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.”

“I am quite real, I assure you,” Vane answered. “But why have you thrown away your cigarette?”

Stuart laughed as he answered:

“It is against my mother’s rules to smoke immediately before dinner, but I love my weed, and am scarcely conscious when I am smoking or not. Please forgive me. I have been a savage for so long, I have forgotten my good manners.”

“Ah, I want to hear all about your travels and adventures!” said Miss Charteris. “Have we time to stroll up and down for a while before dinner?”

“But you will be tired,” remonstrated Stuart, mindful of his mother’s injunctions; “and”—glancing at the small, dainty white feet—“I am afraid you will ruin your pretty shoes!”

“I am not afraid of either calamity,” Vane responded, with a smile; “however, let us split the difference and go to the conservatory.”

Stuart agreed willingly. He was most favorably impressed by his new cousin. She was no hypochondriacal creature, but a young, beautiful girl, and likely to prove a most agreeable companion. He glanced at her dress as they sauntered along the colonnade to the conservatory, mentally declaring it to be most charming and simple, deciding it to be most probably the work of her own hands, and would have been thunderstruck had any one informed him that the innocent-looking garment had cost nearly fifty pounds.

Vane Charteris saw her cousin’s admiration, and her heart thrilled. Once more she would taste the joy of power, she would no longer be neglected. A vision of future triumph filled her mind at that instant. She would wake from her indifference. The world should see her again as queen, reigning this time by charm and fascination as well as by her beauty. The color mounted to her cheeks, the light flashed in her eyes at the thought, and she turned with animation and interest to converse with the man beside her.

“You have a splendid home, Stuart,” she observed, after they had walked through the heavily scented conservatory to the drawing-room. “I am glad I have come.”

“And I am heartily glad to welcome you. I have heard so much of my Cousin Vane, such stories of triumphs and wonders, that I began to despair of ever receiving her here.”

“You forget,” said Vane, softly, waving her great feather fan to and fro, “there is an attraction here now that at other times was wanting.”

She spoke lightly, almost laughingly, but her words pleased the man’s vanity.

“Can it be that I am that attraction?” he asked, quickly. Then he added: “Cousin Vane, I am indeed honored.”

“You jump to hasty conclusions,” she retorted, “but I will pardon your excessive vanity, if you will give me a spray of stephanotis for my dress.”

“Is it your favorite flower?” he asked, leading the way back to the conservatory.

“I love all flowers,” Vane answered; “that is,” she added, carelessly, “all hothouse flowers.”

“You shall be well supplied in future.”

“Thanks.”

She drew off her gloves and pinned the spray of wax-like flowers amid her laces. Her hands were white and delicate, yet Stuart’s mind unconsciously flew to two little brown ones he had seen that afternoon grasping a plainly bound book. There was even more beauty in them than in his cousin’s, he thought.

“I shall look to you, Cousin Stuart,” Miss Charteris observed, as she fastened her gloves again, “to initiate me into the mysteries of country life. I intend to dabble in farming, milk the cow, toss the hay, picnic in the fields, and get quite burned and brown.”

Stuart laughed a little constrainedly. He was thinking of his picnic for next Wednesday, and wondering whether he could induce his cousin to be kind to Margery. His mother, for some unaccountable reason, did not appear to like Margery.

“We must get a native of Hurstley to act as cicerone,” he responded, breaking off a leaf from sheer wantonness. “I have been away so long, I have almost forgotten my home.”

“What are you going to do, now you are back?”

“Nothing—that is, nothing definite. You see, my father is very shaky, and I must relieve him of some of his duties. My mother has a strong wish that I should stand for Chesterham.”

“A parliamentary career?” questioned Vane. “How would you like that?”

“Not at all,” Stuart answered, frankly. “Legislation is not my forte. I am, if anything, a sportsman.”

“English to the backbone! Cousin Stuart, I am disposed to like you.”

“Is that true?” Stuart asked, gravely.

Vane turned and met his gaze, then laughed softly.

“True? Of course it is; are we not cousins? The liking, however, must not be altogether on my side.”

“Have no fear,” the young man began, but at that instant the dinner-gong sounded, and his sentence remained unfinished.

Vane was led in by her cousin, and they were even yet more amicable during the meal, to Mrs. Crosbie’s intense satisfaction. She made no effort to interrupt the merry conversation of the young people, and contented herself with now and then joining in the flow of reminiscences in which her husband and Lady Charteris were indulging.

Squire Crosbie was a tall, thin man with a worn, almost haggard face. Its prevailing expression was kindly but weak, and he turned instinctively to his wife for moral support and assistance. Stuart dearly loved his father. The gentle student disposition certainly was not in harmony with his own nature; but he had never received aught but tenderness and love from his father, and grew to think of him as a feeble plant that required warmth and affection to nourish it. His feeling for his mother was entirely different. He inherited his strong spirit from her, the blood of an old sporting family flowed in her veins. She was a powerful, domineering woman, and Stuart had been taught to give her obedience rather than love. Had he been permitted to remain always with his mother, his nature, although in the abstract as strong as hers, might by force of habit have become weakened and altered; but, as soon as he had attained his majority, he had expressed a determination to travel, and in this was seconded for once most doggedly by his father. Those two years abroad did him an infinite amount of good; but to Mrs. Crosbie they did not bring unalloyed delight. Her son had gone from her a child obedient to her will, he returned a man and submissive only to his own.

Lady Charteris resembled her brother, the squire; but the intellectual light that gleamed in his eyes was altogether wanting in hers. Her mind was evidently fixed on her child, for even in the thick of a conversation her gaze would wander to Vane and rest on her. She was heartily pleased now at her daughter’s brightness, and whispered many hopes to Mrs. Crosbie that this visit might benefit the delicate nerves and health.

Mrs. Crosbie nodded absently to these remarks. She was occupied with her own thoughts. Stuart must marry; and whom could he find better, search where he might, than Vane Charteris for his wife? Beautiful, proud, a woman who had reigned as a social queen—in every way she was fitted to become the mistress of Crosbie Castle. She watched her son eagerly, she saw the interest and admiration in his face, and her heart grew glad. Of all things Mrs. Crosbie had dreaded during those two years’ absence, the fear of an attraction or entanglement had been most frequent, and not until she saw him so wrapped up in his cousin Vane did she realize indeed that her fears had been groundless.

CHAPTER V.

“Get on your bonnet, child, and trot away! I shall be content till you come back.”

“Mother, I don’t like to leave you to-day, you seem so weak. Miss Lawson will not mind—let her stay with you.”

Mrs. Morris put out her weak hand and caressed the soft silky hair.

“No, no, child,” she persisted, gently. “You must go to yer lessons. Reuben will be ’ome directly; he’ll make me a cup of tea; don’t you worrit yourself. It’s yer day of German, too, and I want you to be well got on by the time her ladyship comes home.”

Margery rose slowly from her knees.

“Well, I will go,” she said, regretfully; “but let me make you comfortable. There is your book—why, you are getting on quite fast, mother!—and here are the grapes Mr. Stuart sent, close to your hand.”

“Heaven bless him for a kind, true-hearted gentleman! Ah, there are few like him, Margery, my lass!”

“He is good, indeed,” replied the girl, a soft spot of color appearing in her cheeks. “Now, I will go; but first of all I will run into Mrs. Carter’s and ask her to come and sit with you.”

She bent and kissed the transparent cheek, tied on her sunbonnet, took up her books, and, with a parting smile, went out of the doorway.

Her message delivered at Mrs. Carter’s cottage, Margery went slowly up the hill, past the wall inclosing the wood, on past the gate leading to the Weald, Sir Hubert Coningham’s country-house, on and on, till she reached the village. The rectory stood a little way beyond the schoolhouse, close to the church, and, by the time she reached the side gate, Margery had learned her lesson by heart. The heat was quite as great as it was on the afternoon she walked to Farmer Bright’s, now four days ago; and she looked round anxiously at the sky, dreading a cloud until Wednesday was gone and the picnic with Mr. Stuart a thing of the past.

Somehow Margery found her lesson not so delightful to-day; her attention would wander, and Miss Lawson had to repeat a question three times in one of these moments before she got a response. The governess put down the girl’s absence of mind and general listless manner to the heat, and very kindly brought the lesson early to a close and dismissed her pupil.

Margery for the first time gave vent to a sigh of relief when she received permission to go home, and she sauntered through the village almost wearily. She was gazing on the ground, ignorant of what was going on about her, when the sound of ponies’ feet and the noise of wheels behind her caused her to turn, and, looking up, she saw Mrs. Crosbie, seated in her small carriage, close at hand.

“Good-afternoon, Margery,” Mrs. Crosbie said, in her haughty, cold manner. “I am glad to have met you. How is your mother?”

“Good-afternoon, madame,” replied the girl, calling Mrs. Crosbie by the name the village always used, and bending her head gracefully. “Thank you very much, but I am afraid mother is very bad to-day; I did not want to leave her, but she insisted. She grows very weak.”

“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.

Mrs. Crosbie was unduly pleased with herself for bringing this girl to her level, and she was determined to lose no opportunity of continuing it in the future. As they stopped at the lodge gates she turned to Margery:

“Get down and go along that path to the back part of the house, and wait in the kitchen till I send for you.”

Margery obediently descended, and turned down the sidepath as the ponies started off along the sweeping avenue to the castle entrance. Why was madame so stern and Mr. Stuart so kind? Margery pondered as she walked on. Had she done anything wrong? Her mind accused her of no fault; she could therefore arrive at no solution of the mystery.

The path she was following was one used by the gardeners, and she soon arrived at a small gate, which, on opening, led her to the paddock and kitchen gardens. Margery toiled through the heat up to the courtyard, and, after crossing this, entered a large door standing wide open.

The cook and her handmaidens were indulging in five-o’clock tea, and the mistress of the kitchen rose with genial hospitality to press her visitor to partake of some, too.

“Now, do!” she urged, as Margery shook her head. “You look fair fagged out.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Drew,” Margery said, simply; unconsciously she recoiled from accepting anything that came from Mrs. Crosbie. “I am not really tired. Madame has driven me here from the village. I am to take some things back to mother. If you don’t mind, I will wait outside—it is rather hot in here.”

“Ay, do, child,” the cook answered; and she handed out a large stool. “Put this just in the doorway, and you’ll catch a little draught.”

With a smile Margery took the stool, and, placing it in a shady corner, sat down and began to read. The courtyard stretched along a quadrangle leading to the stables, and, looking up now and then from her book, Margery caught glimpses of the castle horses lazily switching their tails in their comfortable boxes. The pony carriage was driven in while she waited, and she watched with much interest the small, sturdy ponies being unharnessed and led away. It was a quaint, picturesque spot—the low-roofed stables, the larger coach-house, a portion of the gray-stone castle jutting out in the distance, with a background of branches and faintly moving leaves. Margery shut her book and let her eyes wander to the clear blue sky seen in patches through the trees. She felt cool in her little nook, and enjoyed the rest. The groom had discarded his smart livery, and, in company with another lad, was busily employed in cleaning the pony carriage, the hissing sound with which he accompanied his movements not sounding unmusical from a distance; and Margery found herself smiling at his exertions and the confidence that had succeeded his bashfulness. Suddenly, while she was watching them, she saw the groom and his companion draw themselves up and salute some one; and then the next moment a figure came round the corner—a figure in white tennis costume, with a white silk shirt and large flapping hat. Margery felt her cheeks grow warm, then they as quickly colored. Another figure stood beside the tall one of the man, a dainty, delicate, lovely form in a dress of ethereal blue, holding a large sun-shade of the same color above her beautiful head.

Unconsciously Margery felt her heart sink. Never had she seen so fair a vision before; and the sight of those two figures, so well matched and so close together, brought a strange vague pain to her, the nature of which she could not guess. She dropped her eyes to her book again, and shrunk back into her corner, hoping to escape notice. She was too far away to hear what was said, and she began to breathe freely again after a few minutes, when the faint sound of a musical voice was borne on the air and the tones of a deep, clear voice she knew well came nearer and nearer. She pulled her sunbonnet well over her eyes and bent still lower over her book as the voices drew closer.

“If you are ill after this, Cousin Vane,” she heard Stuart say, “I shall never forgive myself. The heat is terrific, you know. Are you quite sure you can manage it?”

“Quite,” answered the woman’s voice. “I want to see this poor doggie; besides, you tell me it is just as far back again as round this way.”

“Just as far. Well, here we are! Poor Sir Charles, I hope the old fellow is better.”

The two figures came into sight; they were about six yards from Margery, and were walking slowly. She could see the delicate blue drapery, the slender gauntleted hand, though she did not raise her eyes; and she drew back into her corner with a nervous dread such as she had never felt hitherto.

Mr. Crosbie led his cousin to a small outhouse immediately facing the kitchen door, and was about to open the door, when, looking round, he saw Margery. His face flushed for an instant; then, before his cousin could perceive it, his embarrassment was gone.

“There, Vane,” he said, easily, opening the door and pointing to a large collie lying on a heap of clean straw. “Don’t be afraid; he won’t hurt you. Poor Sir Charles—poor old fellow!” He stooped and took up a bandaged paw. “I shall have you about in a day or two. He wants some fresh water. Margery”—he left his cousin’s side a little, and looked straight at the girl sitting up in the corner—“Margery, will you kindly ask one of the maids to bring me some water for Sir Charles?”

