CHAPTER XXIV.
That she possessed some strange magnetic influence over Sir Douglas Gerant, Margery did not doubt, but what it was she could not tell; it seemed so vague, so mysterious, and yet her heart was filled with great and unfathomable emotions. What had she in common with Sir Douglas Gerant? Why should he gaze at her so eagerly? She sat very quiet in her carriage, yet every nerve was thrilling.
The earl noticed her manner, but attributed it to thesympathy she felt for the sick man. He regretted now that he had taken her to see his old friend, but Sir Douglas had seemed quite convalescent in the morning, and he had thought the visit might do him good.
On reaching her room, Margery let her husband remove her heavy mantle and her cap without a word; then as he stood looking undecided beside her, she turned to him.
“Please go back to him. I am all right, and I should like to know how he is now.”
“Are you sure you are better, darling? You were quite frightened.”
“Yes, yes! Go; perhaps you may be of some service.”
The earl stooped and kissed her, and was soon rattling away in a hansom, while she sat silently thinking and wondering over what had occurred.
Lord Court found Sir Douglas restored to consciousness, but too weak to utter a word. Already there was a great alteration in the worn face, and the sick man’s eyes, as they wandered with a restless eagerness round the room, struck the earl with sudden sadness.
“I’ve sent down to the castle,” said Murray, who was watching his beloved master; “and I’ve also sent to Mr. Stuart’s club. He may be in London; if so, he’ll come as quickly as he can. I hope he is, for Sir Douglas would like to see him, I know. Many and many a time I’ve wanted to let Mr. Stuart know, but he wouldn’t let me; he was always thinking he’d be better in a day or two, and was longing to be off. He has fretted so through his illness, my lord, it has quite worn him out.”
“Have you sent for the doctors?” asked the earl.
“They’ve just gone, my lord. They didn’t say much. ‘Give him a teaspoonful of brandy every half hour,’ they said; and I know what that means, my lord.”
“How wasted he is,” thought the earl—“how changed! I wish he could speak; he looks as if he wished to say something.”
He bent and asked Sir Douglas if there was anything he specially wanted; but the rigid lips did not move—only the eyes seemed to plead more than before. The earl’s presence appeared to give him pleasure, for, if Lord Court moved, the thin, trembling hand went outtoward him, and Murray construed this into a wish for his friend to remain.
An hour passed without change, and the earl was thinking of sending a message to Margery, explanatory of his long absence, when the door opened, and the sick man’s face suddenly altered. He made a feeble attempt to rise, his hands moved restlessly to and fro, and his lips parted to speak, as a young man bent over his couch. It was Stuart Crosbie.
“Cousin,” he said, hurriedly, with real pain on his face and in his voice, “my dear cousin, oh, why did you not send for me before?” Then, turning to the servant, he added: “Murray, you should have let me know! Six weeks ill, and I thought him in Australia! It has distressed me more than I can say.”
“Sir Douglas would not let me write, sir,” replied Murray, as he put the brandy to the invalid’s lips. “Lord Court came in to-day, and he’s the first person as has been.”
“It was a shock to me, too, Mr. Crosbie,” remarked the earl. “Gerant and I have been old friends for years. I am heartily glad you have come.”
“You are very kind,” said Stuart, putting out his hand; “but cannot he have something to give him strength?” Then, turning to the invalid, he added: “You want to speak to me, cousin?”
He knelt down by the bedside as he spoke, and looked eagerly into the sick man’s face.
“Sir Douglas has tried to speak, but he cannot, Mr. Stuart—yet.”
“Hush!” interrupted Stuart, putting up his hand—the pale lips were moving.
“You—will—not forget——”
“My promise?” finished Stuart, gently. “No; everything you wish shall be done.”
Sir Douglas fixed his eyes on Lord Court, and a faint sound came from his lips. The earl bent his head the better to hear.
“I cannot hear,” he murmured sadly to Stuart.
“Give me the brandy, Murray,” said Stuart. “Come, that is right; we shall have you well and hearty soon,cousin,” he added to the sick man. “Do not distress yourself; I will do all I promised.”
