CHAPTER VII.
Vane Charteris found the day pass very slowly, with no one but her aunt to amuse her. She sat listlessly beside Mrs. Crosbie during the long drive, feeling bored and wearied, and yawned through the afternoon in her room, finding no pleasure in her mother’s society and less in her own. The thought that had come to her suddenly in the morning grew stronger as the hours passed. As Stuart Crosbie’s wife, she would taste once more the sweetness of her lost power.
She was leaning by her open window, thinking this, heedless of the beauty of the picture that stretched before her, when her eyes fell on a man’s figure strolling leisurely on the lawn—a strange, odd-looking man, who seemed not quite at home in his surroundings. Miss Charteris, roused from her languor, watched him intently, and at once determined that the intruder was a tramp—perhaps one of a gang of thieves. She rose quickly, and made her way from her room, picking up her sun-shade as she went. Her aunt was out at a garden party, which she had vainly tried to induce MissCharteris to attend, her mother was enjoying asiesta, and her uncle was absorbed in his books. There was no one about, and the castle seemed quite deserted as Vane walked across the hall to the back grounds. The man was standing as she had seen him last, his hands in his pockets, his hat pulled low over his brows. She went toward him at once.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Do you know you are trespassing?”
The man turned at her first word; he looked at her keenly from a pair of earnest gray eyes, then slowly, and with unmistakable courtesy, removed his slouched felt hat.
“Trespassing?” he repeated, in a cool tone. “Do they prosecute at Crosbie Castle if a man is found gazing only?”
“You are insolent,” Miss Charteris responded, frigidly; “and, if you do not leave at once I shall send some of the servants to you.”
The man replaced his hat, with a curious expression on his face.
“Pray save yourself that trouble,” he said, dryly. “I am going; but may I ask if I have the honor of speaking to Mrs. Crosbie?”
Vane’s face flushed.
“No,” she said, coldly.
“Ah! Miss Crosbie, perhaps?”
“No,” she repeated again.
“Indeed! Then, madame, by what right do you eject me?”
“I am Mrs. Crosbie’s niece, and, in her absence, do what I know she would desire.”
“Mrs. Crosbie’s niece!” repeated the man. “So Mrs. Crosbie rules this castle! Where is the squire?”
Miss Charteris moved away a little.
“I shall answer no more questions,” she said, quietly. “I must request you to go away at once.”
“There spoke George Charteris!” muttered the stranger, as if to himself.
Vane started; she could hardly believe her ears. This shabby man to mention her father’s name! It was extraordinary, and not pleasant.
“I do not know who you are,” she said, with marked irritation; “but you have heard what I said, and you take no notice of my words. It now remains for the servants to see if they will be more successful.”
“Softly, softly, my young lady!” said the man, putting his hand on her arm. “You are much too hasty, and, like all intemperate spirits, judge by appearances only. How do you know whether I have business here or not—whether my visit may not be that of a friend?”
“Friend?” echoed Miss Charteris, sarcastically, at the same time hurriedly drawing her arm from his touch.
“I see,” continued the stranger, half closing his eyes, and fixing her with a look which annoyed and fidgeted her. “I see you count Squire Crosbie’s friends by the cut of their coats. Stay; let me convince you that people are not always what they seem.”
At that moment a footman was passing along the colonnade; and, calling in a loud voice, the stranger attracted his attention.
“Is your master in?” was the question, put easily and naturally.
The footman hesitated for an instant; but the presence of Miss Charteris reassured him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Kindly inform him that I am here.”
“What name, sir?” the man asked.
“Sir Douglas Gerant.”
The footman bowed and turned away, while Vane felt that she wished the ground would open and swallow up this queer, dried, cynical cousin or herself—it mattered not which. Never had she been in so disagreeable a position. Sir Douglas came to her rescue.
“Will you forgive me?” he said, quietly extending his hand, a long, thin white hand, which seemed strangely at variance with his rough, ill-cut clothes.
“It is I who must ask that,” she replied. “Of course, had I known——”
“Naturally, naturally,” interrupted Sir Douglas. “Let us say no more about it. So my cousin Constance is out? Well, I hope she will forgive me for taking her by storm in this way. And where is her boy?”
“Stuart has gone to Chesterham.”
“Hum! And is he a nice fellow? Do you like him?”
Miss Charteris hesitated.
“Yes,” she replied, slowly, “I like Stuart very much. You will see him this evening.”
“Hum!” observed Sir Douglas again; and at that instant the squire’s tall, thin figure appeared, a look of undisguised pleasure on his face.
“My dear Douglas!”
“Sholto, old fellow!”