Margery put down her book without a word, went indoors, brought a jug, then walked to the well a little to the left, and, having filled the jug, approached him.

“Thank you. Why did you trouble, Margery?” said Stuart, courteously. “How is your mother to-day?”

“She is no better, Mr. Stuart, thank you,” returned Margery, in her clear, refined voice. “I am waiting for some things madame is kindly going to send her.”

Vane Charteris had turned at the first sound of the girl’s voice, and she was almost alarmed at the beauty of the face before her. Beside the golden glory of that hair, the depths of pathetic splendor in those eyes, the pale transparency of that skin, her own prettiness simply faded away. She noted the grace and ease with which Margery moved, and immediately conceived a violent dislike to this village girl.

“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?

Margery was pained and troubled as she took her way along the paddock—pained not so much at the woman’s words as at the thought that the man had re-echoed them and deemed her stupid and plain. She had grown to look on Stuart Crosbie as something bright and delightful in her life. They had played together as children, and the memory of that friendship was the strongest link in the chain that held him as her hero. When he was away, Stuart had written once or twice to Margery, sending her views of the places he visited, and giving her long chatty accounts of his travels. When he came home, they renewed their intimacy; there was not a shadow of surprise or fear in Margery’s mind when the young squire came so frequently to see her.

She had no suspicion that this friendship would annoy his mother or was in any way strange or uncommon. She liked Stuart Crosbie; she could talk to him of her studies, her pursuits—a sealed book in her home—and gradually grew to welcome him as a companion with whom she could converse easily and naturally, and as a friend who would never fail her. Mrs. Morris was too great an invalid to devote much thought to the girl’s amusements, nor would she have been greatly troubled had she known how intimate the young squire and Margery had become; so the girl had had no constraint put upon her; she met, walked, and chatted with Stuart Crosbie as freely as she liked, and no cloud had dawned on her happy life till to-day.

The sight of that other girl, so different from herself, had brought a strange, sharp pang, but that was lost in the pain she endured when she thought that Stuart had agreed with the cruel remark, and that his friendship was gone forever. She wended her way along the paddock, and was turning through the gate to enter the gardeners’ path again, when a hand was stretched out from beside her, took the basket from her, and, putting a finger under her chin, raised her head from its drooping position.

“Well?” said Stuart, quietly.

“Give me my basket, please, Mr. Stuart,” Margery murmured, hurriedly, a crimson wave of color dyeing her cheeks.

“What for?” asked the young man, calmly.

“I must get home. I am very late as it is.”

“Well, why don’t you go?” Stuart inquired, watching the color fade from her cheeks.

“I cannot go without my basket,” Margery answered, trying to be at her ease. “Please give it to me, Mr. Stuart.”

“No,” he answered, briefly.

“Then I must go without it!” she exclaimed; and, suiting the action to the word, she began to move down the path.

Stuart followed at once, and put a detaining hand on her arm.

“Here is your basket, Margery. I was only teasing you. What a time you have been! I have been waiting here for you for the last five minutes.”

Margery’s heart grew lighter again.

“You might have been better employed,” she returned, with the quaint sharpness Stuart always admired. “But, if you have time to waste, I have not. Listen! There—it is striking six, and mother will wonder what has become of me.”

“Yes, that is six,” observed Mr. Crosbie, listening to the clock chiming from the castle. “You will get home by seven, Margery, if you start at once. Not that way!”—as she turned again down the path. “This is nearly half a mile nearer.” He pushed open the gate and motioned her into the paddock again. “Now,” he continued, slinging the basket on his arm and turning beside her across the field, “why are you cross with me, Miss Margery?”

“I am not cross with you,” Margery answered, hurriedly.

“Not now, perhaps; but you were.”

Margery was silent.

“What was it, Margery?” he asked, gently.

“I heard what that lady said about me just now,” she replied, after a pause; “and—and——”

“You are angry with me. That is hardly fair—rough on an old friend, you know.”

“I thought you might have——” She stopped.

“Agreed with her. You ought to know me better than that, Margery.”

The grave tones went to her heart.

“Oh, forgive me!” she cried. “It was wrong; but—she is so beautiful, and I——”

“You are——”

“Only a village girl beside her.”

“I wonder if you know how different you are from her?” Stuart said, quietly.

Margery’s face flushed.

“I never felt I was—common till to-day,” she answered.

“Margery!”

She looked up quickly. Mr. Crosbie checked his words and laughed a little constrainedly.

“You must not grow vain,” he said.

“Am I vain? I will remember another time,” she responded, gravely.

“And remember this, too,” Stuart added—“that, whatever any one may say, my opinion of you does not change—never will.”

She smiled with delight.

“Thank you, Mr. Stuart,” she said, simply. “And now please give me my basket; you must not come any further.”

“I shall carry it home for you,” he answered. “We shall not be long, and this is tons too heavy for your little hands. Tell me of your lesson. What have you done to-day, and what is that book?”

Margery immediately broke into a long account of her studies, and, with her happy serenity restored, she walked on beside him, heedless of the dust or the sun—content that their friendship was unaffected.

Stuart Crosbie listened with pleasure to the ripple of her voice, his eyes never tired of wandering to her sweet face, lovely in its innocence; but, when he had parted from her and strode home along the lanes, his brow was clouded and a puzzled expression rested upon his face.

CHAPTER VI.

Wednesday morning broke clear and cloudless. Margery rose at an early hour, and sat looking out of her little window at the sun gilding the fields and trees with its glory. Stuart Crosbie, too, rose earlier than was his wont; and he occupied the time till the breakfast-gong sounded in walking up and down his room, apparently in deep thought. As the muffled summons reached his ear, he uttered an impatient “Pshaw!” and made his way slowly down the stairs. His mother was seated at the table when he entered the room; and he had scarcely exchanged greetings with her when Vane Charteris made her appearance. It was not Miss Charteris’ usual custom to honor the breakfast table with her presence; but since her stay at Crosbie the mood had seized her, and she descended regularly to the early meal.

“Good-morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Crosbie, smiling her sweetest. “You look as fresh as a rose; doesn’t she, Stuart?”

“Words always fail me to describe Cousin Vane’s beauty,” was his gallant reply.

Vane smiled languidly; but she was not quite happy. There was something strange about this cousin of hers; he was attentive, but his attentions seemed to be the outcome of habit rather than inclination. Was her power to fail her here, too?

“What is the programme for to-day?” she asked, as she drew her chair to the table.

“We must devise something,” observed Mrs. Crosbie. “Ah, Vane, my dear, I fear you find this place very dull!”

“Dull!” repeated Miss Charteris. “I cannot tell you, my dear aunt, how happy I am in your lovely home.”

Mrs. Crosbie felt her heart swell; more and more she saw the advisability of a marriage between Stuart and his cousin, more and more she determined it should take place.

“Well, Stuart, what are we to do to amuse Vane?” she inquired, turning to her son, with the pleasure called up by her niece’s speech still lingering on her face.

“I am afraid, mother, I shall not be able to offer my services to-day. I am bound for Chesterham this morning,” Stuart answered, vigorously attacking a pie on a side table.

“Chesterham!” ejaculated his mother. “Why, what takes you there, Stuart?”

“An appointment with Derwent. He has written and asked me to meet him at the junction on his way to town; he wants to see me.”

“Why could not Captain Derwent come here for a few days?” inquired Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. She was annoyed that anything should interrupt the acquaintance that was progressing so satisfactorily.

“He can’t; he is due in London.”

“But must you go?” began his mother, when Vane interrupted with:

“Oh, please don’t stop him, auntie, dear, or he will vote me such a nuisance! Indeed; we can spare Stuart for one day, and I will enjoy myself with you if you will let me. We have not driven to any places yet; shall we not go somewhere to-day?”

“I shall be pleased,” Mrs. Crosbie replied, though she looked vexed; and all other remarks on the subject were stopped, to Stuart’s great relief, by his father’s appearance—Lady Charteris never left her room till noon.

The squire came in with his curious halting gait; he carried a bundle of letters and papers in his hand, and his haggard features wore a look of surprise.

“Good-morning, my dear,” he said to Vane. “Constance”—to his wife—“I have received a most extraordinary surprise. Read that”—holding out a letter.

With ill-concealed impatience Mrs. Crosbie took the letter he held toward her.

“What sort of a surprise, dad?” asked Stuart, putting his hand for an instant into his father’s.

“Your mother will tell you,” answered the squire.

“From Douglas Gerant!” exclaimed Mrs. Crosbie, gazing at the end of the letter. “This is a surprise indeed! Why, Sholto, he is in England—has been for the last month—and wants to come to us for a visit!”

“By Jove!” was Stuart’s only utterance.

“It seemed like a letter from the dead,” said the squire, dreamily. “What years since one has heard or seen anything of Douglas Gerant! It must be fifteen, at least, since he left England.”

Mrs. Crosbie folded up the letter.

“He is not changed,” she observed—“at least, his letter is as strange and erratic as of old. Vane, you have heard your mother speak of Douglas Gerant, have you not?”

Miss Charteris puckered her brow.

“I don’t remember his name,” she replied. “Who is he?”

“Your mother’s cousin—surely she must have spoken of him!”

“I have heard of Eustace Gerant,” Miss Charteris answered, “but he is dead.”

“This is his brother. He, too, might have been dead for all that we have seen or heard of him. He was a ne’er-do-wee’l, an utter scamp.”

“But with great good in him,” added the squire, warmly. “I know you did not think so, Constance, but Douglas always had a fine, generous nature.”

“It was well hidden, then,” his wife retorted, coldly. “I never had much sympathy with him, and I have less now. A man has no right to be lost to the world, as he has been, and leave a magnificent inheritance wasting and neglected when there are others who would prize it.”

“Is this the long-lost cousin who owns Beecham Park?” asked Vane, with sudden interest. “Oh, then I have heard of him, of course!”

“He came into the property ten years ago,” Stuart explained, “and he has not come home till now. I must confess I always had a strong sympathy for this unknown cousin. What a strange life his has been! I am tempted to envy him the wonders he must have seen.”

“I am surprised you should speak like that, Stuart,” said his mother, coldly. “I cannot understand any man of principle putting aside his duties for his inclinations.”

Miss Charteris looked bored.

“Is he married?” she asked, languidly.

“No, no, my dear,” answered Mrs. Crosbie, quickly; “by some marvelous chance he has escaped matrimony. I always expected to hear of a low-born wife; but he appears to have a little of the Gerant pride within him, and has spared us that humiliation.”

“Then he has no heir?” Vane observed.

Mrs. Crosbie did not reply immediately, but Miss Charteris saw her handsome eyes wander to Stuart’s face and rest there.

“He has the power of willing Beecham Park,” Mrs. Crosbie remarked; and the squire broke in with his quiet, monotonous voice:

“I have often wished Douglas had married; he was just the man to be led to good things by a good woman.”

“You always were absurd on this subject, Sholto,” his wife remarked, quietly; and the squire discreetly said no more.

Stuart moved from the table as the meal ended, and, engrossed with the newspaper, was lost to all that was passing around.

“I will write this morning and bid Douglas welcome,” Mrs. Crosbie said after a while. As she rose, she turned to the butler—“Fox, tell Mrs. Marxham to prepare some rooms for Sir Douglas Gerant; I expect he will arrive to-morrow. Now, Vane, I will leave you for half an hour; then, if you will equip yourself, we will drive this morning.”

“Thanks, auntie,” and Miss Charteris walked slowly across the room to one of the long French windows, looking thoughtful and not altogether displeased.

“The power to will Beecham Park,” she mused; “and the heir must be Stuart Crosbie. His mother’s eyes spoke that plainly.”

Miss Charteris glanced at the tall, well-built form of Stuart, who was still intent on the newspaper, and for the first time the thought of a warmer feeling dawned in her heart. She found this cousin a more agreeable companion than she had imagined; she was irresistibly attracted by his manliness and charm of manner. Might she not gratify her ambition, as well as her fancy, if she chose this young man for her husband? As mistress of Crosbie Castle she would once again reign in her world, but as mistress of Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park her sovereignty would be greater than she had even dreamed of. Vane felt her heart swell within her at the glorious prospect her imagination conjured up; and, standing in the soft morning sunlight, she vowed to link her lot with Stuart Crosbie and be his wife.

She left the window and walked toward him.

“You are most unkind, Mr. Crosbie,” she said, looking sweetly plaintive. “You are going to leave me all day, and you bury yourself now in those dry papers.”

Stuart put down the newspaper quickly; he had been utterly unconscious of her presence.

“I beg your pardon, Vane,” he said, smiling; “indeed it was very rude of me.”

“I forgive you this time,” she returned, extending her white hand, “on condition that you promise to come home early from your meeting with this tiresome man.”

Stuart colored faintly. It was true that he had received a letter from his friend, Captain Derwent; also true that that friend would pass through Chesterham at some time during the day; but Stuart’s appointment was not with Captain Derwent. In an hour’s time he was to meet Margery, and start for their picnic in the woods.

“I shall get back as soon as I can,” he said, hurriedly. “In truth, Vane, I am afraid that you find Crosbie horribly dull; there is nothing or no one to amuse you. It will be better in a day or two, for I intend to invite one or two people for the twelfth.”