Sir Douglas looked at him earnestly, as if his dark eyes would read his inmost heart. Then a change came over his face, and he smiled faintly. His head was raised for a minute from the pillow, and a whisper fell on their anxious ears:
“Gladys—wife—it—has—come—to—Margery—little—Mar—gery—thank—Heaven!”
The voice died away, a convulsive tremor seized the heavy eyelids, which closed slowly over the dark eyes, glazed with a film now, the head sank back, and with a sigh the spirit of Douglas Gerant fled from its earthly abode.
Stuart knelt on, while hot tears were stealing down his cheeks. A solemn trust was confided to his care—of what nature he knew now. The ne’er-do-well, the wandering nature, the truant from home, had not been alone all his life. The name of “wife” passed from his lips as death closed his eyes. Some tale of sadness, of disappointment, was to come, and with it was linked a name that had destroyed Stuart’s joy and youth—the name of “Margery.”
A strange thrill ran through the young man’s frame when at last he rose from his knees. There was now a bond of sympathy stronger than had ever existed in life between himself and his dead cousin.
“It is not true! I will not believe it! The whole thing is a romance from beginning to end. Douglas Gerant always——”
“Mother, do not forget you are speaking of a dead man,” broke in Stuart Crosbie, quietly and sternly. “I will not listen to such words.”
Mrs. Crosbie turned and faced her son. Stuart was leaning against the mantelpiece in a room of a London hotel, his face pale, yet determined. Mrs. Crosbie, dressed in heavy black robes half-hidden with crape, was walking to and fro, vexed and wrathful.
“Do you mean to say you will not dispute this iniquitous will?” she asked, sharply.
“Certainly not. I have no right. It is a most just one.”
“And you will let Beecham Park pass from your hands into the clutches of some low-born girl who has no more right to it than a beggar in the street?”
“Except the right of a daughter.”
“Daughter!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie, with scorn. “There was no marriage, and, even if such was the case, the girl is not to be found; he lost trace of the mother and child for sixteen years, and now has conjured up some romance about a likeness in a village wench.”
“Mother, you are not just or temperate. Douglas Gerant has set forth in this letter the sorrow of his life. With his dying lips he claimed my promise to fulfill his wishes, and I shall do so.”
“You are mad, Stuart!” declared his mother, coldly. “But,” she added, with a sneer, “I need not look very far for your motive; it is for the sake of this girl, this Margery Daw, that you are determined to sacrifice everything. Had Sir Douglas seen a resemblance in any other woman, the desire to carry out his wishes might not have been so strong. You have no pride, Stuart, not a——”
“I have honor, mother,” Stuart interrupted, his brow clouded, his face stern. “You wrong me and insult me. The past is gone. Why bring it back? I shall do my duty for Douglas Gerant’s sake, for honor, justice, right and truth’s sake, and for nothing else. I shall seek out Margery Daw; I have pledged myself to the dead, and shall keep my word.”
“And what will Vane say to this quixotic course?”
“Vane is a true-hearted woman; she will say I am right. But, should she not, then I cannot help it—I am resolved.”
Stuart turned to the fire as he spoke, and looked into the blaze with a pained, weary expression on his face.
“The world will call you mad,” observed Mrs. Crosbie, crossing to the window and sinking into a chair, “and Vane will be greatly displeased.”
“Vane loves me—so you say,” replied Stuart, quietly; then he turned to the table, and began to write rapidly.
On the night after Sir Douglas Gerant’s death, in theseclusion of his room, Stuart had broken the covering of the packet intrusted to his care, and read the contents. The funeral was over now, and the will read. Beecham Park was left to Stuart, with the proviso that he fulfilled certain conditions contained in a letter already placed in his hands.
The writing was close and crabbed, but it was distinct, and Stuart read it easily.
“When I first decided upon making you my heir, Stuart, I determined to couple that decision with another that would perhaps prove as irksome to you as it has been sorrowful and disappointing to me. But a new influence has since come into my life—hope, sweet, bright, glorious hope, with peace and gladness behind it. Let me tell you my story.
