CHAPTER XVIII.
Vane Charteris was astonished beyond words when she found that the assertion she had made regarding Margery’s voyage to Australia in company with Robert Bright and her so-called father was absolutely confirmed by fact. Nothing could have been more opportune, no more satisfactorydénouementto the whole affair could have taken place had she arranged it herself. It had needed only jealousy to finish what she had begun; and its poison now rankled in Stuart Crosbie’s heart. He was stunned, almost overwhelmed by Margery’s apparent treachery and heartlessness. He did not know, he had never fathomed till now, how greatly he had loved, what a flood of passion had overtaken him. Margery had been the sun of his existence, and she was gone—worse than gone—she was faithless!
Vaguely he repeated the words over and over again, as he sat listlessly in a chair looking out over the fair landscape, but seeing it not. Faithless! The girl who had kindled the glow of all earthly bliss, the girl who had seemed a very angel of purity and beauty, was false! While he held her clasped in his arms and breathed his earnest, sacred vows of love, she was false! As she smiled in radiant tenderness and whispered back her own, she was false! Through it all she had been false! It was inconceivable; it was maddening!
A fortnight wore away, but Stuart’s mood did not alter; he sat silent and morbid, trying to understand it all, to get at the truth. Vane grew a little troubled at his manner—she had not imagined the wound would have been so deep. Her own shallow nature could not comprehend the depths, the intensity, the passion of love. To her it had appeared that Stuart would of course be angry. As a proud man, that was but natural, and she had expected to see him defiant, hard, reckless. This strange silence, this quiet misery amazed and annoyedher. But she was outwardly at her best all this time. She never spoke to her cousin respecting their former confidences. She made him feel rather than know the depths of her womanly sympathy, thus making her worldly tact appear as innate refinement and tender delicacy. She moved about as in harmony with his gloomy thoughts; her laughter never jarred; her voice often soothed him; and last, but not least, she warded off any attacks from Mrs. Crosbie, whose brow contracted in many an ominous frown because of what she termed her son’s folly and want of dignity.
It was tedious work sometimes, and Vane often grew vexed and weary; but this gloom could not last, she told herself; there would come a day when Stuart would rouse himself and cast aside all thought of his dead love, trampling on the memories of it as on a vile and worthless thing. She must not fail now, seeing that she had succeeded so well hitherto. But a little patience, and she would win—she must win, not only for her love’s sake, but for her ambition. News had reached her of the marriage of one of her most detested rivals, a girl younger than herself. She could not face the world again without some weapon in her hand to crush the woman she hated and bring back her lost power. It was as Stuart Crosbie’s wife that she determined her triumph should come. He bore no title; but his name was as prominent as any in the land, his wealth would be untold, and, aschatelaineof Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park, her social position would be undeniable. Even Mrs. Crosbie did not guess the fire that burned beneath Vane’s calm exterior; but her desire for the marriage was certainly as great in one way as her niece’s. Lady Charteris, who had by this time recovered from her surprise at her daughter’s strange freak in staying so long at the castle, saw nothing, but chattered and slumbered away her days placidly enough, content to know that Vane was happy.
Sir Douglas Gerant had disappeared as strangely and as suddenly as he had arrived. Two days after the eventful drive to Chesterham he took his departure, greatly to Miss Charteris’ and Mrs. Crosbie’s satisfaction. There was something in his dry, cynical mannerwhich made them singularly uncomfortable, and their strict ideas of etiquette were greatly disturbed by his many unorthodox acts. Stuart, at any other time, would have regretted his cousin’s departure; but now it made but little impression on him, and, while he exerted himself to bid him farewell, his mind was with his trouble, and as Sir Douglas walked away, he gave himself up again to his unhappy thoughts.
A fortnight passed uneventfully, and then Sir Douglas reappeared as suddenly as he had left. Mrs. Crosbie met him with profuse but insincere words of welcome. She was just enough to recognize how much he had done for Stuart. Sir Douglas put aside all her gracious speeches.
