CHAPTER XXX.
“Margery, the sea is beautiful to-day. Come out, child; it will do you good.”
Miss Lawson spoke in her old abrupt, almost stern way; but she experienced deep, heartfelt pain as she looked at the slight form in its heavy mourning-robe, and at the girlish, beautiful face beneath the widow’s cap.
Margery raised her eyes from her writing.
“I do not care for it, dear,” she answered, gently; “and I must finish these letters for the post. Remember, Wavemouth is not London; we do not go by steam down here.”
“Your letters can wait,” said Miss Lawson. “They are not of such consequence as your health.”
“My tenants at Beecham do not say that,” returned Lady Court, with a faint smile; “but, if you wish it very——”
“I do wish it very much; indeed, I am rather dull, Margery.”
The well-assumed plaintiveness of the elder woman’s last words was most successful.
“Dull!” repeated Margery, putting down her pen at once. “Oh, forgive me! How selfish I am, dear friend!”
“There, don’t waste time in self-reproach! Go and put on your hat—not your heavy bonnet. The fresh air will do you more good than sentimentalizing.”
Miss Lawson brushed away a tear as the slender figure left the room. A year had gone—a sharp and trying spring, a summer of golden splendor, an autumn ofcheerless misery, a winter of frost and chill, and spring was come again; and during all that time Margery had lived weighted down by a burden of anguish and sorrow. Miss Lawson had gone to her at the beginning of her grief, and, discarding all other ties, had given herself up to her old pupil, who clung to her so despairingly; and it was the elder woman’s one aim to drive the gloom and despondency from the girlish brow, and bring joy and happiness back to the youthful heart.
She knew Margery’s secret now. Stuart and she were leagued together; but all through the year, though she had tried again and again, she could not bring the lovers and cousins together. Margery shrunk from meeting Stuart—shrunk with a heart full of remorse, pain and morbid gloom. Was it right that she should be glad, have happiness, when one who had loved her so truly and tenderly lay in the grave forgotten? Once, only once, had she spoken on this subject to Miss Lawson; and, like a wise woman, the governess said nothing, but decided to wait.
“It is but natural, after all. Margery’s sensitive, generous spirit has received so terrible a shock that it has shattered all joy in life at one blow.”
So spoke Miss Lawson as she reasoned with Stuart, who hungered for a kind word, a sign, from his early love. He honored her for her fealty to the dead, but he was human, and his heart cried out for peace after so much misery. He had been more than touched by the noble, generous thoughtfulness of the dying man; for, after all was over and the will read, a letter was sent him, and, alone in his chamber, Stuart learned the wish and desire of Nugent, Earl of Court.
The writer told how, on returning earlier than he had anticipated, he had entered the house through the window of his “den” from the grounds. This was barred after him by his servant; and thus he became an unintentional eavesdropper to the sad meeting between his wife and her cousin; and he ended by entreating Stuart to let no obstacle stand in his path, but to consummate Margery’s and his own happiness by a speedy marriage.
With the letter of the dead man close to his heart, Stuart buried all compunction and regret, and waited andlonged for Margery to speak; but she was silent. She was racked by conflicting emotions. Day and night the image of her dead husband hardly left her mind; for evidence of his great love still surrounded her, Court Manor being her own house, bequeathed to her when the rest of the estate passed to the next heir. She could not banish the regret and remorse that had seized her. Again and again she longed for the past to return, so that she might act differently. And yet her love for Stuart had not grown less; he was still her hero, her king. It was doubt, and nervous, sensitive pain that kept her from him; and day by day the pain grew greater, till she knew not what to do.
Had she been allowed, Margery would have remained at Court Manor, in spite of the sad memories that clung to it; but Miss Lawson took care not to sanction such an arrangement. She dictated to the young Countess of Court as she had dictated in the old days to Margery Daw; and unconsciously the girlish widow obeyed, as she had always done, and allowed her friend to rule. They had spent the first six months following the earl’s death at Beecham Park; then Miss Lawson took Margery abroad before paying a brief visit to the manor. Now she accompanied Lady Court to Wavemouth, at Margery’s own request. Personally, she thought the little village too quiet for the girl, but Margery seemed to like its peaceful monotony, so she raised no objection. As time went on, however, and she found the sad apathy increase, instead of decrease, the governess began to consider how she ought to act.
