The fortnight’s stay of the Crosbie Castle party in town was extended
to nearly six weeks; then Stuart escorted his mother home, and Vane
Charteris remained in London. She was now thoroughly vexed and wearied.
In spite of all her scheming, she was no nearer the goal. Indeed,
she began almost to fear that Stuart would slip through her fingers
altogether. She grew cross and worried, driving her mother almost
frantic by her return to what she called ill-health. The suspense
was really telling upon her, and with the birth of fear came strong
determination. For her own pride’s sake, she must win now; the bitter
mortification, the humiliation of failure would be too terrible to
bear. Had she not tacitly encouraged the idea that her marriage
with the heir of Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park was a foregone
conclusion? Already she had experienced the pleasure of seeing envy and
disappointment gather on several of her rivals’ faces. What barrier now
remained? Stuart had, to all outward appearances, blotted the foolish
episode of Margery Daw from his memory--there was no other influence to
combat hers. Why, then, did he not wake to the reality and complete her
satisfaction? The delay was annoying, the suspense killing.
Stuart, little guessing the workings of Vane’s mind, was recovering
gradually from the wound that his heart had received. His reckless mood
had gone now, and he was once more his calm, manly self; but the happy
brightness of his nature was dulled, his light, laughter-loving ways
had fled forever. His love for Margery had never died; he treasured
it now as a beautiful dream, too great a happiness to be realized on
earth. The first agony of surprise, doubt and grief over, he grew
to judge her as he judged all woman now--he thought of her, not as
Margery, the pure, sweet, fresh young girl, but Margery the worldly,
selfish, artificial coquette, of the same nature as the fashionable
butterflies he met in town. His love for her was a thing apart from her
memory; he deemed her unworthy of so great, so true a feeling; he had
worshiped an ideal, and he kept that ideal still shrined in his heart.
Growing weary of life in town, Stuart went back to the castle, thankful
for the breath of the fresh country air, the rural quiet. He intended
to leave England, to travel once again, but his father’s worn face
recalled Sir Douglas Gerant’s words, and so, with a little sigh, he
buried his own wishes, and gave himself up to minister to the parent
who loved him so dearly, and whom he treasured in return. To his mother
Stuart was a puzzle. Never once was Margery’s name on his lips, yet
his undoubted love for her, as revealed in their one interview, had
considerably startled her. She was surprised at his quietness, his
acquiescence in her every wish, grew uneasy at his sudden gravity and
the sadness of his face, and almost wished for a display of the strong
will which for so many years she had deplored. She, too, was anxious
that his marriage should be arranged, but had made no remark to him on
the subject, deeming the affair best left in Vane’s able hands.
Stuart had locked the thick letter which Sir Douglas had confided to
his care among the few treasures he possessed, and he waited, expecting
news from his cousin every day, but none came. At times Stuart grew
uneasy; he saw the announcement of the arrival of the vessel in which
Sir Douglas had sailed, and yet his cousin made no sign. All he could
do was to wait and hope.
He turned his attention to the business connected with the lands
and estates of Crosbie Castle, and spent long days with the farmers
and laborers, winning their hearts by his warm, generous nature,
and the interest he took in their welfare. But this state of things
displeased Mrs. Crosbie beyond words. She was an ambitious woman--she
longed to see her son enter the world’s lists for fame, and to watch
him gradually developing into a quiet farm-owner was more than she
could bear. It roused her pride to think that her son should have the
whole of his life altered through the sentimental folly of a plebeian
romance, and she determined to speak to him openly upon the subject of
his career on the first opportunity.
It was now about the middle of November, and Stuart was fully occupied
with altering and restoring his cottages before the severe weather
set in. He went out early and returned late, so that his mother found
the desired opportunity long in coming. At last, one afternoon, she
perceived him striding up the avenue, and, leaving her boudoir, she met
him in the hall.
“Well, mother,” said Stuart, smiling, “not out to-day? You are wise--it
is ankle-deep in mud. Don’t come near me--I am not fit to approach you.
I have come back for an agreement I made about Cullam’s cottage; I must
be off directly.”
“What is your hurry, Stuart?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. “Cannot you
spare me a few minutes? I have long wanted to speak to you, but really
you are so much engaged, I have had no chance.”
“Of course I am ready, mother, if you wish it,” Stuart replied, though
not readily. He never cared for these brief intervals of conversation
with his mother; they invariably annoyed him.
“Come to my boudoir for a few minutes.”
He followed Mrs. Crosbie in silence; then, as she closed the door, he
walked to the window and leaned against the ledge.
“Well, mother?” he said, in a tone of impatience.
