A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.”
Yes, that was all that remained now, “a broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.” Her life might be sweet again, but it would never be as it was on that evening in Weald Wood, when her young heart was first touched by love.
Lord Court was absent two days; then he suddenly announced his intended return. Margery was wandering in the gardens and the pleasance when Pauline brought the telegram to her. With a vague sense of apprehension, Margery tore it open.
“Your master returns to-night, and brings a guest. Tell Mrs. Perry to see that the rooms are prepared, Pauline.”
Pauline nodded her head in a self-satisfied manner.
“I am glad. Milord will be welcome; it is so gloomy here for miladi alone. Ah, and miladi will make a grand toilet to-night?”
“I leave myself in your hands, Pauline,” returned Lady Court, with a faint smile, which vanished when she was left alone.
Her husband was returning again! Once more she would suffer the agony of pain and remorse in his presence; but she must be strong, and remember only her duty and how much she owed him.
The afternoon wore away, and evening was drawing on. It was dark and gloomy, one of those unpleasant days that come in November. Margery walked to and fro, till she was wearied, and then turned into a small room that she had chosen for her boudoir. She gave the order for the carriage to be sent to meet the earl, and sunk down before the fire, resting her head on a low velvet chair. She wore a heavy mourning-robe, simple yet costly, and her delicate face and throat gleamed with so dark a setting. She was altered from the Margery of the summer, yet her face was only a child’s face. Her youth, the purity of her countenance, her deep sapphire eyes, her curly silken masses of red-gold curls, were the admiration of Pauline. She brought her mistress some tea, served in fragile Sèvres china, and then stood for an instant and looked down on the face that was so fair in the fireglow.
“Miladi is tired,” she said, sympathetically; “she walks so much.”