Stuart had not been mentioned between them for weeks, though Miss Lawson had to send a daily report to the eager, anxious man. Something must be done, she declared, mentally, as she turned to meet Margery entering the room in her heavy black robe and large black hat, to banish the morbid remorse and sadness that were preying upon the life of the young girl.
“I am glad to see you are sensible,” she observed, nodding at sight of the hat. “Now come along; it is a beautiful afternoon.”
Margery smiled faintly at the sharp words yet gentle voice, and together they left the house.
They walked on in silence to the very edge of the sea, and stood watching the sunlit-crested waves come rolling in. Margery was deep in thought, and Miss Lawson watched her anxiously. Her heart prompted her to speak out, to urge the girl to cast off her burden of gloom and turn once more to joy and happiness, but the sad young face looking across the sea stopped her.
The afternoon sun descended lower and lower, and still Margery stood gazing at the sea.
“The great sea, faultless as a flow’r,Throbs trembling under beam and breezeAnd laughs with love of th’ am’rous hour.”
“The great sea, faultless as a flow’r,Throbs trembling under beam and breezeAnd laughs with love of th’ am’rous hour.”
“The great sea, faultless as a flow’r,Throbs trembling under beam and breezeAnd laughs with love of th’ am’rous hour.”
“The great sea, faultless as a flow’r,
Throbs trembling under beam and breeze
And laughs with love of th’ am’rous hour.”
At last, as a gray cloud obscured the golden light for a time, she turned to Miss Lawson.
“Let us go back,” she said, hurriedly, with a little shudder. “I am tired now.”
Miss Lawson walked with her in silence.
“I am an old woman,” she mused to herself, “this is beyond me. We have waited long and wearily, and yet she gets no better. I shall give in, and leave the rest to Stuart.”
A message sped swiftly from the fishing village to the great city. It was short, yet it brought a thrill of intense joy to Stuart Crosbie’s aching heart. There was no hope breathed in the words, but hope lived within his breast, as it had lived through all his weary waiting. He longed impatiently for the night to be gone—for the morning to come, and when the sun rose over the still sleeping city, he was speeding away from it to the sea.
“Where shall we land you, sweet?On fields of strange men’s feet,Or fields near home,Or where the fire-flow’rs blow,Or where the flow’rs of snow,Or flow’rs of foam?We are in love’s hand to-day.”
“Where shall we land you, sweet?On fields of strange men’s feet,Or fields near home,Or where the fire-flow’rs blow,Or where the flow’rs of snow,Or flow’rs of foam?We are in love’s hand to-day.”
“Where shall we land you, sweet?On fields of strange men’s feet,Or fields near home,Or where the fire-flow’rs blow,Or where the flow’rs of snow,Or flow’rs of foam?We are in love’s hand to-day.”
“Where shall we land you, sweet?
On fields of strange men’s feet,
Or fields near home,
Or where the fire-flow’rs blow,
Or where the flow’rs of snow,
Or flow’rs of foam?
We are in love’s hand to-day.”
So sang his heart in glad anticipation of its joy. Happiness had been so long absent, it must come now.Misery, despair, sorrow, were all forgotten—he lived again!
“You will be back to-night?” asked Margery, as she put a waterproof round Miss Lawson’s form. “You promise me?”
“I promise,” said Miss Lawson, briskly. “Ugh, what a day! Margery, take my advice; don’t go out.”
“It will not hurt me; I like the wind and the spray.”
“Then wrap up well. Pauline”—turning to the maid—“if her ladyship does go out, see that she puts on something sensible.”
“How little you trust me!” said Margery, with a faint smile. “But are you sensibly clad, may I ask?”