“It is only a flying visit,” he said, tersely. “I want to have a few words with Stuart.”
“Oh, I am so sorry you will not stay,” Mrs. Crosbie responded. “I had hoped you had come for the shooting; Sholto expects a few guns down. We should have had a party for the twelfth of August but for Stuart’s accident. Can I not persuade you?”
“I should yield to your persuasion, cousin,” answered Sir Douglas, with an old-fashioned bow and a gleam of merriment in his keen gray eyes—he knew right well he was no favorite with madam—“but that unfortunately time and tide wait for no man, and I sail for the antipodes at the end of the week.”
“The antipodes!” cried Mrs. Crosbie; and she would have questioned him further but that he ended the interview by walking away in search of Stuart.
He found the young man strolling listlessly about the grounds, attended by all his canine pets. There was no doubt as to the sincerity of the pleasure on Stuart’s face when he saw his cousin; but Sir Douglas was quick to notice the worn look and the gloom that almost immediately settled again on his features.
“How is the arm?” he asked, quietly.
“Mending rapidly,” Stuart answered. “I shall have it out of the splints in another fortnight.”
“Don’t hurry it,” said Sir Douglas, as he turned and strolled beside the young man; “it was a nasty fracture, you know.”
They walked on in silence until they reached a quiet spot, and then Sir Douglas halted.
“Stuart,” he said, “I have come down here on purpose to see you. I want you to give me a promise.”
“It is already given,” Stuart answered, roused from himself for a while, and stretching out his hand.
“You know that I have made you my heir, that I have willed all I possess to you with certain conditions.”
“Yes, I know,” Stuart answered, his face flushing a little. “Do not think me ungrateful if I say I wish it were not so. I do not want your property; I——”
“I am aware of that,” interrupted Sir Douglas, dryly. “If you had wanted it, you would not have had it. But it is not of that I want to speak; it is of the conditions. They are more to me than any fortune you could name.”
“Whatever they are, I accept them willingly, with all my heart, and, if it be in my power, they shall be fulfilled.”
Stuart spoke firmly, his eyes as steadfast as his words.
“Thank you, Stuart,” responded Sir Douglas, quietly. “I felt—I knew you would answer me so.” He paused a little, then went on slowly. “I leave England again at the end of the week on a search that has lasted my lifetime—hopeless, alas, in the years that are gone, but touched now with the blessedness of hope! Yes, thank Heaven, I have a clew!”
Stuart looked in wonder at his cousin’s face; it was illuminated with color, and there was an unusual glow in the eyes.
“I cannot bring myself to speak to you now, Stuart, on this subject; but if I am successful, I will open my heart to you; if not, and anything should happen to me, this letter”—taking an envelope from an inner pocket—“will tell you all—will give you the secret of my life. Guard it well, and, if the time should come soon, swear to do what I have asked you in it.”
“I swear,” said Stuart, solemnly, his hand closing over the letter.
“Now I start with a lighter heart than I have had for years. The days will pass quickly, and, when I reach Australia, who knows——”
“Australia!” broke in Stuart, his face drawn and pale. “You are going to Australia?”
“I said at the end of the week. What is it, Stuart?”
“Oh, that I were free to go with you!” muttered Stuart.
Like a flame of fire, the word “Australia” had set the passion of jealousy running through his veins, calling up the dormant longing for revenge that had found a resting-place in his heart. Could he not leave all that distressed and oppressed him, and rush away to that distant land, to face him who had stolen the most precious jewel of his life, to bring shame on her who had deceived and tricked him? The picture of Margery’s loveliness rose before him and made his heart beat wildly with the rush of wrath and love that came over him.
“Stuart,” Sir Douglas said, quietly, almost tenderly, “I would ask you to go with me gladly but for one thing—you are not free—your father needs you. He could not live without you; go from him, and he will sink before your return. He is not strong; this summer, he has told me many times, has tried him terribly, and your accident was a shock.”
