“Vane, let me present to you one of my old playfellows—Margery Daw. You were wanting some one to point out all the beauties of Hurstley. I am sure no one could do that half so well as Margery.”
Miss Charteris bent her head and smiled at her cousin.
“Many thanks, Stuart; but you forget we have planned to discover the mysteries of the country together without any assistance—a spice of adventure is always charming.”
Margery turned away, with a bow to Stuart—she did not speak, or look at his companion—and she overheard Miss Charteris say, with a scornful laugh, as she walked back to her seat:
“Dear Cousin Stuart, you should be more merciful; that girl’s hair is so painfully red, it makes me quite uncomfortable in this heat.”
Margery did not hear the reply—her lips were quivering and her hands trembling with mortification—and, when she looked up again, the housekeeper was handing her a basket, and the cousins were gone.
“Madame sends your mother some beef tea, a bottle of brandy, and some fruit and jelly,” said the housekeeper, closing the basket lid. “It is rather heavy; and mind you, carry it carefully. Can you manage it?”
“Yes,” said Margery, steadily. “Thank you; I am much obliged.”
She turned with her heavy load and walked across the courtyard, her heart no lighter than her basket.
That lovely looking stranger had made fun of her—fun—and to Mr. Stuart! Perhaps he had laughed, too. The thought was too painful. And was she not a sight? Look at her old pink gown, well washed and mended, her clumsy boots, her sunburned hands. The memory of that dainty figure looking like a fairy in her delicate garments rose to her mind, and her head drooped. Yes, she was a common village girl—madame treated her as such; and now Mr. Stuart would turn, too. Oh, why could she not tear aside the veil of mystery and know what she really was? Could that face treasured in her locket be only the face of a maid, or did her heart speak truly when it called that mother madame’s equal?