CHAPTER XXVII.
Should he go or stay? was the burning question in Stuart’s mind all that morning. Duty and honor bade him tear himself away; yet there was something mysterious and altogether apart from the inthrallment of Margery’s presence that kept him. He spent the long hours walking about the grounds with the earl, forcing himself to discuss the all-important subject of Margery’s birth the while he was growing faint and weary with the struggle that raged within him.
The surprise, the sleepless night, the agitation at last began to tell; and, as the afternoon advanced, Stuart was obliged to confess that he was quite exhausted and could walk no farther.
The earl was full of contrition for his thoughtlessness.
“Come back to the house. Would you prefer to go to your own room? If not, rest in my ‘den.’ I can answer for its silence and coziness.”
Stuart preferred the “den;” the mystery of the previousnight haunted him—he hated the thought of his luxurious bedroom. The earl led the way to the north wing of the house, and, going to the extreme end of a corridor, pushed open the door of an apartment that seemed to warrant his statement. It was three-cornered and quaint, and at the end branched off into another room, which led through a long French window to the grounds. Lord Court closed the door between the two rooms, and, pushing a chair to the fire, made his guest comfortable, handing him at the same time the batch of newspapers that had just arrived from London.
“Now you are settled,” he said, genially. “You look as if sleep would not come amiss; and, such being the case, I shall have no hesitation in leaving you. I must drive to Beverley Town, a good distance away; I have an important interview on hand with a troublesome tenant. I shall be back, however, before dinner. Are you sure you won’t be bored?”
Stuart replied in the negative, and, after seeing him cozily ensconced, Lord Court quitted the room, and made his way to the stables.
Left to himself, Stuart leaned back wearily, and gave way to thought. Once again the struggle raged between duty and desire. The love that he had thought was treasured only for his ideal lived for the woman who had deceived him, and swept away all memory of that other girl who, through all her trouble and sorrow, had soothed and helped him. There was everything to call him away, yet he felt he could not go until he had gazed once more on the delicate beauty that had seemed to him the personification of truth and sweetness in the summer that was gone. There was something altogether strange and incomprehensible in Margery’s marriage. The earl had casually mentioned the love that his dead sister had had for his wife, and Stuart would have followed up the remark in order to learn how it was that the village girl had became the Countess of Court; but the earl would talk of nothing but Sir Douglas Gerant and the wonderful discovery of his daughter.
Stuart took up his paper and forced himself to read; but the words seemed to run into each other, and his mind refused to be diverted from the mystery and perplexitythat tormented it. As he lay back, wearily gazing into the glowing coals, he saw his duty clearly—he must leave the manor and put every barrier between Margery and himself. Vane had been true, faithful, devoted; to her he would return, and by earnestness and determination try to thrust out all remembrance of his false love from his heart, and forget that she even existed.
The struggle was ended now, he told himself; his path was clear and well defined. A sense of peace stole over him, the firelight flickered amid the fast-growing shadows. Stuart’s head drooped, his eyes closed, and his troubled spirit was soothed in slumber.
The afternoon grew into winter dusk; the fire had settled in a glowing mass of red embers, and not a sound disturbed the silence. Presently the door was opened gently, a white hand pushed aside the curtain, and Margery stood in the room. As her eyes fell on Stuart’s motionless form, her heart gave one great leap, then sunk again; she let her gaze rest with unspeakable sadness and tenderness on her lost lover’s face, then she turned to go. She moved away softly, and her hand was on the door, when a sound came from behind:
“Margery!”
She turned at once, to see Stuart with his hand outstretched.
“I am sorry,” she faltered, faintly. “I did not know you were here. I came to find my husband. I have disturbed you.”
Stuart’s hand fell, and he bowed his head to the arm of the chair.
“You are ill!” Margery went on, quickly. “Let me——”
Stuart raised his head and rose to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the chair.
“I was dreaming,” he answered, hurriedly; “but I am awake now, Lady Court.”
The color faded from Margery’s face.
