“Has Dr. Metcalf seen her to-day?”
“Yes, madame, but he said nothing to me—he looked very grave.”
“I was going to send her down some beef tea and jelly, but as I have met you it will save the servant a journey. Get in beside Thomas; I will drive you to the castle, and you can take the things to your mother.”
Mrs. Crosbie pointed to a seat beside the groom. She was for some reason always annoyed when she came in contact with this girl. In the first place, Margery spoke and moved as her equal; she never dropped the customary courtesy, nor appeared to grasp for an instant the magnitude of the castle dignity. Mrs. Crosbie was wont to declare that the girl was being ruined; that Catherine Coningham had behaved like an idiot; that, because the child had worn delicate clothes and the dead woman had seemed in every way a lady, Margery should be brought up and educated as such was preposterous. It was all absurd, Mrs. Crosbie affirmed, a mere shadow of romance. The letter in the mother’s pocket had plainly stated her position—she was a maid, and nothing else, and all speculation as to an honorable connection was ridiculous and far-fetched. Mrs. Crosbie did not quarrel with Lady Coningham for rescuing the baby from the workhouse—charity she upheld in every way—but she maintained that Margery should have been placed with Mrs. Morris as her child, and that she should have learned her A, B, C with the other village children in the village school, and that the story of the railway accident and her mother’s death should have been carefully withheld from the child. Now the girl’s head was full of nothing but herself. The mistress of Crosbie Castle opined that she was fit for no situation, and consequently would come to no good.
Margery was ignorant of all this; but she was never entirely comfortable in Mrs. Crosbie’s presence. The waif had within her the germ of pride every whit as great and strong as that possessed by Stuart’s mother. Hitherto she had had no reason to intrench herself in this natural fortress, for all the village loved her; the very fact that Lady Coningham had adopted and educated her raised Margery in their eyes. So the girl had received kindness, in many cases respect; and she was as happy as the lark, save when a wave of mournful thought brought back the memory of her mother.
Mrs. Crosbie wronged her. Margery had not a spice of arrogance in her composition—she had only the innate feeling that she was not of the village class, and, with the true delicacy and instinct of a lady, forbore even to express this.
There was plenty of room on the front seat, but Mrs. Crosbie would not have dreamed of bidding the girl to sit there—she relegated her to what she considered her proper place, among the servants. Margery’s face flushed a little.
“If you will allow me,” she said, with her natural grace, “I will walk up to the castle, thank you very much.”
“Do as I tell you,” commanded Mrs. Crosbie, quietly. “Thomas, make room for Margery Daw.”
Margery bit her lip and hesitated for a moment, then the memory of the poor sick woman at home came to her. If she offended madame, mother would have no more delicacies, so, without another word, she stepped in and was driven briskly out of the village. She sat very quiet beside the shy groom, and, opening her book, a collection of short German stories, soon lost her vexation in their delights.