NEW BERTHA CLAY LIBRARY No. 110

Margery Daw

BY

Bertha M. Clay

A FAVORITE OF MILLIONS

New Bertha Clay Library

LOVE STORIES WITH PLENTY OF ACTION

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS

The Author Needs No Introduction

Countless millions of women have enjoyed the works of this author. They are in great demand everywhere. The following list contains her best work, and is the only authorized edition.

These stories teem with action, and what is more desirable, they are clean from start to finish. They are love stories, but are of a type that is wholesome and totally different from the cheap, sordid fiction that is being published by unscrupulous publishers.

There is a surprising variety about Miss Clay’s work. Each book in this list is sure to give satisfaction.

ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

To Be Published in July, 1923.

To Be Published in August, 1923.

To Be Published in September, 1923.

To Be Published in October, 1923.

To Be Published in November, 1923.

To Be Published in December, 1923.

LOVE STORIES

All the world loves a lover. That is why Bertha M. Clay ranks so high in the opinion of millions of American readers who prefer a good love story to anything else they can get in the way of reading matter.

These stories are true to life—that’s why they make such a strong appeal. Read one of them and judge.

MARGERY DAW

A NOVEL

BY

BERTHA M. CLAY

Whose complete works will be published in this, the New Bertha Clay Library.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

(Printed in the United States of America)

MARGERY DAW.

CONTENTS.

[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II.]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[CHAPTER V.]
[CHAPTER VI.]
[CHAPTER VII.]
[CHAPTER VIII.]
[CHAPTER IX.]
[CHAPTER X.]
[CHAPTER XI.]
[CHAPTER XII.]
[CHAPTER XIII.]
[CHAPTER XIV.]
[CHAPTER XV.]
[CHAPTER XVI.]
[CHAPTER XVII.]
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
[CHAPTER XIX.]
[CHAPTER XX.]
[CHAPTER XXI.]
[CHAPTER XXII.]
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
[CHAPTER XXV.]
[CHAPTER XXVI.]
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
[CHAPTER XXX.]

CHAPTER I.

“Stand back there! Move aside! Good heavens! Can’t you see the woman will die if you press about her in this way?”

The speaker bent over the lifeless form as he uttered these words, and tried once more to pour a little stimulant between the pallid lips. The scene was one of indescribable confusion. A collision had occurred between the Chesterham express and a goods train, just a short distance from Chesterham Junction. Five of the carriages were wrecked. Fortunately, three were empty; and the other two contained only three passengers—a man, who, with his arm bound up, was already starting to walk to the town; a boy, badly cut about the head, leaning, pale and faint, on a portion of the broken woodwork; and, lastly, a woman, who lay motionless on the bank, a thick shawl spread between her and the cold, damp earth. On discovery, she had been removed from the débris, laid on the bank, and forgotten in the excitement and terror. The rest of the passengers had sustained only a severe shaking and bruises; and loud were their grumblings and expressions of self-sympathy as they clustered together on the bank, shivering in the gray autumn mist. A doctor, who had been summoned from Chesterham, ran his eye over the assembled people, strapped up the boy’s head, and skillfully set the broken arm of the man. It was while doing this that his glance fell on the prostrate form lying on the grass; and the sight of the pale, bloodless face immediately brought a frown to his brow.

“What is the matter here?” he asked a passing porter.

“Lady in a faint, sir.”

The doctor fastened the last bandage, and, with hurried steps, approached the woman. A crowd followed him, and gathered round so closely as to cause him to request them to “stand back.” His words produced the desired effect, and the bystanders moved away and watched, with breathless interest, his fruitless efforts to restore animation.

The frown darkened on the doctor’s brow; there was something more than an ordinary faint here. He raised the woman’s head for another trial, and the mass of red-gold hair, already loosened, fell in glorious waves round the beautiful, pale face, bringing a murmur of admiration from the beholders. The sudden action caused one limp, cold hand to fall against the doctor’s warm one, and at the contact he shuddered. He raised the heavily-fringed eyelids, gave one look, then gently laid the woman’s head down again, and reverently covered her face with his handkerchief.

“I can do nothing,” he said, tersely, as if speaking to himself; “she is dead!”

The crowd drew back involuntarily; some hid their faces, while others gazed at the slight form in its dark-brown dress as if they doubted the truth of his statement. Suddenly, while the doctor stood thoughtfully drawing on his gloves, one of the porters appeared in the crowd. He held a child in his arms—such a pretty child—with hair that matched the red-gold masses of the lifeless form on the bank, eyes that shone like sapphire stars from beneath her curling lashes, and a skin of cream white, with no warmth of color in the face, save that of the small, red lips. She was dressed in a little gray coat, all covered now with dust; in her tiny hands she clasped a piece of broken woodwork, holding it as though it were a treasure, and she glanced round at the bystanders with an air of childish piquancy and assurance.

“Whose child is this?” inquired the porter, looking from one to another.

There was a pause; no one spoke; no one owned her. The porter’s honest face grew troubled.

“Where does she come from?” asked the doctor, quickly.

“We have just picked her from under the roof of a second-class carriage,” the porter explained. “We were turning it over—you see, sir, it fell some distance from the rest of the carriage—and when we lifted it we found this mite a-singing to herself and nursing her dolly, as she calls this piece of wood. It’s by Heaven’s mercy she ain’t been smashed to bits; but she ain’t got not even a bruise. She must belong to some one,” he added, looking round again.

A lady in the crowd here stepped forward.

“Give her to me,” she said, kindly. “Perhaps she was traveling alone; if so, that will be explained, no doubt, by a letter or something.”

But the child clung to the porter, her pretty brows puckered, her red lips quivering.

“Mammie!” she cried, plaintively. “I wants my mammie!”

The doctor turned and looked at the child, and at that instant she suddenly wriggled and twisted herself from the porter’s arms to the ground, and, running to the silent form lying on the bank, crouched down and clutched a bit of the brown dress in her hands.

“Mammie,” she said, confidently, looking round with her great, blue eyes on the circle of faces, all of which expressed horror, pity and sadness; “Mardie’s mammie!”

