CHAPTER XXIX.
Back at Court Manor, Margery banished for a while the sad memory of her lost love. This spot was hallowed by the presence of Enid’s spirit, and for that reason, apart from all others, was dear to her. The squire reveled in the picturesque surroundings of the estate.
“They may call Beecham magnificent,” he said, dreamily, as he stood in the old-fashioned gardens and gazed round on the fragrant flowers, “but this is home.”
“Cousin Sholto, you indorse my opinion. I love the manor!”
Margery, clad in a long robe of creamy white, with just a knot of black ribbons at her neck and in her broad-brimmed hat, glanced at her husband as she spoke, and smiled at him.
The squire responded to his hostess by a poetical quotation:
“‘And primroses, pale gems of spring,Lay on the green turf glisteningClose by the violet, whose breathIs so sweet, in a dewy wreath.And, oh, that myrtle—how green it grew,With flowers as white as the pearls of dewThat shone beside! And the glorious roseLay like a beauty in warm repose,Blushing in slumber.’”
“‘And primroses, pale gems of spring,Lay on the green turf glisteningClose by the violet, whose breathIs so sweet, in a dewy wreath.And, oh, that myrtle—how green it grew,With flowers as white as the pearls of dewThat shone beside! And the glorious roseLay like a beauty in warm repose,Blushing in slumber.’”
“‘And primroses, pale gems of spring,Lay on the green turf glisteningClose by the violet, whose breathIs so sweet, in a dewy wreath.And, oh, that myrtle—how green it grew,With flowers as white as the pearls of dewThat shone beside! And the glorious roseLay like a beauty in warm repose,Blushing in slumber.’”
“‘And primroses, pale gems of spring,
Lay on the green turf glistening
Close by the violet, whose breath
Is so sweet, in a dewy wreath.
And, oh, that myrtle—how green it grew,
With flowers as white as the pearls of dew
That shone beside! And the glorious rose
Lay like a beauty in warm repose,
Blushing in slumber.’”
Margery listened dreamily. Her thoughts had flown to the springtime of her life, recalled by the breath of the flowers, the sweetness of the air.
The earl had wandered across the lawn; and, though he looked less grave and worn, the expression of his eyes as he turned from Margery was unspeakably sad.
Margery’s reverie was disturbed by the squire, and she was soon deep in an interesting scientific discussion with him. Presently her husband returned, followed by one of the gardeners.
“I am going to the west part of the grounds, my darling,” he said. “Marshall tells me the men are going to cut down that dead tree this morning. It was struck by lightning in the autumn.”
“I will come with you, Court,” broke in the squire. “In my young days I was rather good at that sort of thing.”
“Come, by all means. Marshall, see that there are two extra axes ready.”
“You are not going to help them, are you, Nugent?” Margery asked, quickly and nervously.
“Yes, my darling. But don’t be afraid; I am, as schoolboys would say, a ‘big gun’ at wood-cutting—am I not, Marshall?”
“Indeed you are, my lord,” the gardener replied, solemnly.
“May I come and watch you?”
The earl hesitated.
“I should be afraid, darling, as the splinters fly about so rapidly; but perhaps I can place you in a safe corner. Run and put on some stronger shoes; the ground is damp down at that corner. You have good ropes, Marshall?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I will follow you directly,” said Margery; then, as they turned, urged by an uncontrollable impulse, she called, “Nugent!”
The earl came back at once.
“You are sure there is no danger?”
“Quite sure—as certain as any man can be.”
Margery smiled, raised her lips to his, and he kissed her. A faint flush rose to his brow at the simple action; and then, with a swift, tender look, he turned and walked rapidly away.
Margery went quickly to the house and changed her shoes for a stronger pair; then, seeing the look of eagerness on Pauline’s face, she good-naturedly told the maid to put on a hat, and they started together.
The sound of voices and of heavy blows led them to the exact spot, and Pauline, in her excitement, could not repress little shrieks and exclamations of astonishment. As they turned the corner the earl came toward them; he had removed his coat, and, with his strong right hand grasping the ax, his face flushed from the unwonted exercise, he looked almost handsome.
“Come here, my darling,” he said, leading Margery toa safe nook. “Crosbie, stand by my wife. We shall soon have it down, poor old tree! How well I remember it in my schoolboy days! You are frightened, Margery!”
“No,” she answered, with a smile, though her heart thrilled with strange apprehension.
The squire came to her, looking rather despondent.
