"Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red."
"Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red."
"That's it!" he said, approvingly and admiringly. "What a memory you have got, Madge. Is it Shakespeare?"
"No; Tennyson," and she smiled. "What an ignorant boy it is!"
"Ain't I?" he said, with a laugh. "Austin often says that the things I know would go into half a sheet of note-paper, and the things I don't would more than fill the reading-room at the British Museum. But one thing I know, Madge, and that is that I love you with all my heart and soul."
"I'll forgive you all the rest!" she murmured.
She was painting the picture the earl had commissioned, and she took up her brush and palette and worked, while Blair sat at her side, watching her with an admiring wonder, as the skillful hand conveyed the little bushy dell to the canvas.
"What a fuss they'll make about you when we are married," he said, after a pause.
Margaret bent forward to hide the blush which the words had called up.
"Who are they? And why should they make a fuss?" she asked.
"They? Oh, all the people, you know. They'll make no end of you, Madge. You see, you are so good-looking——"
She threatened him with her wet brush.
—"And then you are so clever, and this painting of yours will just finish them off. I shouldn't wonder if you are the leading item in the next season."
"The next season!" echoed Margaret, turning her eyes upon him.
He colored and looked rather guilty; then he raised his eyes to hers boldly.
"Yes, next season. You are going to marry me soon, you know, Madge!"
"Soon?" she repeated dreamily. "Two years, five years hence will be soon."
"Oh, will it?" he remarked, aghast. "Why, Madge, Austin says we ought to be married next month."
Margaret almost dropped her pencil, and stared at him; then her eyelids fell, and the warm color spread over her face and neck.
"And yet you are always boasting that Austin Ambrose never talks nonsense!" she said, with gentle irony.
"But is it such nonsense, dear?" he urged, putting his arm around her waist, and looking up at her downcast face. "I don't think it is nonsense at all! If you knew how long even a few weeks seem to me—but I don't put it that way. But, remember, my darling, that this is all very well down here; I can run down and spend some hours with you—how short they seem, heigh ho!—but you will be going to London directly——"
"Directly I have finished this picture—next week," she put in gently.
"So soon?" he said, sadly. "Well then we sha'n't be able to see so much of each other; at least, Austin says we mustn't."
"Mr. Austin says so?"
He nodded.
"Yes; he is more anxious than ever that our engagement should be kept secret, and every time he sees me he talks and lectures me about it. 'He's such a careful man,' as the song says," and he laughed.
Margaret remained silent. What would the days be like in hot and dusty London if she were not to see Blair, not to hear the voice she loved murmuring its passionate devotion in her ears! Her bosom rose with a soft sigh.
"I suppose he is right—yes, heisright," she said. "And we shall meet, if we do meet, as strangers, Blair? But we sha'n't meet, shall we?"
"You are talking nonsense now," he chided her. "Of course we shall. I can take you up the river, up to Cookham and Pangbourne. How delightful it will be!"
"And some of your grand friends will see us, and then——"
"Oh, we'll chance that!" he said, lightly.
"We must chance nothing that may do you an injury, Blair," she said, gravely.
"Oh, Austin will take care that we do nothing imprudent," he said. "He has taken our case in hand, as he says, and we can't do better than put ourselves under his charge. You must paint some of our Thames views,Madge. You must paint one for me. By George! my uncle has got more mother wit in his little finger than I have in the whole of my body! Why didn'tIgive you a commission for a picture the first moment I knew you were an artist!"
"I shouldn't have accepted it," she said, smiling down at him. "But I'll paint you a picture, Blair; I will do it after I have finished this. Business must be attended to, you know, my lord."
He laughed.
"I wonder what he'll give you for that, Madge?" he said. "He ought to give you a hundred pounds. It's worth it. I'd give you a thousand if you'd let me."
"You'd ruin yourself, we all know," she said lightly, scarcely paying any heed to what she said, then as she saw him wince she dropped her brush and put her arm round his neck penitently.
"Oh, Blair, I meant nothing!" she murmured.
"I know, I know, dearest!" he said gravely. "But your light words reminded me of the fool I have been. But that is all altered now. Do you know that I have not made a single bet since—since you gave yourself to me? No! And I'm living as steady an existence as that man who always went home to tea. Austin says it won't and can't last; but we shall see."
It was always Austin. Scarcely ten sentences without his name cropping up.
"I don't see why Mr. Ambrose should discourage you, Blair," she said, smiling. "But you can prove him in the wrong all the more triumphantly," she added.
He laughed as he kissed her, telling her that she was his good angel, and that while she would continue to love him he was all right; but when he had gone, and she sat listening to his departing footsteps, she pondered over Austin Ambrose's words.
The next two days she worked hard at her picture, and on the third day finished it.
"What shall I do, grandma?" she said to Mrs. Hale. "I am going to London to-morrow, you know. Shall I send the picture from there, or give it to Mr. Stibbings to take to his lordship?"
"Give it to Mr. Stibbings," said Mrs. Hale, "with your dutiful respects and compliments, my dear."
Margaret gave the picture to Mr. Stibbings, but with her compliments only, and presently that important functionary returned.
Would Miss Hale honor the earl by joining him in the picture gallery?
Margaret went at once, and found him standing beforeher picture, which he had caused to be placed on an easel in the best lighted part of the gallery.
He held out his hand, and bowed to her with a kindly smile.
"You have painted a beautiful little sketch for me, Miss Hale," he said. "One I shall often look upon with pleasure and delight. And you have done it quickly, too, but not carelessly—no, no!"
Margaret murmured a few words in acknowledgment of his graciousness, and he went on:
"There is a career before you, my dear Miss Hale! You are one of the fortunate ones of this earth! Great gifts—great gifts"—and he looked at her absently; then he sighed and roused himself again—"but don't waste them, my child! I hope you are enjoying yourself here?"
"Very much, my lord," said Margaret. "I leave to-morrow," and she sighed faintly.
"To-morrow! So soon?" he said. "And you go back to London? I hope you will pay the Court another visit soon! I must speak to Mrs. Hale concerning it! Will you wait a moment or two?" and he drew a chair forward before he left the gallery.
Margaret sat and waited. How happy she had been! and yet if he only knew the cause of her happiness! If he could but guess that it was because she had won the love of his nephew, the Viscount Leyton.
She felt guilty and ill at ease, and when he returned, and approaching her with a smile, pressed some bank-notes into her hand, she began to tremble, and the tears rushed to her eyes.