“You will have heard of your cousin, Douglas Gerant, as a scamp, a profligate, a disgrace. I was wild, perhaps foolish and hot-headed; but, Stuart, I never dishonored my name or my father’s memory. My brother Eustace and I were never on good terms. He hated me for my wild spirits, my good looks, and my success with women, and I, on my side, had little sympathy with his narrow, cramped life and niggardly ways; so one day we agreed to part and never meet except when absolutely necessary. I left him in his dull home at Beecham Park, where his one idea of enjoyment was to scan rigidly the accounts of the estate and curtail the expenses, and went to London.
“From my mother I inherited a small income, which proved about sufficient for my extravagances, and I passed my days with a crowd of boon companions, traveling when and whither I pleased, just as the mood seized me. Among my acquaintances was one whom I held dearer than all; we were bound together by the firmest bond—true friendship. Conway was a handsome fellow, with a reckless, dare-all style that suited my wild nature, and an honest heart; we were inseparable. And next to him in my friendship was a man called Everest, a strong-willed being with a plain face, but having the manners of a Crichton, together with a fund of common sense. Everest was a barrier to Conway’s and my wildness, and to him we owed many lucky escapes.We were with one accord railers at matrimony, and a very bad time of it any poor fellow had who deserted our ranks to take unto himself a wife. I laughed and bantered like the others, deeming myself invulnerable; yet, when I laughed the loudest, I fell wounded. My raillery was over, my whole nature changed. The laughter and jokes of my comrades jarred on me; my soul revolted from the lazy, useless life I was leading. I grew earnest and grave—I had fallen in love. I had seen a woman who suddenly changed the current of my life.
“Gladys, my angel, my sweet star! She was the niece of one of my mother’s old friends. I rarely visited any of the old set, but one day the mood seized me to pay a visit to a Lady Leverick, with whom as a boy I used to be a great favorite; and at her house I saw my darling. What need to tell you all that followed? I haunted the house, unconscious that Lady Leverick grew colder and colder, heedless of all but Gladys’ sweet face and glorious eyes.
“At last the dream was dispelled; her aunt spoke to me. Gladys was an orphan under her charge; she was penniless, dependent on her charity, and she would not have so wild, so dissolute a man propose for the girl’s hand. I was mad, I think, for I answered angrily; but in the midst of the storm came a gleam of golden light. Gladys entered the room, and, in response to her aunt’s commands to retire, put out her fair, white hands to me, and, leaning her head on my breast, whispered that she loved me, and that nothing would separate us.
“We were married. Lady Leverick refused to see, or even receive a letter from my darling; and my brother Eustace, in lieu of a wedding present, sent a curt note informing me that I was a madman. A madman I was, but my mania was full of joy. Could heaven be fuller of bliss than was my life in those first three months? My income was all we had, but Gladys had had little luxury, and we laughed together over our poverty, resolutely determining to be strictly economical. We took a small house in St. John’s Wood, and then began my first real experience of life. I sighed over the money I had wasted, but Gladys never let me sigh twice, and alwaysdeclared that she would manage everything. Out of all my old friends, I invited only two to our home, Guy Conway and Hugh Everest; but very happy little reunions we had.
“We were quite alone, and though Gladys tried over and over again to reinstate herself with her aunt, from affectionate desire only, she failed. Lady Leverick would not see her or own her, and my darling had only me in the wide world.
“How happy I was then! Through Everest’s influence, I obtained a secretaryship of a good club, and the addition to our income was most welcome and helpful.
“The months slipped by with incredible swiftness and sweetness till a year was gone and our baby born. All this time Conway and Everest were our beloved and most intimate friends, and Gladys seemed to like them both. We christened the child Margery, but she was to me no earthly being—her beauty and delicacy seemed scarcely mortal. She was like her mother, and both were marvels of loveliness, so much so that Conway, who was a bit of an artist, insisted on painting them in angel forms.
“Have you ever seen a storm gather in a summer sky and in one moment darken the brightness of the sunshine with gray, heavy clouds? Yes? Then you can conceive how my life was changed by a swift, fell stroke that almost crushed my manhood. I was much occupied at the club, and was away from home many hours. Sometimes it struck me, when I returned at night, that my wife’s face was disturbed and sad, but the feeling did not last, and as soon as we were together the expression changed.
