CHAPTER XXII.
The fortnight’s stay of the Crosbie Castle party in town was extended to nearly six weeks; then Stuart escorted his mother home, and Vane Charteris remained in London. She was now thoroughly vexed and wearied. In spite of all her scheming, she was no nearer the goal. Indeed, she began almost to fear that Stuart would slip through her fingers altogether. She grew cross and worried, driving her mother almost frantic by her return to what she called ill-health. The suspense was really telling upon her, and with the birth of fear came strong determination. For her own pride’s sake, she must win now; the bitter mortification, the humiliation of failure would be too terrible to bear. Had she not tacitly encouraged the idea that her marriage with the heir of Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park was a foregone conclusion? Already she had experienced the pleasure of seeing envy and disappointment gather on several of her rivals’ faces. What barrier now remained? Stuart had, to all outward appearances, blotted the foolish episode of Margery Daw from his memory—there was no other influence to combat hers. Why, then, did he not wake to the reality and complete her satisfaction? The delay was annoying, the suspense killing.
Stuart, little guessing the workings of Vane’s mind, was recovering gradually from the wound that his heart had received. His reckless mood had gone now, and he was once more his calm, manly self; but the happy brightness of his nature was dulled, his light, laughter-loving ways had fled forever. His love for Margery had never died; he treasured it now as a beautiful dream, too great a happiness to be realized on earth. The first agony of surprise, doubt and grief over, he grew to judge her as he judged all woman now—he thought of her, not as Margery, the pure, sweet, fresh young girl, but Margery the worldly, selfish, artificial coquette, of the same nature as the fashionable butterflies he met in town. His love for her was a thing apart from her memory; he deemed her unworthy of so great, so truea feeling; he had worshiped an ideal, and he kept that ideal still shrined in his heart.
Growing weary of life in town, Stuart went back to the castle, thankful for the breath of the fresh country air, the rural quiet. He intended to leave England, to travel once again, but his father’s worn face recalled Sir Douglas Gerant’s words, and so, with a little sigh, he buried his own wishes, and gave himself up to minister to the parent who loved him so dearly, and whom he treasured in return. To his mother Stuart was a puzzle. Never once was Margery’s name on his lips, yet his undoubted love for her, as revealed in their one interview, had considerably startled her. She was surprised at his quietness, his acquiescence in her every wish, grew uneasy at his sudden gravity and the sadness of his face, and almost wished for a display of the strong will which for so many years she had deplored. She, too, was anxious that his marriage should be arranged, but had made no remark to him on the subject, deeming the affair best left in Vane’s able hands.
Stuart had locked the thick letter which Sir Douglas had confided to his care among the few treasures he possessed, and he waited, expecting news from his cousin every day, but none came. At times Stuart grew uneasy; he saw the announcement of the arrival of the vessel in which Sir Douglas had sailed, and yet his cousin made no sign. All he could do was to wait and hope.
He turned his attention to the business connected with the lands and estates of Crosbie Castle, and spent long days with the farmers and laborers, winning their hearts by his warm, generous nature, and the interest he took in their welfare. But this state of things displeased Mrs. Crosbie beyond words. She was an ambitious woman—she longed to see her son enter the world’s lists for fame, and to watch him gradually developing into a quiet farm-owner was more than she could bear. It roused her pride to think that her son should have the whole of his life altered through the sentimental folly of a plebeian romance, and she determined to speak to him openly upon the subject of his career on the first opportunity.
It was now about the middle of November, and Stuart was fully occupied with altering and restoring his cottages before the severe weather set in. He went out early and returned late, so that his mother found the desired opportunity long in coming. At last, one afternoon, she perceived him striding up the avenue, and, leaving her boudoir, she met him in the hall.
“Well, mother,” said Stuart, smiling, “not out to-day? You are wise—it is ankle-deep in mud. Don’t come near me—I am not fit to approach you. I have come back for an agreement I made about Cullam’s cottage; I must be off directly.”
“What is your hurry, Stuart?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. “Cannot you spare me a few minutes? I have long wanted to speak to you, but really you are so much engaged, I have had no chance.”
“Of course I am ready, mother, if you wish it,” Stuart replied, though not readily. He never cared for these brief intervals of conversation with his mother; they invariably annoyed him.
“Come to my boudoir for a few minutes.”
He followed Mrs. Crosbie in silence; then, as she closed the door, he walked to the window and leaned against the ledge.
“Well, mother?” he said, in a tone of impatience.
