It was about the end of the week that Margery learned accidentally from her husband that he had neglected his business in town on purpose to bring her away, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she begged him to return and complete his arrangements. The earl demurred, but at last, satisfied that she would not be lonely, he agreed, and departed, leaving many tender injunctions with her to take great care of herself in his absence. The young wife felt a pang of remorse at the relief and pleasure she experienced when quite alone. She struggled hard with herself day and night; but to forget was so hard, and to remember so easy. Though she was surrounded by all that the world holds dear, she found no satisfaction in her wealth; her mind was lost to the present--it would persistently wander to the past--that past which, despite its pain and humiliation, was so sweet. The return to the country had brought back so much that was linked with her brief love-dream that the struggle seemed to grow greater day by day. Pauline noticed her mistress’ grave, sad face, but attributed it to his lordship’s absence, and, to cheer her, would repeat the servants’ tales and anecdotes of his goodness, little thinking that every word went to Margery’s heart like a sword thrust. She regretted with a deep, unspeakable grief, that she had been silent with Lady Enid; had she but spoken of Stuart and of her unhappiness, all would have been different, and she would not have pledged her vows to this man, the depth of whose generosity, tenderness, and devotion touched her with acute pain. If she could but give him in return one-half the love he bestowed on her, she would be happier; but her love was dead, buried in a past summer dream, and she had nothing left for him. “The loves and hours of the life of a man, They are swift and sad, being born of the sea-- Hours that rejoice and regret for a span, Born with a man’s breath mortal as he-- Loves that are lost ere they come to birth, Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth, I lose what I long for, save what I can-- My love, my love, and no love for me! “It is not much that a man can save On the sands of life, in the straits of time, Who swims in sight of the great third wave That never a swimmer shall cross or climb-- Some waif washed up with the strays and spars That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars, Weed from the water, grass from the grave, A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.” Yes, that was all that remained now, “a broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.” Her life might be sweet again, but it would never be as it was on that evening in Weald Wood, when her young heart was first touched by love. Lord Court was absent two days; then he suddenly announced his intended return. Margery was wandering in the gardens and the pleasance when Pauline brought the telegram to her. With a vague sense of apprehension, Margery tore it open.