“One evening I was leaving the club, and, in passing out of the door to enter the cab—I could afford that luxury now—I felt myself touched on the arm, and, turning, found myself face to face with Hugh Everest. I welcomed him warmly, yet something in his manner sent a chill to my heart.
“‘Dismiss your cab and walk a little way with me; I want to speak to you,’ he said. I turned to the cabman and did as my friend wished.
“‘Now what is your important business, Everest?’
“‘Have you seen Conway to-day?’ he asked, abruptly.
“‘Conway? Yes. He came to say good-by; he starts for Monte Carlo to-night. Nothing wrong with him, I hope?’
“‘Not with his health.’
“I turned and looked at Everest; he was deadly pale and greatly agitated.
“‘If you have anything to tell me,’ I said, firmly, ‘do so at once. I cannot stand suspense.’
“‘Then prepare for the worst. Conway has gone to Monte Carlo alone, but he will be joined in Paris by a woman to-morrow night. That woman is your wife.’
“My hand flew to his throat, but he was prepared, and pushed me with almost superhuman strength against some railings close by. We were at the corner of Pall Mall, and, suddenly putting his arm through mine, he dragged me toward the steps of St. James’ Park. Here it was quiet. I loosened myself from his grasp.
“‘You are a coward and a villain!’ I exclaimed. ‘Your words maddened me at first, but I am sane now. Great heavens, that you should have dared to utter such a lie and be alive!’
“He grasped my hand with his.
“‘Keep your head cool,’ he said. ‘If I had not proof, do you think I should speak as I have done?’
“‘Proof!’
“I staggered to the steps and sank down, burying my face in my hands.
“‘This afternoon,’ he went on, quickly, ‘I called at your house. Your wife was in, the maid said, and I entered the drawing-room. I waited several minutes, and then the maid returned, saying that her mistress was not at home, after all, and, leaving a message for her, I took my departure. At the gate I picked up this note in Conway’s hand; you can see it by the light of this lamp. It says, “Come to my studio at once for final arrangements. To-morrow I trust will see the end of all your trouble, suspense and anxiety. Then will come my reward; for you will trust in me henceforth forever, will you not?” I was stunned when I read it,’ Everest went on. ‘My first impulse was to tear it into shreds and tocast it from me; but I thought of you, Douglas, and a vague sense of danger stayed me. It was still early, and I determined to go to Conway’s studio and reason with him—demand an explanation. I went.’
“Everest’s voice grew husky for a moment, Stuart, while every word he uttered went to my heart like a knife; my youth died in that moment of supreme agony.
“‘I went,’ he continued, ‘and asked to see Conway; he came to me for a second, looking strangely agitated. I suggested staying with him till he started that evening, but he refused to let me, and hurried me away. I took my departure, ill at ease; for, despite his repeated asseverations that he had much to do, I felt he had a visitor; and my suspicions were only too well grounded, for, on turning my head when I reached the road, I saw your wife standing with him in the studio talking earnestly. Then I came to you.’
“‘To crush my happiness!’ I exclaimed, recklessly. ‘It was thoughtful!’
“‘You judge me as I feared,’ he answered, sadly. ‘Well, I have done what I considered my duty; the rest is for you.’
“‘The rest will be forgotten,’ I answered.
“‘What—you will submit to dishonor, you will stand deceit! You will receive her kisses to-night, remembering her lover’s this afternoon! You are no longer a man, Gerant!’
“His words fanned the flame of my jealous passion to madness. Hitherto I had spoken mechanically, remembering my wife’s purity and sweetness; but at his taunts the blood in my veins became like fire. I wanted nothing but revenge.
“Everest tried to calm me, but it was useless; he had set the match to a train that would not be extinguished.
“The remainder of that night is like a hideous nightmare to me. I can see myself now hurrying him from the steps to the street and into a cab. I can remember how sharp was the pain at my heart when I repeated the vague, yet self-condemning words of Conway’s note. I can see again the houses seeming to fly past us as we dashed homeward. I can feel again the agony I endured when, in answer to my hoarse inquiry, the maid said mywife was not at home. Again I can feel the agony of suspense, rage, madness I suffered as I strode up and down the road before the house, with Everest standing a little way off, watching me with a calm, anxious face, till the sound of light feet came to our ears, and I stood before Gladys.