The doctor stooped, drew back the handkerchief, and glanced from the living to the dead.

“Yes,” he said, abruptly; “this is her mother. Heaven have mercy on her, poor little soul!”

The lady who had come forward went up to the child, her eyes filled with tears. She loosened the dress from the small fingers.

“Mardie must be good,” she said, tenderly, “and not wake her mammie. Mammie has gone to sleep.”

The child looked at the still form, the covered face.

“Mammie seep,” she repeated; “Mardie no peak, mammie—be good,” and she lowered her voice to a whisper and repeated, “be good.” She suffered herself to be lifted in the kind, motherly arms, and pressed her bit of wood closer to her, humming in a low voice.

“We must find out who she is,” the doctor said, his eyes wandering again and again to the dead woman. “She must be carried to the town; there will be an inquest.”

A passenger at this moment pointed to some vehicles coming toward them. They could not drive close to the spot, as a plowed field stretched between the railway and the road, and one by one the group dispersed, all stopping to pat the child’s face and speak to her. The doctor gave some orders to the porter who had found the child, and a litter, formed of a broken carriage door, was hastily improvised. As the crowd withdrew, he knelt down by the dead woman, and, with reverent hands, searched in the pockets for some clew. He drew out a purse, shabby and small, and, opening this, found only a few shillings and a railway ticket, a second-class return from Euston to Chesterham. In an inner recess of the purse there was a folded paper, which disclosed a curl of ruddy-gold hair when opened, and on which was written: “Baby Margery’s hair, August 19th.”

The doctor carefully replaced it. A key and a tiny, old-fashioned worthless locket were the remainder of the contents. He checked a little sigh as he closed the purse, and then proceeded to search further. A pocket handkerchief, with the letter “M” in one corner, and a pair of dogskin gloves, worn and neatly mended, were the next objects, and one letter, which—after replacing the gloves and handkerchief—he opened hurriedly. The lady, still holding the child in her arms, watched him anxiously. The envelope, which was already broken, was addressed to “M., care of Post Office, Newtown, Middlesex.” The doctor unfolded the note. It ran as follows:

Mrs. Huntley will engage “M.” if proper references are forwarded. Mrs. Huntley would require “M.” to begin her duties as maid, should her references prove satisfactory, as soon as possible. “M.’s” statement that she speaks French and German fluently has induced Mrs. Huntley to reconsider the question of salary. She will now give “M.” twenty-five pounds per annum, for which sum “M.” must undertake to converse daily with Mr. Huntley’s daughter in French and German, in addition to her duties as maid. Mrs. Huntley desires that “M.” will send her real name by return of post.

Upton Manor, near Liddlefield, Yorkshire.

November 15th, 18——.

The doctor handed the note to the lady, who read it through quickly.

“That does not give much information,” he observed, rising from his knees.

“Dated yesterday—received this morning. We must telegraph to this Mrs. Huntley; who knows?—the poor creature may have sent her references, with her full name, before starting from London.”

“Yes, you are right; we must do that. But what is to become of the child? Are you staying here for long, madam?”

“No,” replied the lady; “I had intended to travel straight on to the North. But I shall remain in Chesterham for the night, and continue my journey to-morrow. I wish I could delay it longer; but, unfortunately, my son is ill in Edinburgh, and I must get to him as soon as possible. However, I will take care of this poor little mite to-night. I hope by the morning we shall have discovered her friends and relations.”

“If you will do that,” said the doctor, “I will see to the mother. I must have the body carried to the infirmary.”

He beckoned, as he spoke, to the porter, who was standing at a little distance, talking to the crowd of natives who had arrived to clear the line, and the dead woman was lifted on to the litter, and covered with a rug belonging to the lady who had taken charge of the child. She watched the proceedings with a feeling of unspeakable sadness, and, as the melancholy burden was carried toward one of the cabs, she clasped the child closer to her breast, and tears stole down her cheeks.

The baby, cooing to her strange doll, looked up as they moved across the field. She put up one little hand and rubbed away a tear from the motherly face.

“No kye,” she said, in her pretty, lisping fashion. “Mardie dood—she no kye.”

The lady kissed the small lips.

“Mardie is a sweet angel,” she whispered; “and now she shall come with me to a pretty place and have some nice dinner.”

“Din-din,” said the child, nodding her head with its wealth of red-gold curls. “Mardie ’ungry. Mammie a din-din, too?”

The lady shivered.

“Yes, mammie will go to a pretty place, too,” she answered hurriedly.

When they reached the cab, the doctor came up to them.

“If you will allow me to suggest, The Plow is the best hotel. I would come with you, but I must drive straight to the infirmary. Give me the child for a moment while you get in. She has lost her hat, poor little thing; but the town is not far off, and the best place for her will be in bed.”

Mardie went willingly to the doctor’s arms. She prattled to him about the “din-din” and “mammie,” but much was unintelligible to him. She did not ask for her mother or seem strange. “Mammie a seep,” she asserted several times, in a whisper; and she was content with the two kind beings whose hearts were heavy with pain as they thought of the long, dreary path she must tread henceforth without a touch from the loving hands, or a word from the tender voice she knew so well.

“There, madam,” and the doctor placed the small, gray-clad form in the cab. “This poor little mite cannot thank you herself; but, if you will allow me, in humanity’s name to offer you gratitude——”

The lady stopped him.

“I have done no more than my duty. I thank you, sir, for your courtesy. Will you kindly let me know as early as possible the results of your telegram? I will go to the Plow; my name is Graham.”

“And mine Scott. I will certainly let you know the instant I receive any intelligence. Something must be done with this child; but that is for to-morrow’s consideration. She is safe in your hands for to-night.”

Dr. Scott raised his hat, and the cab started along the country lane toward Chesterham. Mrs. Graham drew Mardie on to her knee, and tried to chat to the child; but her whole nervous system was so shattered by the events of the past hour that the effort was vain.

