CHAPTER XIII.
Immediately on her return to the castle, Vane Charteris sought her aunt, and whispered to her the success of her mission. Mrs. Crosbie willingly agreed to drive over early the next morning, and see what could be done with respect to dispatching Margery from the village; and Vane went up to her room, both satisfied and triumphant. Stuart’s eagerness was fed by fictitious tender messages from Margery, which Vane uttered glibly and without the slightest effort; and so the first part of her plot proved most successful. She learned from her aunt that the mother and son had met, and that Mrs. Crosbie had carried out her part to the letter, thereby causing Stuart no little surprise and pleasure.
The news of Margery’s disappearance came like a thunderclap to Vane. She had never contemplated thisdénouement, and was a little puzzled how next to act, until Mrs. Crosbie, in recounting the occurrences of her morning’s drive, incidentally mentioned that she had met Mrs. Bright, who was in great distress about her son.
“What has happened to him, Aunt Constance?” asked Vane, with assumed indifference.
“I thought I said that he was in love with this girl—wished to marry her, in fact—and is so troubled at her refusal that he has determined to leave England.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Vane, looking up suddenly, her cold, blue eyes shining like stars. “Reuben Morris has gone to Australia, you say?”
“He starts at the end of the week; he left Hurstley for London this morning.”
“And the girl is with him?” next queried Miss Charteris.
“She must be. The cottage is shut up, the key has been sent to the Weald, and the neighbors tell me they saw both the man and the girl leave early this morning.”
“Could Mrs. Bright give you no clew as to where her son has gone, or intends to go?”
“None. She gave me his note to read, in which hemerely says he shall leave England for a while. This girl has bewitched him. A marriage with him would have been the best she could expect—indeed, much too good for her,” remarked Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. “What do you propose to do now, Vane?” she added, rising.
“Nothing. I have finished. Aunt Constance, the game is ours. Do you not see that this young man has gone to Australia with them?”
Mrs. Crosbie removed her driving-gloves slowly.
“I scarcely think that Vane,” she replied, “for Margery Daw has refused to become his wife. His mother is highly incensed and greatly troubled, poor creature, about it. No, I cannot think that, Vane.”
“It will prove to be the truth, nevertheless,” Miss Charteris said, quietly; adding, “and, as such, it is welcome as a full and complete solution to a difficult and disagreeable question. Poor Stuart—I am sorry for him!”
Mrs. Crosbie glanced at her niece, leaning languidly against the open window, almost frail-looking in her delicate white gown, and could scarcely reconcile the strong, cold, relentless spirit with so lovely an exterior. For an instant a feeling of disgust at this girl’s calm trickery and deceit, and at her own share in the matter, passed over her. Then her pride came to the rescue, and she consoled herself with the thought that Stuart had been saved from dishonor and trouble, and that Vane had done well. She bent and kissed her niece’s delicate cheek.
“Yes, you are right,” she said, thoughtfully. “The problem is solved, and you have done it. I cannot thank you enough, Vane.”
“Do not thank me at all,” the girl whispered. “You know why I did it—it was my love for Stuart that prompted me. Some day he will thank me, perhaps. But for the present I fear he will suffer.”
“With you near, Vane, that will not last,” and, with an affectionate glance, Mrs. Crosbie left the room.
The next day came, and Stuart still lived in his blissful dreams. Then, with a rough hand, they were ruthlessly shattered. Vane was reading in the colonnade that afternoon, when she saw hurried steps approaching, and, onlooking up, saw Stuart, his face as white as his tennis coat, beside her.
“What is it, Stuart?” she asked, hurriedly.
“Vane, something has happened so strange, and yet so absurd, that, were I not so confoundedly weak, I should laugh at it. My man Andrews has just told me that Morris has left Hurstley—left early yesterday morning—for Australia, and Margery has gone with him. He declares that it is true.”
“True!” repeated Vane. “It is too absurd to credit for one instant. Stuart, how can you believe it?”
“The man is so positive,” Stuart went on, with a sigh, resting his left hand on a chair for support, “that it quite staggered me. Of course, there is some mistake; but it haunts me, nevertheless. Vane, will you drive me to the village?” he asked, abruptly. “I must make inquiries.”