"No thanks, my dear," he said. "Tut, tut! You must not wear your heart upon your sleeve, or daws will peck at it. You have no cause for gratitude; it is I who should and do feel grateful to you. Good-bye. May Heaven watch over you and make you happy, my dear!" It was almost like a benediction, for he half raised his white hand over her head.
When Margaret looked up he had gone.
She turned away, and the tears were still in her eyes as she opened the folded notes and looked at them. They represented a hundred pounds.
Mrs. Hale was quite overwhelmed.
"Well!" she exclaimed. "Gracious goodness!—a hundred pounds! Well, Margaret, my dear, I don't think you have any cause to regret your visit to your poor old grandmother. It hasn't been altogether a waste of time, now, has it?"
"No," said Margaret; "no, indeed, dear!" but even as she kissed the old lady and hid her face on her amplebosom, the same guilty feeling assailed her as that which had come upon her under the earl's generosity.
On the morrow she returned to London, but she had not to walk as she had done in coming. The earl had given orders that a brougham should be in attendance, and she started with a footman to open the door, and another to place her modest portmanteau on the roof, while the coachman touched his hat.
"Good-bye, grandma!" she said brokenly, as she clung to the old lady.
"Good-bye, Margaret, my dear! You will come again, and as soon as you can?"
"Yes," said Margaret, a lump rising in her throat. "Yes, I will come again—and soon."
But man proposes, and Providence disposes!
It was hot in London, and Margaret found her fellow-lodgers were away in the country, so that she had the rooms to herself.
She was thankful for their absence, for she would have shrunk from their affectionately close questioning, and they might have worried some hint of her secret from her.
An hour after her return a telegram arrived.
"Will you meet me at Waterloo at two o'clock? We will go up the river."
It was not signed, but Margaret knew that it was from Blair. Should she go?
She lay awake a long time that night asking herself the question, but at two o'clock the next day she found herself at Waterloo, and Austin Ambrose came up and raised his hat.
"You did not expect me?" he said with a smile, as her color rose.
"I—I thought——"
"It would be Blair," he finished smoothly. "He is not far off. He will join us at Clapham Junction. He wanted to come and meet you here, but I persuaded him to let me come instead. You know how prudent I am. A dozen people on the platform might chance to see him and recognize him and talk, while I—well nobody feels enough interest in me to care where I went," and he laughed.
"It is better so, and it is very kind of you," said Margaret.
"I am all kindness," he said, smiling. He put her into a first-class carriage, and Margaret saw his hand in close contact with the guards, and heard the lock turned.
"May I say that you are looking very well, Miss Margaret?"he said, leaning forward and looking at her with respectful and friendly admiration.
Margaret laughed.
"Did you take all this trouble to pay me compliments, Mr. Ambrose?"
"No," he said, with sudden gravity, but still smiling, "I came for prudence' sake, and because I wanted to speak to you. And I have so few minutes that I must get to the point at once. Miss Margaret, are you going to be good to Blair and marry him?"
Margaret flushed, then grew pale.
"Some day," she said, trying to speak lightly.
"Some day is no day," he returned. "Miss Margaret, you know, I hope and trust, that I am your friend?"
Margaret inclined her head.
"It is as your friend and his that I venture to beg you to make him the happiest man in the world as soon as possible."
Margaret remained silent; her hand trembled as she touched the window-strap.
"Why—why should it be soon?" she faltered. "It seems only a few days since—since——"
"It is some weeks," he said, quietly and impressively. "But, indeed, if it were only a few days, I would say the same. Miss Margaret, I can scarcely tell you all the reasons I have for pressing this upon you, and I would not do it, but that I know Blair is too—well—shy to do it altogether for himself. A simple 'no' from you silenced him! He told me, you see, that he spoke to you when he was down at the Court last."
"He tells you everything!" Margaret could not help saying.
"Do not be jealous!" he said; "if he does, it is because he knows that all that interests him interests me, and that I have his welfare at heart."
"Forgive me," she said, in a low voice. "Yes, he did speak to me."
"And he did not tell you the reasons? His, of course, are that he cannot be completely happy until you give him the right to call you his. But mine are as strong, I think! Miss Margaret, my friend's love for you has changed him; has made a better and a nobler man of him! Will you run the risk of that change deteriorating? Can you not guess something of the temptations which assail a man in Blair's position? Don't you apprehend that shadows from the past may arise, that—I will say no more! Complete the good work you have begun! Place him beyond the weak and wicked past in the harbor of your love. If Blair asksyou to marry him early next month, Miss Margaret, I beseech you do not refuse!"
Margaret sat pale and trembling.
"Do not answer now," he said. "You shall tell him. I will only say this, that, if you will let me, I will remain your friend all through. I will see that all the arrangements are made, and that the whole thing is kept perfectly secret. You shall please yourself how soon you declare the marriage, but I should advise, strongly advise that you wait for a favorable opportunity." He was too wise to say, "Till the earl is dead!"
The train stopped at Clapham, and as Blair came hurrying up to the window, Austin Ambrose jumped out.
"Go and enjoy yourselves," he said, with a pleasant smile, and shaking his head to a request that he would accompany them. "Two are company, and three are none. Good-bye, Miss Margaret—and remember," he added, in a low voice.
Margaret did remember. All the afternoon, the happy afternoon, as she sat opposite Blair as he rowed up the beautiful reaches of the Thames, she thought of Austin Ambrose's words, and so it happened that when, later on, they were sitting under the trees, on an island that glowed like an emerald in the middle of the silver stream, he bent over her and murmured:
"Madge, will you marry me next month?" she placed her hand in his and answered:
"Yes!"
Just at this period a singular change came over Mr. Austin Ambrose's mode of life. As a rule he rarely left London. At a certain hour of the day you would find him in his chambers, at another riding or walking in the park, at another he would be dining at his club, and every night you were sure of seeing him at the whist table at any rate for an hour or two. But immediately after Margaret's promise to marry Lord Blair, Mr. Austin Ambrose took to taking little excursions in the environs of London, and the special objects of attraction for him seemed to be, strangely enough, seeing that he could by no means be called a religious man, the various churches in the villages dotted about Kent and Surrey. The smaller and more out of the way the village, and the more dilapidated and neglected the church, the more Mr. Austin Ambrose seemed to be attracted by them.
He chose the churches where the congregation is small and the clergyman old and feeble, and he would sit andlisten as the old parsons dribbled out their prosy sermons, and the scattered people in the great pews nodded and slept.
