Vane Charteris was astonished beyond words when she found that the
assertion she had made regarding Margery’s voyage to Australia in
company with Robert Bright and her so-called father was absolutely
confirmed by fact. Nothing could have been more opportune, no more
satisfactory _dénouement_ to the whole affair could have taken place
had she arranged it herself. It had needed only jealousy to finish what
she had begun; and its poison now rankled in Stuart Crosbie’s heart.
He was stunned, almost overwhelmed by Margery’s apparent treachery
and heartlessness. He did not know, he had never fathomed till now,
how greatly he had loved, what a flood of passion had overtaken him.
Margery had been the sun of his existence, and she was gone--worse than
gone--she was faithless!
Vaguely he repeated the words over and over again, as he sat listlessly
in a chair looking out over the fair landscape, but seeing it not.
Faithless! The girl who had kindled the glow of all earthly bliss,
the girl who had seemed a very angel of purity and beauty, was false!
While he held her clasped in his arms and breathed his earnest, sacred
vows of love, she was false! As she smiled in radiant tenderness and
whispered back her own, she was false! Through it all she had been
false! It was inconceivable; it was maddening!
A fortnight wore away, but Stuart’s mood did not alter; he sat silent
and morbid, trying to understand it all, to get at the truth. Vane
grew a little troubled at his manner--she had not imagined the wound
would have been so deep. Her own shallow nature could not comprehend
the depths, the intensity, the passion of love. To her it had appeared
that Stuart would of course be angry. As a proud man, that was but
natural, and she had expected to see him defiant, hard, reckless. This
strange silence, this quiet misery amazed and annoyed her. But she
was outwardly at her best all this time. She never spoke to her cousin
respecting their former confidences. She made him feel rather than know
the depths of her womanly sympathy, thus making her worldly tact appear
as innate refinement and tender delicacy. She moved about as in harmony
with his gloomy thoughts; her laughter never jarred; her voice often
soothed him; and last, but not least, she warded off any attacks from
Mrs. Crosbie, whose brow contracted in many an ominous frown because of
what she termed her son’s folly and want of dignity.
It was tedious work sometimes, and Vane often grew vexed and weary;
but this gloom could not last, she told herself; there would come a
day when Stuart would rouse himself and cast aside all thought of his
dead love, trampling on the memories of it as on a vile and worthless
thing. She must not fail now, seeing that she had succeeded so well
hitherto. But a little patience, and she would win--she must win, not
only for her love’s sake, but for her ambition. News had reached her of
the marriage of one of her most detested rivals, a girl younger than
herself. She could not face the world again without some weapon in her
hand to crush the woman she hated and bring back her lost power. It
was as Stuart Crosbie’s wife that she determined her triumph should
come. He bore no title; but his name was as prominent as any in the
land, his wealth would be untold, and, as _chatelaine_ of Crosbie
Castle and Beecham Park, her social position would be undeniable. Even
Mrs. Crosbie did not guess the fire that burned beneath Vane’s calm
exterior; but her desire for the marriage was certainly as great in one
way as her niece’s. Lady Charteris, who had by this time recovered from
her surprise at her daughter’s strange freak in staying so long at the
castle, saw nothing, but chattered and slumbered away her days placidly
enough, content to know that Vane was happy.
Sir Douglas Gerant had disappeared as strangely and as suddenly as
he had arrived. Two days after the eventful drive to Chesterham he
took his departure, greatly to Miss Charteris’ and Mrs. Crosbie’s
satisfaction. There was something in his dry, cynical manner which
made them singularly uncomfortable, and their strict ideas of etiquette
were greatly disturbed by his many unorthodox acts. Stuart, at any
other time, would have regretted his cousin’s departure; but now it
made but little impression on him, and, while he exerted himself to bid
him farewell, his mind was with his trouble, and as Sir Douglas walked
away, he gave himself up again to his unhappy thoughts.
A fortnight passed uneventfully, and then Sir Douglas reappeared
as suddenly as he had left. Mrs. Crosbie met him with profuse but
insincere words of welcome. She was just enough to recognize how much
he had done for Stuart. Sir Douglas put aside all her gracious speeches.