Chesterham was a large manufacturing town. The news of the collision had spread rapidly, and, although the November dusk was closing in, crowds were thronging to the scene of the disaster. Mrs. Graham leaned back in a corner to escape the eager eyes, for she knew the story of the young mother’s death would be known by now, and her natural refinement and delicacy shrunk from vulgar curiosity and hysterical excitement. The cab soon rattled into Chesterham, and, after a short journey through the lamp-lighted streets, stopped before the door of The Plow. Mardie was handed out to a pretty-faced chambermaid, whose bright cap ribbon immediately claimed the child’s attention, and Mrs. Graham followed slowly and wearily up the stairs, feeling her strength go at every step. The babyish voice and shrill peals of laughter echoed in her ears as the wail of future grief; her eyes were fixed on the small form, but her thoughts were with the dead young mother.

She dismissed the maid when she reached her room, and, drawing Mardie to her, began to loosen the gray coat, which bore traces of dainty design beneath the dust and dirt. For the first time the child seemed to feel her loss.

“Mammie undress Mardie,” she said, putting up one little hand. “Mammie seep now, but wake soon.”

“Mammie would like Mardie to take off her coat like a good girl,” Mrs. Graham replied, feeling instinctively that the youthful mind grasped already the meaning of love and duty.

The child dropped her hand and nodded her head, then submitted to have the coat removed. She was neatly dressed in a dark-red cashmere frock, made loose like a blouse; she wore a tiny thread of gold round her neck, with a little heart-shaped pendant suspended. Mrs. Graham took it in her hand, eagerly hoping to find some clew; but, on turning it, her eyes rested on a miniature of the mother’s lovely face.

“Mardie’s mammie,” exclaimed the child, taking it and kissing it—“dear mammie!”—then, with infantile changeableness, she rushed with a little shriek to the door, where a kitten had just appeared, and with great delight picked up the downy little creature and caressed it.

The advent of dinner soon attracted her attention, and she prattled away merrily in her baby language while the dishes were carried in. Mrs. Graham forced herself to talk to the child, and tried to divert her mind from its gloomy thoughts by devoting herself to the task of tending the little one. She was not a young woman, and the events of the day had proved almost too much for her nervous system; but with true unselfishness she tried to forget her own troubles in ministering to the tiny atom of humanity thrown so cruelly upon the world’s ocean, with mayhap no haven or port of love and affection to look to.

She lifted Mardie on to a chair, and was about to give her some food, when the door opened, and, looking up in surprise, she saw a lady, young and handsome, attired in a riding habit, enter the room.

CHAPTER II.

“I must apologize for this intrusion,” began the stranger, as she closed the door; “but my errand, I trust, will excuse me.”

“What may I do for you?” asked Mrs. Graham, rising.

“Let me introduce myself,” said the young lady, with a pretty smile. “I am Lady Coningham, wife of Sir Hubert Coningham, of the Weald, Hurstley, a village about three miles out.”

Mrs. Graham bowed.

“I heard of the terrible accident while returning from a long run, and I rode over immediately to make inquiries. I have learned everything.” She stopped for an instant, and then asked: “Is that the child?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Graham, briefly.

“Poor thing!” murmured Lady Coningham, involuntarily. She moved forward and bent over the child, stroking back the rich, golden-red curls. “Poor wee thing! How pretty she is!”

Mardie smiled and showed her pearly teeth as she rapped her spoon impatiently on the table.

“Din-din,” she cried, eagerly; “Mardie so ’ungry!”

Lady Coningham stood by while Mrs. Graham prepared the child’s meal. She said nothing, but two tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon her well-gloved hand. As soon as the child was well started, she turned and motioned Mrs. Graham to the fireplace.

“Can you tell me anything about her?” she asked, quickly.

Mrs. Graham shook her head.

“We have no idea,” she answered; then she spoke of the letter and the doctor’s intention of telegraphing to Mrs. Huntley.

“Yes—yes, that will be best. My object in coming here, Mrs. Graham, was to speak about the child. I met Dr. Scott, who told me, briefly, of the mother’s death and your kindness; and I hurried here to see what I could do. Sir Hubert is one of the magistrates; therefore, as his wife, I consider it my duty to take up the case. Perhaps my efforts will not be required for long—I sincerely hope not—it will be a sad lookout for this baby if we cannot find her friends.”

“It is the merest chance,” Mrs. Graham observed. “This lady in Yorkshire may have received the name and references. I earnestly trust she has.”

“If not, we must consider what to do with her,” said Lady Coningham. “I would give everything I possess to be able to carry her home with me; but”—she sighed a little—“that is out of the question.”

“You have children?” inquired Mrs. Graham, gently, attracted by the other’s sweet expression.

“No,” Lady Coningham answered, slowly. “I had one once, but—but it is gone.” She bent to kiss Mardie’s soft little cheek as she spoke, and again tears welled into her eyes.

“I am glad you have come,” said Mrs. Graham, after a pause, “for it would have gone to my heart to leave the child without some kind hand to minister to it occasionally. I must go North to-morrow; but I feel now that, should the worst happen and we find no clue, you will care for this poor little flower.”

“I will do all in my power for her,” returned the younger woman; “but do not let me keep you from your dinner—indeed, you must want it.”

Mrs. Graham rose and seated herself at the table. She felt weak and faint, but eating was almost an impossibility. Mardie, her food finished, put her hands together and whispered a grace, then wriggled down from her chair and went to the fire.

“She must go to bed,” said Mrs. Graham, rising again and ringing the bell; “she is growing tired now.”

The words were quickly verified, for the little head suddenly began to droop, and the beautiful eyes to grow misty and sleepy; but, as Lady Coningham, who had hurriedly removed her gloves, knelt and began to unbutton her frock, the little child pushed her away and looked round with a sudden quick feeling of fear and strangeness.

“Where’s Mardie’s mammie—where a mammie?” she murmured.

“Mammie is asleep,” said Mrs. Graham, soothingly, dreading a fit of terror.

“Mammie seep? Mardie want a mammie. Mammie come a Mardie, come a Mardie!”

She ran to the door of the room and tried to reach the handle. Lady Coningham picked her up.

“If Mardie will be a very good little girl, she shall have some goodies—such pretty goodies. See, here comes Mardie’s bath! She is going to be such a clean little girl.”