“I don’t want them,” Miss Charteris observed, raising her large blue eyes to his; “and do you know, Cousin Stuart, strange though it may seem, I am not at all dull in your society.”

Stuart bowed low at her words.

“You are easily satisfied,” he replied; and at that moment his mother reappeared.

“Now, Vane, I am at your service. By the by, Stuart, shall we not drive you to Chesterham? I can easily drive the barouche instead of the pony carriage.”

“Oh, no, thanks!” he answered, hurriedly. “I prefer to walk.”

Mrs. Crosbie elevated her eyebrows, but made no remark; and Vane followed her aunt from the room. On reaching the door, she looked back and kissed her hand.

“Au revoir, Cousin Stuart!” she said, lightly. “Don’t stay away too long.”

Stuart waited only till the ladies had well disappeared, then he walked across the hall, caught up his tennis hat, and made his way along the colonnade to the grounds. He stopped at the entrance to the courtyard and whistled for his dogs, then, without another look round, started across the paddock to the village.

Margery was dressed early, and had packed a small basket with some home-made cakes and some apples as provender for the picnic. She had told Mrs. Morris of her holiday and Mr. Stuart’s kindness, and occupied herself with many little duties of love for the sick woman before she left her.

Mrs. Morris watched with tender eyes the slender form flitting about the room in its plain white cotton gown. All the wealth of her childless heart was bestowed on this girl, and in return she received pure and deep affection.

“Now, are you quite sure, mother, you will not miss me?” asked Margery, kneeling by the couch when all her duties were done.

“Nay, that I cannot say,” Mrs. Morris returned, with a faint smile. “I always miss you, child; but I shall not want you. Mrs. Carter is coming in to see me, and Reuben has promised to come home for dinner.”

“Reuben will keep his word, then,” declared the girl; “but I shall not be away long.”

“Stay and amuse yourself, Margery—you are young, and should have pleasure. Now, get on your bonnet and start, or you will keep the young squire waiting.”

Margery tied on her sunbonnet. At first she had been tempted to don her Sunday hat, a plain, wide-brimmed straw with a white ribbon, but she checked herself and put it away, with a blush at her vanity. She took her little basket, and, walking slowly toward the spring, sat down by its musical trickling to wait. She felt more than ordinarily happy; the memory of Stuart’s kind words had driven away the sting of his cousin’s remark; there was not a cloud on the horizon of her young life. She wanted for nothing to complete her happiness, and reveled in the sunshine and the golden glory of summer as only a heart can that has tasted no sorrow, seen not the darkness or gloom of pain.

She had not waited long before the sound of hastening footsteps told her that Stuart was at hand; and she bent to caress the dogs as he approached, thus hiding the pleasure that dawned on her face.

“I am fearfully late, Margery,” Stuart said, apologetically, as he flung himself down on the cool, mossy bank. “By Jove! though, I had no idea I could walk so fast. I have come here in no time.”

“You do look tired,” she said, quickly; “let us rest a while. Shall I get you some milk?”

Stuart shuddered. The thought recalled all the horrors of Judy’s draught that summer morning.

“No, thanks; I will have some water. Do you know, Margery, I don’t believe I can go very much further. What do you say to a picnic in the Weald wood?”

“I think it will be very nice. But, Mr. Stuart, where is your basket?”

“My basket?” he echoed.

“Yes—your lunch,” said Margery, holding out her tiny hamper. “You have forgotten it.”

“Yes, I have. Will it matter?” asked Stuart, gravely, thinking he had never seen so sweet a picture as the girl before him.

“Well, you know, to picnic it is necessary to have some food; but perhaps I have enough for both.”

“I devoutly hope so!” exclaimed Mr. Crosbie. “May I ask, Margery, what your basket contains?”

“Cakes and apples,” she answered, promptly.

“Hum!” observed Stuart, meditatively. “That sounds solid, Margery.”

“Don’t you like cakes and apples?”

“Do you?” he asked.

“Very much.”

“Then I do, too. Now let us get into the woods. By the by, is Reuben about?”

“No; I believe he has gone to some of Sir Hubert’s farms. He started very early this morning, but he will be home to dinner. Did you want him, Mr. Stuart?”

“No, not particularly. But what a lark if they take us up for trespassing—eh, Margery!”

Margery laughed heartily at the idea.

“What would they do to us?” she asked.

“Transport us for life, perhaps,” Stuart replied, with a laugh, as he mounted the narrow wall. “How would you like that, Margery?” he added.

“Would that mean going away from here?”

Stuart nodded.

“I should not like it at all, then,” she declared.

“Then you intend to live in Hurstley all your life? Give me your hand; there—that is right. The dogs will clear it.”

Margery jumped lightly from the wall to the soft turf, and then watched the easy way in which the collie and retriever scaled the wall.

“How clever they are!” she cried, stooping to pat them.

“But you have not answered me. Do you intend to live here all your life?” said Stuart, as they strolled in the cool shade of the trees.

Margery looked at him quickly.

“I have never thought about it, Mr. Stuart,” she replied. “Would it be wrong to wish it?”

“Wrong?” he repeated. “No, Margery, of course not.”

“I love Hurstley,” the girl went on, thoughtfully. “Mother lives here, and Reuben, and Lady Coningham, though I cannot remember her well—still I love her; then there are Miss Lawson and all the village.”

“No one else?” queried Mr. Crosbie, fixing his eyes on her face.

“Yes—you, Mr. Stuart,” Margery answered, softly. “You are here, too.”

“But suppose that all these friends were to go away—suppose you were left alone—would you care for Hurstley then?”

Margery’s face paled.

“I never thought of that,” she murmured. “Oh, I could not stay then; it would be terrible!”

Stuart opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them firmly again, and for a while there was silence between them as they walked. At last the young squire spoke. They had reached a clump of trees, a cooler, shadier spot, and here he stopped.

“Let us unpack that gigantic basket here, Margery,” he said, lightly. “This is the very nook for a picnic.”

Margery tossed off her bonnet, and the young man, stretched at full length on the soft grass, feasted his eyes on her radiant beauty, feeling that with every look his determination to see less of this girl was slipping from him, and that for him happiness was found only when in her presence.

CHAPTER VII.

Vane Charteris found the day pass very slowly, with no one but her aunt to amuse her. She sat listlessly beside Mrs. Crosbie during the long drive, feeling bored and wearied, and yawned through the afternoon in her room, finding no pleasure in her mother’s society and less in her own. The thought that had come to her suddenly in the morning grew stronger as the hours passed. As Stuart Crosbie’s wife, she would taste once more the sweetness of her lost power.

She was leaning by her open window, thinking this, heedless of the beauty of the picture that stretched before her, when her eyes fell on a man’s figure strolling leisurely on the lawn—a strange, odd-looking man, who seemed not quite at home in his surroundings. Miss Charteris, roused from her languor, watched him intently, and at once determined that the intruder was a tramp—perhaps one of a gang of thieves. She rose quickly, and made her way from her room, picking up her sun-shade as she went. Her aunt was out at a garden party, which she had vainly tried to induce Miss Charteris to attend, her mother was enjoying a siesta, and her uncle was absorbed in his books. There was no one about, and the castle seemed quite deserted as Vane walked across the hall to the back grounds. The man was standing as she had seen him last, his hands in his pockets, his hat pulled low over his brows. She went toward him at once.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Do you know you are trespassing?”

The man turned at her first word; he looked at her keenly from a pair of earnest gray eyes, then slowly, and with unmistakable courtesy, removed his slouched felt hat.

“Trespassing?” he repeated, in a cool tone. “Do they prosecute at Crosbie Castle if a man is found gazing only?”

“You are insolent,” Miss Charteris responded, frigidly; “and, if you do not leave at once I shall send some of the servants to you.”

The man replaced his hat, with a curious expression on his face.

“Pray save yourself that trouble,” he said, dryly. “I am going; but may I ask if I have the honor of speaking to Mrs. Crosbie?”

Vane’s face flushed.

“No,” she said, coldly.

“Ah! Miss Crosbie, perhaps?”

“No,” she repeated again.

“Indeed! Then, madame, by what right do you eject me?”

“I am Mrs. Crosbie’s niece, and, in her absence, do what I know she would desire.”

“Mrs. Crosbie’s niece!” repeated the man. “So Mrs. Crosbie rules this castle! Where is the squire?”

Miss Charteris moved away a little.

“I shall answer no more questions,” she said, quietly. “I must request you to go away at once.”

“There spoke George Charteris!” muttered the stranger, as if to himself.

Vane started; she could hardly believe her ears. This shabby man to mention her father’s name! It was extraordinary, and not pleasant.

“I do not know who you are,” she said, with marked irritation; “but you have heard what I said, and you take no notice of my words. It now remains for the servants to see if they will be more successful.”

“Softly, softly, my young lady!” said the man, putting his hand on her arm. “You are much too hasty, and, like all intemperate spirits, judge by appearances only. How do you know whether I have business here or not—whether my visit may not be that of a friend?”

“Friend?” echoed Miss Charteris, sarcastically, at the same time hurriedly drawing her arm from his touch.

“I see,” continued the stranger, half closing his eyes, and fixing her with a look which annoyed and fidgeted her. “I see you count Squire Crosbie’s friends by the cut of their coats. Stay; let me convince you that people are not always what they seem.”

At that moment a footman was passing along the colonnade; and, calling in a loud voice, the stranger attracted his attention.

“Is your master in?” was the question, put easily and naturally.

The footman hesitated for an instant; but the presence of Miss Charteris reassured him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Kindly inform him that I am here.”

“What name, sir?” the man asked.

“Sir Douglas Gerant.”

The footman bowed and turned away, while Vane felt that she wished the ground would open and swallow up this queer, dried, cynical cousin or herself—it mattered not which. Never had she been in so disagreeable a position. Sir Douglas came to her rescue.

“Will you forgive me?” he said, quietly extending his hand, a long, thin white hand, which seemed strangely at variance with his rough, ill-cut clothes.

“It is I who must ask that,” she replied. “Of course, had I known——”

“Naturally, naturally,” interrupted Sir Douglas. “Let us say no more about it. So my cousin Constance is out? Well, I hope she will forgive me for taking her by storm in this way. And where is her boy?”

“Stuart has gone to Chesterham.”

“Hum! And is he a nice fellow? Do you like him?”

Miss Charteris hesitated.

“Yes,” she replied, slowly, “I like Stuart very much. You will see him this evening.”

“Hum!” observed Sir Douglas again; and at that instant the squire’s tall, thin figure appeared, a look of undisguised pleasure on his face.

“My dear Douglas!”

“Sholto, old fellow!”

The two men clasped hands; no words of stronger welcome were spoken, but their eyes looked all they would say; the handgrip testified more plainly than words. What memories filled the mind of each as they stood thus face to face—the traces of the world’s buffets in their worn lineaments—memories of two young forms with hope and vigor shining in their glowing eyes, determination and ambition strong in their hearts.

“Welcome—a thousand times welcome!” said the squire, after a moment’s silence. “I received your letter this morning. We expected you to-morrow.”

Sir Douglas laughed.

“Yes, I thought so; but I am not an orthodox person at all. I break through all rules and regulations. I look like a tramp. Ask this young lady if she does not think so,” he added, abruptly.

Vane’s face flushed—she was inwardly much annoyed; but Sir Douglas continued, speaking easily, and her confusion was unnoticed.

“I was eager to see you, Sholto, and I started off almost as soon as I dispatched my letter. I have had a great wish to see you for the last month.”

“I am heartily glad to meet you once more,” the squire responded; and his face looked brighter than usual. “But how have you come, Douglas?”

“On foot,” returned Sir Douglas, calmly. “My man will arrive with my traps in about an hour’s time.”

“On foot from Chesterham! You must be tired out. Come to my study. What volumes of anecdotes we could write, Douglas, of our respective lives! Vane, my dear, will you come with us?”

“No,” replied Miss Charteris, with a forced smile. “I will go and tell mamma that Sir Douglas has arrived.”

She moved away gracefully as she spoke; Sir Douglas looked after her.

“That is George Charteris’ girl?” he asked.

“Yes. She is very beautiful, is she not?” returned the squire, dreamily.

“Hum!” observed Sir Douglas to himself. “She may be; but——”

The sentence was left unfinished, and the strange guest followed the squire into the house.

“How unchanged it all is!” he remarked, as he entered the great hall. “I seem to have stepped back into my boyhood again, Sholto. Ah, we don’t wear as well as bricks and mortar, old fellow! Only a few short years, and we are both wrecks of what we were!”

They had entered a smaller apartment at the back of the building, one used by the squire as his study and own special sanctum. Books and pamphlets were carelessly strewn about; and the room, in its plain appointments, told clearly and distinctly the character of its owner.

The squire pushed forward a large chair to the window, and Sir Douglas, throwing off his hat, seated himself in it, whilst the squire settled himself at the table.

“Did my letter startle you?” asked Sir Douglas suddenly.

“Yes, it did,” was the candid answer. “I had begun to think you would never return to England, that you would die as you have lived, a wanderer from your home.”