“I can see her pale, startled face, her shrinking form, as in a suppressed voice I demanded to know where she had been. She did not answer at once, and her hesitation maddened me. I lost all manliness, Stuart. It haunts me now—the misery of her face, the pleading of her lips. But I would listen to nothing. In a flood of passionate words I denounced her, thrust aside her hands when they would have held me, and then, telling her we should never meet again, I rushed away, leaving her dumb and pallid as a figure of stone.
“Once I turned to go to her—a moment of remorse in my madness—but Everest pushed me on, and so we parted. Everest never left me all night; he took me to his rooms, and sat watching me like a mother, with his grave face and strange, earnest eyes. I was waiting only for the morning; then I started for Paris—for Conway and revenge!
“Gladys I would never see again. I left my money and the settlement of my affairs in Everest’s hands in case of my death, and he promised me to look after Gladys; for, though I deemed her dishonored, I could not let her starve. He was anxious to stay in England, but I kept him beside me and refused to let him go.
“I crossed to Paris the next day, and sought everywhere for Conway, but could not find him. Everest grew impatient, but still I would not release him; and two days passed without incident. On the third day I learned that Conway had never left England, that he was seized with sudden and severe illness at Dover; and, when I reached that place he was dead.
“Robbed of my revenge, I sunk into gloomy despondency. Everest went to London to look after my wife. My body seemed paralyzed; I seemed no longer a man. My friend was away a week, and then returned suddenly and told me, with a strange, pale face, that Gladys wasgone—had disappeared with her child, and could not be found.
“My misery was so great, I scarcely realized the horror of this. My brain was dulled by intense pain. As in a dream I listened to him, hardly heeding him, and conscious only of a vague relief as he left me to go abroad, to shake off, he said, the anxiety he had suffered.
“I stayed on another week or so at Dover, still in the same condition. Then my brain suddenly cleared; but my misery returned in greater force. I was mad once more with an agony of pain. I left Dover; it was hateful to me. I traveled to London. A longing, a craving seized me to see Gladys, to look on her once more, though she was dead to me forever. I drove to the house; and the memory of Everest’s words came back to me then—that she was gone. Pale and faint with anxiety, I alighted at the well-known gate, and I saw at a glance that the house was deserted.
“What had become of Gladys? How had she managed? Was she starving—lost in London, with not a friend in the world? In an instant my rage was quenched. I saw her only in her sweetness, her beauty, and I leaned against the gate, overwhelmed with the flood of miserable thoughts that crowded upon me.
“But it was not a time for dreams. I felt I must act. So I hurried to the house-agents, feeling sure that they could tell me something. From them I gleaned the barest information. My wife had visited them early in the morning following that dreadful night, paid them the rent to the end of the quarter, and left the key. I questioned them closely and eagerly, but could gather nothing more, and then I went away, feeling like a man whose life was almost ended. Over and over again I whispered to myself, with a twinge of remorse, that Gladys was innocent, and would have explained all if I had only let her. Then the memory of Everest’s words, the damning evidence of Conway’s note, returned, and I knew not what to think; but on one point I was certain—henceforth life held no duty for me till Gladys was found. Though the golden dream of our joy was ended, though I doubted her, she must be found and cared for.
“I began a search—a search, Stuart, that has lasted allmy life. By good hap at this time a distant cousin, dying, bequeathed me his property, which, though not large, came like a godsend at the moment, for every available penny I had, had been expended in my search. I was haunted by my wife’s pale, horror-stricken face gleaming in the moonlight, by the memory of my baby child, whose prattle had sounded like music in my ears. I knew too well the miseries, the horrors, of London, and I could not bear to think that the woman I had held so near and—Heaven help me!—still treasured in my heart, was thrown into its terrible jaws and left to perish without a helping hand.
“I pray Heaven, Stuart, you may never know the darkness of those days, the unspeakable anguish, the depth of despair! Weeks passed. I could find no trace, and when I was tortured with the conflicting emotions which surged within me an event occurred that put the last stroke to my misery, added the ghastly weight of a wrong to my burden, a wrong which I could never wipe away.
