“Shall I bring you a chair here, Miss Lawson?” she asked, quietly—this news of her mother’s illness had fallen as a cloud on the brilliancy of her joy.
“No. Come outside and stroll part of the way home with me,” said Miss Lawson. “I have something of importance to say to you—indeed, I have wanted to speak to you for several days past; but I had nothing very definite in my mind at the time. To-day I have.”
Margery followed the rectory governess down the path in silence.
“Margery,” began Miss Lawson, abruptly, “have you ever thought about your future? Have you ever thought what will become of you when Mary Morris dies?”
The flush called up by the first sentence died away quickly, and Margery’s face paled. She put her hand suddenly to her heart.
“Is she going to die so soon?” she murmured, involuntarily. “Oh, Miss Lawson, you do not think she will die soon?”
“It is impossible to say,” returned the elder woman, quietly. “Mrs. Morris has been gradually sinking all this summer; she may linger for months, or she may pass away at any moment. It is not her present illness that has caused me to speak; as I tell you, I have intended doing so for days past. I have considered it my duty to put matters clearly before you.”
She paused for an instant. Margery’s face was pained and sad; her heart was heavy with sorrow and dread; all sunshine seemed suddenly to have gone from her life, and, for the moment, Stuart, her lover, was forgotten.
“Perhaps you will think me harsh,” Miss Lawson went on, “when I say that I consider it time you began to plan your future life. Remember, you are now about seventeen, and in another year—indeed, now—should take upon yourself the responsibilities of life. Hitherto you have been tended and cared for by two women. Lady Coningham has opened her purse generously, poor Mary Morris has lavished the wealth of her whole heart on you; but now, when she is taken from you, you will have but Lady Coningham to fall back upon; and, unless I judge you wrongly, I think you will grow weary of your dependence and long to be free. Don’t think me unkind, child,” continued Miss Lawson, putting a hand on the girl’s slender shoulder. “If I did not like you so much—if I did not know the good in your nature—I should not speak so plainly. But you must review your position. You are grown now almost to womanhood; you are educated above the level of many a girl of wealthier station; you have natural gifts that will aid you; and I say distinctly, you should shake yourself free, not with ingratitude, but with a sense of duty and independence. Believe me, Margery, in the long run you will be far happier.”
“Yes, you are right,” the girl assented. She had followed each word and grasped the meaning instantly. Her natural pride was roused in one moment, and she felt a thrill of desire to add no more to her heavy debt of kindness—to be indeed free.