The two men clasped hands; no words of stronger welcome were spoken, but their eyes looked all they would say; the handgrip testified more plainly than words. What memories filled the mind of each as they stood thus face to face—the traces of the world’s buffets in their worn lineaments—memories of two young forms with hope and vigor shining in their glowing eyes, determination and ambition strong in their hearts.
“Welcome—a thousand times welcome!” said the squire, after a moment’s silence. “I received your letter this morning. We expected you to-morrow.”
Sir Douglas laughed.
“Yes, I thought so; but I am not an orthodox person at all. I break through all rules and regulations. I look like a tramp. Ask this young lady if she does not think so,” he added, abruptly.
Vane’s face flushed—she was inwardly much annoyed; but Sir Douglas continued, speaking easily, and her confusion was unnoticed.
“I was eager to see you, Sholto, and I started off almost as soon as I dispatched my letter. I have had a great wish to see you for the last month.”
“I am heartily glad to meet you once more,” the squire responded; and his face looked brighter than usual. “But how have you come, Douglas?”
“On foot,” returned Sir Douglas, calmly. “My man will arrive with my traps in about an hour’s time.”
“On foot from Chesterham! You must be tired out. Come to my study. What volumes of anecdotes we could write, Douglas, of our respective lives! Vane, my dear, will you come with us?”
“No,” replied Miss Charteris, with a forced smile. “I will go and tell mamma that Sir Douglas has arrived.”
She moved away gracefully as she spoke; Sir Douglas looked after her.
“That is George Charteris’ girl?” he asked.
“Yes. She is very beautiful, is she not?” returned the squire, dreamily.
“Hum!” observed Sir Douglas to himself. “She may be; but——”
The sentence was left unfinished, and the strange guest followed the squire into the house.
“How unchanged it all is!” he remarked, as he entered the great hall. “I seem to have stepped back into my boyhood again, Sholto. Ah, we don’t wear as well as bricks and mortar, old fellow! Only a few short years, and we are both wrecks of what we were!”
They had entered a smaller apartment at the back of the building, one used by the squire as his study and own special sanctum. Books and pamphlets were carelessly strewn about; and the room, in its plain appointments, told clearly and distinctly the character of its owner.
The squire pushed forward a large chair to the window, and Sir Douglas, throwing off his hat, seated himself in it, whilst the squire settled himself at the table.
“Did my letter startle you?” asked Sir Douglas suddenly.
“Yes, it did,” was the candid answer. “I had begun to think you would never return to England, that you would die as you have lived, a wanderer from your home.”
“A weary, restless wanderer—a man, Sholto, with but one thought in his mind, one desire in his wanderings, one wish that has never been fulfilled. Ah, you have judged me as the world has judged me, an ill-conditioned fellow who loved all nations and people above his own! But you have wronged me—the world has wronged me. I am as capable of strong domestic feeling as any man living. I am what I am through trickery and deceit.”
The squire gazed earnestly at his cousin’s face, the thin features illumined by a sudden rush of color. Sir Douglas turned, and, as his eyes met that earnest gaze, he sunk back slowly in his chair, and the old cynical look came back again.
“I must not bore you with my hidden griefs, Sholto,” he said, dryly; “they are musty and gray now with age.”
“You mistake if you think they bore me. I have never judged you hardly, Douglas. Your nature was not a common one. To me your life has fitted your nature.”
“My life,” echoed the guest a little sadly. “What a weary turmoil it seems looking back at it now, what ceaseless restlessness! Ah, cousin, you have had the best of it, after all!”
The squire made no reply.
“Let us bury by-gones—they leave a bitter taste behind. I will come to the present, Sholto. I wrote to you with one idea and thought prominent in my mind. In another month or so I shall leave England again, perhaps this time never to return; but, before I go, I want to leave my old inheritance an heir, and I must find him here.”
“Here!” repeated the squire. “You forget, Douglas, I am seven years your senior, and in all probability——”
“I do not mean you. You have a son.”
“Stuart?” exclaimed the squire. “Yes. You have never seen him, Douglas. He is the best in the world.”
“I do not need your word to tell me that. I have heard of this son. The world is very small, and my ears are always sharp. He was in Calcutta last year. Yes, and I was there, too.”
“Then you know him?”
Sir Douglas shook his head.
“I never saw; but I heard of his good, warm, generous nature, and, judging him as your son, my heart went out to him.”
“It is a noble offer,” the squire said, in his quiet, simple way. “But is there no one whom you would care to select outside the family? Stuart will inherit the castle, remember.”
“There is not a soul,” Sir Douglas replied, in low tones. “Don’t cross me in this, Sholto; to your son I would willingly give all I possess. Heaven grant he may derive greater happiness from it than I have done!”