One church he appeared to have a special liking for. It was situated in one of the small villages in Surrey called Sefton. There were only a few cottages and a farm, and the church was in a very dilapidated condition, and the clergyman seemed almost as worn out.
He was a very old man and nearly blind, and how he got through the service only those who are acquainted with similar cases can understand or believe. So past his time and dead to everything did the old gentleman appear that one could easily understand the point of the poet's lines:
"He lived but in a living sleep,Too old to laugh or smile or weep."
"He lived but in a living sleep,Too old to laugh or smile or weep."
"If one were to be married or buried by him on Monday he would forget it on Tuesday," Austin Ambrose murmured to himself as he sat at the back of one of the high backed pews and watched the old gentleman.
There was a parish clerk, too, who droned out the responses, and slept through the sermon—and snored—who was almost as old as the clergyman, and Mr. Austin Ambrose waylaid him and got into conversation with him after the service. It could scarcely be called conversation, however, for the old man merely grunted a "Yes," or "No," and smiled a toothless smile to Austin Ambrose's questions and remarks.
He seemed to remember nothing—excepting that "It were forty-two years agone since the small bell were cracked, and that's why we doan't ring 'em at marriages; they do seem so like a tolling, sir."
"You don't have many weddings, I suppose?" asked Mr. Ambrose.
The old man shook his head.
"Not a main sight," he said without exhibiting the faintest trace of interest. "Moast of our folks is too old to marry, and the young 'uns goes to the big church at Belton—away over there."
"When was the last?" asked Mr. Ambrose.
The clerk took up his hat slowly and scratched his head.
"I do scarce remember, sir," he said; "my memory ain't what it were. I'm getting on in years, you see—nearly eighty, sir; me and the parson runs a closish race," and he chuckled. "When was the last? Lemme see! Well, I could tell 'ee by the book, but the parson keeps that. I dare say he could put his hand upon it."
Mr. Ambrose laughed softly.
"You seem half asleep here at Sefton," he said pleasantly.
The old clerk grunted.
"I think we be sometimes, sir," he said. "But, you see, it's a miserable place now the coach has given up running through. Them railways and steam indians have a'most ruined the country."
"How long ago is it since the last coach ran?" asked Mr. Ambrose.
The poor old man looked bored to death.
"Thirty—forty year," he said. "I can't call to mind exactly; my memory hain't what it were."
Mr. Ambrose wished him good-day, and without tipping him—he did not want to fix himself in the old man's feeble memory—and repaired to the inn.
He called for a glass of ale, which he took care not to drink, and asked for a paper.
The landlord brought him a local one.
"Could I see a London one?" asked Mr. Ambrose.
The landlord shook his head.
"All the news as we care about, such as the state of the crops, and the prices at Coving Garden Market, is in that there paper; we don't trouble about a Lunnon one," he said.
Mr. Ambrose nodded and smiled, paid for his ale, and went back to London.
"Sefton is the place," he said. "It is so out of the world that they never see a London newspaper; so asleep that the noise of the great world rushing onward never wakes it, and the parson and clerk are faster asleep than anything else in it!"
He described the place in glowing colors to Margaret and Blair, a few nights afterward, as they three were sitting in a cool corner of the Botanical Gardens.
"A most delightful nook, my dear Miss Margaret; quite a typical old English village. I could spend the rest of my days there, and if I were going to be married—alas! why should it be one's fate to assist at other people's happiness, and have none oneself?—it is the place of all others I should choose for the ceremony."
"What does it matter where the church is?" said Blair, in his blunt fashion, and with a point-blank look of love at the sweet, downcast face beside him.
"It matters a great deal, my dear Blair; but I'm addressing Miss Margaret, who can appreciate the beauties of a scene, being an artist. I assure you it is a most charming spot, and it is so quiet and out of the way that I really think one might commit bigamy three times runningthere in as many weeks, and no one would be any the wiser. Why did you start, Blair?"
Margaret looked up at Blair at the question, and he met both her and Austin Ambrose's gaze with astonishment.
"Why did Iwhat? Start? I didn't start," he said. "Why should I? What were you saying? To tell you the truth, I was looking at Madge's foot at the moment, and wondering how anybody could walk with such a mite, and comparing it with my own elephant's hoof. I didn't hear what you said quite."
Margaret drew her foot in, and looked up at him rebukingly.
"You shouldn't be frivolous, sir," she said.
"You shouldn't have such a small foot, miss," he retorted, in the fashion which is so sweet to lovers, and so silly to other people. "Now, what was it you said, Austin?"
Austin Ambrose laughed.
"Oh, some joke about bigamy, not worth repeating. I thought I had said something funny, you started so."
"But Ididn'tstart," replied Blair, with a laugh.
"All right," assented Austin Ambrose; "you didn't, then. But I was going to say that another advantage is that Sefton is on the main line, and that you start from the church to that place in Devonshire where you are to be happier than ever two mortals have ever yet been. What is the name of it?"
"Appleford," said Blair.
"You will be down there about five o'clock," continued Austin Ambrose. "Just in time for dinner."
"What do you say, Madge?" asked Lord Blair, in a low voice.
Austin Ambrose rose and strolled toward some flowers.
"I say as you say, dearest," she answered, with a little sigh.
He looked at her.
"Just give me half a hint that you don't like all this secrecy——" he began; but she stopped him, raising her eyes to his with a trustful smile.
"We won't open all that again, Blair," she said. "Yes, Sefton will do."
"And you won't mind doing without the bridemaids and the white satin dress, and the bishop, and all that?" he asked, with half anxious but wholly loving regard.
Margaret returned his gaze steadily and unflinchingly.
"I care for none of them," she said, quietly. "If I could have had my choice I should have liked my grandmother;but we haven't our choice, and so nothing matters, Blair."
"You are the best-natured girl that ever breathed, Madge!" he said in a passionate whisper. "All my life through I shall remember what sacrifices you made for me. I shall never forget them! Never!"
"Have you made up your minds?" asked Austin, coming back.
"Yes; it is to be Sefton," said Madge herself.
"Very well, then," he answered. "Then, all the rest of the arrangements I can make easily."
And he was as good as his word.
He went down with Blair to get the special license; he engaged a sweet little cottage at Appleford; he saw the parson's clerk, and informed him of the date of the wedding; he even went with Blair to his tailor's to order some clothes.
