CHAPTER VI.
Wednesday morning broke clear and cloudless. Margery rose at an early hour, and sat looking out of her little window at the sun gilding the fields and trees with its glory. Stuart Crosbie, too, rose earlier than was his wont; and he occupied the time till the breakfast-gong sounded in walking up and down his room, apparently in deep thought. As the muffled summons reached his ear, he uttered an impatient “Pshaw!” and made his way slowly down the stairs. His mother was seated at the table when he entered the room; and he had scarcely exchanged greetings with her when Vane Charteris made her appearance. It was not Miss Charteris’ usual custom to honor the breakfast table with her presence; but since her stay at Crosbie the mood had seized her, and she descended regularly to the early meal.
“Good-morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Crosbie, smiling her sweetest. “You look as fresh as a rose; doesn’t she, Stuart?”
“Words always fail me to describe Cousin Vane’s beauty,” was his gallant reply.
Vane smiled languidly; but she was not quite happy. There was something strange about this cousin of hers; he was attentive, but his attentions seemed to be the outcome of habit rather than inclination. Was her power to fail her here, too?
“What is the programme for to-day?” she asked, as she drew her chair to the table.
“We must devise something,” observed Mrs. Crosbie. “Ah, Vane, my dear, I fear you find this place very dull!”
“Dull!” repeated Miss Charteris. “I cannot tell you, my dear aunt, how happy I am in your lovely home.”
Mrs. Crosbie felt her heart swell; more and more she saw the advisability of a marriage between Stuart and his cousin, more and more she determined it should take place.
“Well, Stuart, what are we to do to amuse Vane?” she inquired, turning to her son, with the pleasure called up by her niece’s speech still lingering on her face.
“I am afraid, mother, I shall not be able to offer my services to-day. I am bound for Chesterham this morning,” Stuart answered, vigorously attacking a pie on a side table.
“Chesterham!” ejaculated his mother. “Why, what takes you there, Stuart?”
“An appointment with Derwent. He has written and asked me to meet him at the junction on his way to town; he wants to see me.”
“Why could not Captain Derwent come here for a few days?” inquired Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. She was annoyed that anything should interrupt the acquaintance that was progressing so satisfactorily.
“He can’t; he is due in London.”
“But must you go?” began his mother, when Vane interrupted with:
“Oh, please don’t stop him, auntie, dear, or he will vote me such a nuisance! Indeed; we can spare Stuart for one day, and I will enjoy myself with you if you will let me. We have not driven to any places yet; shall we not go somewhere to-day?”
“I shall be pleased,” Mrs. Crosbie replied, though she looked vexed; and all other remarks on the subject were stopped, to Stuart’s great relief, by his father’s appearance—Lady Charteris never left her room till noon.
The squire came in with his curious halting gait; he carried a bundle of letters and papers in his hand, and his haggard features wore a look of surprise.
“Good-morning, my dear,” he said to Vane. “Constance”—to his wife—“I have received a most extraordinary surprise. Read that”—holding out a letter.
With ill-concealed impatience Mrs. Crosbie took the letter he held toward her.
“What sort of a surprise, dad?” asked Stuart, putting his hand for an instant into his father’s.
“Your mother will tell you,” answered the squire.
“From Douglas Gerant!” exclaimed Mrs. Crosbie, gazing at the end of the letter. “This is a surprise indeed! Why, Sholto, he is in England—has been for the last month—and wants to come to us for a visit!”
“By Jove!” was Stuart’s only utterance.
“It seemed like a letter from the dead,” said the squire, dreamily. “What years since one has heard or seen anything of Douglas Gerant! It must be fifteen, at least, since he left England.”
Mrs. Crosbie folded up the letter.
“He is not changed,” she observed—“at least, his letter is as strange and erratic as of old. Vane, you have heard your mother speak of Douglas Gerant, have you not?”
Miss Charteris puckered her brow.
“I don’t remember his name,” she replied. “Who is he?”
“Your mother’s cousin—surely she must have spoken of him!”
“I have heard of Eustace Gerant,” Miss Charteris answered, “but he is dead.”
“This is his brother. He, too, might have been dead for all that we have seen or heard of him. He was a ne’er-do-wee’l, an utter scamp.”
“But with great good in him,” added the squire, warmly. “I know you did not think so, Constance, but Douglas always had a fine, generous nature.”
“It was well hidden, then,” his wife retorted, coldly. “I never had much sympathy with him, and I have less now. A man has no right to be lost to the world, as he has been, and leave a magnificent inheritance wasting and neglected when there are others who would prize it.”
“Is this the long-lost cousin who owns Beecham Park?” asked Vane, with sudden interest. “Oh, then I have heard of him, of course!”
“He came into the property ten years ago,” Stuart explained, “and he has not come home till now. I must confess I always had a strong sympathy for this unknowncousin. What a strange life his has been! I am tempted to envy him the wonders he must have seen.”