Mrs. Crosbie stirred the fire, then warmed her white hands. She looked
at her son, and the sight of his grave, handsome face strengthened her
purpose. It was such a faint likeness to the merry, bright face of a
few months back.
“Stuart,” she began, quietly, “I wish to speak to you seriously. Do you
intend to lead this kind of life always?”
“What kind of life, mother?”
“This dull, monotonous, farmerlike existence. Have you no aim--no
ambition?”
“None,” Stuart answered, laconically.
His mother moved impatiently in her seat.
“Pray, be sensible, Stuart,” she said, sharply; “you were never like
this before. It galls me, it wounds me to see you wasting your days
down here, pottering about on the farms, and for what?”
“Some one must look after things, mother; my father cannot, and you
have often complained to me of the bad management, so I have determined
to relieve you of further anxiety.”
“Pshaw! Do I want my son to turn steward? I have to-day received a
letter from Lady Bayliffe strongly recommending me a manager, and I
have all but settled to engage him.”
“Then don’t do it,” promptly replied Stuart. “He is not wanted.”
“He is wanted! I shall not allow you, Stuart, to do this kind of work.”
“My dear mother, I am of age!”
Mrs. Crosbie was silent, and Stuart, looking up, saw the pain and
perplexity on her face.
“Forgive me, mother,” he added, moving toward her. “I am very selfish.
Tell me what you want me to do, and if it is in my power I will
undertake it.”
“I want you to rise in the world; I want you to be famous, Stuart.”
“Fame is not to be bought, mother.”
“It is within your reach. Contest Chesterham at the next election. You
will be returned with an immense majority. The rest will follow.”
“I have no brains for politics,” declared Stuart. “I cannot do it.”
“There is no such word as ‘cannot!’” returned Mrs. Crosbie, vigorously.
“If I were in your place, Stuart, how differently I would act! You are
wasting your life.”
Stuart walked back to the window.
“I will not give you a decided answer now, mother,” he said. “Give me
two days to consider.”
“Willingly,” she agreed, “and weigh all things well. Remember, you will
afford me the greatest happiness in life if you agree to this and to
another wish.”
“To make you happy, mother, I would do much,” Stuart responded, raising
her hand to his lips. “What is it?”
Mrs. Crosbie drew a long breath.
“That you will marry.”
“Marry!” repeated Stuart, dropping her hand, while his face grew white
and his brow darkened. “That, mother, is impossible.”
“I have not spoken to you on this subject before, Stuart, though it has
been one very near my heart. You have been troubled; but you are not my
son if you have not pride sufficient to drown and wash away forever any
trace of your trouble. It is not for a Crosbie to submit to insult and
humiliation.”
“I submit to none!” retorted Stuart, in a quiet, clear voice.
“You have been deceived,” his mother declared, coldly and proudly; “by
one who was not worthy even a second thought.”
“Mother!” he exclaimed, hurriedly, and then stopped. What could he
say in defense of Margery? She was, indeed, all this. “Your wish is
sudden,” he added, after a pause. “It comes to me quite unexpectedly;
but I have only one answer to it--I shall never marry!”
Mrs. Crosbie compressed her lips and turned away.
“Just now you called yourself selfish,” she observed. “I think you were
right.”
“Why should I marry, mother?” he cried, suddenly. “You know, or perhaps
you can never know, what the past meant to me. I am not a vane to be
turned by every wind. I have loved, and I shall not love again.”
“What has that to do with marriage?”
“I would not ask any woman to be a wife on such empty terms; it would
be a sin. But it is not necessary. I would do anything, mother, in my
power to please you; but this I cannot.”
“Are you my child?” asked his mother, quietly and coldly. “Can you
waste your whole life, like a misanthrope, because a village coquette
has laughed at and mocked you? There are good women’s hearts still
in the world, women of our world, who can love and suffer as such
creatures never can.”
“I will offer no woman my life without my love,” declared Stuart,
firmly.
“What would you say if I were to tell you that there is one who would
take it gladly, one who has watched and worked for you all these months
in silence, and who, through everything, is steadfast and true as
steel?”
Mrs. Crosbie’s hand fell on her son’s shoulder as she spoke. She felt
it was her last card; it might win the game. Stuart looked into his
mother’s eyes; a flush rose to his face.
“You mean,” he began.
“Your cousin, Vane,” she broke in.
“Vane!”
His mother’s hand slipped from its hold; but he did not move. He was in
a very whirlwind of surprise, pain and doubt.
“You have not known? No; she hid her secret too well! There is a woman
fit to be your wife--proud, loving, courageous, a companion to cheer, a
helpmate to stimulate your ambition. Had you not been so blind, Stuart,
you might have seen this. What do you say now?”