The day approached. Margaret had made her preparations. They were simple enough, wonderfully and strangely simple, seeing that the man she was going to marry was a viscount, and heir to one of the oldest coronets in England.
"Don't buy a lot of dresses, Madge," Blair had said. "We shall be going to Paris and Italy after Appleford, and you can buy anything you want at Paris, don't you know."
She gave notice to quit to her landlady, and wrote a line or two to some of her companions. She did not say that she was going to be married, but that she was going for a long stay in the country, and she did not add what part.
The morning—the wedding morning—was as bright and even brilliant as a real summer morning in England can be—when it likes; and the sun shone on the new traveling dress—which was to be her wedding dress as well—as bravely as if it had been white satin itself.
All the way down to Sefton, Blair looked at her with the loving, wistful admiration of a bridegroom, and seemed never tired of telling her that she was all that was beautiful and lovable.
Austin Ambrose had gone into a smoking carriage and left them to themselves, but when the train pulled up at Sefton he came to the door.
"Are we going to walk?" inquired Blair.
"No, there is a fly," said Austin, and he led them to it quietly and got them inside.
Blair laughed.
"Poor old Austin! Upon my word, I think he enjoys all this mystery! He'd make a first-rate conspirator,wouldn't he? I say, he was right about the place, though, wasn't he? It is dead and alive!"
Margaret looked through the window. There were a few scattered cottages, one solitary farm, and at a little distance, half hidden amongst the trees, the old dilapidated church.
"It is quiet," she said; "but it is very pretty."
"Quiet!" and he laughed. "I'd no idea there were such spots near London. Austin must have had some trouble in finding such an out-of-the-way place."
And he spoke truly. Mr. Ambrosehadtaken a great deal of trouble.
The fly drove up to the church door, and Austin Ambrose got down from the box.
"You need not wait," he said to the flyman; "we are going to take a stroll through the church. It looks interesting."
The flyman pocketed his fare—the exact fare—and concluding that they were sight-seeing, drove sleepily off.
"Come along," said Austin Ambrose in a matter-of-fact fashion, and they followed him.
But the door was locked, and there was no sign of parson, or clerk, or pew-opener.
Austin Ambrose bit his lip, then laughed.
"I know where the old fellow lives," he said; "I'll rout him out."
He went to a little ivy-grown cottage just outside the churchyard, and presently returned with the ancient clerk.
"Mornin', miss; mornin', sir," he said, touching his battered old beaver. "I begs ten thousand pardons, but I quite forgot as how there was a wedding this mornin'; but I dessay the parson have recollected. Howsomever, I'll open the church," and he unlocked the door and signed for them to enter.
Margaret tremblingly clung a little closer to Blair's arm and he murmured a few words of encouragement.
"Hang it, Austin!" he said, aside; "it scarcely seems as if we were going to be married. It only wants a hearse——"
Austin laughed.
"Nonsense. It is just what you want. They have forgotten you are to be married, and they'll forget all about it half an hour after it is over. Here is the parson; I did his memory an injustice!"
The old gentleman came shuffling up the porch and blinked at them over his spectacles.
"Good-morning, Mr. Stanley," he said.
Blair stared, then, remembering that that was the name he had arranged to assume, returned the greeting.
The pew-opener, an ancient dame, with a "front" slipping down nearly to her nose, now made her appearance, and the party went into the church.
The clerk assisted the clergyman into his surplice, and got out the register, and Blair, pressing Margaret's hand, walked up to the altar.
Austin Ambrose paused a moment before accompanying, and whispered to Margaret:
"You will take care not to address either of us by name?"
She made a motion of assent, and, pale and trembling, followed with the pew-opener and clerk.
The service began. It was scarcely audible; at times the old clergyman was taken with a cough that threatened to shake him, and the book he held, and, indeed, the church itself, into pieces, but he struggled through it; and in a few minutes Margaret found herself leaning upon Blair's arm, and heard him murmur—with what intensity of love!—"My wife!"
"Now, if you'll sign the book," said the clerk. "Lemme see; what is the name?" and he peered at the license.
"Here is the name!" said Austin Ambrose. "It is rather a long one, and I've written it down," and he handed him a slip of paper.
Blair, to whom the remainder of the formalities wascaviare, was bending over Margaret at a little distance, and buttoning her gloves.
"Ah! yes! ahem! thank you!" said the clerk. "Now, if you'll sign, please."
They signed, the old clergyman peering down at them with a benign and utterly senile smile.
He had never heard of Lord Ferrers or of Lord Leyton, and this string of names might belong to some young shopkeeper's assistant for all he knew or cared; but he did inquire for the license.
"I put it in the book," said Austin Ambrose. He had got it in his pocket.
"Oh, very well! Yes, thank you! Well, I trust you will be happy, young couple; yes, with all my heart. You have got a beautiful morning; and where are you going to spend your honeymoon?"
"In France," said Austin Ambrose, blandly. "So we must hurry away. Good-morning, sir," and slipping their fees into the hands of parson, clerk, and pew-opener, he made for the door.
"My wife!" said Blair again. "George! I can scarcely believe it is true!" and he looked round with a half-dazed glance; but it changed to one of triumph and happiness as he drew her arm within his and pressed it to his side.
"Yes, you are man and wife," said Austin Ambrose, "and I echo the good old clergyman's wish, 'May you be very happy,'" and he held out his hand.
Blair seized it and wrung it.
"Thank you, Austin," he said simply, but with a ring of deep feeling in his voice. "You have been a true friend to us both, eh, Madge?" and he passed the hand on to her.
She took it and looked at the owner. Then suddenly she started and drew back. For a moment—in his secret exultation—Mr. Austin Ambrose had been off his guard, and there shone a light in his eyes that almost betrayed him.
It was gone in an instant, however, and with the pleasant, friendly smile, he pressed Margaret's hand.
"We mustn't try her too much, my dear Blair," he said. "It has been an exciting morning. Would you like to rest, or will you go on, Lady Leyton? There is just time to catch the train."
Margaret started. Lady Leyton!
Blair laughed.
"Margaret doesn't know her own name!" he said. "Which will you do, my lady?"
"Let us go on," she murmured, a desire that was almost absorbing possessed her—the longing to get rid of Mr. Austin Ambrose. It was very ungrateful, but so it was.
"All right," said Blair.
They walked to the station. As Austin Ambrose had said, there was just time to catch the down train to Devon, and in a few minutes it came puffing up.
A faithful friend to the last, Austin Ambrose got them a carriage, and tipped the guard.