Mardie sat still, but her small hands were clasped together, and her little chest heaved with sobs. Then, as the bath was put before the fire, and, looking from one to the other, she could see nowhere the sweet, tender face that had smiled on her every day of her young recollection, she burst into a tempest of tears, and, struggling from Lady Coningham’s hold, ran wildly round the room in a paroxysm of fear, calling for her “mammie.”

For several minutes their coaxing tenderness was in vain; but after a while the maid succeeded in attracting her attention with a gaudily-painted sugar parrot, which she had purchased at a confectioner’s shop near by. The tears were all spent, nothing but sobs remained, and the parrot came as a welcome bright spot in her small world of grief.

“Pitty—pitty,” she murmured, clasping it to her breast and hugging it. Then she grew so sleepy that she was scarcely conscious of their hands removing her clothes, and her head drooped like a tired flower as they put on a nightgown borrowed from the landlady. She needed no lullaby to coax her to slumber now, and was lost in dreamland as the maid carried her gently into the bedroom.

Lady Coningham stood and gazed, as if held by some magnetic power, at the tiny face pressing the pillow, at the clusters of red-gold curls falling in such rich profusion around it. She was lost in the memory of the brief joy that had come to her only two short years before, and lived once again in the unspeakable happiness of motherhood.

The sound of a deep voice broke her musings, and, stealing softly from the bed, she entered the sitting-room and gave her hand to Dr. Scott.

“What news?” she asked, hurriedly.

Dr. Scott handed her a telegram, then seated himself by the table, leaning his head on his hand.

Lady Coningham hastily read the words:

From Mrs. Huntley, Upton Manor, Liddlefield, to Dr. Scott, Chesterham:—Am distressed to hear of accident and the poor woman’s death. I can give you no information, as I have received no reply to my last letter to “M.” Pray let me know if I can be of any pecuniary assistance.

Lady Coningham put down the paper quietly.

“What is to be done now?” she asked.

“I have telegraphed to Newtown,” replied Dr. Scott, looking up, “to the post office there, but, as yet, have received no reply. They may know something, but I can not help thinking the poor creature had some reason for secrecy, and I am doubtful as to success.”

Mrs. Graham was reclining wearily in an armchair by the fire. She spoke now as the doctor finished.

“I wish from my heart I could take the child, but it is out of the question, at any rate just now. My son is studying at Edinburgh University; he unfortunately caught a severe cold, and is now prostrate with rheumatic fever. My every moment will be with him; but, if you will place the poor mite with some kind people for a time, Lady Coningham, I will add my share to the expense, though frankly I am not by any means wealthy.”

“I know of a person,” began the doctor; but Lady Coningham broke in eagerly:

“I will take her to Hurstley. There is a poor young woman, the wife of one of my gardeners, almost heart-broken through the death of her baby. Her cottage is not far from the Weald. I pass it every day in my rides, and I could see the child very often. Let her come there to-morrow before you start. I will see Mrs. Morris to-night as I go home.”

“That seems an excellent plan,” agreed the elder woman—“at all events, for a time; but we must leave no stone unturned to find her relations.”

“Will Sir Hubert like the arrangement, your ladyship?” asked Dr. Scott, as he rose to depart.

Lady Coningham’s face flushed slightly.

“I will make it all right,” she replied, though with a little constraint. “Fortunately, Morris is a favorite with him. But now I must go; it is very late, and I have a long ride. Lest we should not meet again before you start, Mrs. Graham, let me say now how pleased I am to have made your acquaintance, though the introduction has been a sad one. I will let you know early in the morning, Dr. Scott, if I have succeeded; and may I ask you to send the child over?”

The doctor bowed, and opened the door.

“I will come down and assist you to mount. Your groom is with you, I trust?”

“Oh, yes!” Lady Coningham smiled another farewell to Mrs. Graham, and was passing out, when a thought struck her. “Suppose,” she said hurriedly, “suppose I cannot do this, what will become of the child?”

“She must go to the workhouse,” replied Dr. Scott, gloomily; “my hands are too full already, as your ladyship knows, and there is no other alternative.”

Lady Coningham could not repress a shudder.

“That must never be,” she said decidedly. “I must arrange with Morris. Many thanks. Good-by!”

Mrs. Graham rose early the next morning. Her sleep had been troubled and restless; but the child had never moved, and still slept on placidly as she dressed herself quietly. Dr. Scott was announced about half past eight, and his face showed that he had gained no further information.

“The post office can give me no clew,” he said. “They recollect the woman ‘M.,’ and describe her accurately; but she received no letters save three addressed to her initial; consequently we are just where we were. Lady Coningham has sent her groom to say that Mrs. Morris will receive the child, so when she is dressed I had better take her over there myself.”

Mrs. Graham assented with a sigh, and then rang for the maid to assist her in preparing Margery for the journey. The little one was very good; she submitted to her bath in brightness, and only now and then would turn her head to look for her mother. Already she seemed to know Mrs. Graham, and raised her lips many times to be kissed, her childish affection sending a pang of pain through the woman’s heart. At last all was ready; the little gray coat well brushed and repaired, was donned, a silk handkerchief tied over the red gold curls, and the beloved parrot clutched in a tight embrace. Mrs. Graham knelt for one brief moment by the small form, and a silent prayer went up to Heaven for mercy and protection; then she led the child to the doctor.

“I will write from Edinburgh,” she said hurriedly; “perhaps, after all, I shall be able to manage something in the future; and here”—handing two sovereigns to the doctor—“is my small share toward present expenses. When will the inquest be?”

“To-day,” returned Dr. Scott, picking Margery up in his arms.

“And she will be buried where?” again asked Mrs. Graham quickly.

“It must be a pauper’s funeral,” he answered, sadly; “any other would cost too much.”

“Can we not get up a subscription? The railway company should give something. It seems so dreadful that she should be buried in a pauper’s grave, with no stone above her.”

