“I give place to a better,” Margery replied; then, with a sweet smile, she left the room.
“Is she not sweet, Nugent?” cried Lady Enid.
“It is the most beautiful face I have ever seen,” the earl involuntarily declared.
The day succeeding the Earl of Court’s arrival was passed by Margery principally in her own room. She felt that the brother and sister had much to speak of that was of moment to themselves, and she shrank, with natural delicacy, from intruding. She employed her morning in writing a long letter to Miss Lawson and painting some handscreens for Lady Enid.
The afternoon sun tempted her to go out, and she wandered round the garden in the square, ignorant that a pair of dark eyes were fixed admiringly on her slight, graceful figure and on the wealth of red-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight. It was a dreary plot of ground to call a garden—the trees were begrimed with the smoke of the city, the flower beds were faded and dull, the very earth was hard and cold-looking—yet all its dreariness was lost on Margery. She paced its paths nearly every day; but she did not see her surroundings—her mind was too full of thought. In her moments of solitude her memory claimed her, though she was struggling hard to forget—the pain of her lost love was too new yet. Again and again she would go back to those two days standing out clear and distinct from all other days—the day of happiness unspeakable and the day when the sun had shone on the hot, dusty lane, and she had heard the words that drove that wonderful happiness from her tender young heart forever. She was content, gratefully content, in her present life, for she had peace and affection; but happy, she whispered to herself, she could never be again.
Her letters to Miss Lawson were cheerful and chatty, but the governess put them aside with a strange sensation of pity. She felt that there was some great sorrow, a sorrow which Margery must bear alone, that none could alleviate. She was gratified at the success of her pupil, and from her sister, Mrs. Fothergill, she heard of the warm friendship that already existed between Lady Enid Walsh and her companion. The girl’s heartfelt gratitude pleased and touched Miss Lawson, and she was glad to know that her judgment of the maid’s character had been right; that Margery was all she had expected. Gratitude, indeed, was the warmest feeling in Margery’s breast just now; she could not thank her governess enough for assisting her at a time when she most needed assistance. To have stayed at Hurstley would have been worse than death, she told herself. As she crept away in the freshness of the morning, she took her farewell of all that had been dearest and best to her, and, with a courage born of despair, faced the unknown future unfalteringly. Reuben Morris had accepted with little surprise the news of her hasty departure; he knew that Miss Lawson loved the girl in her quiet way, and would watch over her, and her speed to be gone matched his own plans, for the vessel started three days earlier than he had expected, and there was no time to be lost.
Margery traveled up to the great city, silent and sorrowful, her hand clasped in Reuben’s, with Miss Lawson by her side. Not till she reached the docks, whither she had pleaded to be allowed to accompany Reuben, did she learn that Robert Bright, too, sailed away from the old country in the same ship, and the news was the last drop in her already overflowing cup of grief. She spoke a few words to him, urging him to stay; but, when she learned that her love was all that could keep him, she was silent; it was impossible—it could never be. So the two men went together, and Margery stood beside Miss Lawson, the tears blinding her eyes as the huge vessel glided away. Then, in silence, they retraced their steps, and Margery was launched upon the world. Her secret was safe. Hurstley chattered of her as in Australia, with Reuben Morris and her lover; but Miss Lawson’s lips were closed; she kept her promise.
CHAPTER XV.
Margery was walking slowly to and fro in the square garden, buried in her thoughts, when a firm step coming toward her made her raise her head, and she saw Lord Court, looking almost handsome and undeniably soldierly in the sunlight.