“It is only a flying visit,” he said, tersely. “I want to have a few
words with Stuart.”
“Oh, I am so sorry you will not stay,” Mrs. Crosbie responded. “I had
hoped you had come for the shooting; Sholto expects a few guns down.
We should have had a party for the twelfth of August but for Stuart’s
accident. Can I not persuade you?”
“I should yield to your persuasion, cousin,” answered Sir Douglas, with
an old-fashioned bow and a gleam of merriment in his keen gray eyes--he
knew right well he was no favorite with madam--“but that unfortunately
time and tide wait for no man, and I sail for the antipodes at the end
of the week.”
“The antipodes!” cried Mrs. Crosbie; and she would have questioned him
further but that he ended the interview by walking away in search of
Stuart.
He found the young man strolling listlessly about the grounds, attended
by all his canine pets. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of the
pleasure on Stuart’s face when he saw his cousin; but Sir Douglas was
quick to notice the worn look and the gloom that almost immediately
settled again on his features.
“How is the arm?” he asked, quietly.
“Mending rapidly,” Stuart answered. “I shall have it out of the splints
in another fortnight.”
“Don’t hurry it,” said Sir Douglas, as he turned and strolled beside
the young man; “it was a nasty fracture, you know.”
They walked on in silence until they reached a quiet spot, and then Sir
Douglas halted.
“Stuart,” he said, “I have come down here on purpose to see you. I want
you to give me a promise.”
“It is already given,” Stuart answered, roused from himself for a
while, and stretching out his hand.
“You know that I have made you my heir, that I have willed all I
possess to you with certain conditions.”
“Yes, I know,” Stuart answered, his face flushing a little. “Do not
think me ungrateful if I say I wish it were not so. I do not want your
property; I----”
“I am aware of that,” interrupted Sir Douglas, dryly. “If you had
wanted it, you would not have had it. But it is not of that I want to
speak; it is of the conditions. They are more to me than any fortune
you could name.”
“Whatever they are, I accept them willingly, with all my heart, and, if
it be in my power, they shall be fulfilled.”
Stuart spoke firmly, his eyes as steadfast as his words.
“Thank you, Stuart,” responded Sir Douglas, quietly. “I felt--I knew
you would answer me so.” He paused a little, then went on slowly. “I
leave England again at the end of the week on a search that has lasted
my lifetime--hopeless, alas, in the years that are gone, but touched
now with the blessedness of hope! Yes, thank Heaven, I have a clew!”
Stuart looked in wonder at his cousin’s face; it was illuminated with
color, and there was an unusual glow in the eyes.
“I cannot bring myself to speak to you now, Stuart, on this subject;
but if I am successful, I will open my heart to you; if not, and
anything should happen to me, this letter”--taking an envelope from an
inner pocket--“will tell you all--will give you the secret of my life.
Guard it well, and, if the time should come soon, swear to do what I
have asked you in it.”
“I swear,” said Stuart, solemnly, his hand closing over the letter.
“Now I start with a lighter heart than I have had for years. The days
will pass quickly, and, when I reach Australia, who knows----”
“Australia!” broke in Stuart, his face drawn and pale. “You are going
to Australia?”
“I said at the end of the week. What is it, Stuart?”
“Oh, that I were free to go with you!” muttered Stuart.
Like a flame of fire, the word “Australia” had set the passion of
jealousy running through his veins, calling up the dormant longing for
revenge that had found a resting-place in his heart. Could he not leave
all that distressed and oppressed him, and rush away to that distant
land, to face him who had stolen the most precious jewel of his life,
to bring shame on her who had deceived and tricked him? The picture of
Margery’s loveliness rose before him and made his heart beat wildly
with the rush of wrath and love that came over him.
“Stuart,” Sir Douglas said, quietly, almost tenderly, “I would ask you
to go with me gladly but for one thing--you are not free--your father
needs you. He could not live without you; go from him, and he will sink
before your return. He is not strong; this summer, he has told me many
times, has tried him terribly, and your accident was a shock.”