“I will do my best to prevent it,” Dr. Scott said, kindly. “Your suggestion about the railway is good, and I will communicate with the directors to-day. Whatever happens in the future, you, madame, have acted nobly, and this child owes you a debt of gratitude.”

“Ah, I wish I could keep her with me always!” Mrs. Graham responded, kissing the little cheek once more. “I must say good-by now. I will write to you in a day or two. Will you let me know if any news reaches you, and where you bury the poor mother?”

“I will,” answered the doctor; then he turned away and carried the child, still happy and unconscious of her terrible loss, down the stairs, to his trap; and, taking the reins, he drove rapidly through the town to the village of Hurstley.

CHAPTER III.

“Stuart, where are you going?”

The question was put in a cold, sharp voice, and came from a lady sitting at her writing-desk in a spacious window-recess overlooking extensive grounds. She was a handsome woman, with rather massive features and a profusion of dark-brown hair artistically arranged. Her eyes, of a light green-gray shade, were fixed at this moment on a young man standing in an easy, graceful attitude outside the French window.

“Going, mother?” he responded. “Nowhere in particular. Do you want me?”

Mrs. Crosbie examined her firm white hands for one brief second.

“Have you forgotten what to-day is?” she asked, quietly.

The young man pondered, puckered his handsome brows, and pretended to be lost in doubt.

“I really forget,” he answered, after a while, looking up with a mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. “Thursday, I believe; but you have your almanac close to your hand, mother.”

“This is Thursday, the twenty-second of July, Stuart,” observed Mrs. Crosbie, putting down her pen and looking fixedly at her son. “And this afternoon your Aunt Clara and Cousin Vane will arrive, and you are expected to meet them at Chesterham station.”

“By Jove,” exclaimed Stuart, with a soft whistle, “I had clean forgotten them!” He pushed his hands into his tennis-coat pockets and regarded his shoes with almost a real pucker on his brow. “What time are they due?” he asked, after a brief silence.

Mrs. Crosbie took up a letter and read aloud:

“We shall arrive at Chesterham by the twelve express from Euston, reaching the junction about six-thirty. Pray let somebody meet us.”

“I call that cool,” observed the young man shortly. “But I suppose Aunt Clara cannot do a thing for herself. However, it need not entail my going; she only says ‘somebody,’ and I am nobody.”

“Your father will expect his sister to be treated with respect,” was his mother’s icy reply.

“And I trust he will not be disappointed,” responded Stuart; “but to trudge to Chesterham in this heat will be enough to roast a fellow.”

“I have ordered the barouche,” Mrs. Crosbie told him. “Vane must lean back comfortably—she is so delicate.”

Stuart Crosbie buried his toe in the well-kept lawn and made no answer to this. His mother watched him keenly, though he was unaware of her scrutiny.

“Well?” she said at last.

“Well?” he replied, looking up.

“Stuart, I do not often express my wishes, but to-day I particularly desire you should go to Chesterham and meet your aunt and cousin.”

Stuart removed his felt tennis-hat and bowed low.

“My lady-mother,” he said lightly, “your wishes shall be obeyed.”

He put on his hat and strolled away, while a frown settled on his mother’s face. She tapped her writing-table with her pen, in evident vexation; but after a while her brow cleared, as if some new thought had come into her mind and by its bright magic dispelled the cloud.

Stuart Crosbie sauntered on over the lawn. A moment before he had grumbled at a prospective walk in the heat when the day would be declining, yet now he made no haste to get out of the sun’s rays, although trees whose spreading branches promised shade and coolness studded his path. He had pushed his hat well over his eyes, and with his hands still in his pockets dawdled on, as if with no settled purpose in his mind.

He had strolled in a circuitous route, for, after progressing in this fashion for some time, he looked up and found himself almost opposite to the window—though at a distance—from which he had started. His mother’s head was clearly discernible bent over her writing, and, waking suddenly from his dreams, he left the lawn, betook himself to a path, and made for a gate at the end. The lodgekeeper’s wife was seated at her door, having brought her work into the air for coolness. She rose hurriedly as she perceived the young squire striding down the path, and opened the gate.

“Why did you trouble, Mrs. Clark?” said Mr. Crosbie, courteously. “I could have managed that myself.”

“Law sakes, Master Stuart, my good man would be main angry if he thought I’d let you do such a thing!”

“Jim must be taught manners,” Stuart laughed lightly. “How do you like this weather?”

Mrs. Clark mopped her brow with her apron.

“It’s fair killing, sir,” she answered; “I never remind me of such a summer. But folks is never content. Mayhap what tries me is good for others—your young lady cousin, for one, sir. Mrs. Martha tells me she is very weakly like. She be coming to-day.”

“I have vivid recollections of Vane as a child,” Stuart remarked, more to himself than to the woman; “and certainly I can testify to her strength then, for she boxed my ears soundly.”

“Laws, Master Stuart!” ejaculated Mrs. Clark. “What a little vixen!”

“But these are tales out of school,” laughed the young man; “and I fancy I tormented her pretty freely in those days. Ta-ta, Mrs. Clark! Go back and have a nap—sleep is the best way to pass these hot days.”

“Now, if he ain’t the best and kind-heartedest boy in the whole world!” mused Mrs. Clark, watching him as he strode along the lane. “Just like his father, poor gentleman!”

Mr. Crosbie went along the road at a fast pace, and did not slacken his speed till he sighted a few cottages that denoted a village. Then he moderated his pace, and sauntered into the one street, hot and parched with thirst.

“Phew!” he exclaimed to himself, taking off his hat and waving it to and fro vigorously. “I must have something to drink. I wonder if Judy keeps soda-water?”

“Judy” was the owner of a small shop, the one window of which displayed a heterogeneous mass of articles—comestibles, wearing apparel, tops, and scissors. It did not look very inviting, but thirst must be quenched, and better things might be in store behind the counter. So Stuart raised the latch and entered the cottage.

“Soda-water, Master Stuart?” repeated Mrs. Judy, in amazement. “I scarce count on what you mean. There’s pump-water, if you like, or may be a glass of milk.”

Mr. Crosbie hesitated for a moment, then decided for the latter.