"Good-bye," he said, standing on the step and waving his hand; "good-bye, and Heaven bless you!" and there seemed to be something really like tears in his voice.
And, indeed, he was paler than usual as he walked up and down the platform, waiting for the train to London.
Sometimes our very success frightens us.
The train reached Waterloo pretty punctually, and Mr. Austin Ambrose sprung out and got into a cab.
"Drive to No. 9, Anglesea Terrace," he said.
It was a week after Margaret's wedding in the moldy and dilapidated old church at Sefton, and she and Lord Blair—she and her husband!—were sitting on the cliff at Appleford looking out upon the sea, which lay at their feet like a level opal glistening in the rays of the morning sun.
The history of these seven days might be epitomized in the three words—They were happy!
Happy with the happiness that few mortals experience. Lord Blair had been in love before his marriage, but he was—and, believe me, dear reader, what I am going to state is not too common—he was more in love now, after these seven days, than before.
Margaret was not a girl of whom even the most fickle of mankind could tire easily, and Blair was not the most fickle.
He had often declared that his Madge, as he delighted to call her, was an angel; he married the angel, and discovered that she was a lovely and lovable woman, and I make bold to say—that for sublunary purposes—that is better, from a husband's point of view, than an angel.
"With each rising sun some fresh charm comes to view," says the poet; and Lord Blair found it so with Margaret.
Under the spell, the witchery of her presence, Lord Blair seemed to grow handsomer, younger, more taking, and to Margaret more charming. Oh, why cannot such epochs last forever, until they glide unconsciously into that eternity where all is love and happiness?
On this morning Blair lay stretched at her feet, near enough to be able to touch her hand, to put his arm round her waist. He was dressed in his flannels, she in a plain dress of some softcomfortablematerial which, while it showed the deliciously graceful outlines of her figure, enabled her to move about freely and without hindrance.
The light of love and happiness played like sunlight on her beautiful face, and glowed starlike in her eyes, which had rested on the glorious view, and now sought her husband's—and lover's—face.
"Madge," he said, after a long silence, during which he puffed at his pipe, "I am going to pay you a big and an awful compliment, and yet it's true—you are the only woman I ever met who didn't bore me!"
"In-deed!" she said, flashing a smile upon him which seemed like a sunbeam.
"It's true," he said with lazy emphasis. "Some women are pretty, and are content with that, and think it's good enough for you to sit and look at them; others are clever, and consider that if they talk and you listen it's all right. But you—why, you are the loveliest woman I know, and you are the cleverest. Madge, dear, I have no right to get the whole thing like this. There are so many better men who deserve it more than I do."
Margaret laughed.
"We don't get our deserts, Blair," she said. "You, for instance, might have married a dragon of propriety,who would keep you in order by the terror of her eye; or a plain heiress, who would bring you a large fortune to waste, anything but a foolish girl, who has no money and no family to bless herself with. There's that boat again! Where is it going?" she broke off.
He raised himself on his elbow indolently.
"That is the Days' boat," he said drowsily. "I don't know where it is going. Fishing, I suppose."
"They can't fish on this tide," said Margaret, who, though she had been only a week in Appleford, had learned more about its ways and habits than Blair would have gleaned in a year.
"No!" he said carelessly. "I can't quite make these Days out. They let us these lodgings, and they make us very comfortable, but I've a kind of feeling that they have some other way of getting their living that I don't understand. Now, why should he go out to sea this morning if he isn't going fishing?"
"The ways of Appleford are mysterious," said Margaret with a laugh, "and it would take a clever man to fathom them."
"Austin, for instance," he said, drawing a little nearer so that he could take her hand.
A slight cloud crossed Margaret's brow.
"I don't know that Mr. Ambrose even would fathom them," she said. "But I have discovered one thing, Blair," and she laughed softly.
"What's that, dear?" he asked.
"Why, that smuggling is not the extinct profession it is generally considered to be!"
"Smuggling!" he exclaimed incredulously.
"Yes," said Margaret. "I am certain that it is carried on here, and I have a shrewd suspicion that the landlord, Mr. Day, is engaged in it."
"Nonsense, Madge!" he said. "What a romantic child it is!"
"But my romance lies within reach of my hand," she murmured, touching his lips with her forefinger and receiving the inevitable kiss. "But I am sure of it. On Thursday night—do you remember how it blew?—no, you were fast asleep! Well, the wind woke me, and I went to the window to close it. And as I stood there I heard Day and his son talking outside. They, of course, thought themselves unheard, or they wouldn't have spoken so loudly."
"And what did they say?" Blair asked, smiling.
"I did not hear all of their talk, but I caught some of it. There were words spoken about 'kegs' and 'brandy' and 'tobacco.' That I am sure of."
Blair laughed.
"Nonsense, darling, you dreamt it!" he said.
Margaret smiled.
"Perhaps so, but it was a very lifelike dream then, and to put a touch of reality to it, I saw a keg of something—spirits or tobacco—in the kitchen the next morning. I asked Mrs. Day what it was, and she said, 'Water.' But there is a capital well just outside the door!"
"Upon my word you would make a first-class detective, Madge!" said Lord Blair, with a laugh, in which she joined.
"Should I not? I had a great mind to ask Mrs. Day to let me have a glass of the water, but I felt that if I were right, the consequences would be too embarrassing."
"I should think so," said Blair. "And you imagine that Day and his son are going on a smuggling expedition now?" and he looked at the boat dancing on the waves beneath them.
Margaret nodded.
"Yes, I do," she replied lightly. "I think that presently Mr. Day, with his little boat, will meet one of those rakish-looking craft in the offing there, and then the rakish-looking craft—isn't that the proper nautical phrase?"
"First rate!" he assented, languidly. "You would make your fortune as a novelist, Madge."
—"Will put a couple of small barrels on board of Day's boat," she said, pinching his ear tenderly. "Day will wait until the tide turns, and then, it being dark, will sail into Appleford harbor with a cargo of fish—and the two barrels. No one will suspect him, least of all the merry and comfortable coastguard; and those two barrels, after resting there for a night, will be sent off to Exeter—or somewhere else!"
Lord Blair laughed with indolent enjoyment.
"Bravo!" he said. "Well, Austin is better than his word. He said Appleford was pretty, but he didn't add that it possessed all the charms that you credit it with."
Once more the faint cloud crossed Margaret's happy face.
"Have you heard from him?" she asked, after a moment's pause.