“A weary, restless wanderer—a man, Sholto, with but one thought in his mind, one desire in his wanderings, one wish that has never been fulfilled. Ah, you have judged me as the world has judged me, an ill-conditioned fellow who loved all nations and people above his own! But you have wronged me—the world has wronged me. I am as capable of strong domestic feeling as any man living. I am what I am through trickery and deceit.”

The squire gazed earnestly at his cousin’s face, the thin features illumined by a sudden rush of color. Sir Douglas turned, and, as his eyes met that earnest gaze, he sunk back slowly in his chair, and the old cynical look came back again.

“I must not bore you with my hidden griefs, Sholto,” he said, dryly; “they are musty and gray now with age.”

“You mistake if you think they bore me. I have never judged you hardly, Douglas. Your nature was not a common one. To me your life has fitted your nature.”

“My life,” echoed the guest a little sadly. “What a weary turmoil it seems looking back at it now, what ceaseless restlessness! Ah, cousin, you have had the best of it, after all!”

The squire made no reply.

“Let us bury by-gones—they leave a bitter taste behind. I will come to the present, Sholto. I wrote to you with one idea and thought prominent in my mind. In another month or so I shall leave England again, perhaps this time never to return; but, before I go, I want to leave my old inheritance an heir, and I must find him here.”

“Here!” repeated the squire. “You forget, Douglas, I am seven years your senior, and in all probability——”

“I do not mean you. You have a son.”

“Stuart?” exclaimed the squire. “Yes. You have never seen him, Douglas. He is the best in the world.”

“I do not need your word to tell me that. I have heard of this son. The world is very small, and my ears are always sharp. He was in Calcutta last year. Yes, and I was there, too.”

“Then you know him?”

Sir Douglas shook his head.

“I never saw; but I heard of his good, warm, generous nature, and, judging him as your son, my heart went out to him.”

“It is a noble offer,” the squire said, in his quiet, simple way. “But is there no one whom you would care to select outside the family? Stuart will inherit the castle, remember.”

“There is not a soul,” Sir Douglas replied, in low tones. “Don’t cross me in this, Sholto; to your son I would willingly give all I possess. Heaven grant he may derive greater happiness from it than I have done!”

There was a silence between the two men; then the squire said, gently:

“You look worn and tired, Douglas. Must you leave England again so soon?”

“Yes,” Sir Douglas returned briefly. “My search is not ended; if nothing else will support me, revenge will.” He paused for an instant, then went on quickly, “Sholto, old fellow, don’t think me mad or wild; there is a spot in my past which even you can never see. Only this much I will tell you, that, though I am a cynical, dry, hard creature now, there was a time, a brief heavenly time, when my life was as full of joy and vigor as your son’s is now. The memory of that dead joy, the memory of my terrible wrong—for I was wronged—has destroyed my life’s happiness. I live only for two things—to be revenged and to be satisfied.”

He rose from his chair as he spoke, and strode rapidly up and down the room, while the squire watched him tenderly and sorrowfully. He read the depth of trouble in the grief-distorted face; but he did not seek to know this or learn in any way the truth of his cousin’s strange career. Sir Douglas suddenly stopped in his hurried walk.

“I am not myself to-day, Sholto,” he said, relapsing into his dry manner. “My return to your old home, where everything speaks of the past, has worked badly on me; but the weakness is gone, and—don’t be alarmed—it will not come again.”

The squire said nothing, but stretched out his hand and grasped his cousin’s in silence. Sir Douglas turned away as their fingers unloosened and threw himself into his chair again.

“I shall stay with you for a week or two, Sholto,” he went on, presently. “I want to make friends with Stuart—and then I shall disappear. I trust your wife will not be alarmed at my rough appearance; I believe I have some decent coats among my things—I must look them out.”

“Constance will welcome you warmly,” though he shifted his papers nervously about as he spoke.

“More especially when she knows what has brought me,” was Sir Douglas’ muttered thought.

Then he turned the conversation on other things; and the two men were soon lost in an argument, talking as easily and naturally as though fifteen days, not years, had elapsed since their last meeting.

Meanwhile, away in the Weald grounds, the picnic was progressing well. Margery had spread her snow-white cloth on the turf and placed the dainty cakes and apples upon it; and, despite Stuart’s grumbling, he ate heartily of the simple repast.

“I call this heavenly!” he exclaimed, as he lay on the grass, leaning on his elbow, and watched Margery feed the dogs.

“It is nice,” she agreed, turning her great sapphire eyes on him; “but I do all the work and you picnic, Mr. Stuart. I am afraid you are very lazy.”

“I know I am,” confessed the young man, “but you forget how hard I have always worked, Margery,” he added.

Margery shook her wealth of red-gold hair, and laughed a sweet, musical laugh that rang through the summer silence.

“Worked,” she repeated—“you worked! I don’t believe you really know what work means.”

“I do seem to have led a purposeless life when I think of it,” Stuart observed, reflectively. “The hardest day I ever had was when I went tiger-shooting.”

“Tiger-shooting!” repeated the girl, paling. “Oh, Mr. Stuart, it sounds so dreadful!”

“You are a little coward, Margery,” Stuart laughed. “By Jove, though, how you would have enjoyed some of the things I did! I am sure you would be a good sailor. Margery, how would you like to be out at sea and not a speck of land in sight?”

“I have read of the sea; but I have never seen it,” Margery said, simply. “But I think I should like it; there must be such a grandeur and beauty in rolling waves and great moving waters. I wish you would tell me something about it, Mr. Stuart.”

Stuart moved into a sitting position and leaned his back against the trunk of a giant tree.

“I shall have to write a book about my travels, and dedicate it to you,” he said, lightly.

Margery smiled, and then put her arm round the collie’s neck, and drew the dog’s head on to her knees. The retriever had retired to a shady spot, and was stretched out fast asleep. Stuart launched at once into anecdotes of the sea; he knew just where to put a telling touch and wake the interest; and Margery listened eagerly, drinking in the wonders with pretty incredulity and making Stuart break into hearty fits of laughter at her ignorant nautical remarks.

The afternoon passed quickly; the sun had moved round, and cast slanting rays of golden light into the green nook. It touched Margery’s head, seeming to rest on the soft silky curls with delight. She looked so sweet in her plain white gown—a very flower of purity and beauty—that Stuart’s eyes, resting on her, would make him hesitate in his story and his heart thrill with a strong wave of unspeakable pleasure. To Margery the moments slipped away too quickly; she reveled in these tales of strange countries, in the adventures and hair-breadth escapes that had filled those two years of travel.

“How beautiful and how strange it must have been, Mr. Stuart!” she said, drawing a deep breath, after a while. “You must find Hurstley dull.”

“Hurstley to me is the most beautiful place in the whole world,” Stuart said, involuntarily. “I love it.”

“And so do I!” cried the girl. “But then I am different.” There was a slight pause, and she went on thinking of what he had just told her. “Then I was wrong when I said you had not worked—why, you helped to save the ship that stormy night, Mr. Stuart!”

Stuart smiled as he moved nearer and held out his hand.

“There is the mark of the cut from one of the ropes. Now, you will give me credit for some good, Margery?”

The girl took the hand between her own two small brown ones. She bent her head to look at the scar, while, at the touch of her fingers, Stuart felt his whole being thrill and the last barrier that stood between himself and his love melt away.

“Yes—yes, I see,” Margery said, gently. “Oh, Mr. Stuart, what pain you must have suffered!”

She raised her luminous eyes to him, their blue depths darkened almost to blackness at the thought of that terrible night at sea, and met the steady, passionate gaze bent on her. Some new sense flooded her mind; in one second all her girlish innocence vanished; she knew that she was on the brink of a great wondrous event, though she could not guess what it was. She dropped Stuart’s hand, and rose hurriedly.

“It is getting late; we must go,” she declared. “Mother will want me.”

Stuart at once moved to her side. He took the sunbonnet from her hand, and imprisoned the small fingers within his own.

“Margery,” he said, softly, “is mother the only one who wants you? Will you not stay with me? Ah, my darling,” he cried, bending to catch her other hand and seeing the trembling lips and great, wondrous, startled eyes, “I have frightened you! You do not know—how could you?—how much you have become to me. Margery, I did not mean to speak yet—I meant to wait, and let your love grow; but your sweet face has urged me, and I can wait no longer. Margery, my own darling, I love you! Do you love me?”

Margery felt herself drawn into his strong arms. She looked up at him for one instant, then said softly:

“Love! What is love?”

“Love,” cried Stuart, “is the greatest joy or the greatest pain. To love is to think, dream, live only for one person, to be happy when near them, lonely when away, ever longing to clasp their hand, listen to their voice, as I have done these past weeks, my own sweet dear one.”

“Then”—the color came vividly into the cream-white cheeks, the eyelids drooped, and the graceful head was bent—“then I do love you, Mr. Stuart; but——”

“But!” interrupted Stuart, gathering her to his arms. “There is no ‘but,’ my darling, my very own! Oh, Margery, if you could know what happiness I feel! It is such peace after doubt and perplexity. See—just now you threw my hand away; I give it to you again, my darling, yours to defend and tend you when you are my wife.”

“Your wife!” faltered Margery; and she trembled—the suddenness, the sweetness of this news seemed to have taken all strength from her. She lived in an indescribable dream of happiness; Stuart’s arms were round her, his eyes gazed into hers, his voice was whispering tenderly in her ear. She could not then grasp the full extent of her joy, she was dazed by the passion and depths of his love.

“Yes, my wife, thank Heaven!” said Stuart, reverently raising one small hand to his lips.

“Margery, each day that has gone has linked me closer to you—try as I would, my love would turn to you. There may be storms in life before us,” he went on, hurriedly, involuntarily drawing the slender form closer to him as he thought of his mother’s anger—“there may be trials, battles to fight; but we will be firm and trust in each other. If we have love, we shall be satisfied.”

“My love will never, never die,” Margery murmured slowly, drawing herself out of his arms. “But it is all so strange—you to love me! And—ah, what will madame say, Mr. Stuart? I don’t know why, but I am sure she does not like me.”

“Margery”—and Stuart drew her back to him again and kissed her sweet lips—“we are pledged to each other, and none shall part us. Leave all to me, and it will come right. And now I have a lesson to teach you—henceforth I am Stuart, and Stuart only; don’t forget.”

“I will not,” she promised. She was silent for an instant, then said, softly: “How good you are! I will try to be worthy of you. Something tells me, Stuart, that I am not a common village girl. You will know the truth, perhaps, some day, and then you will be proud of me.”

“I shall never be prouder of you than I am now!” cried the young man, fervently. “I care not what you are—I love you; you shall be my wife!”

Margery raised her lovelit eyes, eloquent in tenderness, to his, and then smiled.

“Our picnic is ended,” she said, loosing herself from his hold and picking up her sunbonnet; “the dogs are tired of waiting; we must go.”

Stuart watched her pack her basket and tie on the simple headgear, his heart throbbing with pure passionate love. Henceforth, let come what might, this girl belonged to him—she was his very own.

“Margery,” he said, as they stood together before starting, “this is the birth of our happiness. Remember, my darling, that you now are my life, my very soul. If clouds should gather, turn to me and I will sweep them away.”

Margery rested her hand for one moment on his shoulder.

“Stuart,” she said, steadily, “I was a girl an hour ago—I am a woman now. As you love me, dear, so I love you, and ever shall, though a world should stretch between us.”

CHAPTER VIII.

The sun was growing ruddy in its glory, filling the heavens with a radiant, beautiful light. Margery had parted with Stuart at the Weald gate, and, urged by the wonder and fullness of her happiness, she turned back again to the spot henceforth engraved on her memory with a golden touch. She stood beneath the tree that had reared its branches over her unconscious head through the past hours, and her heart thrilled again and again at the thought of the marvelous treasure that had come to her. Stuart Crosbie loved her—loved her—Margery Daw—a girl without even a name to call her own! She covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shield them from the memory of his passionate glances. What had she ever done to deserve this happiness? Had not her soul murmured often, fretted beneath the cloud of mystery that hung over her? Ah, how wrong she had been! Even while she had murmured, a gift was coming to her, a gift beside which all else faded away and vanished. A sudden impulse moved the girl. She was alone; save for the occasional note of the birds, the faint flutter of the leaves, there was not a sound to break the silence. On the very spot where she had stood when Stuart uttered his earnest, fervent vows she knelt and sent up words of thankfulness. Then she sank upon the ground and, nestling close to the tree, let her fancy wander to the future. She felt at times as if she could not be the Margery of the morning—so far away now—and she almost doubted whether it was not all a dream, till a sudden recollection of her lover’s voice—the memory of his words—returned, and she knew it was a blissful reality.

The minutes slipped away, and it was not till the chiming of a distant clock fell on her ear that Margery began to realize how long she had sat and how late it was. She rose hurriedly and made her way through the wood to the path. She had her secret to whisper to the poor, sick mother at home, and the thought lent speed to her feet. What joy she would bring to that tender heart! What happiness to share her new delights with such a one!

She ran down the hill, the ripple of the stream sounding in her ears like music, and approached the garden gate. A lady was seated in the cottage doorway, and, as Margery was hurrying up the path, she rose and came to meet her.

“Miss Lawson!” exclaimed Margery, in surprise.

“I have been waiting here nearly an hour,” the governess returned; “your mother has been extremely unwell, and——”

“Mother ill!” exclaimed Margery, with a sudden pang. “Oh, let me go to her!”

