“It is a lovely day,” went on the earl. “I long to drag you from this gloomy room; a drive will do you good, I am sure.”
“Yes, I know it will.”
Margery knelt for an instant beside the couch.
“Are you quite sure?” she whispered. “Will Dr. Fothergill——”
“He has urged me to go many times,” Lady Enid interrupted, kissing her; “so run and put on your hat.”
Margery went with a light heart, and in a few minutes followed the slight figure on its straight, padded board to the luxurious barouche. Lady Enid’s couch was placed in the carriage, for she was compelled to retain her recumbent position, and, with a heart full of pity, Margery took her seat beside the invalid.
London was very full, considering that the shooting season had commenced, and many people came to the side of the carriage, either to bow or to offer their greetings to Lady Enid. To all of these acquaintances Margery was introduced as “my dear friend,” and her heart swelled with gratitude to Lady Enid for her delicacy and consideration. Lord Court, though he was busy talking, lost none of the varying expressions that passed across her face. Gradually it was becoming a pleasure to him to be near this girl whom his sister loved; he recognized the rare beauty of her nature, her inborn refinement, and her pride and grace won from him attentions that many another woman had sighed for in vain. Margery was always gratified by his courtesy, though his growing admiration was lost on her. She sat back in the carriage listening to the conversation, speaking only when addressed.
The earl had judged rightly—the drive seemed to have brought new life to his sister. She chatted gayly, breathing the soft air with avidity, and his hope rose higher and higher as he gazed at her animated face. They had turned into the park, which was filled with carriages and equestrians, and Margery, who had been only once before in this part of London, grew interested in watching the groups of people passing to and fro.
Lord Court’s eyes wandered from his sister’s face to hers, and a sense of peace such as he had never felt in the past four years crept into his heart. Lady Enid saw his eyes turned on Margery, and she smiled to herself a happy little smile; she felt that these two would be friends, and the thought pleased her. Just as they were turning to leave the park, a gentleman rode up to the carriage and entered into conversation with the earl and Lady Enid. Margery sat back, and let her eyes and thoughts wander. She watched, with a smile on her face, two children struggling for a doll, heedless of the voice of their nurse; then suddenly the smile faded, and her heart seemed to stand still. Beneath the trees to their right a party of riders was just moving on—a woman between two men, followed by two grooms. Margery’s cheeks blanched, and her hands trembled; she knew that graceful form only too well. It was Vane Charteris—Vane Charteris, with the smile of content, the glow of perfect happiness on her lovely face; and beside her rode Stuart Crosbie. Margery had looked but once, yet she saw only too well. Vane had turned with a smile to her lover, and he, bending close to her, was murmuring words the tenderness of which might have been guessed by the earnest gaze that accompanied them.
Margery drew back in her seat as they passed; it was a moment of bitter agony. She had thought herself schooled to meet sorrow, that she was able to be firm, that she had cast out all love and despair from her heart, and filled it with a desire for utter forgetfulness. Now she saw herself in her weakness. The very sight of Vane Charteris brought back the humiliation she had suffered, while the sight of Stuart, the man who had deceived her, insulted her, wrecked her life at its very beginning, brought back the tumultuous joy of that evening in the Weald Wood, the never-ending sorrow of her loss. Ah, she might be as brave as she would, away, but a glimpse of his face had broken down all the barriers that pride had been setting up during these past weeks, and left her as weak as before!