Lord Blair pulled a letter from his pocket.
"Yes, this came this morning. I didn't read it through. Austin writes such awfully long letters. Read it yourself, darling, and tell me what it's all about."
Margaret read it.
"There is not much," she said. "He says that no one suspects what—what we did at Sefton, and that he has told every one that you have gone abroad."
Blair laughed.
"Trust Austin to keep a thing secret," he said. "He is the best man in the world at this sort of thing. Now, I should blare out the whole story to the first man I met; but Austin! Oh, Austin could keep his lips shut till he died!"
Margaret looked out to sea, and sighed.
"Now, what does that mean?" he demanded instantly. "Are you tired? Would you like to go in-doors? Are you—unhappy?"
She laughed slowly and softly.
"I think I am too happy!" she said in a low voice. "Blair, it seems to me sometimes as if there were something wicked in being so happy! We are told, you know, that there is no real happiness in this world, and that joy cannot last. If it is true, then—then——" she let her lovely eyes rest upon him doubtfully.
"Nonsense, my darling!" he retorted. "Don't believe it! We were all meant to be happy, but some of us have missed the way. I know what is the matter with you."
"What?" she demanded, her fingers clinging to his lovingly.
"Why, you feel strange without your work. You are an artist, don't you know; and you haven't touched a brush for—well, for seven days. That's bad for you. Oh, I know. I am a simple idiot, but I understand all about this sort of thing. You want to paint. Well, do it," and he threw himself back with a confident air.
Margaret laughed.
"If I wanted to paint ever so much," she said, "I couldn't; I haven't any materials. No colors, no canvas——"
He raised himself on his elbow.
"Oh, that's an easy matter; we can get all that at Ilfracombe. I'll go and get them; it's only a walk, or I can take the boat."
Margaret stopped him with a gesture of curiosity.
"Blair, there is that woman I spoke to you about last night," she said; "there, on that rock."
"What woman?" he asked, without moving.
"That young woman dressed in mourning," said Margaret. "I have seen her three times. I think she must be a widow."
"Oh," he said lazily; "I dare say. Well, about these said drawing materials. I'll walk into Ilfracombe, and get them. No; you sha'n't go. It is too hot, and you will get a headache."
"And do you think I will let you go all that way togratify a whim which you have fastened upon me, you silly boy?" she said. "Seriously, Blair—don't trouble."
"But that is just what I mean to do," he said. "I don't want you to be bored, even for a moment; and I should feel happier myself if I could see you with your beloved paints and turpentine. You shall make a sketch of Appleford—and we'll hang it up wherever we go, and look at it when we are quite old, so that we may remember that we were 'too happy,' eh, Madge?" and he put his arm round her and kissed her.
At this moment the landlady, Mrs. Day, came from the cottage behind them. She was still a young woman, and her appearance was rather above that of the ordinary Appleford fisherwives. She had an intelligent face that rather impressed one.
Margaret had taken to her at once, and for Margaret Mrs. Day had a warm admiration, which expressed itself in her dark eyes and a smile which shone in them when Margaret spoke to her.
Mrs. Day generally had some knitting in her hands, and the needles were glistening in the sunlight as she approached. She had evidently not seen them, for while her hands were busy her eyes were fixed on the boat, which was gradually making its way across the bay.
Suddenly she lowered her eyes, and catching sight of her lodgers she started slightly, and, with a quick glance from them to the boat, turned to retrace her steps, when Blair called to her.
She came up to them with a little bow, that was almost a courtesy.
"Sorry to call you back, Mrs. Day," said Blair, in his genial manner, which won all hearts; "but I want to know the best way to get to Ilfracombe?"
Mrs. Day's needles stopped.
"The boat's out, sir," she said, "or you could have gone by that."
"Yes, I know that she is," said he, pointing to it; "Day's gone fishing, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Day, promptly and placidly. "There's no train now till the evening, and it's too far for Mrs. Stanley to walk."
"Mrs. Stanley isn't going," said Blair. "I'm going alone."
"Then you could ride, sir," said Mrs. Day: "I could borrow Farmer James' colt, if you cared——"
"The very thing," said Blair, at once.
Mrs. Day inclined her head respectfully.
"I'll go and send for it, sir," she said, with the promptnesswhich had struck Margaret as rather uncommon in a woman of Mrs. Day's class.
In about twenty minutes she came back to them.
"The colt is here, sir," she said, simply.
"Mrs. Day, you would make an excellent aid-de-camp," said Blair, with a laugh, as he jumped up. "Good-bye, Madge; I sha'n't be long. I can't bring all the things, but I'll bring some of them, and they shall manage to send the rest."
Margaret put her arm round his neck. Mrs. Day had retired.
"Don't go, Blair," she said, with sudden and unexpected earnestness. "I don't care about the painting; I would rather——"
"No, no!" he said, steadfastly; "you only say that to save me a little trouble, and all the while I'm feeling glad to be able to do something for you, Madge! Trouble; the ride will be rather jolly. I'll tell you what Ilfracombe looks like, and, perhaps, you'll feel inclined to tear yourself away from your beloved Appleford, and make an excursion."
Margaret turned her face away. A strange and sudden presentiment had taken possession of her, and she was ashamed of it.
"Well, go then!" she said, forcing a laugh; "and if you do not come back, why I shall think Ilfracombe has proved too fascinating."
"All right," he said; "but I think you'll see me back by dinner time."
At the corner of the lane he turned in his saddle and looked round for a last glance at Madge—his wife, his darling—and was rewarded by a wave of her white hand.
"Now, my young friend," he said, addressing the colt, who was rather frisky, "have your little game by all means, but when it's over let us get on, for I'm anxious to get back to that young woman on the hill behind there."
Margaret stood until Blair had disappeared, then she sank onto the ground again.
After all, it had been foolish of her to let him go, or why had she not gone with him? She had had half an idea that the change would be good for him, it was not wise to keep a man tied to your petticoat though he love you ever so truly, and so she had given him his liberty. Well, he would come back at dinner time hungry and gay after his ride, and would love her all the more dearly for the short separation.
After a time she put on her hat and went down into the little fishing town, which clustered on the hill rising from the point where the sea and the two rivers met. It was aquaint old town, quite a hundred years behind the rest of the world, and the people, fishermen and sailors, were supposed to be rather rough; but they had never been rough to her, had never failed in that rustic courtesy which springs from the heart and is much better than the imitation which is manufactured so cleverly in towns.
