“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 for his 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.