CHAPTER IX.
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. Thevision 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 tocrawl 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—“letus 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. Rememberwhat 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, touchedthe 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.