“Then,” he said, slowly, “there is no hope, Margery?”
“None,” she murmured, faintly.
Robert Bright pressed his lips to her hands, and the next minute she heard his step grow fainter and fainter along the path, and then the click of the gate told that he was gone.
Margery sat on, dazed, almost stupefied. Then gradually memory came back to her, bringing, in all its bitterness, the old pain of the morning, with a fresh pang of sorrow for the man who had just left her. She felt as though she had been cruel to him. He had been so earnest, so eager, and yet there was no hope. No hope! Her heart echoed the dismal words. Life, that had been so bright and beautiful, was now dark and drear as winter gloom. She sat on, heedless of time’s flight, vaguely watching the sun touch the trees with its afternoon gold, and sadly musing on the dark, mysterious future that stretched before her. At last she woke from her sad thoughts. The click of the gate had caught her ear, and she realized that the afternoon was nearly gone.
“It is Dad Reuben!” she murmured, and, rising, she dragged herself from the chair, and stood, looking pale and ill, as a shadow fell over the doorway.
CHAPTER XII.
“You are Margery Daw?”
A cold voice fell on Margery’s ear. She turned, and her eyes rested on Vane Charteris, looking inexpressibly lovely and graceful in her white toilet. She looked steadily at Margery, noting with secret pleasure her worn, tear-stained face and dusty, disheveled appearance.
“I retract my first opinion,” she said to herself; “the girl is absolutely plain.”
Some vague instinct called Margery’s pride to arms. This woman hated her, she felt, though their eyes had met but once before. She drew herself up, and, resting one hand on her chair, faced her unwelcome guest. What had brought her to the cottage? Margery felt her limbs trembling; but her face showed no sign of the agony in her heart.