“It is a long time since I drank so innocent a beverage, Judy,” he observed, putting down the glass with a slight shudder.

“Ay, there ain’t much ’arm in milk,” responded Judy. “But, laws, Master Stuart, you do look warm! Will you ’ave a chair and set in the doorway to cool a bit? There’s a little bit of wind springing up.”

Mr. Crosbie shook his head.

“No, thanks, Judy; I must get on. There”—throwing a shilling upon the small counter—“take that for your kindness.”

“Eh, but, Master Stuart, I’d like you for a customer every day!” exclaimed the woman; and with a smile and a nod Mr. Crosbie strode away.

He passed through the narrow street, deserted now—for the sound of the children’s voices was wafted from the village school—and turned into a wide country-lane that led to the left of the cottages. After sauntering a few yards, he came in sight of a wood inclosed by a high wall, while through the branches of the trees glimpses of a gray-stone house were visible. Mr. Crosbie’s steps grew slower and slower as he approached this wall, and he walked past it in a very desultory fashion. Presently he reached a large iron gate through which a wide even drive was seen. Evidently Mr. Crosbie had no acquaintance with this drive, for he passed on, still down hill, till he came to a tiny spring trickling and babbling by the side of the road; and here he paused. He was out of the sun’s glare now, and felt almost cool; to his right hand stretched the path he had just traversed, to his left lay two lanes, one leading through the distant fields, the other turning abruptly. He thought for an instant, then turned in the direction of the latter, and just before him stood three cottages at equal distances from each other. He passed the first, and with a quick nervous hand unlatched the gate of the second, and went up the sweet-smelling garden.

The door was ajar, and as he knocked a faint, weak voice answered:

“Come in.”

Stuart Crosbie pushed open the door and entered the cottage. A woman was lying on a sofa, propped up with pillows, the whiteness of which rivaled her face in purity. She had a woolen shawl round her shoulders, although the heat was so oppressive, and looked very ill.

Stuart bent over her.

“How are you to-day, Mrs. Morris?” he asked, gently.

“Much about the same, thank you, Mr. Stuart. Were you wanting Reuben, sir?”

“Yes. I did rather want to see him,” replied the young man a little hesitatingly. “I am anxious to hear about that poaching affair the other night.”

“It weren’t nothing at all, sir,” Mrs. Morris said, in her low, weak voice. “Reuben was out nigh most of the night, but couldn’t see a soul.”

“Well, I’m glad of it,” observed Mr. Crosbie warmly, “for between ourselves, Mrs. Morris, I confess my sympathies go entirely with the poachers.”

Mrs. Morris smiled faintly.

“Ah, you ain’t Sir Hubert, sir! He don’t hold them views. You would give the whole village welcome to the birds; but he’s different.”

“Yes, we are rather opposed in some ways,” remarked the young squire, dryly. “Is it true, Mrs. Morris, that Sir Hubert and Lady Coningham are coming home?’

“Yes, sir; Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, come to see me yesterday, and she says her ladyship is expected next week. Ah, I am glad I shall see her again! I began to fear I should die before she came back.”

“You must cheer up,” said Stuart, gently, “and not talk about dying. Why are you here all alone? Where is Margery?”

“She’s gone out, sir. She would go all the way to Farmer Bright’s to fetch me some fresh eggs; our hens are bad at laying just now. But she ought to be in directly, sir. She started at dinner-time, and it’s now close on three o’clock.”

“It’s a long walk to Bright’s farm,” observed Mr. Crosbie, rising and strolling to the window, and stooping apparently to sniff the bowl of flowers standing on the ledge, but in reality to have a good look down the hot, dusty lane.

“Ay, it is, sir; but Margery would go. She takes such count on me, sir; and it’s her lesson day and all.”

“Is she still studying with the rector’s governess?”

“Yes, sir; her ladyship, when she wrote last, desired her to continue the lessons, and Miss Lawson speaks main well of Margery’s cleverness. I expect Lady Coningham won’t know her when she sees her again.”

“Ten years would make a difference, Mrs. Morris,” Stuart said, looking round with a smile; “and Margery was only about seven when Lady Coningham went to India. What a jolly little thing she was, too! We had some fun in those days.”

“Margery is a bit of a tomboy now,” the sick woman observed, with a loving light in her eyes.

“Is she? Well, I never see it; she always seems as sedate as—well, as the rector’s governess herself. But I must be off. Tell Reuben I looked in to hear about the poachers, and that I don’t sympathize with him a bit for spending the night in the wood.” He bent and took one of the invalid’s thin white hands in his. “And now don’t get low-spirited about yourself, Mrs. Morris; you will feel better when this heat passes. I shall send you some fruit down from the castle. I dare say you can manage a few grapes.”

“Many, many thanks, Mr. Stuart, and Heaven bless you, sir! You are very good to me.”

Tears rolled down Mrs. Morris’ pale face, and the young squire turned away with a sudden expression of sorrow. At the door he hesitated for a minute, then said hurriedly:

“I shall walk a little way along Linton’s Lane, Mrs. Morris. I want to ask Margery about Bright’s crops.”

“Ay, do, sir,” replied the sick woman, warmly; “she will be rare glad to see you.”

Mr. Crosbie strode down the path, and let the gate swing behind him. He turned to the right, and walked quickly along in the glaring heat, with his eyes fixed in an almost eager way on the long straight road before him. Away in the distance appeared an object—a patch of something pink moving very slowly toward him. His pace increased, the distance lessened between this object and himself, and gradually the pink patch melted into the slender form of a girl, her bent head covered with a flapping white sunbonnet, a small basket on her right arm, and a book between her two little brown hands. She came on very slowly; apparently the heat had no effect on her, although the sun was beating on her with scorching force. Mr. Crosbie slackened his pace as they drew nearer, and at last came to a standstill. The girl was so deeply absorbed in her book that she was unaware of his presence till, looking up suddenly, she saw him just in front of her. The book dropped, a flush of color mantled her clear, transparent face, and a look of intense pleasure shone in her great blue eyes.

“Mr. Stuart! Oh, how you startled me!”