“I am surprised you should speak like that, Stuart,” said his mother, coldly. “I cannot understand any man of principle putting aside his duties for his inclinations.”
Miss Charteris looked bored.
“Is he married?” she asked, languidly.
“No, no, my dear,” answered Mrs. Crosbie, quickly; “by some marvelous chance he has escaped matrimony. I always expected to hear of a low-born wife; but he appears to have a little of the Gerant pride within him, and has spared us that humiliation.”
“Then he has no heir?” Vane observed.
Mrs. Crosbie did not reply immediately, but Miss Charteris saw her handsome eyes wander to Stuart’s face and rest there.
“He has the power of willing Beecham Park,” Mrs. Crosbie remarked; and the squire broke in with his quiet, monotonous voice:
“I have often wished Douglas had married; he was just the man to be led to good things by a good woman.”
“You always were absurd on this subject, Sholto,” his wife remarked, quietly; and the squire discreetly said no more.
Stuart moved from the table as the meal ended, and, engrossed with the newspaper, was lost to all that was passing around.
“I will write this morning and bid Douglas welcome,” Mrs. Crosbie said after a while. As she rose, she turned to the butler—“Fox, tell Mrs. Marxham to prepare some rooms for Sir Douglas Gerant; I expect he will arrive to-morrow. Now, Vane, I will leave you for half an hour; then, if you will equip yourself, we will drive this morning.”
“Thanks, auntie,” and Miss Charteris walked slowly across the room to one of the long French windows, looking thoughtful and not altogether displeased.
“The power to will Beecham Park,” she mused; “and the heir must be Stuart Crosbie. His mother’s eyes spoke that plainly.”
Miss Charteris glanced at the tall, well-built form of Stuart, who was still intent on the newspaper, and for thefirst time the thought of a warmer feeling dawned in her heart. She found this cousin a more agreeable companion than she had imagined; she was irresistibly attracted by his manliness and charm of manner. Might she not gratify her ambition, as well as her fancy, if she chose this young man for her husband? As mistress of Crosbie Castle she would once again reign in her world, but as mistress of Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park her sovereignty would be greater than she had even dreamed of. Vane felt her heart swell within her at the glorious prospect her imagination conjured up; and, standing in the soft morning sunlight, she vowed to link her lot with Stuart Crosbie and be his wife.
She left the window and walked toward him.
“You are most unkind, Mr. Crosbie,” she said, looking sweetly plaintive. “You are going to leave me all day, and you bury yourself now in those dry papers.”
Stuart put down the newspaper quickly; he had been utterly unconscious of her presence.
“I beg your pardon, Vane,” he said, smiling; “indeed it was very rude of me.”
“I forgive you this time,” she returned, extending her white hand, “on condition that you promise to come home early from your meeting with this tiresome man.”
Stuart colored faintly. It was true that he had received a letter from his friend, Captain Derwent; also true that that friend would pass through Chesterham at some time during the day; but Stuart’s appointment was not with Captain Derwent. In an hour’s time he was to meet Margery, and start for their picnic in the woods.
“I shall get back as soon as I can,” he said, hurriedly. “In truth, Vane, I am afraid that you find Crosbie horribly dull; there is nothing or no one to amuse you. It will be better in a day or two, for I intend to invite one or two people for the twelfth.”
“I don’t want them,” Miss Charteris observed, raising her large blue eyes to his; “and do you know, Cousin Stuart, strange though it may seem, I am not at all dull in your society.”
Stuart bowed low at her words.
“You are easily satisfied,” he replied; and at that moment his mother reappeared.
“Now, Vane, I am at your service. By the by, Stuart, shall we not drive you to Chesterham? I can easily drive the barouche instead of the pony carriage.”
“Oh, no, thanks!” he answered, hurriedly. “I prefer to walk.”
Mrs. Crosbie elevated her eyebrows, but made no remark; and Vane followed her aunt from the room. On reaching the door, she looked back and kissed her hand.
“Au revoir, Cousin Stuart!” she said, lightly. “Don’t stay away too long.”
Stuart waited only till the ladies had well disappeared, then he walked across the hall, caught up his tennis hat, and made his way along the colonnade to the grounds. He stopped at the entrance to the courtyard and whistled for his dogs, then, without another look round, started across the paddock to the village.
Margery was dressed early, and had packed a small basket with some home-made cakes and some apples as provender for the picnic. She had told Mrs. Morris of her holiday and Mr. Stuart’s kindness, and occupied herself with many little duties of love for the sick woman before she left her.
Mrs. Morris watched with tender eyes the slender form flitting about the room in its plain white cotton gown. All the wealth of her childless heart was bestowed on this girl, and in return she received pure and deep affection.