Mrs. Crosbie stirred the fire, then warmed her white hands. She looked at her son, and the sight of his grave, handsome face strengthened her purpose. It was such a faint likeness to the merry, bright face of a few months back.
“Stuart,” she began, quietly, “I wish to speak to you seriously. Do you intend to lead this kind of life always?”
“What kind of life, mother?”
“This dull, monotonous, farmerlike existence. Have you no aim—no ambition?”
“None,” Stuart answered, laconically.
His mother moved impatiently in her seat.
“Pray, be sensible, Stuart,” she said, sharply; “you were never like this before. It galls me, it wounds me to see you wasting your days down here, pottering about on the farms, and for what?”
“Some one must look after things, mother; my father cannot, and you have often complained to me of the bad management, so I have determined to relieve you of further anxiety.”
“Pshaw! Do I want my son to turn steward? I have to-day received a letter from Lady Bayliffe strongly recommending me a manager, and I have all but settled to engage him.”
“Then don’t do it,” promptly replied Stuart. “He is not wanted.”
“He is wanted! I shall not allow you, Stuart, to do this kind of work.”
“My dear mother, I am of age!”
Mrs. Crosbie was silent, and Stuart, looking up, saw the pain and perplexity on her face.
“Forgive me, mother,” he added, moving toward her. “I am very selfish. Tell me what you want me to do, and if it is in my power I will undertake it.”
“I want you to rise in the world; I want you to be famous, Stuart.”
“Fame is not to be bought, mother.”
“It is within your reach. Contest Chesterham at the next election. You will be returned with an immense majority. The rest will follow.”
“I have no brains for politics,” declared Stuart. “I cannot do it.”
“There is no such word as ‘cannot!’” returned Mrs. Crosbie, vigorously. “If I were in your place, Stuart, how differently I would act! You are wasting your life.”
Stuart walked back to the window.
“I will not give you a decided answer now, mother,” he said. “Give me two days to consider.”
“Willingly,” she agreed, “and weigh all things well. Remember, you will afford me the greatest happiness in life if you agree to this and to another wish.”
“To make you happy, mother, I would do much,” Stuart responded, raising her hand to his lips. “What is it?”
Mrs. Crosbie drew a long breath.
“That you will marry.”
“Marry!” repeated Stuart, dropping her hand, whilehis face grew white and his brow darkened. “That, mother, is impossible.”
“I have not spoken to you on this subject before, Stuart, though it has been one very near my heart. You have been troubled; but you are not my son if you have not pride sufficient to drown and wash away forever any trace of your trouble. It is not for a Crosbie to submit to insult and humiliation.”
“I submit to none!” retorted Stuart, in a quiet, clear voice.
“You have been deceived,” his mother declared, coldly and proudly; “by one who was not worthy even a second thought.”
“Mother!” he exclaimed, hurriedly, and then stopped. What could he say in defense of Margery? She was, indeed, all this. “Your wish is sudden,” he added, after a pause. “It comes to me quite unexpectedly; but I have only one answer to it—I shall never marry!”
Mrs. Crosbie compressed her lips and turned away.
“Just now you called yourself selfish,” she observed. “I think you were right.”
“Why should I marry, mother?” he cried, suddenly. “You know, or perhaps you can never know, what the past meant to me. I am not a vane to be turned by every wind. I have loved, and I shall not love again.”
“What has that to do with marriage?”
“I would not ask any woman to be a wife on such empty terms; it would be a sin. But it is not necessary. I would do anything, mother, in my power to please you; but this I cannot.”
“Are you my child?” asked his mother, quietly and coldly. “Can you waste your whole life, like a misanthrope, because a village coquette has laughed at and mocked you? There are good women’s hearts still in the world, women of our world, who can love and suffer as such creatures never can.”
“I will offer no woman my life without my love,” declared Stuart, firmly.
“What would you say if I were to tell you that there is one who would take it gladly, one who has watched and worked for you all these months in silence, and who, through everything, is steadfast and true as steel?”
Mrs. Crosbie’s hand fell on her son’s shoulder as she spoke. She felt it was her last card; it might win the game. Stuart looked into his mother’s eyes; a flush rose to his face.
“You mean,” he began.
“Your cousin, Vane,” she broke in.
“Vane!”
His mother’s hand slipped from its hold; but he did not move. He was in a very whirlwind of surprise, pain and doubt.
“You have not known? No; she hid her secret too well! There is a woman fit to be your wife—proud, loving, courageous, a companion to cheer, a helpmate to stimulate your ambition. Had you not been so blind, Stuart, you might have seen this. What do you say now?”