She wandered to the beach and stood there for awhile, the women looking after her with a smile, the children gazing up at her, as they drew near, with that frank admiration for her beauty which did not always confine itself to looks, for she heard one child say to another:
"That be pretty maiden from London, that be."
An old man was seated on an upturned boat mending a net, and Margaret, feeling lonely, gave him good-evening.
"Good-evening, miss," said the old man, touching the wisp of white hair that shone like snow against his tanned face. "Be 'ee going out for a sail?"
"No," said Margaret, "I am only strolling about."
He nodded approvingly.
"Well, you be wise. Better on land, miss. We're goin' to have a shift in the weather."
Margaret looked at the cloudless sky and smiled down upon him with gentle incredulity; the old man shook his head.
"Oh, it be bright as a new penny now, miss, surely," he said, smiling back, "but it bean't going to last. There's a wisp in the wind as threatens a storm. It 'ull come before night; a tough un, too."
"Oh, I am so sorry," said Margaret. "There are some boats out at sea. Will they be safe?"
"There bean't many," said the old man.
"Mr. Day's boat has gone," said Margaret.
"Ay," he returned, slowly, and he looked steadily at his net. "She'll be safe enow. She's a stiff un, and used to rough weather, miss," and he laughed. "We always have it rough a'most when there's a high, strong tide, and it's very high to-night. You see that rock, miss?" and he pointed to a dark mass that rose on the black line at a little distance from them. "Well, the tide will cover that rock to-night. People won't allus believe it. There was a gentleman and a lady washed off that rock two year agone; they thought themselves safe enow, and was up there to watch the tide come in; they never saw it go out!" and he chuckled grimly.
Margaret shuddered.
"Do you mean that they were drowned?" she said.
"I 'spect," he replied; "leastways, they were never seen again."
"But I thought people who were drowned always came back?" said Margaret.
He shook his head.
"Not hereabouts, miss. There's sands here, miss, as is onreliable and hungry as a wild beastie; things they gets hold of they sticks to."
Margaret, not being desirous of continuing this cheerful conversation, wished him good-day and turned toward the cottage on the cliff.
Luncheon was laid in the neat little room, and she took off her hat and light jersey jacket and sat down with a wee little sadness. It was the first time she had sat down to a meal without Blair since their marriage; and Blair was a person likely to make his loss felt. The little room seemed desolate without his light, musical voice and his quick, ready laugh. Margaret looked round cheerlessly, and thought she wouldn't have any lunch, then she felt ashamed of her weakness, and dreading the look of surprise and astonishment with which Mrs. Day would be sure to view the untouched sole, forced herself to make a "pretending" lunch.
And as she chased a minute piece of fish round her plate with a fork and slice of bread, she fell to thinking of her great happiness, and the difference it had and would make in her life.
She was Blair's wife! Soon all the world would know it, and they would be drawn away from this quiet spot, which was like a placid pool in the whirling river—they would be drawn into the vortex, and be one of the giddy, rushing throng. If they could only always remain serene and happy outside the tumult of the great world!
How surprised everybody would be. The earl, her grandmother, her old companions at the art school! She could almost see her grandmother weeping and laughing over her with loving pride. Then she sighed. With all Blair's flattery she felt so unfit to be a grand lady, a viscountess who would some day wear the Ferrers' coronet!
"If we could only stay as we are," she thought, girl-like. "It is Blair I want, not the title or the money. I would rather live with him here until we die, than be the mistress of Leyton Court. What a pity it is he is not a fisherman! I could have mended nets, and knitted his jerseys, and stockings, and cooked his dinner in time, but to learn to play the part of viscountess!—oh, it frightens me a little!"
But she laughed even as she sighed. For, after all, would not Blair be at her side to guide and protect her, and envelop her with his great, strong love?
She got up and went to the window, and as she did so she picked up a pipe of Blair's and kissed it, though the caress was followed by a grimace.
There were still some long hours to be got through before Blair and happiness came home to dinner, and she was thinking rather disconsolately of another walk when the door opened and Mrs. Day entered.
"There is a lady to see you, ma'am," she said, hesitatingly.
"A lady to see me!" said Margaret, with surprise; then thinking that it might be one of the residents, who had come to pay her the compliment of a call she said, quickly:
"Oh, I am very sorry. Will you say I am not at home, please, Mrs. Day? But are you sure she wishes to see me?—it is so unlikely."
"Yes, she wants to see you, ma'am. She said Mrs. Stanley quite distinctly. And it's no use saying not at home, because she saw you at the window."
Margaret smiled at the unsophistication which was not familiar with the conventional white lie.
"By not at home I mean that I don't want to see her," she said. "She will understand, I think, Mrs. Day."
"Very well, ma'am," said Mrs. Day, and she went out. She was back again in a couple of minutes, however.
"The lady says she has come a great distance on purpose to see you, and begs that you will see her, if only for five minutes, ma'am," she said.
Margaret changed color. Could it be her grandmother?
"Is—is it an old lady?" she asked.
"No, ma'am, quite young, I should think; she has kept her veil down. I'll send her away if you like, ma'am; after all, she sha'n't bother you if you don't want to see her, though she be so pleading."
The last words decided Margaret—and sealed her fate.
"Oh—well—then, I will see her," she said, reluctantly.
"She's in the parlor, ma'am," said Mrs. Day, still hesitating; and Margaret, after that glance in the glass without which no woman ever goes to meet another, passed into the little passage. But she paused, even with her hand on the handle of the door.
After all it was only some stranger come to beg a subscription to one of the local charities; and yet she had come from a distance! Determining to get rid of her as soon as possible—for she knew that Blair would not wish her to see any one—she opened the door and entered the room.
A woman—Margaret's quick eyes saw at a glance that she was young—was seated with her back to the window.She was dressed very simply, and yet tastefully, in clothes that were almost, if not quite, mourning, and she wore a veil.
As Margaret entered, a faint color mounting in her lovely face, the visitor gave a scarcely perceptible start, either of surprise or admiration, and the hand that held her sunshade trembled.
"Do you wish to see me?" said Margaret, in her musical voice, which seemed to affect the visitor as her face had done.
"Yes," she said in a low voice, which she appeared to keep steady by a palpable effort, "You are—Mrs. Stanley?"
The color grew a little deeper in Margaret's cheeks, and her lids fell a little; but she said quietly:
"Yes, I am Mrs. Stanley."