“Did I, Margery?” returned Stuart, removing his felt hat and grasping her hand firmly. “What are you made of? You must be a salamander to live in this heat; yet here you are walking along as if it were in Iceland; and you look as cool as”—hesitating for a smile—“as a cucumber.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a little sunshine!” said the girl, with a slightly contemptuous curl of her short upper lip. “In fact, I don’t feel it. But where are you going, Mr. Stuart? Have you seen mother?”

“Yes,” replied the young man, turning beside her and taking the basket from her arm. “She told me you had gone to Bright’s farm, and I am anxious to know how his crops are.”

“He is grumbling, of course,” Margery answered; “but I fancy he is, on the whole, well satisfied.”

Their eyes met, and they both burst into a merry fit of laughter.

“You don’t care a bit about the crops—you know you don’t!” remarked Margery, severely, as she tried to banish the merriment from the corners of her mouth.

“Well, strictly between ourselves, I don’t. It is a fearful confession for a farm-owner to make, but it is the truth.”

“Ah, I am glad you do tell the truth sometimes!” said the girl, with a bright glance from her glorious eyes.

“You must be a witch or some sort of fairy,” Stuart declared suddenly, “for prevarication, let alone untruths, always fail when I meet you.”

He was watching her with intense earnestness, enjoying the sweet witchery of her beauty. For she was beautiful; her form was so slender and lithe; every limb, from the tiny feet in the rough country shoes, which could not hide their daintiness, to the small, delicately-shaped hands, browned and tanned as they were, spoke of grace and loveliness. Her head had a certain imperious carriage that made the simple cotton gown appear a queenly robe, and the face beneath the flapping sunbonnet was one to inthrall a sterner man than Stuart Crosbie. The complexion of pale cream white, which even the sun could not kiss to a warmer shade, the sweet, rosy mouth, the great wondrous eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes, and the mass of ruddy golden curls that twined about the brow and delicate throat were but a few of the attractions that Margery possessed. One of her greatest charms was the simplicity and unaffectedness of her manner; perhaps it was that as yet none had whispered flattery in her shell-like ear, none had tried to sweep away her girlish frankness and youthfulness by adulation and undue admiration. But Margery never seemed to think she possessed beauty, nor even that that beauty was such as a queen might sigh for. She found more pleasure in tossing the hay, romping with the children, or, in quieter moods, diving into her books, than in posing before her mirror; and she was quite unconscious of the exact meaning of Stuart Crosbie’s eyes, which filled with a fire of admiration and ecstasy whenever they rested on her.

“Now,” she said, lightly, turning her book round and round in her hands after they had been conversing for several minutes, “since I am a fairy, I shall get this question answered. Why did Mr. Stuart take such a long walk in the broiling sun which does affect him if he does not care a scrap about Farmer Bright’s crops?”

“Why?” echoed the young man. “Why, to meet you, Margery!”

“Oh, how kind of you!” she returned, quietly; then, looking up with a smile, she added, “Come now—I shall begin to doubt my power. What——”

“But that is the real downright, honest truth. I told Mrs. Morris it was to ask about the crops, but I tell you the truth.”

“And why could you not tell mother the truth,” she asked, quickly—“why not say you wanted to see me? She would have been honored at such a thought.”

Stuart Crosbie bit his lip. His brow clouded for a second, then he answered quietly:

“Yes, you are quite right, Margery. I ought to have said so. Well, never mind—I will next time. And now tell me what you have been doing all this age. What is that book?”

“‘The Mill on the Floss’”—holding it out.

“Hum! Looks dry—is it?”

“Dry!” exclaimed Margery. “Oh, it is so beautiful! Have you never read it?”

“I hardly think so,” confessed the young squire. “I will look it out in the library when I get back, and dig into it to-night, when I am smoking.”

“Miss Lawson doesn’t approve of story-books,” said Margery; “but I am not so strict.”

“And how are you getting on?”

“Oh, all right! I am deep in German just now. I speak French every day when I go to the rectory. I want to be perfect by the time her ladyship comes back. Mother has told me all about her kindness to me. I can scarcely remember her when she went away, but she must be nice.”

“Nice!” exclaimed Mr. Crosbie. “She is a brick—a million times too good for that old curmudgeon, Sir Hubert!”

“No one seems to like him,” Margery remarked, thoughtfully—her face had grown almost sad; “but mother is never tired of telling me all about Lady Coningham—how she took me when I was a baby, and my poor, dear real mother was killed, and put me with mother Morris. I am not very old, Mr. Stuart, but I feel I can never repay her ladyship all she has done for me. Sometimes I seem to have a faint, misty recollection of the days when I first came here, and I can see a face that was—oh, so pretty and kind!”

“My mother always says Catherine Coningham was very beautiful,” Stuart said, as the girl paused. “I remember her as a faded, pale woman, very kind, as you say.”

“There is one thing she did I can never, never forget,” Margery went on—“that was her goodness in burying my poor mother in such a pretty spot, and putting that cross on her grave. It does me good to go there, Mr. Stuart. I almost think my mother knows I go. She must have been sweet, she was so beautiful! I always wear my locket, you know”—she put up her hand and produced a tiny heart of gold—“it is such a comfort. I wonder who I really am!”

“I think you are a princess,” observed the young man, gravely; “you look it.”

Margery shook her head.

“We shall never know, I suppose,” she said, sadly, “and I shall always be the nursery rhyme girl ‘Margery Daw,’ as Lady Coningham christened me.”

“It is the prettiest name in the whole world!” cried Stuart, warmly. “And—and it suits you!”

“So you would say if you caught sight of me on the village see-saw;” and Margery laughed heartily. Then she added: “But we are home; and you have carried my basket all the way. It must be nearly four o’clock.”

“No!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “By Jove, I shall have to tear——” Then he stopped abruptly and asked: “Margery, when are we going to have that picnic we decided on a month ago?”

“Oh, some day!” she answered, going into the garden and closing the gate.

“But ‘some day’ is so vague. Shall we fix it for next Wednesday? That is your half-holiday, I know.”

