CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXV.

Margery was strangely affected when she learned that Sir Douglas Gerant was dead. She could not banish from her mind the thought that in some way her presence had caused him distress. The earl saw her pained face, and immediately determined to put all business affairs aside and take his wife down to Court Manor. So, on the afternoon following her visit to the late baronet, Margery was carried away from London to her new home.

When she arrived it was too dark for her to see her surroundings; but the pure freshness of the country air, the silence after the bustle and noise of the London streets, the faint soughing of the wind in the trees, brought a thrill of peace and gladness to her, and as she stood at the low, wide door and gazed around the quaint, rambling hall she looked so pleased and comforted that the earl’s heart rejoiced. It was a delightful old-world place. The corners and crevices, the rooms filled with serviceable furniture of no modern date, the smell of the flowers, the glow of the firelight—all seemed to speak of home. It was a haven of rest and quiet after the storm of the past few months. And if at night this feeling came, it was even stronger in the morning. As she drew her curtains aside and looked out over the wide vista of country, Margery gave a little sigh of relief. Here she had nothing to fear, nothing to remind her of the past; here it would be easy to forget and grow content.

The pain that contracted Nugent’s heart as he stood once more in his old home ceased when he saw the glow of hope, love, and happiness on his wife’s delicate, lovely face, and he pictured to himself a future all brightnessand gladness. In both their hearts, as they entered the house, the same memory lived—the memory of Lady Enid. Margery sent up a little prayer to Heaven that she might prove grateful to the man whose heart was so tender and true, whose sufferings had been so great, and he mutely thanked his angel-sister that ere she went she bequeathed so great a treasure to him as Margery.

His whole being was so impregnated with his great love that he had failed to discover the true cause of Margery’s passive gentleness. It was true he did not think her heart held so deep a love as his own; but she was young, the marriage was hurried, love must have time to grow. In time his great devotion must reap its reward. The liking she now had would change to love. He must be patient and wait. So he reasoned in his happiness, dwelling with a thrill of joy on the memory that Margery had neither relatives nor friends. This girl, the star of his life, had none but him to tend her, none but him to whom she could turn. The pleasure that Margery showed in her new home struck the final chord of happiness in his heart.

The girl found much to occupy her in her new position, and her lovely face and kind words soon won the servants’ hearts, already disposed to love her for her gracious influence over their master.

It was about the end of the week that Margery learned accidentally from her husband that he had neglected his business in town on purpose to bring her away, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she begged him to return and complete his arrangements. The earl demurred, but at last, satisfied that she would not be lonely, he agreed, and departed, leaving many tender injunctions with her to take great care of herself in his absence.

The young wife felt a pang of remorse at the relief and pleasure she experienced when quite alone. She struggled hard with herself day and night; but to forget was so hard, and to remember so easy. Though she was surrounded by all that the world holds dear, she found no satisfaction in her wealth; her mind was lost to the present—it would persistently wander to the past—that past which, despite its pain and humiliation, wasso sweet. The return to the country had brought back so much that was linked with her brief love-dream that the struggle seemed to grow greater day by day.

Pauline noticed her mistress’ grave, sad face, but attributed it to his lordship’s absence, and, to cheer her, would repeat the servants’ tales and anecdotes of his goodness, little thinking that every word went to Margery’s heart like a sword thrust. She regretted with a deep, unspeakable grief, that she had been silent with Lady Enid; had she but spoken of Stuart and of her unhappiness, all would have been different, and she would not have pledged her vows to this man, the depth of whose generosity, tenderness, and devotion touched her with acute pain. If she could but give him in return one-half the love he bestowed on her, she would be happier; but her love was dead, buried in a past summer dream, and she had nothing left for him.

“The loves and hours of the life of a man,They are swift and sad, being born of the sea—Hours that rejoice and regret for a span,Born with a man’s breath mortal as he—Loves that are lost ere they come to birth,Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth,I lose what I long for, save what I can—My love, my love, and no love for me!“It is not much that a man can saveOn the sands of life, in the straits of time,Who swims in sight of the great third waveThat never a swimmer shall cross or climb—Some waif washed up with the strays and sparsThat ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars,Weed from the water, grass from the grave,A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.”

“The loves and hours of the life of a man,They are swift and sad, being born of the sea—Hours that rejoice and regret for a span,Born with a man’s breath mortal as he—Loves that are lost ere they come to birth,Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth,I lose what I long for, save what I can—My love, my love, and no love for me!“It is not much that a man can saveOn the sands of life, in the straits of time,Who swims in sight of the great third waveThat never a swimmer shall cross or climb—Some waif washed up with the strays and sparsThat ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars,Weed from the water, grass from the grave,A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.”

“The loves and hours of the life of a man,They are swift and sad, being born of the sea—Hours that rejoice and regret for a span,Born with a man’s breath mortal as he—Loves that are lost ere they come to birth,Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth,I lose what I long for, save what I can—My love, my love, and no love for me!