“I can say nothing,” he answered, still in the same low tones. “This
has stunned me. You must let me think, mother; I have not the power to
speak now.”
“Yes, think--and think well,” Mrs. Crosbie said gently. Something told
her that she had won; Vane’s devotion had touched the right chord.
She watched her son move to the door in silence.
“We will speak of this again another time,” he said, with constraint.
A wave of compunction passed through Mrs. Crosbie’s mind when she was
alone. Would Vane, after all, bring him happiness? She had tricked and
deceived him. But this momentary feeling was soon lost in the glad
thrill of ambition that stirred her breast. Stuart married, and in
Parliament, she had nothing more to wish for.
In a maze of troubled thoughts Stuart strode down the wet paths.
Vane loved him; and yet she had put her own feelings on one side and
ministered tenderly, thoughtfully, kindly to him! What depths of
womanly sweetness in such a sacrifice--what a generous, noble nature!
His heart warmed with gratitude toward her, though it cooled again as
he remembered that she loved him. What could he do--whither turn in
this dilemma? Vane was dear to him as a friend, as a sister, but not
as the woman he would make his wife. And to make any woman his wife
now, when such sadness darkened his life, was almost impossible. What
must he do? Could he let her live on alone, with the sorrow he knew
from experience to be so bitter wearing out her heart? Would it be a
generous return for all she had done, for the noble tenderness with
which she had tried to bring him happiness? No, no, a thousand times
no! If he could no longer have joy, if gladness were gone forever,
he had still the peaceful pleasure of bringing gladness to another’s
heart. His mother was right--it was his duty to face the world, and
Vane should be his wife.
Even while he thought thus, his brow contracted with pain, a spasm of
undying regret shot through him, the dream of his first love in all its
sweetness returned and enthralled him once more. It was impossible! He
paced up and down under the wet, dripping trees, trying to calm the
tumult in his breast, with a longing for solitude and peace one moment,
and a piteous thought of Vane’s great love the next. It was a terrible
struggle, and it lasted through the night hours, never ceasing till the
dawn, when, pale and worn, yet with a steadfast look of determination
about his mouth and in his handsome eyes, he conquered it. He was
brave and strong--sorrow could not crush him; but Vane--poor, delicate
Vane--she could not endure trouble; and so, if indeed his mother had
spoken aright, he would go to Vane, and ask her to be his wife.
The gloomy weather in London did not tend to lessen Miss Charteris’
despondent mood. She was peevish, bored, discontented, longing to leave
England and go to a warmer climate, yet feeling that she could not give
up her desire and declare herself defeated. She was waiting only for a
week or two to pass, and then she would go down once more to Crosbie
Castle and make a final effort. This idea was occupying her mind as she
sat one dull, wet afternoon gazing out into the dismal streets, with a
gloomy look spoiling her pretty face. She heard the door open, but did
not stir, imagining it to be her mother. The stillness that followed
caused her to turn; and, looking around, she met Stuart’s eyes.
“Stuart!” she exclaimed, her face flushing. “You have given me quite a
start! I did not know----”
“I have been watching you for the last two minutes, Vane; you
were lost in thought. Whose memory were you honoring by such deep
meditation?”
Stuart looked very handsome, and something in his manner thrilled her
with joy.
“I was thinking of Crosbie,” she answered. “Come to the fire, Stuart;
you must be frozen. And how is Aunt Constance--and why have you come? I
am very glad to see you.”
Stuart stood silent, slowly removing his gloves; then he moved nearer
to her side by the fire. Vane was looking lovely; the plaintive sadness
of her face, which was tinged with a delicate flush, touched him. He
had read it well in the first moment of his entrance, and traced, as he
thought, the marks of her trouble.
“I have come to see you, Vane,” he told her quietly, “because I have
something to ask you.”
Vane felt her heart beat wildly.
“Yes, Stuart,” she said, faintly.
“Vane, you must know my inmost heart--you were my confidante, my
friend. I want you to continue to be my friend, the best and truest of
companions--I want a helpmate, a counselor. I want you to be my wife.”
Vane stood silent, her head bent. She felt faint, and, now that success
had come at last, she could not speak.
“I cannot offer you great love,” Stuart went on, taking her hand. “I
will not deceive you, Vane--it is buried in the past; but I will give
you affection, devotion--true and sincere devotion, if you will accept
it. The gift is poor, Vane. Reject it if you will.”
“Reject it, Stuart!” murmured Vane, turning her luminous blue eyes on
him. “No; I accept it, for I love you--I have loved you through it all,
and I am happy at last!”
Stuart pressed his lips to hers; and the compact was sealed.