“Willingly;” and Vane at once put down her book.
“How good you are!” exclaimed Stuart, trying to force a smile. “You are indeed a friend.”
With a little laugh Vane put her hand on his lips and flitted away, while Stuart called to a gardener and ordered the pony carriage to be brought round.
Vane was down again almost immediately, her face nearly as pale as her cousin’s. It was but a few minutes before the carriage appeared, yet to Stuart they seemed hours. He tried to laugh at the absurdity of the report, yet a presentiment of trouble possessed him.
“It cannot be, it cannot be!” Vane heard him mutter again and again; and then he approached her.
“Tell me once more the messages she sent,” he said, hurriedly; and Vane breathed the tender falsehoods in his ear, touching his agitated, troubled spirit with their healing balm.
Sir Douglas Gerant passed through the hall just as they were starting.
“Whither away, wounded knight?” he asked, lightly.
“To the village. I shall be back soon, Douglas.” Then, turning to his cousin, he said, “Drive fast, Vane.”
With a puzzled brow Sir Douglas watched them disappear—he could not understand Stuart’s apparent attachment to this selfish, worldly girl—then, with a sigh, turned wearily indoors. The next day was that fixed forhis lawyer to come down from London, and he had much to occupy his thoughts. He sought the squire’s room, and, in a chat over bygone years, lost for a while his anxious, restless expression.
Stuart sat silent beside his cousin as they bowled along the lane to the village; and Vane glanced now and again at his pale, pained face, wondering, when he knew the truth, what his opinion would be of her.
The village reached, he broke the silence by asking Vane to drive straight to the little cottage by the Weald; and, without a word, she complied. She drew up the ponies on the brow of the hill; and Stuart, heedless of his aching arm and weakness, alighted, and walked down to the gate he knew so well. It was just such an afternoon as that on which he had parted from Margery, and the memory of her beauty and sweetness lent strength to his faltering steps and fed the eagerness and desire in his heart. He pushed open the gate and entered. The window-blinds were drawn; the door—pushed with his one able hand—defied every effort. He grew faint and cold, and leaned against the doorpost for a moment, while the roses, nodding in the breeze, seemed to whisper to him a sense of his loss in all its bitterness.
Margery was gone! But why—and whither? He turned and walked down the garden, his head drooping dejectedly on his breast. Margery gone! What could it mean? Why had she left him, without a word or sign, in the very moment of their joy and happiness? The truth did not come to him even then. There must be some mistake, he tried to convince himself. A hundred different answers to the strange question came to him. He closed the gate behind him and turned away. There was a man standing at the gate of the next cottage, and at first Stuart determined to pass him; but a sudden impulse seized him, and he stopped and spoke with forced lightness.
“Ah, Carter—lovely weather for the crops! Is this true that I hear about Morris?”
“Good-arternoon, squire. Hope I see you better. It were a stiffish fall as you had. Morris, sir? What? That he’s gone to Australia? Ay, sir—that’s true enough.”
Stuart’s left hand grasped the gate.
“Rather sudden, isn’t it?” he questioned, trying to clear his voice.
“Well, sir, it were rather; but, you see, the death of his missus fair knocked him over, and he made up his mind in a minute.”
“And he has gone alone?” asked Stuart, every nerve in his body quivering.
“Oh, no, sir! He’s took Margery with him; and right sorry are we to part with her, I can tell you. She were just a sweet lass. Have you heard that Sir Hubert and my lady ain’t coming home, after all, sir? Perhaps that’s why Margery went, ’cos she belongs like to her ladyship—don’t she, sir?”
Stuart murmured a few vague words in reply, and then passed on.
“Good-arternoon,” said Carter; and then, as he watched the young man mount the hill, he muttered: “That there fall ain’t done the young squire no good; he looks the ghost of hisself.”
Vane sat silent as Stuart came toward her; even her cold, calculating heart was touched at the sight of his distress. He took his seat and sunk back against the cushions, looking deathly pale and worn. Vane gathered the reins together, and prepared to turn back to the castle; but Stuart stopped her.
“Drive to Chesterham,” he said, in a quiet tone. “I must find out if they went to London.”