There was a silence between the two men; then the squire said, gently:
“You look worn and tired, Douglas. Must you leave England again so soon?”
“Yes,” Sir Douglas returned briefly. “My search is not ended; if nothing else will support me, revenge will.” He paused for an instant, then went on quickly, “Sholto, old fellow, don’t think me mad or wild; there is a spot in my past which even you can never see. Only this much I will tell you, that, though I am a cynical, dry, hard creature now, there was a time, a brief heavenly time, when my life was as full of joy and vigor as your son’s is now. The memory of that dead joy, the memory of my terrible wrong—for I was wronged—has destroyed my life’s happiness. I live only for two things—to be revenged and to be satisfied.”
He rose from his chair as he spoke, and strode rapidly up and down the room, while the squire watched him tenderly and sorrowfully. He read the depth of trouble in the grief-distorted face; but he did not seek to know this or learn in any way the truth of his cousin’s strange career. Sir Douglas suddenly stopped in his hurried walk.
“I am not myself to-day, Sholto,” he said, relapsing into his dry manner. “My return to your old home, where everything speaks of the past, has worked badly on me; but the weakness is gone, and—don’t be alarmed—it will not come again.”
The squire said nothing, but stretched out his hand and grasped his cousin’s in silence. Sir Douglas turned away as their fingers unloosened and threw himself into his chair again.
“I shall stay with you for a week or two, Sholto,” he went on, presently. “I want to make friends with Stuart—and then I shall disappear. I trust your wife will not be alarmed at my rough appearance; I believe I have some decent coats among my things—I must look them out.”
“Constance will welcome you warmly,” though he shifted his papers nervously about as he spoke.
“More especially when she knows what has brought me,” was Sir Douglas’ muttered thought.
Then he turned the conversation on other things; and the two men were soon lost in an argument, talking aseasily and naturally as though fifteen days, not years, had elapsed since their last meeting.
Meanwhile, away in the Weald grounds, the picnic was progressing well. Margery had spread her snow-white cloth on the turf and placed the dainty cakes and apples upon it; and, despite Stuart’s grumbling, he ate heartily of the simple repast.
“I call this heavenly!” he exclaimed, as he lay on the grass, leaning on his elbow, and watched Margery feed the dogs.
“It is nice,” she agreed, turning her great sapphire eyes on him; “but I do all the work and you picnic, Mr. Stuart. I am afraid you are very lazy.”
“I know I am,” confessed the young man, “but you forget how hard I have always worked, Margery,” he added.
Margery shook her wealth of red-gold hair, and laughed a sweet, musical laugh that rang through the summer silence.
“Worked,” she repeated—“you worked! I don’t believe you really know what work means.”
“I do seem to have led a purposeless life when I think of it,” Stuart observed, reflectively. “The hardest day I ever had was when I went tiger-shooting.”
“Tiger-shooting!” repeated the girl, paling. “Oh, Mr. Stuart, it sounds so dreadful!”
“You are a little coward, Margery,” Stuart laughed. “By Jove, though, how you would have enjoyed some of the things I did! I am sure you would be a good sailor. Margery, how would you like to be out at sea and not a speck of land in sight?”
“I have read of the sea; but I have never seen it,” Margery said, simply. “But I think I should like it; there must be such a grandeur and beauty in rolling waves and great moving waters. I wish you would tell me something about it, Mr. Stuart.”
Stuart moved into a sitting position and leaned his back against the trunk of a giant tree.
“I shall have to write a book about my travels, and dedicate it to you,” he said, lightly.
Margery smiled, and then put her arm round the collie’s neck, and drew the dog’s head on to her knees. Theretriever had retired to a shady spot, and was stretched out fast asleep. Stuart launched at once into anecdotes of the sea; he knew just where to put a telling touch and wake the interest; and Margery listened eagerly, drinking in the wonders with pretty incredulity and making Stuart break into hearty fits of laughter at her ignorant nautical remarks.
The afternoon passed quickly; the sun had moved round, and cast slanting rays of golden light into the green nook. It touched Margery’s head, seeming to rest on the soft silky curls with delight. She looked so sweet in her plain white gown—a very flower of purity and beauty—that Stuart’s eyes, resting on her, would make him hesitate in his story and his heart thrill with a strong wave of unspeakable pleasure. To Margery the moments slipped away too quickly; she reveled in these tales of strange countries, in the adventures and hair-breadth escapes that had filled those two years of travel.
“How beautiful and how strange it must have been, Mr. Stuart!” she said, drawing a deep breath, after a while. “You must find Hurstley dull.”
“Hurstley to me is the most beautiful place in the whole world,” Stuart said, involuntarily. “I love it.”