“Two shawls, a waterproof, goloshes, and an umbrella,” observed Miss Lawson, quietly. Inwardly she felt a thrill of satisfaction; Margery seemed brighter, more natural, more her old self to-day.
“Then good-by, dear.” Margery put her lips to the elder woman’s. “Give my love to Mrs. Fothergill and the doctor.”
Miss Lawson nodded and walked away.
“I am an old fool,” she declared, savagely, to herself, as she felt a tear roll down her cheek, “and I only hope I shall keep out of the way for some good!”
Left alone, Margery stood for a while at the window, gazing at the rough, angry sea; then she asked Pauline for her cloak and hat.
“Will miladi that I go with her?” asked the maid, in her broken English.
Margery shook her head.
“I shall not go far; and this wind does you no good, Pauline.”
“Miladi is so kind. If she will permit, I think that hat will not be wise. See thiscapuchon—so warm! It will be best.”
Margery agreed, and tied the comfortable hood round her delicate, lovely face, looking sweetly fair with her halo of red-gold curls and her deep, lustrous blue eyes. She turned toward the shore; the roaring and dashing of the sea exhilarated her, the strong, soft wind seemedto blow away the clouds of doubt and pain that hung over her. Her sorrow was lost in the pleasurable excitement that thrilled her as she stood, wind-blown and rain-drenched, and watched the great waves come rolling in, with their thunderous voices and mountains of spray. The tempest seemed to suit her humor; she reveled in the freedom and wildness of the elements as in the birth of a new life—a life with hope springing glorious within.
She moved on as quickly as the wind would allow, stopping every now and then to gather her cloak closer around her. The gale had blown her curls in rough fashion all over her hood; there was a light in her eyes, a glow of color on her fair cheeks; for the moment she looked the Margery of old, not the sad girl-widow of present days.
Few of the fisher-folk were about; but in the distance she could see some children running to and fro on the shore, and the wind now and then wafted their voices to her ears. Tired at last, her breath almost spent, she turned inland in a cross direction, determining to rest at one of the cottages before going home. The wind blew her along at times, almost taking her off her feet; and she had to drop upon the wet beach more than once to gather strength. At last she sighted the cottages, and struggled to the first one. The women knew her well; she was a great favorite, and they were never tired of dwelling on her youth, beauty, sad history, and goodness and generosity.
She knocked at the rough door, and it was opened immediately.
“May I come in and rest, Mrs. David?” she asked, leaning back against the doorpost, almost breathless.
“Lor’ bless me, my lady, in course! Come in at once!” exclaimed the buxom fisherwoman. “It is a sight too wild for you to be out. It is rough here, too, my lady. The chair is hard; but——”
“It is most acceptable,” sighed Margery, sinking, with a sigh of fatigue, into the great wooden chair. “I have been walking along the shore. How rough the sea is to-day! And how have you been, Mrs. David? You look sad—are you in trouble? Oh”—catching sight of asmall form covered with blankets lying in a warm corner by the fire—“your child is ill?”
Mrs. David put her apron to her eyes.
“He is better now, my lady,” she replied, with a sob in her voice; “but he was all but gone this morning. Oh, dear me, it fair broke my heart to see him—him, my only one, my lady!”
“What happened?” asked Margery, quickly, her heart full of sympathy. She knew the child well—a beautiful, rosy-cheeked boy, the very light and joy of his parents’ life. “Is he very ill?”
“He went out the morning, your ladyship. My mind misgive me as I saw him go; but he loves the sea. My man is away over to the town to-day; and Jim he begged to go out and watch the waves; and he went too near, my lady, and got drawed in by the tide, and would have been washed away if a strange gentleman—Heaven bless him!—hadn’t tore off his coat and plunged in. I thought my Jim was dead when I see him carried in white and all dripping; but the gentleman he rubbed him, and rolled him in blankets. And now he’s sleeping like a lamb, you see, my lady. But; oh, I nearly died!”
“It was dreadful!” said Margery, gently, rising and putting her soft, white hand on the rough, tanned arm of the mother. “But don’t cry, Mrs. David. Jim is all right now, poor little fellow. You are nervous and upset. Can you send up to my house this evening? I will have some nice things put together for him that will soon make him well.”