Thereupon the visitor raised her veil, and Margaret saw a face that was pretty, and would have been girlish, but for its pallor and the lines which had been impressed upon it either by sorrow or sickness.
When she raised her veil she let her hands drop into her lap, and clasped them tightly and nervously, and her lips quivered.
Margaret remained standing, but the visitor sank into the seat from which she had risen, as if unable to stand.
"You—you will wonder—you will be surprised at my—my presence," she began, then she broke off and clutched at her dress nervously. "Oh, how can I go on? Bear with me, I beseech you! Be patient with me, I implore!"
Margaret looked down at her with surprise, that slowly melted to pity.
"I am afraid you are in some trouble," she said, gently, and Margaret's voice, when it was gentle, was compounded of the music which is said to disarm savage beasts.
It seemed to move the pale-faced girl strangely. She caught her breath and appeared to wince.
"I am in great trouble," she said. "You cannot tell, you will never know what it has cost me to come to you. But—but it is my only chance!"
She paused to gain breath, and Margaret sank into a chair, and wondered how much she might venture to offer her. She had all the money the earl had given her for her pictures, and some other savings besides. Of course it was pecuniary trouble.
"I am very, very sorry," she said, "and if I can help you——"
"You can, and you only!" said the girl.
"Will you tell me——" murmured Margaret.
"Yes, yes, I will!" she broke in; "but give me a minute, give me time, Mrs. Stanley. I will tell you my story. If it should fail to touch your heart—but it will not; I see by your face that you have a kind heart, that, though it might be led astray, would not do a fellow-creature, a helpless woman like yourself, a deadly wrong!"
Margaret stared at her, then turned pale. That the woman was mad she had now not a shadow of a doubt; and she, not unnaturally, glanced at the door.
The girl seemed to divine her suspicions and intentions, for she put out her hand pleadingly.
"No, I am not mad! You think so now! But you will see presently that I am not! It would be better for me—yes, and for you—if I were! Heaven help us both!"
She panted so and looked so faint that Margaret half rose. There was a carafe of water and a glass on a small table near her, and the girl caught at it and filled the glass, but in lifting it to her lips she spilt some, her hand shaking like an aspen leaf.
"I will try to be calm!" she said, pleadingly, as Margaret took the glass from her. "Mrs. Stanley, I am a poor and friendless girl. I was a governess in a gentleman's family—I am not a lady by birth, but I had struggled hard to qualify myself—and I did my duty, and was"—her voice broke—"happy! One day a gentleman came to visit the family. He was young and handsome; he was more than that, he was gentle and kind to the girl who felt herself so much alone in the world. He used to come to the schoolroom, and sit and talk at the children's tea, with them, and with me. I thought there was no harm in it. I did not guess that it was me he came to see until one day he told me—all suddenly—that he loved me!"
She panted and paused, and moistened her lips, keeping her dark eyes fixed on Margaret's face.
Margaret listened with gentle patience and sympathy, feeling, however, that there was some dreadful mistake, and that the girl had mistaken her for some one else.
"I did not know how it was with me until he spoke those words, but when he said them they seemed to show me my own heart, and I knew I loved him in return. Mrs. Stanley, I was not a wicked girl. No! I did not wish to do wrong, and I told him that he must go, and never see me, or speak to me so again, or that I must leave the place that had become a home to me."
"Poor girl!" murmured Margaret unconsciously.
The girl started, looked slightly—very slightly—confused, as a child does when it is interrupted in the middle of its lesson, then, with a heavy sigh, went on:
"But he would not listen to me; he said that he lovedme as an honest girl should be loved. I fought against him and my own heart day after day, but he was too strong, and my love made me weak, and though he was rich and powerful, and I knew I was not fit to be his wife, I consented to marry him."
She stopped and eyed her listener.
Margaret, a little pale, but still wondering, gently opened the window to give her some air.
"Would you like to wait—let me get you some wine?" she murmured.
"No, no! I must go on while I have strength—while you will consent to listen," said the girl. "We were married secretly because he did not wish his powerful relatives to know anything of the marriage for awhile, and his prospects might be brighter. We were married"—she sighed—"and I was happy—oh, so happy!" and the tears coursed down her cheeks, and she hid her face in her handkerchief. "We had a pretty little cottage near London, and my husband seemed as happy as I was. He never wanted to leave my side; and so it went on for months, until—until"—she paused and panted—"until one day my husband left me—he said to see his relatives and find out if he could break it to them. He came back silent and moody, and he went away again all next day. Soon he stayed away for days, then weeks, and at last he left me altogether."
Margaret uttered an inarticulate cry of pity and sympathy and indignation.
"No, no, do not blame him," said the girl. "It was not altogether his fault. He was light-hearted and—and fickle by nature, and it was her fault as much as his."
"Hers?" said Margaret.
The girl looked at her with a vague wonder.
"Yes. Have you not guessed? The other woman!"
Margaret's face flushed.
"No!" she said.
"Yes, there was another woman. I discovered it by accident. I saw them together, and knew in an instant why he had left me. She was beautiful, more beautiful than I, and looked a lady, which I never was. And—and it was not wonderful that he should leave me—a poor, simple girl——"
"It was wicked, cruelly wicked!" exclaimed Margaret, hotly.
The girl sobbed.
"I did not know who she was! She looked good—and yet it was her fault! I went home—after seeing them—and waited for him to come that I might tax him with it! But he never came back! He sent me money—but Iwould not touch it! I—I had my savings, and I lived on them——"
"That was right!—that was right!" murmured Margaret, her womanly heart aglow.
"And—and I thought that I could learn to let him go, and live without him! But—but it was too hard a lesson! I could not! You see, I loved him so!"
"Poor girl, poor girl! Oh, he was a villain! You should have——" she stopped.
"What should I have done? Gone to him and reproached him? Oh, you do not know him! It would have made him hate me, and parted us forever and ever!"
"The law—there is justice," said Margaret.
The girl shook her head in dull misery.
"No, my pride was too great for that. Besides, I did not want my friends to know how I was treated. There was only one thing to do"—she paused, and her dark, restless eyes fixed themselves covertly on Margaret's face as if she were waiting for a cue.
"What was that?" breathed Margaret, bending forward.
"To go to the girl he had deserted me for, to go to her and pray her to let him come back to me. He was deceiving her, leading her astray, and she might turn on me and laugh at me. But she looked good, and perhaps, who knew, she might listen to my prayer! She could not love him better than I do, and if she did, she might not be so lost to all shame as to keep him from his wife!"