whispered, hurriedly.
In silence he slipped the circlet over the tiny finger, then pressed his lips to it.
“This one you know”—taking up the other. “You have seen it often—the sapphires will match your eyes, sweet—it was Enid’s ring.”
Tears sprung to Margery’s eyes as she looked at the glistening stones, and remembered how often she had seen them flashing on the frail, white hand of the dead girl.
“They are sacred to me—I shall treasure them both,” she said, reverently, then turned aside with trembling lips.
Pauline returned in two minutes, and the jewels were restored to their cases and packed in their iron-bound box for the journey.
Margery, wrapped in her furs, took her last look at the sea, its sullen surface already broken by flecks of white. The vast expanse of dull-green water bordered by the gray sky struck her suddenly with a sense of gloom.
She turned from it with a sigh of relief; and, as she left it, determined to banish all the dreams and sad recollections it had brought her, burying all memories in its dark, unfathomable depths.
So she went away from the quiet village back to Londonand to life, back to duty, firm in her new-born strength and will.
“Ah, they are happy, milord and miladi, both!” sighed Pauline to her companion and fellow traveler, the earl’s valet. “She is so simple and so pretty—and they have love. Ah, monsieur, how great is that wondrous love!”
The husband and wife sat silent during the greater part of the journey. Margery, resting her head against the cushions, sat with closed eyes. The earl thought she slept, but sleep was far from her. A vague longing seized her that she might step back into the far distant past, when she knew neither the greatness of joy nor the bitterness of sorrow. If she could be once more the simple-minded girl, living in all contentment her peaceful village life, her studies the one excitement of her days! She was happier then, before she had learned the mystery of her own heart, before childhood had vanished and womanhood had come in its place.