“Your husband has gone to Beverley Town,” Stuart continued, in a voice that sounded strange in his own ears. “He settled me comfortably in his own ‘den’ before starting, and told me that he would be home to dinner.”
Margery bowed her head and turned toward the door, when Stuart moved forward as if to arrest her.
“As I shall leave you this evening,” he said, hurriedly, “I will take the present opportunity of informing you that the letter and proofs I spoke of this morning shall be sent to you as soon as possible.”
“You are very kind,” responded Margery, as calmly as possible. “Thank you for all you have done.”
There was a pause. Margery felt as if some strong, unknown power held her to the spot. She wished to move away, yet could not; and Stuart let his eyes rest on her fair loveliness, feeling that his resolution to depart was growing weaker and weaker as he gazed.
“I have done nothing,” he said, almost harshly, trying to hide his agitation.
“It is all so new and strange,” murmured the girl, putting one hand to her throat and speaking as if to herself. “How often we have discussed the story of my mother, yet how far we were from the truth! And we were cousins all the time.”
“What use is there in recalling the past?” asked the young man, hoarsely. “It can bring nothing but pain.”
Margery looked up at his pale, drawn face.
“Pain?” she repeated, slowly. “I wonder if you know what pain I have suffered!”
She spoke unconsciously, urged by the memory of all her sorrow, her girlish despair and her humiliation.
“What should give you pain?” cried Stuart, harshly, folding his arms in his agitation. “You have riches, title; you can do as you will; you are Lady Court.”
The bitterness of his voice went to her very heart.
“How cruel you are!” she murmured, her head dropping upon her breast.
“Cruel?” he repeated, moving to her side, mad with the intoxication of his love and the remembrance of her deceit. “Were you not cruel when you coquetted with me, led me on, lied to me, and then deceived me?”
“Deceived you! What do you mean?”
Stuart met her clear, blue eyes, startled, yet strangely steadfast.
“Why do you say such wicked, such cruel things of me?” she asked.
Stuart hesitated for a moment. A sudden strange fear crept into his heart.
“You may give them other names,” he said, huskily; “I call it deceit, I call it wickedness to act as you did—to laugh at me, to send false, tender messages the while you were fooling another man, and suddenly to leave the village for him, forgetting me and all the words you had spoken only three days before.”
Margery had moved slowly to the table. She still wore the long robe of white serge that she had donned in the morning. She looked up at Stuart, mystified and pained by his words. She put one hand on the table and gazed at her old lover, whose arms were still folded across his breast.
“I do not understand,” she said, distinctly yet faintly. “You accuse me of deceit.”
“Let me recall the past,” returned Stuart, letting his hands drop to his sides, while he moved nearer to her. “On the day we plighted our troth, the words I spoke, Margery, were from my heart, not lightly meant or lightly given, but solemn and serious; while yours——”
“While mine,” she cried, raising her head proudly, “live as truly in my heart now as they did on that day! Ah, what have I said?”
She moved to a chair, and, flinging herself into it, buried her face in her hands, while he stood as he was, hardly realizing what it was that caused the sudden glow within his breast, the unspeakable happiness that possessed him. In a moment, however, Margery rose; pride had come to her aid. She looked at him steadily, her two small hands clasped.
“You have accused me of deceit,” she said, “spoken words insulting to a true woman; but it is what I should have expected from the man who trampled on a girl’s heart, her life, as you did on mine. Ah, how wrongly I judged you! I thought you a hero, a king; you proved yourself mean, dishonorable, despicable!”
She drew a quick breath, then went on, not noticing that his face had grown as pale as her own.
“I was only a village girl, a plaything of the hour, sufficient to amuse you when you were dull, a toy to be tossed aside when I had given you all the amusementyou wanted. It was nothing to you what might come to me—I served your purpose. In my foolish ignorance I gave you all my heart; I let you see how deeply I loved you; and, in return, you went back to your cousin, your equal, and laughed at my foolish weakness as a good joke. You to talk of deceit, of lies—you, who offered me such insults, sending me money through her—money, Stuart, when my heart was breaking!”
