Stuart preferred the “den;” the mystery of the previous night haunted him—he hated the thought of his luxurious bedroom. The earl led the way to the north wing of the house, and, going to the extreme end of a corridor, pushed open the door of an apartment that seemed to warrant his statement. It was three-cornered and quaint, and at the end branched off into another room, which led through a long French window to the grounds. Lord Court closed the door between the two rooms, and, pushing a chair to the fire, made his guest comfortable, handing him at the same time the batch of newspapers that had just arrived from London.
“Now you are settled,” he said, genially. “You look as if sleep would not come amiss; and, such being the case, I shall have no hesitation in leaving you. I must drive to Beverley Town, a good distance away; I have an important interview on hand with a troublesome tenant. I shall be back, however, before dinner. Are you sure you won’t be bored?”
Stuart replied in the negative, and, after seeing him cozily ensconced, Lord Court quitted the room, and made his way to the stables.
Left to himself, Stuart leaned back wearily, and gave way to thought. Once again the struggle raged between duty and desire. The love that he had thought was treasured only for his ideal lived for the woman who had deceived him, and swept away all memory of that other girl who, through all her trouble and sorrow, had soothed and helped him. There was everything to call him away, yet he felt he could not go until he had gazed once more on the delicate beauty that had seemed to him the personification of truth and sweetness in the summer that was gone. There was something altogether strange and incomprehensible in Margery’s marriage. The earl had casually mentioned the love that his dead sister had had for his wife, and Stuart would have followed up the remark in order to learn how it was that the village girl had became the Countess of Court; but the earl would talk of nothing but Sir Douglas Gerant and the wonderful discovery of his daughter.
Stuart took up his paper and forced himself to read; but the words seemed to run into each other, and his mind refused to be diverted from the mystery and perplexity that tormented it. As he lay back, wearily gazing into the glowing coals, he saw his duty clearly—he must leave the manor and put every barrier between Margery and himself. Vane had been true, faithful, devoted; to her he would return, and by earnestness and determination try to thrust out all remembrance of his false love from his heart, and forget that she even existed.
The struggle was ended now, he told himself; his path was clear and well defined. A sense of peace stole over him, the firelight flickered amid the fast-growing shadows. Stuart’s head drooped, his eyes closed, and his troubled spirit was soothed in slumber.
The afternoon grew into winter dusk; the fire had settled in a glowing mass of red embers, and not a sound disturbed the silence. Presently the door was opened gently, a white hand pushed aside the curtain, and Margery stood in the room. As her eyes fell on Stuart’s motionless form, her heart gave one great leap, then sunk again; she let her gaze rest with unspeakable sadness and tenderness on her lost lover’s face, then she turned to go. She moved away softly, and her hand was on the door, when a sound came from behind:
“Margery!”
She turned at once, to see Stuart with his hand outstretched.
“I am sorry,” she faltered, faintly. “I did not know you were here. I came to find my husband. I have disturbed you.”