Miss Lawson put a detaining hand upon the girl’s arm.

“You must not disturb her; she has just dropped off to sleep. Reuben has gone to fetch Dr. Metcalf, and Mrs. Carter is sitting indoors to see to her.”

Margery’s face had grown very sad.

“What is it?” she asked, in a low voice. “She was weak when I left her to-day, but not more than usual.”

“She had a severe fit of coughing, and it brought on an attack of the hemorrhage again; it has stopped now, but it has left her very weak. You can do nothing just now, Margery, and I came purposely to talk to you.”

Miss Lawson was a small, thin woman with a quiet, determined face, which from long contact with the world had grown almost stern; but there were gleams of warmth and kindliness from the clear, gray eyes and a touch even of tenderness about the mouth sometimes. Now, though she spoke in her keen, dry way, there was an expression of kindness, almost affection, on her features as she looked at Margery. The girl turned back from the door at once.

“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.

“Understand me—you must not turn suddenly and be selfishly murmuring over the past,” urged Miss Lawson, who had been closely watching the girl. “Whatever happens, be grateful, Margery.”

“I am—I am,” cried Margery, “thankful to all, and to you, for you have done so much for me, and now you come to help me again!”

“As I shall always help you, I hope,” returned the governess. “I knew you would understand me, Margery—I felt you would be true to your nature. I waited only till I had something definite to propose before I spoke to you.” She drew out a letter from her pocket as she finished. “You have heard me speak of my sister, Mrs. Fothergill. This is from her. She has married a doctor in London, a man who is fast becoming celebrated as a specialist. I have written many times about you, and, when we have met, I have chatted to her, till she thoroughly realizes what you are. This letter came only this morning, and it contains something that I thought would just suit you.”

“Yes?” said Margery, simply.

Miss Lawson unfolded the letter.

“‘You have often heard me mention Lady Enid Walsh,’” she read, “‘the poor young creature whom John has been attending during the past year. I was sitting with her yesterday. She seems to have taken a fancy to me, and during our conversation she asked me to help her to find a companion. She has a lady with her now, an officer’s widow; but she is not a pleasant woman, and they are going to part. I feel so sorry for Lady Enid—young, with beauty and rank, and a cripple for life! She leads such an isolated existence!—for her aunt, Lady Merivale, at whose house she resides, is very old, and almost always confined to her room, and Lady Enid’s only brother, the Earl of Court, is never in England. She welcomes me so warmly, and opens her heart to me! She told me that she would like a bright young girl for companion—if possible from the country. Lady Enid adores the country; but she is compelled to live in London to be near the doctors and under the so-called care of her aunt. Immediately she spoke of a country girl my thoughts flew to your pupil, Margery Daw. From your accounts I feel sure she is the very person to suit the poor young invalid. Do you think this could be managed? She would have a luxurious home, a really magnificent salary, and I feel sure would soon grow to love Lady Enid—no one could help doing so. I half said I knew of some one, and she adopted the idea eagerly; so I hasten to write you.

“‘The question is whether Margery would like the life. It would be dull, very dull; but Lady Enid is a most charming and intellectual companion, and very unselfish. I know you have been anxious about your pupil; and this seems such a wonderful chance that I cannot help saying I shall be disappointed if it falls through. I suppose Lady Coningham would not object to her protégée’s becoming independent? Write by return, and let me know what you think of my proposal; and, if you approve, try to arrange it as quickly as possible, as the widow lady leaves in a fortnight.’”

Miss Lawson folded the letter slowly, and put it back into her pocket.

“That is all,” she said, quietly. “Now, Margery, it remains for you to express your feelings.”

“It is so sudden,” responded Margery, faintly; her hands were clasped together; her face, hidden behind the flopping sunbonnet, was perplexed, pained and troubled.

What must she do? How could she leave Hurstley, where every tree and stone was precious to her, and where her heart was bound? Should she speak openly of her love at once, her future marriage with the young squire of Crosbie Castle? The words were on her lips—and then she hesitated. Instinctively she felt that Miss Lawson would not approve of the engagement, and she vividly recalled madame’s unceasing dislike. No, she could not speak of it yet; it was so new, so strange; perhaps, after all, it might not be—and her hands pressed her heart closely. She would leave all to him; he must speak out, she could not. And what, then, must she say to this proposal? Could she leave Hurstley—go from the sun which gave her being life, into a lonely, strange world—leave all that she knew and loved so well—the tiny cottage, the sweet-smelling woods and lanes, and the poor, sick woman, a mother in all but truth? That last thought came as a golden gleam.

“Mother!” she said, hurriedly, “I cannot leave her.”

“Then you renounce all thought of independence,” she observed, coldly, watching the girl’s face with something like a frown on her own.

“I do not,” replied Margery, firmly. “I have listened to your advice, and I will take it; but I must first think of her. She will miss me, Miss Lawson—I know she will.”

“Well,” said Miss Lawson, after a pause, “that is true. It would be cruel to leave her now. I will write to my sister and thank her in your name, and explain why you refuse.”

“You are not cross with me?” Margery murmured, putting out her hand suddenly.

“Cross? No, my child. I wish it might have been arranged; but you are right; it is your duty to stay with Mary Morris, and help to cheer her sad life. In the future, if ever you want help, come to me, and what I can do I will.”

Margery’s eyes met the governess’ steady gaze, and then she bent forward and kissed her.

“I will come to you,” she said, simply; and the two women separated.

Margery hurried down the hill toward home. She felt weary, almost exhausted; it had been a day of extreme mental excitement. As she passed the woods and the stream, her thoughts went back to Stuart, and she felt again the power of his love. Why should she have doubted him? Why not have spoken bravely of their love? Had he not said himself that storms might come, but he would face them all? To-morrow she would seek Miss Lawson, and, strong in the knowledge of Stuart’s great, honest heart, tell her all. Now she must hasten to the sick woman, and watch beside her with tender care and hope.

Stuart Crosbie strode home to the castle, feeling that he had left behind him everything that made life happy. His love for Margery had been growing slowly, but surely, during the past three months that had elapsed since his return home. Her beauty bewitched and enthralled him, her freshness and sweetness linked him still more strongly, her daintiness and natural refinement appealed to him through all. He knew there would be trouble; that his mother would denounce his choice; but his mind was made up, his will, the will of which she was so proud herself, would be firm as iron. Let all the world rage, Margery should be his wife. Though she was nameless, a waif, a nobody, was she not a pure, sweet girl? Were these worldly considerations stains on her fair character? No; his heart was given, his mind made up, and nothing should move him. He raised his head proudly at this thought, a look of determination on his face. He was armed for the fray; but, while he gloried in his own strength, there came the thought of Margery’s weakness. Would she brave the storm as he could? Would not the bitterness of his mother’s anger wound and humiliate her? His face softened. He must shield his sweet love from the fierceness of the battle, tenderly protect her from the cruel wind of harshness and coldness that would most assuredly greet her at Crosbie Castle.

He chose the path through the paddock, and walked through the courtyard just as the tower clock chimed a quarter to eight. He had but a few minutes to change his tennis suit for his dinner garb, and he ran hurriedly from the coachhouse round to the lawn, determined to make a rush to his room. He dismissed his dog with a word, sped fleetly across the grounds till he reached the colonnade, and entered it, when suddenly, by some mischance, his foot slipped. He made a vain effort to save himself; his head swum; he was conscious of a sudden sharp twinge of pain, and, falling heavily, he knew no more.

Sir Douglas Gerant, after a lengthened chat with his cousin, mounted to his room, and dressed himself with due regard for the exigencies of polite society. The hard, cynical look that had rested on his face during his conversation with Vane Charteris, and in the political argument with the squire, had now vanished. He looked worn and ill as he walked slowly up and down his room; his eyes were sad; his head drooped. He seemed to be thinking deeply; at last, with a deep-drawn sigh, he seated himself at the table and wrote a letter. It was a summons to his lawyer, bidding him draw up a will, and fixing a day for him to come to Crosbie Castle. This done, Sir Douglas leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand for several minutes. The entrance of his valet, a man who had been his faithful servant and companion for years, roused him; and, bidding the valet dispatch the letter quickly, Sir Douglas left his room and descended the broad staircase. As he passed through the wide hall to the colonnade, its white pillars, gleaming against the background of green, tinged now with the ruddy gold of the setting sun, made a picture gratifying to his artistic eye. He sauntered on, determining to seek the grounds, when his eyes fell on Stuart’s prostrate form and pale face. In an instant he was kneeling beside the young man, and his clear voice rang out to the butler, who happened to be passing to the dining-room.

The man hurried up with some brandy, and Sir Douglas, with almost professional dexterity, lifted Stuart’s head and poured a few drops between the closed lips. He watched the color slowly return, and the eyes open, with a look of anxiety and tenderness on his face.

“That is right!” he said, gently, as he met Stuart’s gaze. “Are you hurt?”

“My arm!” murmured the young man, faintly, as the butler and Sir Douglas helped him to rise.

The baronet cast a keen glance at the right hand, hanging limp and swollen.

“You have had an ugly fall,” he said, briefly. “Your arm is broken—how did it happen?”

He pushed Stuart gently into a chair near at hand, and, while he spoke, he deftly cut away the slight tennis sleeve from the wounded limb with a pair of scissors taken from his pocket.

“I can’t quite remember,” Stuart replied, speaking with an effort, and passing his left hand over his eyes. “I came an awful cropper, I know, and must have banged my head. Is the arm broken? If so, you had better send for Metcalf and have it set.”

The butler was moving away; but Sir Douglas stopped him.

“There is no need to send to the village—I can manage this. Go up to my room and send down my man; it is not the first time he has helped me in this sort of thing.”

Stuart lay back in his chair; he was still feeling faint and weak. He caught Sir Douglas’ eye, and smiled a little.

“I feel rather like what the boys used to call a ‘jolly duffer,’” he said, slowly. “I can’t think what made me so stupid; I don’t usually fall about in this way. I wonder how long I was insensible—and I have never thanked you for helping me.” Stuart was gradually recovering himself, and woke to the fact that this was a stranger. “I beg your pardon.”

“It is granted, Cousin Stuart.”

Stuart looked mystified, and then said, suddenly putting out his left hand:

“You are Douglas Gerant; I am very glad to see you.”

Sir Douglas grasped the hand.

“Thanks, my lad,” he said, quietly; then, looking round: “Here is Murray. Now sit quiet, and don’t speak, and we’ll settle you in a trice.”

Stuart watched his cousin curiously as he prepared the bandages and improvised some splints; he scarcely felt the long, white fingers as they moved over his wounded arm, and winced only as the bones clicked together. But he grew fainter as the bandages were wound round; and, as the operation was finished, Sir Douglas, without a word, held the brandy to his lips again and forced him to drink some.

“You have pluck, Stuart,” he said, quietly. “You are of the stuff to make a man. Now, if you take my advice, you will go to your room and rest. I fancy that arm will trouble you rather to-night; so try to get some sleep now.”

“My head feels rather queer, I confess,” Stuart responded; and he gladly let his cousin draw his hand through his arm and lead him through the hall to the stairs.

Mrs. Crosbie was sailing down as they approached.

“Stuart,” she exclaimed, in genuine dismay, “what is the matter?”

“He has fallen and broken his arm,” Sir Douglas answered, quietly. “I am taking him to his room; it will be wiser to let him pass, Cousin Constance, as he has had a nasty touch on the head.”

“Arm broken!” cried Mrs. Crosbie, in alarm. “But it must be set! I will send for Dr. Metcalf at once!”

“You can send for the doctor, if you like,” Sir Douglas remarked, as he drew Stuart up the stairs; “but his arm is already set. I have had considerable experience in such cases, and I can assure you it is all right.”

Stuart smiled faintly at his mother, and she followed him up the stairs, a little annoyed, a little anxious, and, oddly enough, a little glad—annoyed because Sir Douglas had taken so much upon himself; anxious for her son, whom she loved better than anything on earth; and glad, because she saw in this illness a chance of bringing about the marriage between Vane and Stuart, which she so much desired.

Sir Douglas left the mother and son together when he had ensconced his patient comfortably in a large chair; and Mrs. Crosbie busied herself with many little offices about the room, quitting the apartment only when she saw Stuart’s eyes close in slumber. She met Vane on the landing, and, with an affectionate glance, drew the girl’s hand through her arm.

“He is resting, dear,” she said, “so I shall leave him for a while. We must nurse him together, and we shall soon get him well.”

Vane’s face flushed a little.

“I will help you gladly,” she returned, and she spoke honestly. Her first thought, like her aunt’s, had been that this would bring Stuart and herself more together. She had another duty to perform, too. She must ingratiate herself with Sir Douglas Gerant, and try by every means in her power to wipe away the memory of her foolish mistake.

Stuart slept for an hour or two, and dreamed of Margery, but when he awoke the pain in his arm was so great that even her sweet image was banished from his thoughts. His mother came in as night fell, but Stuart was too ill to broach the subject of his love. The blow on the head was more severe than he had imagined, and he grew feverish as the day declined. He heard the tower clock chime the night hours, and whenever he moved his head, his eyes rested on the figure of Sir Douglas reading by the window, and ready at any moment to tend him.