“Heaven bless you for your goodness, my lady!” returned Mrs. David. “I ain’t one to give way to tears often; but you can understand——”
“Yes, I understand,” whispered Margery, standing and looking down at the sleeping child, while Mrs. David went on with her account of the accident.
“It were just the merest chance the gentleman were on the spot,” she said. “He’d come from the town, and was walking to Wavemouth, along the shore, when he saw little Jim washed off his feet, and he was in the water in an instant.”
“He was brave!” Margery interjected, quietly.
“Ay, that he was; and it’ll never be forgotten by us,though we live to hundreds! But won’t you sit down, my lady? I expects the gentleman here every minute to inquire after Jim.”
“I am rested now, and I think I will make a start.”
Margery walked to the little window and looked out. The wind was raging just as fiercely as ever, and the rain was beating furiously against the panes.
“Let me give you some tea, my lady,” urged Mrs. David. “I’ll have it ready in an instant.”
Margery shook her head.
“No, thank you, Mrs. David; I must be gone. I will——”
A sharp knock came at the door, and for some strange reason she moved round so that nothing could be seen but her back, draped in the hood and cloak, while Mrs. David bustled to the door.
“It is you, sir! Come in and welcome! He’s sleeping sound now, sir. Ah, Heaven give you happiness, as you have given it to me to-day!”
A curious sensation stole over Margery’s heart—a sensation that brought a vague touch of joy. The next moment the joy increased, for a voice spoke, the tones of which recalled all the golden dream of her early love.
It was Stuart, her lover! Her hands, clasped together, were clasped against her throbbing heart, her lips murmured his name silently; but still she stood motionless; and Stuart’s eye went from the unknown woman in the hood and cloak to the child.
“He’s all right now, Mrs. David; there is no fever. You will have him as jolly as ever in a day or two.”
“Oh, thank you, sir! And you yourself, sir—you ain’t got no harm?”
“Not a bit,” laughed Stuart, cheerily. “Sea water does not hurt me; I am used to it. I have been in a gale or two at sea, you know. It is rough weather, though, to-day, Mrs. David.”
“That it is, sir. Here’s her ladyship, sir, quite done up by the wind. She’s honored me with resting a while.”
Stuart stared. How blind he had been! How could he have overlooked that slender figure? His heart burned within his breast, he could hardly restrain hisjoy. And Margery? In a moment her doubts, her sad misgivings vanished; she knew that her love lived again in all its strength and sweetness. It had been clouded, not overcome. She moved from the window and put out her hand.
“I know this gentleman, Mrs. David,” she said, steadily, though her limbs were trembling. “He is my cousin.”
“Your ladyship’s cousin?” exclaimed the woman, in surprise. “Oh, sir, that brings you closer to my heart! I’ve told my lady all about it.”
“How brave you were!” murmured Margery, as she drew her hand from Stuart’s firm clasp.
“Brave! I did nothing. But, come, cousin—you ought to be going. Shall I see you home? Will you let me?”
“If you please.”
Margery bent and kissed the child softly, then put out her hand to Mrs. David.
“I will come to-morrow and see how he is. Don’t forget to send to-night.”
“I will not, thank you again and again, my lady!”
Margery smiled, and walked to the door. The small, homely room seemed suddenly illumined by a strange, mysterious light, golden and strong as the sun. Stuart drew the door after them, then put out his hand without a word, and Margery placed her own in his.
He led her from the cottage to a sheltered spot, and then stood looking down at her with eyes that shone like stars in the passion of his love.
“Margery,” he said, quietly, “I have come to you. Have you no word of hope for me?”
She stood silent for an instant, then raised her lovelit eyes to his.
“One word,” she whispered—“stay!”
“My darling, my own, my own forever, it has come at last!”
THE END.
No. 111 of theNew Bertha Clay Library, entitled “The Sins of the Father,” is a romance charmingly told, that contains many unusual features, and is intensely interesting from beginning to end.