Without a word she did as he wished, and in silence they sped along the lanes to the town. Vane was by no means comfortable during the drive, for she was beset by disagreeable thoughts. What if the girl, after all, had gone to London only to bid farewell to her adopted father? What more likely? Would she not have taken leave of the neighbors and villagers had she started for so long a journey? What if, on their arrival at Chesterham, they came face to face with her? Vane grew cold and faint at the thought not only of the humiliation, but of such a termination to all her scheming. She set her teeth, and her face grew paler as she pictured his disgust when he learned the truth. It was so hasty, so strange a flight, that Vane, as she sat absorbed in deep thought,could not but feel the chances were very much against her.
Stuart did not notice his cousin; he realized only that Margery was gone, his sweet love vanished. The joy of life for him was dead, and his heart was heavy with its pain. Hope now and then revived, but the vague presentiment that had hung over him since first he had learned the news crushed it as it was born.
As they approached Chesterham, Vane began to tremble, and the hands grasping the reins shook with fear.
“Draw up for a few minutes, Vane,” Stuart said; “here is Bright—perhaps he can tell us something. Andrews said it was through his instrumentality that Morris had gone.”
Vane checked the ponies and leaned back, feeling quite unnerved from the sudden reaction.
“Ah, Bright, you are the very man that I want to see,” exclaimed Stuart, as the farmer rode up, “for you can tell me better than any one what I want to know.”
“I shall be glad to oblige you, Mr. Stuart,” returned Bright, turning an anxious face to the young man.
“Perhaps you’ve heard about my boy Robert?” he added, full of his own troubles.
“No, I have not. Is anything the matter with him?” asked Stuart, his sympathy at once enlisted.
“It’s nigh broke his mother’s heart, sir; but he’s gone off to Australia with Reuben Morris all of a sudden, without a word of warning.”
Vane felt a thrill of joy pass through her, and her spirits at once began to revive.
“Australia? Why? But they can not have gone yet—they must be in London. It is one thing to say you will start on such a voyage, and another thing to do it. It takes two or three days, Bright, you know, to make the necessary arrangements.”
The farmer looked at the young squire’s flushed, eager face with a little surprise and much gratitude.
“Thank you, sir. It’s like you, Mr. Stuart, always to be kind; but it’s no use now, sir. Robert started last night; by this time they’re out of the Channel. It’s a hard thing to see one’s only son took from us, Mr. Stuart, and all along of a bit of a girl.”
“A girl!” echoed Stuart, shivering, he scarcely knew why.
“Ay, sir—that lass of Morris’, that nameless thing! She just bewitched him, has played the fool with him, said him ‘No,’ when he’d have made her his wife, and now has took him on again, for they’ve all gone out together.”
“Margery!” exclaimed Stuart, in a dull, startled way. “She—they have gone together?”
“Ay, sir—she’ve took him from us all with her fooling, and I make no doubt but they’ll be married afore they reach the other side. The mother would have welcomed her gladly to keep Robert at home; but she weren’t honest enough to do that—she must needs give herself airs like a fine lady, and drag my boy after her.”
Vane saw Stuart’s jaw set, his face flush, the veins on his forehead swell. After a pause, he said, in a low tone:
“And you are sure of this, Bright?”
“I’m just back from London, sir. I’ve been down to the docks, and there’s no mistake; they all remembered the girl—her pretty face, they called it. Ah, it will be weary work for us, sir, waiting till Robert comes back! My wife’s most distraught.”
“Good-by, Bright.” Stuart put out his hand, which the farmer grasped. “This is indeed bad news! I am sorry, very sorry for you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Stuart.”
Bright loosened Stuart’s hand, and, with a respectful salute to Vane, passed on, something like a tear twinkling in his eye.
Vane looked straight ahead, pretending not to see the quick, hurried way in which Stuart bent his head for a moment. Victory was hers, she told herself—victory! Suddenly Stuart looked up.
“Turn around, Vane, and drive home; it is all over now—so much the better!”
The recklessness of his tone pleased her; it showed her that anger rankled as well as pain, that mortification filled his breast with despair. If this mood lasted, her work would not be difficult.