“The loves and hours of the life of a man,

They are swift and sad, being born of the sea—

Hours that rejoice and regret for a span,

Born with a man’s breath mortal as he—

Loves that are lost ere they come to birth,

Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth,

I lose what I long for, save what I can—

My love, my love, and no love for me!

“It is not much that a man can saveOn the sands of life, in the straits of time,Who swims in sight of the great third waveThat never a swimmer shall cross or climb—Some waif washed up with the strays and sparsThat ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars,Weed from the water, grass from the grave,A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.”

“It is not much that a man can save

On the sands of life, in the straits of time,

Who swims in sight of the great third wave

That never a swimmer shall cross or climb—

Some waif washed up with the strays and spars

That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars,

Weed from the water, grass from the grave,

A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.”

Yes, that was all that remained now, “a broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.” Her life might be sweet again, but it would never be as it was on that evening in Weald Wood, when her young heart was first touched by love.

Lord Court was absent two days; then he suddenly announced his intended return. Margery was wandering in the gardens and the pleasance when Pauline brought the telegram to her. With a vague sense of apprehension, Margery tore it open.

“Your master returns to-night, and brings a guest. Tell Mrs. Perry to see that the rooms are prepared, Pauline.”

Pauline nodded her head in a self-satisfied manner.

“I am glad. Milord will be welcome; it is so gloomy here for miladi alone. Ah, and miladi will make a grand toilet to-night?”

“I leave myself in your hands, Pauline,” returned Lady Court, with a faint smile, which vanished when she was left alone.

Her husband was returning again! Once more she would suffer the agony of pain and remorse in his presence; but she must be strong, and remember only her duty and how much she owed him.

The afternoon wore away, and evening was drawing on. It was dark and gloomy, one of those unpleasant days that come in November. Margery walked to and fro, till she was wearied, and then turned into a small room that she had chosen for her boudoir. She gave the order for the carriage to be sent to meet the earl, and sunk down before the fire, resting her head on a low velvet chair. She wore a heavy mourning-robe, simple yet costly, and her delicate face and throat gleamed with so dark a setting. She was altered from the Margery of the summer, yet her face was only a child’s face. Her youth, the purity of her countenance, her deep sapphire eyes, her curly silken masses of red-gold curls, were the admiration of Pauline. She brought her mistress some tea, served in fragile Sèvres china, and then stood for an instant and looked down on the face that was so fair in the fireglow.

“Miladi is tired,” she said, sympathetically; “she walks so much.”

“I am a little weary,” Margery answered, waking from her thoughts; “but that is ended now, I hope.”

She spoke to herself more than to the maid; her mind was on the one subject that had engrossed her all the afternoon. Pauline smiled; she thought she understood the meaning of her words.

“Ah, milord is to return!” she decided, and went away to her room.

Margery sat on before the fire. The tea had revivedher, yet she seemed strangely agitated as the time drew near for her husband’s arrival. A vague sense of approaching trouble had come over her, and she put her hand to her heart to try to stay its quick, hurried beat. She had been thinking so deeply that her nerves were unstrung. The solitude had tried her, she told herself; yet, even as she whispered this, her heart began to flutter again. It was a strange, incomprehensible feeling, a feeling she had never experienced before, and she longed for, yet dreaded, her husband’s return.

At last the sound of wheels caught her ear, and she rose from her seat.

“I will be firm—I must forget!” she whispered. “My love, good-by, good-by!”

Then she heard the sound of voices in the hall and knew that her husband was close at hand. She turned to greet him as the door opened, and in the dim light she saw two men enter.

“Margery, my wife!” said Nugent’s grave, tender voice; and his lips touched hers.

His companion not coming forward, the earl still holding Margery’s hand, looked around.

“I have brought a friend home, darling. It is only a flying visit, as he is off to Australia; but I persuaded him to come for a few days. There will be a bond of friendship between you through poor Gerant. Crosbie, let me introduce you to the Countess of Court.”

The stranger moved forward mechanically into the light. Margery’s hand grasped her husband’s. She raised her eyes, and, with a sudden agony of pain, saw her lover, Stuart, before her.

She tried to offer her hand, but the effect was too much. A mist dimmed her vision, her brain reeled, and she fell to the ground, pale and unconscious, at her husband’s feet.

Pauline rushed in as the bell rang loudly. She pushed aside the earl as, in terror and alarm, he knelt beside his wife, never noticing that Stuart Crosbie stood silent in the center of the room, his hand grasping a chair.

“It is nothing!” cried the maid, raising Margery’s beautiful head. “Miladi will walk, and bring the fatigue. Miladi has beendésoléein milord’s absence and now itis the joy. See, she recovers, milord! Leave me with her alone. She will be well.”

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