And at the small cottage by the Weald another being sat and watched by a sickbed, watched with a heart that was growing sadder and sadder as the moments passed. Margery, still in the white cotton gown that she wore when she plighted her troth, knelt by Mary Morris’ couch, trying to alleviate the pain that was racking the poor, wasted frame. She was ignorant of her lover’s illness, and she thought of him only with a sense of peace and happiness. What a long, wonderful day it had been, she thought, as she sat beside the little window and watched the veil of night darken the sky—a day in which her girlhood was buried forever, a day in which the golden glory of all earthly happiness dawned for her! She turned from the window to watch the sick woman. The paroxysm of pain seemed past, and she was asleep. The house was quiet as a tomb. In another room the loving, faithful husband and companion was lost to trouble in slumber. Margery was alone; she moved softly to the window and drew back the curtains, and immediately the room was bathed in the silver radiance of the moon.

She stood and gazed on at the dark-blue heavens, the glittering myriads of jeweled stars, the moonlit earth, till a cloud seemed to obscure her vision; and, when she gazed again, the stars were gone and a ruddy haze, pierced by the sun’s golden beams, illumined the sky.

She rose softly, moved on tiptoe to the bed, then, with a sudden shudder, dropped on her knees beside it. While her eyes had been closed in sleep, while the dawn had spread its roseate veil over the night, a spirit had flown from earth—Mary Morris was dead!

CHAPTER IX.

The days passed away, and Stuart Crosbie gradually recovered from the effects of his fall. Despite the assurance from Sir Douglas that her son was doing well, Mrs. Crosbie satisfied herself and summoned the village doctor, together with a fashionable physician from town, only to receive the same opinion from them, coupled with the expression that Stuart could not have been better treated. The young man passed four days in his room; but, as the pain left his head, he insisted on donning his clothes and descending to the garden. His mind was haunted by Margery’s image and the thought of her sorrow; for the news of Mrs. Morris’ death had reached him through his servant, and he longed to rush away and comfort his darling. He had seen little of his mother during the past four days; Sir Douglas had constituted himself head nurse, and Mrs. Crosbie, who was not quite at home in a sickroom, gave way to him with a little annoyance and jealousy, though she would not let it be seen. Stuart had not been sufficiently well, during the short time she visited him, to speak about Margery—indeed, he scarcely had strength to reply to her inquiries—the heat was still very great, and, although he had an excellent constitution, he was considerably weakened by the fever and pain. But, though he could not collect his ideas to speak of Margery, she was never absent from his thoughts. The vision of her sweet blue eyes, her wistful, lovely face, haunted his bedside, bringing a sense of peace and rest to his troubled dreams.

At last, after four days had passed, Stuart insisted on leaving his room and seeking the air, urged, in fact, by a strong desire to see his mother and tell her of his love. Sir Douglas offered no opposition to this move; the severer effects of the fall were now passed, and, with such health and vigor as Stuart possessed, his arm would soon heal. Nevertheless, it was a rather shattered likeness of the handsome cousin that greeted Vane Charteris’ eyes as she crossed the hall and saw him making slow progress down the stairs.

“Let me help you,” she said, gently, moving forward at once, and putting out her hand.

“Thanks. I am rather shaky,” returned Stuart, smiling faintly. “How do you do, Cousin Vane? Thanks for all your kind messages.”

Vane made no reply, but helped him down the stairs, across the hall to the colonnade, and, pushing forward a large chair, she soon made him comfortable.

“Thank you,” he said again; “you are very kind. Is my mother anywhere about?”

“She has gone to Chesterham on some missionary business,” replied Vane, leaning back against one of the white pillars, and looking extremely pretty and graceful in her long, soft pink gown. “I don’t think she knew that you were coming down, or I am sure she would not have gone.”

Stuart sat silent, troubled and disappointed. He had braced himself for his interview with his mother; he was longing to send some word or sign to Margery. Four whole, long days had passed since their picnic in the wood, and during that time sorrow had come to her, and he had not ministered to her comfort. He wondered whether she knew of his illness, whether she realized that it was that illness alone that had kept him silent. He had determined, as he rose, to speak to his mother, and then drive over to the Weald cottage and bring Margery back in all dignity to the castle, as befitted his future wife; but now again fate was unkind; his mother was absent—might be absent the whole day—and he was too weak to crawl even to the carriage. What could he do? He must send some message of comfort, some word of love to Margery. His eyes fell on his maimed hand; and, with a half groan, he realized that he was helpless, utterly helpless to do as he wished.

Vane Charteris watched him carefully. She saw his brow contract and the look of trouble gather on his face.

“Are you in pain?” she asked, gently.

Stuart woke from his musings.

“My arm is a little troublesome,” he replied, evasively; then, collecting his thoughts with an effort, he said: “But I must not be selfish, Vane. You will find it dull work sitting with an invalid. I feel so angry with myself for being so clumsy. Just fancy, Vane—this is the first time I have been ill in my life!”

“Then we must do our best to cheer you, Cousin Stuart,” Vane responded, a faint color mounting to her cheeks at the last words. What could they mean but that this illness kept him from her side? “Come,” she added, brightly—“let me amuse you, read to you, or do something. I assure you, Cousin Stuart, I consider it a pleasure. I would do anything for you, believe me.”

Stuart looked at her as she drew up another chair and sunk into it, giving him a frank, affectionate glance. A sudden thought flashed into his mind, and then died away.

“You look upon me as useless,” she observed, with a smile. “I mean to upset that theory altogether.”

“Useless!” echoed Stuart. “Indeed, Vane, you are quite wrong.”

“Then let me help you,” Vane said, suddenly. “I see plainly, Stuart, something is troubling you; it is not only the arm. Come—I shall begin to be jealous of Sir Douglas, to be afraid that you will trust in no one but him. Will you not let me be your friend as well as your cousin?”

Stuart half rose in his chair.

“My friend!” he repeated; then he sunk back again. “Yes, Vane, if you will be my friend.”

“Friendship is not an empty term with me,” Miss Charteris observed, slowly. “Since you will let me be your friend, I must act as such. See”—extending her hand—“let us seal the contract—look upon me as your chum, your sister, as well as your friend and cousin.”

Stuart grasped her hand.

“I will,” he said, quietly; “for I am in urgent need of a friend, especially just now.”

He stopped and looked at her; she was watching him with an expression of frankness and sympathy.

“Vane,” he began slowly, “I came down this morning on purpose to talk to my mother on a subject that is more than life to me. I anticipate—I know—I shall have a hard struggle with her, though, despite all she may say, I shall be firm. Will you help me in this struggle?”

Vane rose to her feet again; her breath was coming fast, and a presentiment of something disagreeable passed through her mind.

“Tell me what it is, Stuart,” she said, quietly, unfurling a large fan she carried, and holding it against the light, ostensibly to shield her face from the sun, in reality to keep it hidden from her cousin.

“Vane, do you remember the fourth day of your visit here, when I took you to see Sir Charles?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Do you remember a girl who was sitting in a corner and who brought me some water for the dog? I introduced her—Margery Daw.”

Vane caught Stuart’s eager glance, and her heart seemed to cease beating.

“Yes,” she replied, a little coldly.

“Vane, that is my secret; that is the girl I love better than any one or anything in the world—Margery Daw.”

Vane Charteris was silent for a moment. She felt as though her vexation and jealousy would choke her; then she forced herself to be firm and calm. She dropped her fan and moved out of the sunlight; her face was very pale, but she smiled as Stuart looked at her eagerly.

“Well,” she said, quietly, “and—and you want me to help you—how?”

“You will?” he asked, with gladness on his face.

Vane put one hand on her chair for support.

“Am I not your friend?” she smiled, faintly.

“Oh, thank you—thank you!” he cried, rising from his chair; but Vane gently pushed him back again.

“Tell me what you want,” she urged, standing at his side, so that he could not see her pallor and annoyance.

“I want you to plead with me to my mother—not for myself—I am strong enough”—and Stuart drew himself up proudly—“I would face the whole world. I want you to be a friend to Margery, as you would be to me. She may need your help; a woman such as you, Vane, can do much—smooth many difficulties. You can see how angry my mother will be. I shall not care for her anger; but Margery is so tender, so sweet, so proud—anger will humiliate and distress her; and, if you aid her, she will scarcely feel it, I am sure.”

“Then you have not spoken to Aunt Constance yet?” Vane observed, very quietly. “I am afraid you will have great trouble. You see, Stuart, your—your wife will be of low station, and your mother is proud.”

“We do not know what Margery’s birth may be; but that does not affect me. I love her; she shall be my wife. Ah, you do not know her, Cousin Vane, or you would not have said that! There may be some mystery connected with her birth; but there is no stain on her. If ever there was a lady, she is one.”

“Your news has surprised me, Stuart, I must confess,” observed Miss Charteris, moving languidly from his side and sinking into her chair again; “but I shall prove my words. I am your friend—I will act as such. Yes; I will help you.”

Stuart’s face flushed, and he leaned forward and bent his lips to Vane’s white hand.

“This is, indeed, good of you!” he exclaimed. “Vane, I can never thank you enough.”

“Tell me what I must do,” returned Miss Charteris, unfurling her fan again.

“Will you see Margery?” inquired Stuart, hurriedly.

“To-day?” asked Vane.

“Yes. Ah, Vane, think—four days have gone, she has had a great sorrow, and I have been tied to my bed, not able to see her, not even to write her a word! If you would go to her, tell her all is going well, that you will be her friend, you will make me so happy.”

“I will go, Stuart,” Vane said, quietly; “for your sake I will do all I can. No; do not thank me. Remember what I said just now—I would do anything for you. I will wait till it is a little cooler, then borrow Aunt Constance’s ponies, and drive to the village.” She hesitated. “Perhaps—perhaps Miss Daw may not like me?”

“Not like you!” cried Stuart, quickly. “She cannot help herself. Dear Vane, how good you are! You do not know what a load you have taken off my mind. I dreaded, I feared that my poor darling would have been without a friend. Now she is secure. My mother loves you, and will be led by you. I shall speak to her the instant she returns, and then Margery can come here. Vane, I shall never, never forget your kindness!”

“You shall give me all your messages before I start,” Miss Charteris replied. “Now let me read to you a little—you look tired. I shall not let you talk any more.”

She smiled gently, and flitted away, leaving Stuart deep in happy thought. His spirits rose as the picture of a blissful future floated before him, and his heart was filled with gratitude toward Vane. Without her help, it would have been a hard fight; but now his fears were lessened, for his darling would have one stanch, true friend.

Sir Douglas Gerant, walking through the hall, glanced at the invalid lying back in the chair, his face illumined with the flood of happiness that thrilled him.

“You look better, Stuart,” he said, abruptly, approaching the young man.

“I am feeling splendid,” Stuart replied, heartily.

“Hum! What new remedy have you tried, may I ask?” Sir Douglas said, dryly.

“A new doctor has prescribed for me,” Stuart said, with a laugh; “and here she is. Cousin Vane, see how much good you have done me! Sir Douglas has complimented me with almost professional jealousy.”

Miss Charteris smiled, and, seating herself, opened her book, while Sir Douglas retraced his steps through the hall to the front entrance and walked thence across the sweep of lawn to the lodge gates.

“So the wind blows in that quarter!” he mused, while a frown contracted his brow. “I am sorry and disappointed. He is a good lad, worthy of a better woman than that proud, selfish creature. Well, I am an old fool! The sooner I go from here the better. I shall grow too fond of Sholto’s son if I stay much longer.”

He walked briskly across the lawn, then turned into the avenue, and approached the gates. The sun was beating down on the hot, dusty lane, the lodge-keeper’s wife was standing, her arms akimbo, talking to some one leaning wearily against the iron pillar.

“Good-morning, sir,” she said, courtesying. “May I make so bold as to ask how the young squire is this morning?”

“Better—much better,” returned Sir Douglas.

“There, Margery—you hear?” the woman turned again to the figure—“better. Lor’, if there ain’t that baby awake! Excuse me, sir;” and, dropping a hasty courtesy, Mrs. Clark rushed into the house.

“You have come to inquire after the young squire?” Sir Douglas began, addressing the slender, black-robed girl in kindly tones.

The head was bent, the plain skirt was thick with dust; but there was about the young girl’s figure an air of unspeakable grace, and a tress of the red-gold hair that shone beneath the black straw hat gleamed as a touch of wondrous color to the somber picture.

Margery raised her head.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, and then stopped, almost in alarm. Sir Douglas had moved forward as his eyes rested on her face; his color faded to a deathly whiteness, and he almost staggered against the gate, his eyes still fixed on her wondrous countenance.

“Who are you? What is your name?” he gasped, rather than spoke.

“Margery Daw,” she answered, trembling a little with fear. Then, seeing his head droop, she added quickly: “You are ill, sir; let me get you some water.”

Sir Douglas put out a feeble hand.

“It is nothing—a spasm—the heat,” he muttered; then he moved slowly to the lodge door and sunk upon the bench outside. “The heat,” he muttered again, “and a ghost of the past.”

Margery went into the cottage, and returned with a glass of water. Sir Douglas took it from her and drank it eagerly.

“I have frightened you, child,” he said, abruptly. “Tell me”—he pressed one hand to his side—“you are called Margery Daw. Your mother—what of her?”

