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.”