“I can say nothing,” he answered, still in the same low tones. “This has stunned me. You must let me think, mother; I have not the power to speak now.”
“Yes, think—and think well,” Mrs. Crosbie said gently. Something told her that she had won; Vane’s devotion had touched the right chord.
She watched her son move to the door in silence.
“We will speak of this again another time,” he said, with constraint.
A wave of compunction passed through Mrs. Crosbie’s mind when she was alone. Would Vane, after all, bring him happiness? She had tricked and deceived him. But this momentary feeling was soon lost in the glad thrill of ambition that stirred her breast. Stuart married, and in Parliament, she had nothing more to wish for.
In a maze of troubled thoughts Stuart strode down the wet paths. Vane loved him; and yet she had put her own feelings on one side and ministered tenderly, thoughtfully, kindly to him! What depths of womanly sweetness in such a sacrifice—what a generous, noble nature! His heart warmed with gratitude toward her, though it cooled again as he remembered that she loved him. What could he do—whither turn in this dilemma? Vane was dear to him as a friend, as a sister, but not as the woman he would make his wife. And to make any woman his wife now, when such sadness darkened hislife, was almost impossible. What must he do? Could he let her live on alone, with the sorrow he knew from experience to be so bitter wearing out her heart? Would it be a generous return for all she had done, for the noble tenderness with which she had tried to bring him happiness? No, no, a thousand times no! If he could no longer have joy, if gladness were gone forever, he had still the peaceful pleasure of bringing gladness to another’s heart. His mother was right—it was his duty to face the world, and Vane should be his wife.
Even while he thought thus, his brow contracted with pain, a spasm of undying regret shot through him, the dream of his first love in all its sweetness returned and enthralled him once more. It was impossible! He paced up and down under the wet, dripping trees, trying to calm the tumult in his breast, with a longing for solitude and peace one moment, and a piteous thought of Vane’s great love the next. It was a terrible struggle, and it lasted through the night hours, never ceasing till the dawn, when, pale and worn, yet with a steadfast look of determination about his mouth and in his handsome eyes, he conquered it. He was brave and strong—sorrow could not crush him; but Vane—poor, delicate Vane—she could not endure trouble; and so, if indeed his mother had spoken aright, he would go to Vane, and ask her to be his wife.
The gloomy weather in London did not tend to lessen Miss Charteris’ despondent mood. She was peevish, bored, discontented, longing to leave England and go to a warmer climate, yet feeling that she could not give up her desire and declare herself defeated. She was waiting only for a week or two to pass, and then she would go down once more to Crosbie Castle and make a final effort. This idea was occupying her mind as she sat one dull, wet afternoon gazing out into the dismal streets, with a gloomy look spoiling her pretty face. She heard the door open, but did not stir, imagining it to be her mother. The stillness that followed caused her to turn; and, looking around, she met Stuart’s eyes.
“Stuart!” she exclaimed, her face flushing. “You have given me quite a start! I did not know——”
“I have been watching you for the last two minutes,Vane; you were lost in thought. Whose memory were you honoring by such deep meditation?”
Stuart looked very handsome, and something in his manner thrilled her with joy.
“I was thinking of Crosbie,” she answered. “Come to the fire, Stuart; you must be frozen. And how is Aunt Constance—and why have you come? I am very glad to see you.”
Stuart stood silent, slowly removing his gloves; then he moved nearer to her side by the fire. Vane was looking lovely; the plaintive sadness of her face, which was tinged with a delicate flush, touched him. He had read it well in the first moment of his entrance, and traced, as he thought, the marks of her trouble.
“I have come to see you, Vane,” he told her quietly, “because I have something to ask you.”
Vane felt her heart beat wildly.
“Yes, Stuart,” she said, faintly.
“Vane, you must know my inmost heart—you were my confidante, my friend. I want you to continue to be my friend, the best and truest of companions—I want a helpmate, a counselor. I want you to be my wife.”
Vane stood silent, her head bent. She felt faint, and, now that success had come at last, she could not speak.
“I cannot offer you great love,” Stuart went on, taking her hand. “I will not deceive you, Vane—it is buried in the past; but I will give you affection, devotion—true and sincere devotion, if you will accept it. The gift is poor, Vane. Reject it if you will.”
“Reject it, Stuart!” murmured Vane, turning her luminous blue eyes on him. “No; I accept it, for I love you—I have loved you through it all, and I am happy at last!”
Stuart pressed his lips to hers; and the compact was sealed.