“I have no mother,” Margery replied, and her lip trembled. “I am alone.”

“You live here—have lived here always?” went on Sir Douglas, quickly.

“All my life,” she answered.

He sank back in the seat again.

“It was but my thought,” he murmured; “and yet how like, how like!”

“Are you better now?” asked Margery, gently.

“Yes, child—yes”—he paused a little—“but I shall go no further.” He rose slowly, his eyes wandering now and again to the girl’s face. “But you—you look tired—what are you going to do?”

“Walk back to the village,” Margery answered, with a sigh and a wistful glance in the direction of the castle. So much sorrow had come to her since that happy day in Weald Wood that she seemed, indeed, faint and weary. She longed to see Stuart, to send him a few words; but her pride, her modesty, forbade it, and not until this morning could she summon up courage to walk to the lodge gates and inquire about him. She never doubted his constancy, nor did she look for any message from him. She knew of his suffering, and all her thought was for him. She turned away now, with a graceful inclination to Sir Douglas, and prepared to retrace her steps.

“You cannot walk yet—you are not rested,” he said, sharply. “Sit down a while. This heat is enough to kill you.”

Margery shook her head.

“Thank you; I must go. I only came to inquire after—after Mr. Stuart.”

“He is in good hands,” Sir Douglas remarked, in his dry, cynical way. “I set his arm; but his heart requires another doctor, and his cousin has succeeded there. Ah, the village will see a wedding before long, child, unless I have lost my wits!” He was turning away when he suddenly approached her once more. “I must see you again,” he said, in a strange, husky voice. “You have brought back a gleam of the past that was buried, touched the spring of a secret that has never seen life. There is a strange sense of hope within my heart—hope that I thought dead, never to be revived. Child, whoever you may be, remember that in the future, while I live, I will be a friend to you, for you bear an angel’s face.”

He turned and walked away rapidly; but Margery had neither heard nor understood what he meant. She was repeating over and over again the words he had uttered first; her heart grasped too clearly and terribly the meaning—a wedding in the village, a wedding from the castle! Stuart, her Stuart, the being who held her very life, marry another—that fair, lovely woman who had laughed her to scorn! The sunshine grew blood-red before her eyes, for one instant she reeled, and then grasped the doorpost for support. Then gradually she awoke to the fullness of her pain and humiliation. Pride was swelling in her heart; she seemed in that instant changed from a girl of glowing, living hopes to a woman who had tasted the bitterness of all earthly grief. She bent her head and walked steadily down the lane, heedless of the sun, heedless of the rough stones, heedless even of madame’s presence, as she dashed past in her carriage. She was oblivious of everything save her pain and trouble, and the memory of her wasted love.

CHAPTER X.

“Friendship is constant in all other things,

Save in the office and affairs of love;

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues.

Let ev’ry eye negotiate for itself,

And trust no agent.”

Vane Charteris closed abruptly the book she was reading. She had commenced the quotation scarcely heeding what she read, but the sense dawned upon her as she reached the end. She colored faintly and looked up hurriedly, then gave a sigh of relief. Soothed by the musical monotony of her voice, Stuart had fallen into a doze, and the last words had had no meaning for him.

Vane opened her fan and sat back; her eyes were fixed on the lovely picture before her, but her thoughts were a tumult of anger, vexation and jealousy. To find her plans upset, her hope of power pass from her in the very moment of its birth, was a bitter mortification. Her short dream of ambition was broken, and for what? A mere country girl, whose eyes had bewitched Stuart, and whose charm had beguiled the passing hour. A feeling of self-annoyance succeeded the vexation. Vane bit her lip and tapped the ground with her foot. What had she done? Promised to befriend and assist the very woman who had pushed her aside. She was a fool, the proud girl told herself, not to have laughed Stuart’s tale of love to scorn. A few cold words might, perchance, have checked the ardor of his flame. Now it was too late; she had given her promise, and she must meet this woman. A deeper flush spread over Vane’s cheeks.

She shut her fan quickly, and looked curiously at her sleeping cousin. A thought had suddenly come into her mind. After all, she had not been so foolish, for was she not to meet Margery alone, with no other influence to work against hers? Could she not so manage as to rouse, say, if not the demon of jealousy, at least the spirit of pride? The girl had pride, Vane was compelled to admit—she had not forgotten Margery’s dignity that day in the courtyard, nor the graceful hauteur and ease with which she had moved away. Wordy warfare was not unknown to Miss Charteris, and it would be strange, indeed, if she could not plant some poisoned arrows in this presumptuous country girl’s breast.

Stuart could not write a line—that was fortunate; he would not be able to leave the castle for three or four days at the least—that also was fortunate. Vane felt her spirits rise again, and her hatred, fanned by piqued vanity and jealousy, grew stronger and stronger.

Some vague thought of trouble seemed to come at that moment to Stuart, for, on turning her head, she met his open eyes fixed with an anxious look on her.

“You have had a delightful sleep,” she said, rising, and moving toward him. “I am so glad!”

Stuart passed his left hand over his brow.

“How rude you must think me, Vane!” he murmured. “Your voice sent me to sleep; but I have not slumbered peacefully. My arm is a most annoying member.”

“I feared you were suffering,” Vane answered, gently. “Stuart, why not go back to your room again? I am sure it will be wiser.”

“I don’t feel a Hercules, certainly,” confessed Stuart. “Who could think that four days would pull a fellow down so low?” He rose slowly from his chair, then added, suddenly. “But my mother! Vane! I must see her to-day.”

“I am going to propose something,” Vane said, slowly, as she drew his hand through her arm. “Let me speak to Aunt Constance. Believe me, I shall do it far better than you. You would probably be hurt at what she says, and then you would both be angry. Now, if I speak, Stuart, I, being an impartial person, shall be more calm and collected. I will plead your cause well, and—don’t think me vain—I think I shall succeed as I wish.”

Vane drew a quick breath. Stuart did not see the transitory gleam of triumph that flashed from her eyes.

“I am your friend; you will trust me?” she added, gently.

“Trust you? Yes, Vane; but it seems cowardly, unmanly, not to plead for myself.”

“Do you want to win your mother’s consent? Yes, of course you do? Then be assured, Stuart, that in my hands you will be more certain of it than if you act for yourself. See—here is your servant! Take my advice, rest and be happy, and all will go well.”

“Vane,” began Stuart; but she stopped him.

“Do as I ask you,” she pleaded; and with a smile of grateful thanks, Stuart retired to his room.

“All will go well—yes,” mused Vane, as she turned back to the colonnade. “I see the end clearly now. I must enlist Aunt Constance on my side, and the rest will follow in due course. Margery Daw, your chance of reigning at Crosbie Castle grows smaller and smaller.”

She mounted the stairs to her room, stopping on the way to exchange a few words and embraces with her mother, who was overjoyed to see her darling child so well and happy.

Vane made a careful, simple toilet; she exchanged her long pink gown for a dainty white cambrice, chose a large white hat and gloves of a light tan shade, and, after bidding her maid place them in readiness, descended to the hall just as her aunt arrived.

Mrs. Crosbie was dismissing her groom with the ponies when Vane interrupted.

“Forgive me, auntie, dear,” she said, lightly, “but may I have the carriage this afternoon? I have an errand to perform in the village.”

Mrs. Crosbie looked surprised for an instant; then she said, affably:

“Certainly, my dear. At what time shall Tims bring it round?”

“About five o’clock. Many thanks, Aunt Constance,” she added, prettily, as Mrs. Crosbie gave the desired order.

Luncheon progressed slowly and rather silently. Lady Charteris chatted away to the squire, and Mrs. Crosbie dilated in her proud, cold way upon mission work. Sir Douglas ate and spoke little, while Vane discussed the delicacies in silence.

Several times in the course of the meal she was struck by the strange expression on Sir Douglas Gerant’s face; there was a glow of animation, a look of eagerness that surprised her, and she decided mentally that he was pondering some great problem, when she saw his brows darken and his jaw set with determination. She herself had many momentous thoughts troubling her; but her manner was placidly serene. She was awaiting her opportunity to speak alone with Mrs. Crosbie, and thought to effect her purpose immediately after luncheon.

In this, however, she was foiled; her aunt was claimed by the housekeeper on account of domestic affairs, and it was past four o’clock before she was liberated.

At last Vane saw her chance. She had seated herself in the colonnade, which was a favorite lounge for the whole house in summer-time, and from here she could see all who came and went. To outward appearance she was absorbed in her book; but in reality she was keenly alive to everything passing around, listening for the first tones of her aunt’s voice, and wondering during the moments of her watch what was causing the struggle in Sir Douglas Gerant’s breast as he walked to and fro beneath the shade of the trees in the distance.

Vane did not look up as she saw her aunt approach; but she gave Mrs. Crosbie a smile when she addressed her.

“So I hear, Vane, that you have been nursing Stuart, and with good results. I have just met Andrews, and he tells me his master has slept nearly all the afternoon; he will soon recover, now, I hope.”

“I hope so, indeed,” said Vane, softly.

She pushed forward a chair as she spoke; then, as her aunt sank into it, she said, quietly:

“Aunt Constance, I want to speak to you. I said before luncheon that I had an errand to perform in the village, but I did not say what that errand was. I will tell you now.”

“Do you think I look curious, Vane?” laughed Mrs. Crosbie, her handsome features wearing an air of satisfaction and pleasure as her gaze rested on her niece.

“I am going to see Margery Daw,” Vane said, slowly, letting her eyes wander across the sunlit lawn, but not before she saw a look of surprise dawn on her aunt’s face.

“See Margery Daw!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie. “Why, Vane?”

“Because Stuart has asked me to go.”

“Stuart!” breathed his mother, half rising from her chair. “What do you mean, Vane?”

“I mean, aunt, that Stuart loves Margery Daw, and says he will make her his wife.”

For a time there was no reply from Mrs. Crosbie, and Vane, turning, saw a heavy frown on her handsome face.

“You are jesting, of course, Vane?” she said, at last.

“Indeed, Aunt Constance, I am not,” returned Miss Charteris, quietly. “My news surprises you?”

“Surprises!” repeated Mrs. Crosbie. “I fail to understand you at all.”

Vane rose and knelt beside her aunt.

“Auntie, dear,” she said, gently, “you must not be hard on poor Stuart. Recollect, he has eyes, and this girl is beautiful. I have seen her, and love is——”

“Has he asked you to plead for him?” interrupted Mrs. Crosbie, coldly.

“No; he told me his secret this morning, urged by I know not what,” and Vane let her eyes wander away again. “Perhaps,” she went on, after a brief pause, “some idea of the warm interest I must ever have in him prompted him; but that I cannot tell. He spoke openly to me, and asked me to be her friend as I was his.”

A sneer curled Mrs. Crosbie’s lip.

“He evidently thought union was strength,” she remarked, dryly.

“Aunt Constance, I will not hear your anger against Stuart,” Vane said, quickly. “I—I am his friend, and——” Her head drooped and her cheeks flushed. Then she went on, hurriedly: “It is not his fault—of that I am sure; you must blame Margery Daw, if you blame any one.”

“Does he expect me to receive her?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, quietly.

“I think so. But listen to me, Aunt Constance. I have not crossed Stuart, I have not refused his request, for I feared, in his weak state, to vex him; but he has left everything in my hands, and I will——” She stopped, and their eyes met.

“What?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, almost sharply.

“Save him from this if I can.”

The words were uttered very quietly, and Mrs. Crosbie drew a quick breath of relief.

“Vane,” she said, “forgive me; I was wrong to doubt you, even for a moment.”

“I know what it is,” Vane went on, hurriedly—“a glamour, a romance. Stuart has been here alone—he has been bewitched. But I know, too, what a bitter awakening it would be when the glamour was gone, the veil of poetry and romance torn down; and, for his sake, I will do it. Aunt Constance, do not think me bold—do not think me unwomanly. I cannot help myself; I would do anything for Stuart—for—for I—love him!”

Vane sank back and buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Crosbie put her arms around her niece and drew her to her shoulder.

“Unwomanly, Vane?” she said, gently. “I honor you. This is as it should be.”

“Ah, you will keep my secret, Aunt Constance? He must not know—I would not let him know for untold gold. If we succeeded in satisfying this girl’s ambition or avarice—money generally heals such wounds as hers—we must remember he will be troubled perhaps for a time. I would not let him think my heart hungered for him; my pride would suffer—it would kill me.”

“He shall not know, I promise,” Mrs. Crosbie responded, stroking Vane’s soft hair. “But what shall we do—how break this off? It has taken me at a disadvantage; the very thought seems so monstrous, I cannot yet believe it.”

“I want you to humor Stuart,” Vane said. “Let him think that you may consent eventually; be proud and cold, but not unkind. The blow must come from her.”

“How?” inquired Mrs. Crosbie, for once roused from her calm demeanor.

“She must be convinced of the uselessness of her scheme. I am going to her now, sent as Stuart’s messenger. I think I shall pave the way, at any rate.”

Mrs. Crosbie clasped her niece’s hand for an instant, and then turned aside.

“It is very bitter to me, Vane, to have to stoop to deceit; but it is a deep wound to my pride, that Stuart, my son, should so far forget his dignity as to think of such a girl for his wife. You are prompted by the best and noblest feelings, Vane; but I cannot bring myself to submit to this degradation even for a minute. Stuart must know the truth—must know how I judge him in this.”

