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.