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 his life, 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.”