“Then it is wrong of you,” Lady Enid said, reprovingly, while she stroked Margery’s soft curls caressingly. “I do not mean to do so if you do. I have thought of all sorts of plans; but the best of them all is to put the whole affair into Nugent’s hands.”
“But, my dear Lady Enid, your brother, Lord Court, will have other and more important things to employ him.”
“Nugent always does anything that gives me pleasure, and this would be pleasure, indeed. You know, Margery, I have written so much about you; and only in his last letter he said he was so delighted to hear that I had at last secured a real friend and companion.”
“He is very fond of you, I know,” Margery responded, softly. She knew that on the theme of this beloved brother Lady Enid would talk for hours, and she welcomed any subject that interested the poor young patient, being content herself to listen, for it banished more painful thoughts.
“Nugent has loved me as a father, mother, brother, all in one; we were left orphans so young; and, oh, Margery, you could never fathom how dear he is to me! When I was well and could run about I can remember that my greatest treat was to have a holiday with Nugent. Then, when my illness came, and I was crippled for life, it was Nugent who brought all the happiness, all the light into my existence. We were alone in the world, and he treasured me as the greatest jewel till——” Lady Enid paused. “Margery,” she went on, after a brief silence, “I dare say you have often wondered why Nugent does not come home, why he has left me here so long alone?”
“I have, sometimes,” confessed Margery.
“And you have thought him unkind. Ah, I will not have him judged wrongly! I will tell you why he wanders abroad, leaves his old home and me, his little sister. Yes, I will tell you.”
“If it pains you, do not speak of it,” broke in Margery, seeing the pale face contract a little.
“It is dead and gone, and I need grieve no more. Nugent and I never speak of the past, but it will do me good to open my heart to you. When, as I have told you before, the doctors said I should be a cripple for life, I thought my brother’s heart would break. He grew almost ill with trouble, and it was not until he saw that I was resigned and content that he recovered. He was so good to me then; no one was allowed to touch me but he; he lifted me and carried me from my couch to the chair or to the bed; he regulated his whole life and career by me. But for my illness he would have found a prominent place in the government, and doubtless have become a great man in the political world; but he renounced all his ambitions—everything for me. We were living then in our dear old home, Court Manor, of all Nugent’s possessions the one we most cherished. I should like to take you there, Margery, to show you its quaint rooms and corridors, let you lose yourself in the pleasance and gardens. I was quite happy. Nugent never left me; together we read, studied, sung; we wanted nothing more than our two selves. Well, a day came that ended it all.
“Court Manor is in Westshire, in one of the most picturesque parts, and the village of Court consists of about half-a-dozen cottages and a tiny church. There are several country houses about, and the one nearest to us is a large, rambling old place called the Gill. This has been unoccupied, although richly furnished, for many years, the owner living abroad; but suddenly one morning we heard that the Gill was to have an occupant, and a few days later that occupant arrived. We neither saw nor heard anything of the new neighbor, till one afternoon, as Nugent was reading to me, the lower gate clanged, sounds were heard on the gravel path, and a moment later a woman on horseback passed the window. She asked to be admitted to me; but I begged Nugent to excuse me, and he received her alone. I questioned him closely when the visitor was gone; but he gave me little information about her appearance, and only said, in rather a constrained way, that she was a widow—a Mrs. Yelverton—who had taken the Gill for the hunting season.