“Yes, you are right,” responded Stuart, gloomily, after a moment’s
pause. “I will stay here. And yet it is hard.”
Sir Douglas did not catch the last words.
“I have always loved Sholto,” he said, “and to rob him of you would be
cruel. No, Stuart, your place is here.”
They moved on and approached the house; but before they entered, Sir
Douglas stretched out his hand.
“Heaven bless you, lad!” he said, tenderly. “We may never meet again.
May you have all the happiness and sunshine in your life that a man
such as you ought to expect! Remember your promise.”
“I have sworn, and I will keep it.”
They returned to the castle; and, soon after that, Sir Douglas Gerant
left for London.
His cousin’s visit broke the spell of Stuart’s morbid inactivity. The
monotonous quiet of Hurstley seemed suddenly to appall him. He could no
longer sit and nurse himself; he was restless, almost feverish in his
movements. He went out early in the morning and did not return till
the day was spent; and, though he tried to banish every memory of his
brief dream from his mind, Vane detected the nervous restlessness in
his face. In her heart she rejoiced at these signs of awakening; they
were but the forerunners of that proud, contemptuous mood which she had
longed to see reveal itself. Life was dull at the castle; but, though
she yawned and was inexpressibly bored, she did not intend to give way;
and at last she had the satisfaction of feeling that success was hers
when her aunt announced that Stuart wished the whole party to leave
Crosbie and go to London.
If he remained much longer at Hurstley, Stuart said to himself, the
monotony and inactivity would drive him mad. So, to Vane’s and his
mother’s delight, he proposed a fortnight’s stay in town, a round of
theatres, and such gayeties as a slack season offered, and then a
return to the castle with a large party for the shooting.
It was then that Vane began to reap her reward. Stuart seemed to
remember all she had done for him, all her thoughtfulness, gentleness,
womanly kindness; and it was to her he turned in a frank, friendly
fashion, which at once delighted her and deceived her by its ring of
apparently genuine forgetfulness.
To London they all went, save the squire, and, in leaving him, Stuart
thought of his absent cousin’s words; but it was only for a fortnight,
and then he would be back again, brave in forced courage, steady in his
pride, to walk over the very ground wherein his whole love lay buried.
It was a delightful time to Vane; she rode, walked, went sight-seeing,
with Stuart always in close attendance, and, though few of her
acquaintances were in town, she noticed with pleasure that some of
her “dear friends” were passing through London on their way from
the Continent to the country, and she left them to draw their own
conclusions as to her relationship with Stuart Crosbie. As for Stuart,
he lived for the moment in a whirl of forced excitement and pleasure.
He determined with reckless swiftness to give way to sorrow no more; he
buried the memory of Margery, and set his foot, as he thought, firmly
on the grave of his love; he even thrust recollection from him; he
laughed, rode, chatted with Vane, and gradually her influence made
itself felt. If, in the night, visions of his love floated through his
dreams, pride in the morning dispelled his weakness by recalling her
falseness; and he turned to Vane as a woman whom, though he could never
love, he could respect and trust. To the world his devotion had but one
name, that of a suitor; and, heedless of people’s tongues, heedless of
Vane’s triumphant eyes, Stuart went on his way, living for a time in a
dream of reckless excitement that would soon pass and leave him plunged
in as deep an abyss of despair as before.
It was in one of these moments that Margery had seen him beneath the
trees, bending his handsome head to gaze into Vane’s eyes. The action
meant nothing to him--Vane was his cousin, his confidante, his friend.
Had his gaze but wandered to the carriage drawn beside the rails, and
rested on the sweet face, pallid and drawn by the agony of pain that
had come to her, he would have forgotten his cousin’s existence, and
rushed with a madness of joy, a delirium of happiness, to Margery’s
side. But Margery was unseen; the cousins paced by slowly, and the
image of that face, that form with the right arm still hung in a sling,
those eager eyes, was graven on her memory in characters the clearness
of which tortured her, and the steadfastness of which nothing could
remove.