“I dismissed her from my mind, and life went on as usual for a few days; then it seemed to me that Nugent was out a great deal more than formerly. He was hurried, almost ill at ease, during our readings; and, when I asked him the reason, he at last confessed that Mrs. Yelverton had organized regular hunting parties at her house, and had begged him to join them. I submitted gladly, for I had long thought the life was dull for him; and so the days passed on slowly, and we drifted gradually apart. I saw Mrs. Yelverton only once, and then I was almost dazzled by the brilliancy of her beauty. Her coloring was so rich, so vivid, that others paled beside her, and her eyes, of a most unprepossessing tawny shade, filled me with vague alarm. Apparently, she did not care for me, for she never repeated her visit; and I was left in peace till the end came.
“I will not linger over the rest, Margery; you can guess it. Nugent had grown to love her—he was bewitched by her beauty; and he whispered to me one evening that she had promised to become his wife. I tried to murmur words of happiness; but my heart failed me, and I could do nothing but look into his dear face with eyes that would speak my distress. Nugent left me that night, hurt at my coldness; but all thought of me was banished in the golden glory of his brief love-dream. Brief! It was but three months after his betrothal that his dream was shattered.”
Lady Enid moved restlessly in her chair, and Margery, noticing her agitation, pressed tenderly the hot hands that were clasped together.
“Do not go on,” she whispered; “it pains you.”
“No, no! I like to tell you, dear,” replied Lady Enid hurriedly. “Nugent was starting one morning to ride to the Gill; he had come into my room to kiss and greet me, and was eager to be gone, when the footman entered with a note. Nugent broke the seal and read it hurriedly, then, with a face like death, staggered to a chair. I begged in piteous tones that he would speak to me, tell me what had happened—for, alas! I could not move!—and after a while he thrust the note into my hands. It was from a man signing himself ‘Roe,’ stating that he had heard his wife was about to commit bigamy with the Earl of Court, under the assumed name of Mrs. Yelverton, and he warned Nugent against her in words that were more than forcible. I tried to speak to my brother; but his looks checked the words on my lips, and he strode out of the room, mounted his horse, and tore like a madman to the Gill.
“You can picture the misery of that day, Margery. I tossed and moaned alone—longing for, yet dreading Nugent’s return. At last he came, and I heard the end—the agony in his face and voice would have wounded you to the quick, Margery. The woman was indeed Roe’s wife, and, when Nugent reached the Gill, he found everything in the wildest confusion. The man and wife had had an interview, in which he informed her that Lord Court knew the truth; and this so incensed her that she drew out a revolver and fired at him. Fortunately, the bullet missed him, and the woman, finding herself baffled, fled. Roe told Nugent the story of his miserable life. His wife had deserted him, destroyed his whole career. He described her as a desperate character, and thoroughly abandoned. His words were true; for, Margery, it was discovered that she had gathered together all the treasures of the Gill, and would have eloped that very night with a man who had served her as groom during her stay there.
“Nugent seemed turned to stone when all was over; it almost killed me to see him wandering about listlessly, all happiness crushed out of his life. Then I spoke to him and tried to persuade him to go abroad, to leave Court Manor for a time. At first he would not listen to me; but, after a while, the idea seemed to please him, and he went, leaving me alone and miserable, and I came here, ostensibly to be under the London doctors. I have seen him only for a few days together in the four years that have passed since that time; but his letters of late have been brighter, and I live in the hope that he will return to me as he was before his life was clouded.”
“It is a sad story,” murmured Margery. She had risen, and was leaning against the broad chimney-board. Trickery and deceit—who knew better than she how bitter, how terrible they were? Did not her heart beat in warm sympathy for this man, with his wounded heart, his life spoiled by false vows? The story brought back the agony of by-gone days; it paled her face and made her hands tremble.
Lady Enid saw the distress she had produced, but attributed it to the girl’s sympathetic nature.
“Dear Margery,” she said, gently, “do not look so sad. You have a tender heart, dear; I am sorry I told you.”