“Yes, you are right,” responded Stuart, gloomily, after a moment’s pause. “I will stay here. And yet it is hard.”
Sir Douglas did not catch the last words.
“I have always loved Sholto,” he said, “and to rob him of you would be cruel. No, Stuart, your place is here.”
They moved on and approached the house; but before they entered, Sir Douglas stretched out his hand.
“Heaven bless you, lad!” he said, tenderly. “We may never meet again. May you have all the happiness and sunshine in your life that a man such as you ought to expect! Remember your promise.”
“I have sworn, and I will keep it.”
They returned to the castle; and, soon after that, Sir Douglas Gerant left for London.
His cousin’s visit broke the spell of Stuart’s morbid inactivity. The monotonous quiet of Hurstley seemed suddenly to appall him. He could no longer sit and nurse himself; he was restless, almost feverish in his movements. He went out early in the morning and didnot return till the day was spent; and, though he tried to banish every memory of his brief dream from his mind, Vane detected the nervous restlessness in his face. In her heart she rejoiced at these signs of awakening; they were but the forerunners of that proud, contemptuous mood which she had longed to see reveal itself. Life was dull at the castle; but, though she yawned and was inexpressibly bored, she did not intend to give way; and at last she had the satisfaction of feeling that success was hers when her aunt announced that Stuart wished the whole party to leave Crosbie and go to London.
If he remained much longer at Hurstley, Stuart said to himself, the monotony and inactivity would drive him mad. So, to Vane’s and his mother’s delight, he proposed a fortnight’s stay in town, a round of theatres, and such gayeties as a slack season offered, and then a return to the castle with a large party for the shooting.
It was then that Vane began to reap her reward. Stuart seemed to remember all she had done for him, all her thoughtfulness, gentleness, womanly kindness; and it was to her he turned in a frank, friendly fashion, which at once delighted her and deceived her by its ring of apparently genuine forgetfulness.
To London they all went, save the squire, and, in leaving him, Stuart thought of his absent cousin’s words; but it was only for a fortnight, and then he would be back again, brave in forced courage, steady in his pride, to walk over the very ground wherein his whole love lay buried.
It was a delightful time to Vane; she rode, walked, went sight-seeing, with Stuart always in close attendance, and, though few of her acquaintances were in town, she noticed with pleasure that some of her “dear friends” were passing through London on their way from the Continent to the country, and she left them to draw their own conclusions as to her relationship with Stuart Crosbie. As for Stuart, he lived for the moment in a whirl of forced excitement and pleasure. He determined with reckless swiftness to give way to sorrow no more; he buried the memory of Margery, and set his foot, as he thought, firmly on the grave of his love; he even thrust recollection from him; he laughed, rode, chattedwith Vane, and gradually her influence made itself felt. If, in the night, visions of his love floated through his dreams, pride in the morning dispelled his weakness by recalling her falseness; and he turned to Vane as a woman whom, though he could never love, he could respect and trust. To the world his devotion had but one name, that of a suitor; and, heedless of people’s tongues, heedless of Vane’s triumphant eyes, Stuart went on his way, living for a time in a dream of reckless excitement that would soon pass and leave him plunged in as deep an abyss of despair as before.
It was in one of these moments that Margery had seen him beneath the trees, bending his handsome head to gaze into Vane’s eyes. The action meant nothing to him—Vane was his cousin, his confidante, his friend. Had his gaze but wandered to the carriage drawn beside the rails, and rested on the sweet face, pallid and drawn by the agony of pain that had come to her, he would have forgotten his cousin’s existence, and rushed with a madness of joy, a delirium of happiness, to Margery’s side. But Margery was unseen; the cousins paced by slowly, and the image of that face, that form with the right arm still hung in a sling, those eager eyes, was graven on her memory in characters the clearness of which tortured her, and the steadfastness of which nothing could remove.