“Now, are you quite sure, mother, you will not miss me?” asked Margery, kneeling by the couch when all her duties were done.
“Nay, that I cannot say,” Mrs. Morris returned, with a faint smile. “I always miss you, child; but I shall not want you. Mrs. Carter is coming in to see me, and Reuben has promised to come home for dinner.”
“Reuben will keep his word, then,” declared the girl; “but I shall not be away long.”
“Stay and amuse yourself, Margery—you are young, and should have pleasure. Now, get on your bonnet and start, or you will keep the young squire waiting.”
Margery tied on her sunbonnet. At first she hadbeen tempted to don her Sunday hat, a plain, wide-brimmed straw with a white ribbon, but she checked herself and put it away, with a blush at her vanity. She took her little basket, and, walking slowly toward the spring, sat down by its musical trickling to wait. She felt more than ordinarily happy; the memory of Stuart’s kind words had driven away the sting of his cousin’s remark; there was not a cloud on the horizon of her young life. She wanted for nothing to complete her happiness, and reveled in the sunshine and the golden glory of summer as only a heart can that has tasted no sorrow, seen not the darkness or gloom of pain.
She had not waited long before the sound of hastening footsteps told her that Stuart was at hand; and she bent to caress the dogs as he approached, thus hiding the pleasure that dawned on her face.
“I am fearfully late, Margery,” Stuart said, apologetically, as he flung himself down on the cool, mossy bank. “By Jove! though, I had no idea I could walk so fast. I have come here in no time.”
“You do look tired,” she said, quickly; “let us rest a while. Shall I get you some milk?”
Stuart shuddered. The thought recalled all the horrors of Judy’s draught that summer morning.
“No, thanks; I will have some water. Do you know, Margery, I don’t believe I can go very much further. What do you say to a picnic in the Weald wood?”
“I think it will be very nice. But, Mr. Stuart, where is your basket?”
“My basket?” he echoed.
“Yes—your lunch,” said Margery, holding out her tiny hamper. “You have forgotten it.”
“Yes, I have. Will it matter?” asked Stuart, gravely, thinking he had never seen so sweet a picture as the girl before him.
“Well, you know, to picnic it is necessary to have some food; but perhaps I have enough for both.”
“I devoutly hope so!” exclaimed Mr. Crosbie. “May I ask, Margery, what your basket contains?”
“Cakes and apples,” she answered, promptly.
“Hum!” observed Stuart, meditatively. “That sounds solid, Margery.”
“Don’t you like cakes and apples?”
“Do you?” he asked.
“Very much.”
“Then I do, too. Now let us get into the woods. By the by, is Reuben about?”
“No; I believe he has gone to some of Sir Hubert’s farms. He started very early this morning, but he will be home to dinner. Did you want him, Mr. Stuart?”
“No, not particularly. But what a lark if they take us up for trespassing—eh, Margery!”
Margery laughed heartily at the idea.
“What would they do to us?” she asked.
“Transport us for life, perhaps,” Stuart replied, with a laugh, as he mounted the narrow wall. “How would you like that, Margery?” he added.
“Would that mean going away from here?”
Stuart nodded.
“I should not like it at all, then,” she declared.
“Then you intend to live in Hurstley all your life? Give me your hand; there—that is right. The dogs will clear it.”
Margery jumped lightly from the wall to the soft turf, and then watched the easy way in which the collie and retriever scaled the wall.
“How clever they are!” she cried, stooping to pat them.
“But you have not answered me. Do you intend to live here all your life?” said Stuart, as they strolled in the cool shade of the trees.
Margery looked at him quickly.
“I have never thought about it, Mr. Stuart,” she replied. “Would it be wrong to wish it?”
“Wrong?” he repeated. “No, Margery, of course not.”
“I love Hurstley,” the girl went on, thoughtfully. “Mother lives here, and Reuben, and Lady Coningham, though I cannot remember her well—still I love her; then there are Miss Lawson and all the village.”
“No one else?” queried Mr. Crosbie, fixing his eyes on her face.
“Yes—you, Mr. Stuart,” Margery answered, softly. “You are here, too.”
“But suppose that all these friends were to go away—supposeyou were left alone—would you care for Hurstley then?”
Margery’s face paled.
“I never thought of that,” she murmured. “Oh, I could not stay then; it would be terrible!”
Stuart opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them firmly again, and for a while there was silence between them as they walked. At last the young squire spoke. They had reached a clump of trees, a cooler, shadier spot, and here he stopped.
“Let us unpack that gigantic basket here, Margery,” he said, lightly. “This is the very nook for a picnic.”
Margery tossed off her bonnet, and the young man, stretched at full length on the soft grass, feasted his eyes on her radiant beauty, feeling that with every look his determination to see less of this girl was slipping from him, and that for him happiness was found only when in her presence.