“I find that years have greatly lessened my strength,” he remarked, with a little sigh, “and I must look on now.”
Margery did not answer; she was watching her husband. She heard his clear, ringing voice directing the men, saw his straight even strokes, and the excitement overcame her dread. It was a novel scene, and one that pleased her, though the sight of the gray dead trunk, the remains of a noble flourishing tree, saddened her somewhat. Pauline cowered and shrieked as she heard the great, rough mass creak; but Margery never moved; the bustle and vigor of the men roused her spirit—she almost longed to assist. The earl, glancing now and then at the group of watchers, caught the gleam of her eyes, and, smiling, he waved his hand toward the girlish figure that looked so fair and graceful in its white robes against the background of young trees and bushes.
“It was not such a tough job as it looked,” observed the squire, as he watched the men throw stout ropes round the great trunk and knot them firmly, preparatory to dragging the tree to earth.
Margery nodded her head absently; she was lost in the excitement of the moment. She saw the earl wave them further back toward the bushes, felt Pauline draw her on one side, though her eyes never left her husband’s form, and then came a moment of silence. Suddenly a mighty crash sounded in her ears, while a cloud of dust obscured her vision.
“Is it all over?” she asked, vaguely, turning to the squire; but her cousin had left her side and was hurrying to the group of men.
“Miladi will return?” queried Pauline, with a little shudder. “Ah, what terrible noise!”
“I will wait for Lord Court,” answered Margery; then, after a little pause: “But, Pauline, what is the matter? Some one is hurt!”
“They crowd together—that is all, miladi. Shall I go and see?”
“No; I will.”
Drawing her skirts together, Margery left her retreat and approached the group. As the men looked round and perceived her, she thought they seemed alarmed and pained. She quickened her steps, and then the squire came toward her.
“You must let me take you to the house, my dear,” he said hurriedly; “your husband wishes it.”
“What is the matter? Some one is hurt! Cousin Sholto, don’t stop me! I know now—it is Nugent!”
She pushed the squire’s trembling hand to one side, and with swift steps approached the group. The men fell back in silence, and in an instant she was on her knees beside a silent, prostrate form with face of deathly hue.
“Nugent!” she cried, bending over him, in agony. Then, as he still lay perfectly still, she looked round wildly. “What is it? Fetch a doctor quickly—your master is hurt!”
The man Marshall stepped forward.
“We’ve sent for the doctor, my lady. It was done in an instant; the tree swerved and brought his lordship down with it. We’ve just dragged it off his body. He were sensible at first, and asked us to keep you away; but he’s fainted now.”
Margery scarcely heard the explanation; with a heart full of dread she was bending over the pale face, breathing words of agony and tenderness that fell on silent ears. The squire came to her and tried to draw her away; but she would not stir. They brought brandy from the house, and a mattress with pillows on which to carry the injured man; but all were afraid to touch him. Then, when her misery, her despair, was greatest, the heavy lids were raised, and she met the gaze of the deep, dark eyes. The white lips trembled and moved; she bent her head to catch the whisper.
“It—is—nothing—my darling. Take me to——”
The labored speech died away in another faint; and, as she saw his weakness and suffering, Margery rose to her feet with courage born of despair.
“Carry your master to the house,” she said, steadily, never taking her eyes from his face.
The men stooped, and, with tender, gentle hands lifted the inanimate form on to the mattress; then, with slow, even steps, they carried him through the sunlit gardens to the house. It was not far, yet by the time they reached the entrance the doctor of the village was seen riding furiously up the avenue. He leaped from his horse, and was at the wounded man’s side in an instant. Margery turned her eyes from the pale face of her husband and fixed them upon the doctor. As he scanned the earl’s drawn countenance, her heart seemed to stand still. In that moment she was conscious of nothing but an agony of dread, remorse and pain so terrible that it almost overpowered her.
“Carry him into a room on the ground floor,” said the doctor, decisively. “We must not risk the stairs.”
They carried him through the hall into the room where long before he had sat by Enid’s couch. Margery walked with them, though what power enabled her to move she knew not, for all life seemed dead within her.
The men withdrew quietly to the doorway, while she crouched down by the still form and buried her face in her hands. The squire and the doctor exchanged glances.
“Get her away!” murmured the latter. But Margery heard him.
“No, no!” she protested, rising to her feet. “Let me stay; I will be brave, Cousin Sholto. You will let me stay—you must let me stay! I cannot go!”
