“So, Stuart, I leave this in your hands. If I succumb, seek out my Margery and give her her rights. To you I leave all, for I know you will do as I wish; and remember she is your cousin and your equal. Guard her, Stuart, from harm, if it be in your power, and may Heaven bless and reward you for all you may do! It will be necessary to explain how I discovered Margery to be my child. As I told you, I made most minute inquiries, learning all particulars from people both in Chesterham and Hurstley. I sought for Dr. Scott, the medical man who had attended during the railway accident; he had left Chesterham many years before, but he remembered the incident well, and his description of the poor dead woman only confirmed my hopes and fears. Acting upon his advice, I went to Newton, and by dint of money and able men traced my darling’s life during two long years of misery. The story of her sufferings, of her daily toil, her heart-broken life, I cannot dwell on. Heaven grant you may never know the terrible agony of hopeless remorse and longing that I am now enduring! Despair seizes me when I remember my madness, her wrong—my angel-wife! Even the joy of finding my child cannot bring me peace. The happiness I experience in the knowledge of her existence is tinged with never-dying bitterness and sorrow, for she recalls her mother.
“But I weary you with my moans, Stuart; let me get on with my story. Gladys then, without a friend in the world—for her aunt would have nothing to say to her, being especially bitter when she learned we were separated—doubted and wronged, had, in addition to her other troubles, the hardship of poverty to face. She struggled to get employment, with little success however; from time to time she managed to make money by teaching, but this never for long. Still, through all her trials, her courage never forsook her; she lived for her child. I have spoken with some who knew her in those days; they dwelt on her sadness, her sweetness, her innate refinement, little knowing how their words rent my heart. It would be useless to describe the hopelessness, the misery of her life; she parted with all her jewelry, and at last in desperation answered an advertisement for a situation as maid.
“Beyond this I cannot write positively, but my heart tells me the truth. The situation that Gladys had obtained meant separation from her child. She had heard me speak of my cousins, the Crosbies; and I am convinced she was on her way to seek protection from your mother and shelter for the baby before taking up her new duties, when death claimed her and ended her sorrows.
“I inclose with this letter the certificates of our marriage and of Margery’s birth. My lawyers have in their possession a small box, which after my death they will hand to you. It contains the jewelry that belonged to my wife. Give it to Margery. And now, Stuart, I have finished. Pray befriend and guard my child as far as lies in your power. My heart is full of gratitude when I think of the good, kind women who took her, a weak, helpless babe, and tended her so well. I have written to Lady Coningham words of gratitude that sound empty compared with the feelings that prompt them; would that I could have done so to the others—Mrs. Graham and Mary Morris! But death has garnered them, and the power is taken from me. One thing more, Stuart—lay me beside Gladys in the little country churchyard where kind, strange hands laid her; though in life we were separated so ruthlessly, let us in death be together.”
Stuart had sat long after he had read the letter, his heart aching with pity for his dead cousin. The tale of sorrow was so heavy that for a time it banished his own grief; but, as he rose and paced the room, the memory of his duty brought all back clearly, and he saw the bitterness of the task before him. A faint wave of gladness for her sake was checked by the reflection that they were parted forever. Still he would be firm; he was pledged to the dead; and, even were the pain deadly, he would keep his word, seek out Margery, and give her her rights as his cousin, and heiress to Beecham Park.
The news that caused Mrs. Crosbie such wrath and annoyance brought alarm and fear unspeakable to Vane Charteris’ breast. This unexpected blow following on her unexpected success almost crushed her by its suddenness. Stuart would meet Margery, learn the truth, and she would be humiliated and disgraced. Moved by her anxiety, she added her voice to his mother’s, and endeavored to shake his determination to sail for Australia. She did not betray herself by word or look; she only spoke prettily of her loneliness, and of how it would be a wiser course to send out an agent to the antipodes in search of his new cousin, and not to go himself. She stored her speech with references to Margery’s faithlessness, hoping they would take effect; but it was all to no purpose. Stuart was firm, and refused to be turned from his determination. Had his father added his voice to the others, he might have yielded; but the squire was eager that Stuart should fulfill his promise, and declared truthfully that his health was so much stronger that his son might leave him without any hesitation. So, instead of the clear sky which Vane had pictured to herself, clouds were gathering on all sides, and fear planted thorns at every step in her path, making her faint with apprehension and dread of exposure and disgrace.
CHAPTER XXV.
Margery was strangely affected when she learned that Sir Douglas Gerant was dead. She could not banish from her mind the thought that in some way her presence had caused him distress. The earl saw her pained face, and immediately determined to put all business affairs aside and take his wife down to Court Manor. So, on the afternoon following her visit to the late baronet, Margery was carried away from London to her new home.
When she arrived it was too dark for her to see her surroundings; but the pure freshness of the country air, the silence after the bustle and noise of the London streets, the faint soughing of the wind in the trees, brought a thrill of peace and gladness to her, and as she stood at the low, wide door and gazed around the quaint, rambling hall she looked so pleased and comforted that the earl’s heart rejoiced. It was a delightful old-world place. The corners and crevices, the rooms filled with serviceable furniture of no modern date, the smell of the flowers, the glow of the firelight—all seemed to speak of home. It was a haven of rest and quiet after the storm of the past few months. And if at night this feeling came, it was even stronger in the morning. As she drew her curtains aside and looked out over the wide vista of country, Margery gave a little sigh of relief. Here she had nothing to fear, nothing to remind her of the past; here it would be easy to forget and grow content.
The pain that contracted Nugent’s heart as he stood once more in his old home ceased when he saw the glow of hope, love, and happiness on his wife’s delicate, lovely face, and he pictured to himself a future all brightness and gladness. In both their hearts, as they entered the house, the same memory lived—the memory of Lady Enid. Margery sent up a little prayer to Heaven that she might prove grateful to the man whose heart was so tender and true, whose sufferings had been so great, and he mutely thanked his angel-sister that ere she went she bequeathed so great a treasure to him as Margery.