Vane rose hurriedly from her seat.

“I know you are right, Aunt Constance,” she responded, quietly, though she was inwardly disturbed by Mrs. Crosbie’s words; “but consider. Stuart is impulsive, as strong-willed as yourself; if you cross him in this, who knows but that he may do something rash—perhaps marry the girl without delay, and be separated from you forever? Is it not wiser to act cautiously, to be careful and politic? I do not advocate too much warmth on your part; meet Stuart coldly, but at the same time throw no obstacle in the way. Believe me, dear Auntie, you will be relieved of all anxiety if you do this.”

“But what do you propose?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, resuming her seat, and Vane saw that her advice had taken root.

“We must let the separation come from her,” she answered, quickly. “It will not do to send the girl away—that would be but a stimulus to Stuart’s determination. No; he must be disillusioned; and that will not be a difficult matter, I should imagine.”

Mrs. Crosbie was silent for a few moments; she was irritated and displeased more than Stuart imagined she would be at the news of his attachment. To her it seemed incredible that a Crosbie should stoop to humiliate himself in this way. Vane’s words fell with good effect upon her ears. Had her niece not been at hand to smooth matters with gentle tact, she would not have been able to restrain her anger. Something of the wisdom of the girl’s advice came home to her as she mused. She saw that Vane was urged by jealousy and pride to break off this terrible connection, but she was quite wrong in her conclusions as to the source of that jealousy. She judged it to be solely the outcome of love for her son, and the thought came as soothing balm at such a moment. Once let them dispatch that girl, and the marriage she had planned would take place.

Vane watched her aunt intently.

“You will consent?” she said, softly, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” Mrs. Crosbie answered, abruptly.

Vane made no immediate reply, but her heart thrilled with satisfaction. Now she must conjure up all her power to defeat Margery Daw. Plan after plan followed each other through her mind, but she could arrive at none better than trampling on this village rival’s dignity and wounding her pride with darts, the sting of which would linger longest. Before she began the fray, however, she must see Stuart, breathe in his ear that she had succeeded with his mother, and thus allay any suspicion he might entertain in the future that it was through her instrumentality that his love-dream had been broken.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Crosbie, again, “I will act as you suggest. I see plainly the wisdom of such a course. Were I to display the anger I feel, the consequences might be worse than the present state of things. At all hazards we must separate him from this girl!”

Vane bent, and kissed her aunt.

“I am glad you see the matter as I do. Aunt Constance, I feel I am right. Stuart must be saved from this; and, if we work well, we shall do it. Now I must start for the village. Remember, you will not let your anger be seen.”

“It will be difficult, perhaps,” returned Mrs. Crosbie; “but there is too much at stake, and I will control myself.”

Vane moved away slowly, leaving the mother plunged in bitter thought, and mounted the stairs to her room. She put on her pretty hat, smiling triumphantly at her own image in the mirror, and, drawing on her gloves, passed along the corridor till she reached Stuart’s door.

She knocked softly, and whispered to the servant:

“Is your master awake?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Ask him to come to the door for one minute, if he can.”

Vane fastened the last button of her glove, and then stood waiting, a picture of grace and beauty, as Stuart moved slowly into the doorway.

“I am going now,” she said, gently; “but, before I start, I wanted to let you know that I have succeeded with Aunt Constance. She——”

“She agrees?” interrupted Stuart, resting against the door for support.

“Yes; but,” continued Vane, “you must not be surprised if she is cold and hard. Of course, she was totally unprepared for my news. I expect she will come and see you directly. Now, will you trust me again, Stuart?”

“Trust!” he echoed, putting out his hand. “I have no words to thank you with, Vane. Margery and I owe all our happiness to you.”

“I thought I would tell you; and now I must go,” Miss Charteris said, hurriedly. “You look pale, Stuart.”

“My head aches confoundedly! I beg your pardon, Vane, but I am not used to pain, and I grow impatient. Tell Margery—— But I leave it all to you. Thank you again and again.”

Vane descended the stairs rapidly, and she felt as she seated herself in the smart pony-carriage that she had fought half her battle, and that, with a little care and discrimination, the victory would be easily and gracefully won.

CHAPTER XI.

Along the hot road, and through the village, where her strange, dazed look awoke wonder in the women’s minds, and set their tongues wagging in pity, toiled Margery. She was filled with but one thought, one terrible thought, which chilled her heart and roused her pride. Stuart Crosbie had deceived her; he had deliberately sought her, and—a blush dyed her cheeks at the remembrance—won her love, her pure, innocent love, by false vows, which were laughed to scorn, perchance, with his cousin when he had left her. She did not doubt the truth of the words she had just heard; they had been spoken so naturally, the outcome of the speaker’s knowledge. Had he not seen the lovers together? Was he not in the house, with every opportunity of judging? Now all was explained. Stuart had made his accident a pretext for leaving her in her sorrow without a word or sign. Her youth, her joy, her light of life was gone, and henceforth she was alone in the world. Her heart raised a cry against this man. Why had he sought her? Why had he ruthlessly broken the charm of childhood, and given her the sorrows of a woman? Why not have left her in her innocence, content in her humble life?

During the past three months Margery had lived in an atmosphere of indescribable happiness. She did not stop to reason with herself as to whether Stuart Crosbie’s comings and goings had not an unspeakable interest for her. She had welcomed him as her friend, the dearest, in truth, she possessed, until the day in Weald Wood, and then what joy filled her being! Stuart loved her. The truth was revealed to her; the key to her contentment—her joyous spirits never saddened save when by the sick woman’s couch—was grasped. And now all was at an end. An indescribable pain pierced her heart; she never realized till now how deeply her affections were centered in him. Her shamed modesty resented the wound he had inflicted. She recalled the words he had spoken, the looks she had given, the kisses he had stolen from her lips, and at each thought she grew fainter and pressed her small hands against her heart to stay its throbbings. She could think of nothing but the two figures standing in Weald Wood, with the sunshine overhead; and the picture brought a flush of shame to her face, a weight of unspeakable grief to her heart.

She reached the cottage gate at last, and advanced wearily to the door. The reality of Mrs. Morris’ death came to her then in all its bitter force. In all the days of her childhood, when trouble had overtaken her, she had sought the gentle woman whose couch now stood blank and empty, and had found solace in her soothing love. Now she had none to whom she could turn, none to bring her peace.

She threw off her hat, and, suddenly flinging herself upon the couch, gave way to a flood of passionate tears. A thousand thoughts coursed through her mind. Was this the cross of her life? Was all that was beautiful and happy gone forever from her? Was her lot henceforth to be but sorrow and tears? Her spirit recoiled from the vision of grief. Some lines she had read a week before rose to her lips with an agony of despair:

“O God, I am so young, so young!

I am not used to tears at night

Instead of slumber, nor to pray’r

With sobbing lips and hands outwrung;”

and, uttering a bitter cry, Margery buried her face in her hands till the paroxysm was passed.

Fatigue and sorrow had told upon her, and she rose from her knees looking, with her white, tear-stained face, the ghost of the lovely girl of a week before. Her tears had relieved her, the dull pain at her heart was gone; but the passion of her grief had weakened her, and for many minutes she lay back in a chair, the faint breeze stirring the curls on her forehead.

Presently the sound of footsteps aroused her, and, looking up, she saw Reuben Morris enter the garden, accompanied by a young man, who, despite his handsome face, was certainly of a plebeian stamp. The two men were talking earnestly; and Margery noticed with a pang the stoop in the sturdy shoulders, the worn face of the bereaved man. She had always loved him, though the link that bound her to the dead woman was wanting in her affection for him; and she forgot her own sorrow for the moment in thinking of his.

She was leaning back in the shadow, and neither perceived her; but her ears caught her own name; and, too weary to move, she remained in her seat.

“Then you have not spoken to Margery yet?” she heard the young man question.

“No; but I shall do it afore nighttime. I cannot bear to think of quitting her, poor lamb! But there’s many here as’ll be good to her, and I cannot stay in the place; it would kill me.”

“You will be a loss, Morris,” returned the stranger. “Have you sent word to Sir Hubert’s steward about going?”

“I’ve just come from him. He spoke very kindly, and tried to persuade me to stay on; but my mind is fixed, and I was firm. Sir Hubert and my lady are not coming home, after all, he tells me, for which I am sorry, as Margery would——”

Margery rose and moved into the doorway, holding out her hand to the speaker.

“I have heard what you have been saying, Dad Reuben,” calling him by the name she had given him when she was a child.

Reuben Morris drew her toward him.

“My poor lass!” he said, gently. “How worn and tired you look! I meant to ha’ spoken to you to-night, Margery.”

“Tell me now,” she urged, giving her hand to the young man.

“I am going away, Margery,” Reuben replied. “I cannot stay here. The sight of all she loved would kill me; so I am just going to leave it all; and I start for Australia at the end of the week. I have been up to Farmer Bright’s, and Mr. Robert has walked back with me to talk it all over.”

“Australia!” repeated Margery, drawing closer to him. “So soon!”

“Yes, lass; I must go. I have had an offer through Farmer Bright to go up country to a man who wants a stock-driver. It isn’t money that takes me, Margery. I must quit Hurstley, or I shall go mad. But we must think of you, lass?”

“I shall be all right,” Margery said, quietly. “I have many friends; Sir Hubert’s steward will find me another home till Lady Coningham comes back, and——”

“Yes; my mother has sent me here with a message to you, Margery,” Robert Bright said, quickly. “She wants you to come to her for a month or so.”

“She is very kind.”

“Wilt thou go, lass?” asked Reuben, gently.

Margery drew a quick breath.

“I cannot answer now,” she said; “to-morrow I will tell you, Mr. Robert.”

“Oh, there is no hurry,” Robert returned, heartily. “Mother will welcome you gladly whenever you come.”

“Wait till to-morrow, and she’ll be with you,” Reuben said, in the young man’s ear, as Margery turned indoors again; then he added, in a louder tone: “I must go up to the Weald for an hour, to see the men. Get thee some rest, lass.”

“I will stay here, if Margery will let me,” Robert Bright said, putting one foot on the doorstep, and glancing into the room.

Reuben had moved away down the path, and the sight of the girl’s pale, drawn face, and listless, drooping figure, stirred the heart of the young farmer. For weeks past he had grown to watch for this girl. Her rare beauty and daintiness were as something heavenly in his everyday life.

“You must not fret, Margery,” he said, as kindly as he could; sympathy, always difficult to him, was almost impossible now. “You are looking very pale and ill.”

The girl raised her hands, and pressed them over her hot eyes; then she rose with a faint smile, and drew nearer to the door, leaning back against it with a weary little sigh.

“I am very tired,” she said, wistfully, “and the heat tries me.”

“Come to my mother, and she will nurse you; you do not know what a clever doctor she is. Come! Let me take you away with me—I will borrow a cart from some one in the village. Do come, Margery!”

Margery shook her head.

“I cannot go,” she answered, slowly. “Do not think me unkind; I cannot go.”

His face fell, and there was silence between them for a few minutes. Her heavily-fringed lids drooped over her eyes, and so he gazed, while the love raging within his heart urged him to take this frail, sad being from sorrow to happiness. Suddenly it grew too much for him, and, putting out his hands, he grasped hers tenderly.

“Margery,” he said—“my darling!”

Margery tremblingly withdrew her hands, and her eyes met his glowing ones, with horror and distress in their depths. She had never dreamed of this. She had liked Robert, thinking him a cheery, kind-hearted man; but love—love from him, when every pulse in her beat only for Stuart! It was a horror—a sacrilege!

Robert Bright saw her slight shudder, and he tried once more to grasp her hands.

“Forgive me, Margery,” he said, hurriedly. “I would not have spoken so soon, but something within me forced me to do so. I could not bear to see you looking so pale and ill. You want comfort now, and so I spoke. Margery, I love you! My darling, don’t be frightened. Perhaps I am rough; but I love truly—you cannot know how truly, Margery!”

But she had drawn back, and, with her face buried in her hands, had sunk into her chair again. As she felt his touch on her shoulder, her hands dropped, but her head was still lowered.

“You must not say such words,” she said, faintly. “Dear Mr. Robert, forgive me, but—but I cannot hear them. I——”

“I am a brute to tease you,” he broke in, quickly; “but, Margery, I am not sane, now! I love you so dearly; give me one kind word.”

“I cannot, I cannot!” she cried. “You must not hope. Mr. Robert, I——”

“Not hope!” he repeated, blankly. “Not hope! Do you mean that, Margery?”

“Yes,” she answered, putting one hand to her heart to check its tumultuous throbbings. “Yes; I mean it. I like you—you are so good; but love——”

The sadness of her accents touched him.

“Then forget it all,” he said, huskily. “Love does not kill. I shall get over it. And yet——” He hesitated, looked once more at her drooping figure, and then went on, hurriedly: “Don’t let this stop you from going to my mother, if you care to do so. I have to run up to London to-night. We should not meet.”

Margery rose and held out her hands to him. In an instant he had them pressed to his breast, his eyes fixed on her face; but there was no indication of what he sought in her pallid cheeks and trembling lips. He loosened his grasp.