“Then good-by, dear.” Margery put her lips to the elder woman’s. “Give my love to Mrs. Fothergill and the doctor.”
Miss Lawson nodded and walked away.
“I am an old fool,” she declared, savagely, to herself, as she felt a tear roll down her cheek, “and I only hope I shall keep out of the way for some good!”
Left alone, Margery stood for a while at the window, gazing at the rough, angry sea; then she asked Pauline for her cloak and hat.
“Will miladi that I go with her?” asked the maid, in her broken English.
Margery shook her head.
“I shall not go far; and this wind does you no good, Pauline.”
“Miladi is so kind. If she will permit, I think that hat will not be wise. See this capuchon—so warm! It will be best.”
Margery agreed, and tied the comfortable hood round her delicate, lovely face, looking sweetly fair with her halo of red-gold curls and her deep, lustrous blue eyes. She turned toward the shore; the roaring and dashing of the sea exhilarated her, the strong, soft wind seemed to blow away the clouds of doubt and pain that hung over her. Her sorrow was lost in the pleasurable excitement that thrilled her as she stood, wind-blown and rain-drenched, and watched the great waves come rolling in, with their thunderous voices and mountains of spray. The tempest seemed to suit her humor; she reveled in the freedom and wildness of the elements as in the birth of a new life—a life with hope springing glorious within.
She moved on as quickly as the wind would allow, stopping every now and then to gather her cloak closer around her. The gale had blown her curls in rough fashion all over her hood; there was a light in her eyes, a glow of color on her fair cheeks; for the moment she looked the Margery of old, not the sad girl-widow of present days.