“I had resigned my post at the club, and, in my eager restlessness, wandering about the London streets, either alone or with one of my detectives, I was lost even to the remembrance of the frequenters of my old haunts. One day, however, I met a man who had been very friendly with me, and in the course of conversation—I would gladly have avoided him if I could—he told me there were several letters awaiting me at the club. None knew where to send them.
“I went for the letters, urged by a wild hope that Gladys might have written. She had. It was a letter that is graven on my heart in characters of blood. Heaven give me strength to tell you; for even now, after so many years, I grow faint when I think of it! It was a long, hurriedly-written letter—the letter of a distraught woman. I will not give it to you here; there were no reproaches, but there was a clear statement of facts given by a broken heart. In my anxiety I could scarcely read the first lines, but some words further on caught my eyes, and held them as by magnetic power. They spoke, Stuart, of the persecution she had endured for weeks from Hugh Everest. Again and again, Gladys wrote,she felt urged to speak to me, but she knew I valued him as a friend, and she trusted that his honor, his manliness, would overcome his baser feelings, and that he would go away. Of Guy Conway she spoke tenderly and earnestly. The letter I had brought forward as a proof of their guilt was indeed written by him; but it referred to a painting he was engaged upon of herself and her child, which she had intended leaving at her aunt’s house, hoping that the sight of the baby’s angel-face would break down the icy barrier which caused her such pain. This had been a little plan of his, suggested when he saw how the estrangement troubled her. She was at Conway’s studio, but only for the purpose of discussing the delivery of the picture; and, catching sight of Hugh Everest, in a moment of agitation and dislike she openly expressed a wish not to see him. Conway at once undertook to prevent their meeting, with what terrible result you know. My wife ended her letter by stating that she was gone from my life forever with her child. The shock of my suspicions had destroyed all joy or happiness evermore for her; but, though separated, she would live as became my wife and the mother of my child, for whose sake alone she could now endure life. This ended it; there was no sign, no clew, no word to lead me to her.
“I was not a man, Stuart, when I had read that letter; I was a brute—a savage animal. Had Hugh Everest been near me, I should have torn his cruel heart from his body, and his tongue from his false, lying lips. A fury seized me to find him—find him, though I searched the world round; face to face with him, I could breathe out the passion, remorse, revenge, scorn, and agony of my bursting heart. But I could not leave England till I knew where my darling was, my sweet, wronged angel—till I had knelt in the dust at her feet, and bowed my head in shame; and so my search went on.
“Years passed, but only a slight clew turned up now and then, always with the same ending. I have wandered—led by these disheartening clews—from one country to another; and at last the men I employed grew weary, and I had to work alone. But I was kept alive by my love and my desire for revenge. Everest never came toEngland—coward and villain—but the day came, a day not long past, when we met, and on his dying bed I forced him to confess his wrong and own his deceit. Then, when he was gone, the misery of my wasted life returned, and I sunk for a while beneath my load of care.
“Hope was almost dead forever when I visited you at Crosbie; and then suddenly by one of those strange, unexpected chances that come to us at times, it burst into a living, glowing flame once more. All through the past years I had prayed that, should Gladys be gone, my child might be spared; and, Stuart, my prayer was granted. At Crosbie one morning I came face to face with a girl at sight of whom I seemed to have stepped back into the past. I was startled by the image of my sweet wife. I spoke to the girl, learned her name—Margery Daw—and not until she had gone did hope wake in my breast, bringing once more the feeling of eager gladness that I thought dead forever.
“I waited a day or two, but quietly made inquiries, and obtained all the information I wanted; then, having first tested the truth and honesty of your nature, I determined to confide all to you, and claim my child; for that she is my child there is no doubt. But happiness was not to be grasped at once; again fate was unkind. When I made my way to the cottage where Margery lived, it was to find her gone—gone across the sea to Australia. The sudden pain and disappointment aside, I was myself again. Australia was nothing to me; I would start at once, and clasp my child yet in my arms before I died.
