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 true a 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.”