She paused, her hands pressed close to her heart, which beat most painfully. Stuart moved nearer to her; he put one hand on her arm.
“Insults—money!” he echoed, in a hard, quiet voice between his clinched teeth. “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? I mean the humiliation you offered me when you sent that cruel, beautiful woman, your cousin, to me, with cold, insulting words and an offer of money as a cure for all I might suffer!”
Stuart’s hold tightened on her arm.
“Vane offered you insults—money!” he said, incredulously.
“Yes,” replied Margery. Then, as he turned away with a groan, she added, hurriedly: “You did not send her, Stuart?”
“Send her? Great Heavens! you ask me that?”
The girl drew back, frightened by the agony in his voice, and he moved to the fireplace, leaning one arm on it for support, with his face turned from her.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, after a brief pause.
Margery drew a quick breath, and then, in a low, sad voice, she spoke of her sorrow at Mary Morris’ death, her trouble because of his accident, her meeting with Sir Douglas Gerant, and the words he had spoken. Then she told him of Robert Bright’s proposal, and of the sorrow and agony of Vane’s visit, the result of which was that she determined to leave the village at once, and to that end sought the help of Miss Lawson. A few sad words told of Enid’s death and her marriage.
Stuart never moved during the recital; his heart seemed turned to stone. He dared not think of his love—the misery of his loss maddened him; it was of the treachery and cruelty he thought; and his brain whirled at the memory.
“And you believed that of me?” he asked, almost mechanically.
“It seemed so true,” murmured the girl, wistfully; then, pressing her hands together, she whispered: “And it was not?”
“It was false from beginning to end!”
Their eyes met, and a shudder passed over each. Margery felt her heart grow cold as ice, a lump rise in her throat.
“We were deceived,” she said, faintly.
“Yes.”
“Forgive me—oh, forgive me!” she cried. “How I have wronged you!”
Stuart clasped her hand with his own, then dropped upon his knees at her feet, and pressed his lips to her fingers.
“Forgive you!” he said, passionately. “It is from you forgiveness must come, my sweet, my love! I shall kneel at your feet till you have pardoned me, Margery, my darling!”
“Oh, hush!” she whispered. “Forgive you? Yes, a hundred times! Indeed, it is all forgotten now, forgotten and done with.”
“Forgotten!” cried Stuart. “Ah, no!”
“We were brave in words on that day, Stuart,” said Margery, gazing at the fire. “How little we guessed that the battle would begin that very moment, the fight be so long! We were so happy, and now——”
“And now,” he said, hoarsely, rising to his feet, “life is ended forever! You are not free. I find you and lose you forever at the same time. What have we done that fate should be so hard, so cruel!”
Margery felt the gladness, the triumphant joy, die out of her heart, her senses grow numb and heavy; she came back from the happy past to the present; she remembered all.
“Stuart,” she said, slowly and impressively, “it is too late to speak of that; we must part now, never to meet again.”
“Never to meet again!” he repeated, raising his head from his hands. “Oh, no, no—that is too much! Let me see you, hear you speak. If you are taken from menow, the darkness will be too terrible. Ah, Margery, have some pity! Think of our love, our dream; do not send me from you.” He seized her hands in his, and half drew her into his arms; but, as his eyes fell on her pale, troubled face, he loosed his hold, and, standing upright before her, said, rapidly: “Yes, I will go—I will go to the uttermost parts of the earth—to death—if only you will tell me that you love me, have ever loved me, and me only!”
Margery buried her face in her hands. She was silent for a few seconds, and then she looked up.
“I am a wife, Stuart,” she replied, slowly drawing her breath as if in pain; “at the side of a deathbed I took upon me the most solemn and sacred vows. My husband is good; the depths of his nobility and generosity you could never fathom. To speak such words would be dishonorable, would be a sin. I can say no more.”
Stuart’s head fell forward on his breast; the soft, sad tones touched his manliness to the core.
“Forgive me!” he said, huskily. “You are right—we must part; I will leave Court Manor as soon as possible.”
“It will be best.”
