“Have you spoken to Reuben?” she asked.
“No; but I will at once. He leaves Hurstley himself at the end of the week.”
“Well, I am heartily glad, child, you have decided on this. I think you will be happy.”
“I shall be away from here, and that will be enough,” was Margery’s muttered thought.
“I will speak to Mrs. Carr to-night. She will spare me to-morrow, I know,” continued Miss Lawson. “You must be ready about eight in the morning, Margery. Your luggage will not be much; perhaps you can arrange with Reuben to take it for you to the corner of the lane, and I will meet you there with the village fly.”
“Thank you,” said Margery again.
All was settled, and a feeling of peace stole into her breast. She would disappear—leave behind her everything that recalled her brief dream of bliss, her agony of grief. Stuart would be troubled no more with the sight of her sad face to dim his happiness. He had regarded her as a poor village girl, without heart, mind or pride—a toy with which to while away the long, dull hours; and, as he had forgotten her—as she had gone from his memory—she would creep away in deed and in truth. She felt, as she sat in the twilight of the room that had seen her so often in her young, fresh content, that she would be satisfied if her name could be forgotten by Hurstley forever, if, with her departure, the veil of mystery that hung over her birth might envelop her in its folds, and she might be lost.
Miss Lawson, turning from her writing-desk, saw the plaintive look on the girl’s face.
“What is it, Margery?” she asked, abruptly.
Margery broke from her thoughts.