“And so do I!” cried the girl. “But then I am different.” There was a slight pause, and she went on thinking of what he had just told her. “Then I was wrong when I said you had not worked—why, you helped to save the ship that stormy night, Mr. Stuart!”
Stuart smiled as he moved nearer and held out his hand.
“There is the mark of the cut from one of the ropes. Now, you will give me credit for some good, Margery?”
The girl took the hand between her own two small brown ones. She bent her head to look at the scar, while, at the touch of her fingers, Stuart felt his whole being thrill and the last barrier that stood between himself and his love melt away.
“Yes—yes, I see,” Margery said, gently. “Oh, Mr. Stuart, what pain you must have suffered!”
She raised her luminous eyes to him, their blue depths darkened almost to blackness at the thought of that terrible night at sea, and met the steady, passionate gaze benton her. Some new sense flooded her mind; in one second all her girlish innocence vanished; she knew that she was on the brink of a great wondrous event, though she could not guess what it was. She dropped Stuart’s hand, and rose hurriedly.
“It is getting late; we must go,” she declared. “Mother will want me.”
Stuart at once moved to her side. He took the sunbonnet from her hand, and imprisoned the small fingers within his own.
“Margery,” he said, softly, “is mother the only one who wants you? Will you not stay with me? Ah, my darling,” he cried, bending to catch her other hand and seeing the trembling lips and great, wondrous, startled eyes, “I have frightened you! You do not know—how could you?—how much you have become to me. Margery, I did not mean to speak yet—I meant to wait, and let your love grow; but your sweet face has urged me, and I can wait no longer. Margery, my own darling, I love you! Do you love me?”
Margery felt herself drawn into his strong arms. She looked up at him for one instant, then said softly:
“Love! What is love?”
“Love,” cried Stuart, “is the greatest joy or the greatest pain. To love is to think, dream, live only for one person, to be happy when near them, lonely when away, ever longing to clasp their hand, listen to their voice, as I have done these past weeks, my own sweet dear one.”
“Then”—the color came vividly into the cream-white cheeks, the eyelids drooped, and the graceful head was bent—“then I do love you, Mr. Stuart; but——”
“But!” interrupted Stuart, gathering her to his arms. “There is no ‘but,’ my darling, my very own! Oh, Margery, if you could know what happiness I feel! It is such peace after doubt and perplexity. See—just now you threw my hand away; I give it to you again, my darling, yours to defend and tend you when you are my wife.”
“Your wife!” faltered Margery; and she trembled—the suddenness, the sweetness of this news seemed to have taken all strength from her. She lived in an indescribable dream of happiness; Stuart’s arms were round her,his eyes gazed into hers, his voice was whispering tenderly in her ear. She could not then grasp the full extent of her joy, she was dazed by the passion and depths of his love.
“Yes, my wife, thank Heaven!” said Stuart, reverently raising one small hand to his lips.
“Margery, each day that has gone has linked me closer to you—try as I would, my love would turn to you. There may be storms in life before us,” he went on, hurriedly, involuntarily drawing the slender form closer to him as he thought of his mother’s anger—“there may be trials, battles to fight; but we will be firm and trust in each other. If we have love, we shall be satisfied.”
“My love will never, never die,” Margery murmured slowly, drawing herself out of his arms. “But it is all so strange—you to love me! And—ah, what will madame say, Mr. Stuart? I don’t know why, but I am sure she does not like me.”
“Margery”—and Stuart drew her back to him again and kissed her sweet lips—“we are pledged to each other, and none shall part us. Leave all to me, and it will come right. And now I have a lesson to teach you—henceforth I am Stuart, and Stuart only; don’t forget.”
“I will not,” she promised. She was silent for an instant, then said, softly: “How good you are! I will try to be worthy of you. Something tells me, Stuart, that I am not a common village girl. You will know the truth, perhaps, some day, and then you will be proud of me.”
“I shall never be prouder of you than I am now!” cried the young man, fervently. “I care not what you are—I love you; you shall be my wife!”
Margery raised her lovelit eyes, eloquent in tenderness, to his, and then smiled.
“Our picnic is ended,” she said, loosing herself from his hold and picking up her sunbonnet; “the dogs are tired of waiting; we must go.”
Stuart watched her pack her basket and tie on the simple headgear, his heart throbbing with pure passionate love. Henceforth, let come what might, this girl belonged to him—she was his very own.
“Margery,” he said, as they stood together before starting, “this is the birth of our happiness. Remember,my darling, that you now are my life, my very soul. If clouds should gather, turn to me and I will sweep them away.”
Margery rested her hand for one moment on his shoulder.
“Stuart,” she said, steadily, “I was a girl an hour ago—I am a woman now. As you love me, dear, so I love you, and ever shall, though a world should stretch between us.”