“So, Stuart, I leave this in your hands. If I succumb, seek out my Margery and give her her rights. To you I leave all, for I know you will do as I wish; and remember she is your cousin and your equal. Guard her, Stuart, from harm, if it be in your power, and may Heaven bless and reward you for all you may do! It will be necessary to explain how I discovered Margery to be my child. As I told you, I made most minute inquiries, learning all particulars from people both in Chesterham and Hurstley. I sought for Dr. Scott, the medical man who had attended during the railway accident; he had left Chesterham many years before, but he remembered the incident well, and his description of thepoor dead woman only confirmed my hopes and fears. Acting upon his advice, I went to Newton, and by dint of money and able men traced my darling’s life during two long years of misery. The story of her sufferings, of her daily toil, her heart-broken life, I cannot dwell on. Heaven grant you may never know the terrible agony of hopeless remorse and longing that I am now enduring! Despair seizes me when I remember my madness, her wrong—my angel-wife! Even the joy of finding my child cannot bring me peace. The happiness I experience in the knowledge of her existence is tinged with never-dying bitterness and sorrow, for she recalls her mother.
“But I weary you with my moans, Stuart; let me get on with my story. Gladys then, without a friend in the world—for her aunt would have nothing to say to her, being especially bitter when she learned we were separated—doubted and wronged, had, in addition to her other troubles, the hardship of poverty to face. She struggled to get employment, with little success however; from time to time she managed to make money by teaching, but this never for long. Still, through all her trials, her courage never forsook her; she lived for her child. I have spoken with some who knew her in those days; they dwelt on her sadness, her sweetness, her innate refinement, little knowing how their words rent my heart. It would be useless to describe the hopelessness, the misery of her life; she parted with all her jewelry, and at last in desperation answered an advertisement for a situation as maid.
“Beyond this I cannot write positively, but my heart tells me the truth. The situation that Gladys had obtained meant separation from her child. She had heard me speak of my cousins, the Crosbies; and I am convinced she was on her way to seek protection from your mother and shelter for the baby before taking up her new duties, when death claimed her and ended her sorrows.
“I inclose with this letter the certificates of our marriage and of Margery’s birth. My lawyers have in their possession a small box, which after my death they will hand to you. It contains the jewelry that belonged tomy wife. Give it to Margery. And now, Stuart, I have finished. Pray befriend and guard my child as far as lies in your power. My heart is full of gratitude when I think of the good, kind women who took her, a weak, helpless babe, and tended her so well. I have written to Lady Coningham words of gratitude that sound empty compared with the feelings that prompt them; would that I could have done so to the others—Mrs. Graham and Mary Morris! But death has garnered them, and the power is taken from me. One thing more, Stuart—lay me beside Gladys in the little country churchyard where kind, strange hands laid her; though in life we were separated so ruthlessly, let us in death be together.”
Stuart had sat long after he had read the letter, his heart aching with pity for his dead cousin. The tale of sorrow was so heavy that for a time it banished his own grief; but, as he rose and paced the room, the memory of his duty brought all back clearly, and he saw the bitterness of the task before him. A faint wave of gladness for her sake was checked by the reflection that they were parted forever. Still he would be firm; he was pledged to the dead; and, even were the pain deadly, he would keep his word, seek out Margery, and give her her rights as his cousin, and heiress to Beecham Park.
The news that caused Mrs. Crosbie such wrath and annoyance brought alarm and fear unspeakable to Vane Charteris’ breast. This unexpected blow following on her unexpected success almost crushed her by its suddenness. Stuart would meet Margery, learn the truth, and she would be humiliated and disgraced. Moved by her anxiety, she added her voice to his mother’s, and endeavored to shake his determination to sail for Australia. She did not betray herself by word or look; she only spoke prettily of her loneliness, and of how it would be a wiser course to send out an agent to the antipodes in search of his new cousin, and not to go himself. She stored her speech with references to Margery’s faithlessness, hoping they would take effect; but it was all to no purpose. Stuart was firm, and refused to be turned from his determination. Had his father added his voice to the others, he might have yielded; but the squire was eager that Stuart should fulfill his promise, and declared truthfullythat his health was so much stronger that his son might leave him without any hesitation. So, instead of the clear sky which Vane had pictured to herself, clouds were gathering on all sides, and fear planted thorns at every step in her path, making her faint with apprehension and dread of exposure and disgrace.