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.