“Dr. Godfrey will let you remain if you have the strength,” the squire said, soothingly. Then he took her two cold hands in his and drew her to the wide window, while the doctor motioned the men away and closed the door.
Margery’s eyes never left the pallid face of her husband. In breathless, sickening anxiety she watched Dr. Godfrey pass his hand over the injured man’s chest and fractured arm, unconscious that the broken respirations that came from her lips told of the agony she was enduring. The doctor looked around as the sound fell on his ears, and in an instant he knew how to act.
“Lady Court, I want you to help me,” he said, gravely, advancing to her. “Go at once, and fetch me brandy,some warm water, a sponge and some old linen—as quickly as possible, please.”
In a moment she had turned and left the room. The squire glanced at the doctor.
“It was to get her away,” explained the medical man. “The case is hopeless; I can do nothing. The ribs are terribly crushed, the lungs and heart vitally injured, and there is a severe fracture of the left shoulder and arm. It is only a question of hours now—perhaps minutes; but it will do her good to give her occupation. That tension of her nerves was killing her, poor young creature!”
“I can do no good?” queried the squire, passing a trembling hand across his brow.
“No,” answered Dr. Godfrey. “Let me advise you to go to your room. When the change comes you shall know.”
The squire went away, feeling now more than ever that he was indeed a weak old man. The doctor was alone and bending over the patient when Margery came back, carrying all that he had asked for. She stood as silent as a statue while he slowly poured a few drops of brandy between the closed lips; then, as a sign of life came once more into the deathlike face, she gave a sob of thankfulness and sunk upon her knees by the couch.
The earl’s eyelids were raised with difficulty, and his dark eyes wandered around slowly till they rested on his wife’s face; then the faintest of smiles broke over his countenance, dying away the next instant in a contraction of pain.
“Nugent, Nugent—oh, speak to me!” whispered Margery, wildly, putting her trembling lips to his passive hand, all the goodness, the generosity, the tenderness that this man had lavished upon her coming back to her memory and maddening her.
Dr. Godfrey moistened the earl’s lips again; the breath came from the injured chest in short, broken respirations; and then, as dew to a parched flower, as golden light in direst darkness, fell the whisper of her hubsand’s voice on Margery’s ears. He looked at the doctor, then said, with difficulty:
“Leave us—alone.”
Dr. Godfrey rose and turned to Margery.
“Do not agitate him,” he said, gently. “He has something to tell you, I see. Moisten his lips with brandy if he grows faint. I will go out on the terrace; I shall be close at hand if you want me.”
The earl’s eyes followed him; then they came back to Margery. He tried to raise his hand to her head, but the effort was too much; it fell, nerveless, to his side.
“My darling—my wife! You are sorry, then?” he gasped.
“Sorry?” whispered Margery, her voice thick with agony. “Oh, that I could give my life for yours, Nugent! That I could spare you all!” She could say no more.
The earl moved his head a little; his eyes closed. She put the brandy to his lips.
“It has come at last!” he murmured. “Margery, listen, my darling! I know your secret, your love story.” He wrestled for a moment with his growing faintness; then went on, brokenly: “I was in my room that day when you parted from Stuart, and I heard all, my brave darling—learned how much you were suffering. My death will set you free. You will be happy in the future, Margery, my sweet one!”
“Do not—oh, do not speak like that, Nugent!” she whispered, mad with a fever of pain, regret, remorse. “You torture me!”
“Let me tell you how happy you have made me, wife. Death is near—you must——” His voice sank; then, with a last effort, he went on: “Promise to make Stuart happy. He loves you, Margery. Give me your promise——”
“I cannot!” she broke in, in tearless agony. “Nugent, you break my heart—you——” Then seeing the intense eagerness of his dark eyes, she paused.
“Promise!” his lips formed rather than spoke.
She hesitated only for a moment.
“I promise,” she murmured, faintly.
A smile lighted up his face.
“Now all is ended!” The words came very faintly. “I am content. Kiss me, my——”
Margery put her lips to his—their coldness filled her with dread. A sigh came from the earl’s injured breast, his eyes closed.
“Nugent, I promise!” she murmured, wildly. “But you will not go—you will not leave me! I want you! You must stay! Nugent, open your eyes—speak to me—husband!”
She bent over him again, and as she did so a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder, and she was raised from her knees. She saw the still, pallid face, calm and passive in the sunlight; then a great blackness came over her, and she knew no more.