His eyes were fixed on her face with such earnestness that for the first time she seemed to feel their power. She colored faintly and held out her hand.

“Yes, Wednesday, if you like—if mother is well enough to spare me. Good-by!”

“Good-by!” he answered.

He gave one last look and hurried up the hill. He had a good hour’s walk before him, his toilet to make, and the drive to Chesterham to accomplish as well. That Lady Charteris and her daughter Vane would be received at the station by the young squire of Crosbie Castle seemed very improbable, indeed.

CHAPTER IV.

The dressing-gong sounded sonorously through the corridor of Crosbie Castle. In one of the many charming rooms situated in the towering wing a young girl was standing. The open windows overlooked a sweep of verdant lawn, majestic groups of veteran trees, and to the left a clump of smaller woodgrowth, touched with every tint of green. From beneath, the scent of many a flower was borne on the air and wafted to her, bringing with its fragrance a sense of purity and delicacy that was utterly wanting to the faint odors that hung round the costly glass bottles her maid was placing on the toilet table.

The mistress of the dainty apartment was leaning against the open window deep in thought. She was tall and slight, with a face of delicate loveliness and charm, albeit spoiled a little by a slight expression of indifference and discontent. She had hair of the warm brown shade peculiar to Englishwomen; her eyes were large, of a clear but rather cold blue; her mouth was small and well shaped, disclosing white, even teeth when her lips parted. There was an easy, graceful nonchalance about her carriage; and, without being a strictly beautiful figure, Vane Charteris had an indescribable air of hauteur in the slope of her shoulders and well-poised head that put to shame many a rival better favored by nature. Her eyes were fixed at this instant on the figure of a young man walking quickly across the lawn to the house, followed by half a dozen dogs. He was by no means unpleasant to look upon; and so thought his cousin, for she watched him with evident attention and interest.

“My squire of Crosbie pleases me,” she murmured, moving languidly from the window; “for once mamma has shown discrimination with worldly wisdom.”

She seated herself at the glass, and let her maid unpin her luxuriant tresses till they fell upon the folds of her pink silk wrapper in glorious profusion. Vane Charteris had been out two years. Worshiped from her cradle by her weak, widowed mother, she had entered society’s world haughty, indifferent and selfish. The admiration she received was but a continuation of the adulation that had been lavished upon her all through her life; she had no aims, no hopes, no ambitions, but was content with her imperious beauty and the power that gift brought. At first Vane was a great success—her proud coldness was new, and therefore a delightful experience; but after a while society grew weary of her autocratic ways. The season just ended had been a lesson to her. She saw herself deserted, and her power slip from her; and, as this truth came home, she woke suddenly from her dreams, and realized that something more was expected of her if she would still reign as queen.

Lady Charteris little guessed the workings of her daughter’s mind. She had grown to consider Vane as a priceless jewel which must be carefully watched, carefully tended and thought for. She judged the girl’s nature to be one of the highest, combining true Charteris pride with utter indolence. Possibly the mother had felt a touch of vexation when she saw girls far below her child in beauty wed nobly and well; but she loved Vane as her life, and regret was banished in the pleasure of her presence.

This was the first visit of the beautiful Miss Charteris to Crosbie Castle. Hitherto she had contented herself with meeting her uncle and aunt in London: but this year the mood seized her to accept their oft-repeated invitation and spend a few weeks in their country home. She had heard much of her cousin Stuart, but had never seen him since her childhood, as during the past two years he had been traveling, and before that time she never left the seclusion of her schoolroom.

Sore with the knowledge of her social failure, dissatisfied with her mother, herself, and everybody, Vane had sunk into a morbid, depressed state. She left town without a sigh (though, when she contrasted this journey with her migration of the former season, she might have given vent to one, for instead of hearty farewells and expressions of regret, she was neglected, save by her maid and her mother), and actually felt a thrill of genuine pleasure as she bowled through the country lanes and drank in the sweetness of the air. She stole many hurried glances at her cousin during the drive—Mr. Crosbie had reached the station in the nick of time—and found herself agreeing with the oft-repeated praises her mother had sung concerning him. There was a manliness, a frankness, an absence of self-consciousness and conceit about Stuart Crosbie that pleased her jaded spirit; he was as handsome as any of her former admirers, while possessing many other advantages they did not. She listened quite interestedly to his chatty accounts of his travels, and was surprised at the pleasure she derived from them.

“What will mademoiselle wear?” the maid asked, after she had coiled and waved the luxuriant hair round the graceful head.

Vane woke from her musings.

“Oh, anything, Marie; it does not matter! No; on second thoughts, give me that plain white silk.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

Marie went to the inner room, and returned with a mass of soft, rich, clinging drapery on her arm, and assisted her mistress to adjust the robe in silence. She was wondering a little why mademoiselle should have chosen so simple a gown—it was not her usual habit. But, when the last touch was given, and Vane stood gazing at her reflection in the mirror, the maid was fain to confess the choice was good. The tall, supple form looked inexpressibly graceful in the long, soft folds, the delicate masses of lace brought fichu-like across the bust gave a touch of quaintness to the whole, and the purity of the silk gave a softened, fresher look to the pretty face, for once free from its discontent. Vane looked long at herself, then turned to her maid:

“My gloves and fan, Marie. Thanks. Do not trouble to wait for me to-night. Leave my wrapper here; I will brush my hair myself. I dare say you are tired.”

“Merci bien, mademoiselle,” Marie murmured, marveling still more. She was unaccustomed to any notice, to say naught of kindly words, from her young mistress.

Vane drew on her long white gloves, then went slowly through the corridor and down the stairs. The sun was declining, the heat of the day dying, and a faint, delicious breeze came in through the many open windows. Miss Charteris passed through the great hall, the tap-tap of her heels sounding distinctly on the tesselated floor, and stood for one instant at a door that led first under a colonnade and thence to the grounds which her windows overlooked. While she was standing here her cousin sauntered into view, and, moving forward with languid grace, she went to meet him.

“La dame blanche,” he said, tossing away an unfinished cigarette. “You startled me, Cousin Vane—you crept out so quietly and look so like a spirit.”