The words fell almost coldly from her lips; her eyes were closed in pain, her face was pale and drawn. She paused an instant, then moved slowly from the fire, from the proximity of the man bowed down by his despair. She seemed almost overwhelmed by the magnitude of this new sorrow; but, though she looked so frail and delicate, she possessed unusual courage. Her pride and honor supported her in this worst of all her troubles. The future, with its bitterness, stood before her; she had to face life—
“If that may be called lifeFrom which each charm of life has fled—Happiness gone with hope and loveIn all but breath already dead.”
“If that may be called lifeFrom which each charm of life has fled—Happiness gone with hope and loveIn all but breath already dead.”
“If that may be called lifeFrom which each charm of life has fled—Happiness gone with hope and loveIn all but breath already dead.”
“If that may be called life
From which each charm of life has fled—
Happiness gone with hope and love
In all but breath already dead.”
And brave the struggle she would, though it broke her heart.
At the door she turned. The sight of Stuart’s grief struck her painfully; she held out her hand, urged by an uncontrollable impulse.
“Stuart!” she said, faintly.
He was beside her in an instant.
“If you value what I say,” she whispered, as he clasped her hand, “you will be brave. Do not speak of your life as ended. We both have duties. We have been tried; but Heaven has been very good, for the clouds of doubt and suspicion that hung over our hearts have been dispelled. To know the truth is happiness and comfort—let us be grateful and not murmur. Now, good-by.”
Their eyes met, and he bent his head till his lips touched her small, cold, trembling hand.
“I will remember, cousin,” he responded; “good-by.”
The curtain was moved aside, then fell back again to its place, and Stuart Crosbie was alone.
“Then came the bitter hours, and brokeThy heart from mine away,And tearfully the words we spokeWe were so loath to say.Farewell, farewell, world so fair!Farewell, joy of soul!“Farewell. We shall not meet againAs we are parting now;I must my beating heart restrain,Must veil my burning brow.Oh, those are tears of bitternessWrung from the beating heart,When two, blest in their tenderness,Must learn to live apart!”
“Then came the bitter hours, and brokeThy heart from mine away,And tearfully the words we spokeWe were so loath to say.Farewell, farewell, world so fair!Farewell, joy of soul!“Farewell. We shall not meet againAs we are parting now;I must my beating heart restrain,Must veil my burning brow.Oh, those are tears of bitternessWrung from the beating heart,When two, blest in their tenderness,Must learn to live apart!”
“Then came the bitter hours, and brokeThy heart from mine away,And tearfully the words we spokeWe were so loath to say.Farewell, farewell, world so fair!Farewell, joy of soul!
“Then came the bitter hours, and broke
Thy heart from mine away,
And tearfully the words we spoke
We were so loath to say.
Farewell, farewell, world so fair!
Farewell, joy of soul!
“Farewell. We shall not meet againAs we are parting now;I must my beating heart restrain,Must veil my burning brow.Oh, those are tears of bitternessWrung from the beating heart,When two, blest in their tenderness,Must learn to live apart!”
“Farewell. We shall not meet again
As we are parting now;
I must my beating heart restrain,
Must veil my burning brow.
Oh, those are tears of bitterness
Wrung from the beating heart,
When two, blest in their tenderness,
Must learn to live apart!”
Stuart stood by the fire alone, heedless that the embers were slowly dying, heedless of the dusk that filled the room, heedless of all save his burden of misery. He was too weak to grapple with his sorrow—too prostrate, from the freshness and poignancy of his grief, to overcome it. At last he roused himself; he had to act, not think. He raised his head, looked round in a dazed, troubled way, and, with a weary step, went slowly from the room.
As the sound of his footsteps died away, the door of the inner room was opened and a man approached the fire—a man from whose face all joy and happiness hadfled, in whose dark eyes a world of speechless agony glowed, round whose mouth dwelt the desolation of hopelessness. He stood erect for an instant, then, with a deep groan, buried his face in his hands and sunk into a chair.
It was Margery’s husband—Nugent, Earl of Court.