Stuart Crosbie strode home to the castle, feeling that he had left behind him everything that made life happy. His love for Margery had been growing slowly, but surely, during the past three months that had elapsed since his return home. Her beauty bewitched and enthralled him, her freshness and sweetness linked him still more strongly, her daintiness and natural refinement appealed to him through all. He knew there would be trouble; that his mother would denounce his choice; but his mind was made up, his will, the will of which she was so proud herself, would be firm as iron. Let all the world rage, Margery should be his wife. Though she was nameless, a waif, a nobody, was she not a pure, sweet girl? Were these worldly considerations stains on her fair character? No; his heart was given, his mind made up, and nothing should move him. He raised his head proudly at this thought, a look of determination on his face. He was armed for the fray; but, while he gloried in his own strength, there came the thought of Margery’s weakness. Would she brave the storm as he could? Would not the bitterness of his mother’s anger wound and humiliate her? His face softened. He must shield his sweet love from the fierceness of the battle, tenderly protect her from the cruel wind of harshness and coldness that would most assuredly greet her at Crosbie Castle.
He chose the path through the paddock, and walked through the courtyard just as the tower clock chimed a quarter to eight. He had but a few minutes to change his tennis suit for his dinner garb, and he ran hurriedly from the coachhouse round to the lawn, determined to make a rush to his room. He dismissed his dog with a word, sped fleetly across the grounds till he reached the colonnade, and entered it, when suddenly, by some mischance, his foot slipped. He made a vain effort to save himself; his head swum; he was conscious of a sudden sharp twinge of pain, and, falling heavily, he knew no more.
Sir Douglas Gerant, after a lengthened chat with his cousin, mounted to his room, and dressed himself with due regard for the exigencies of polite society. The hard, cynical look that had rested on his face during his conversation with Vane Charteris, and in the political argument with the squire, had now vanished. He looked worn and ill as he walked slowly up and down his room; his eyes were sad; his head drooped. He seemed to be thinking deeply; at last, with a deep-drawn sigh, he seated himself at the table and wrote a letter. It was a summons to his lawyer, bidding him draw up a will, and fixing a day for him to come to Crosbie Castle. This done, Sir Douglas leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand for several minutes. The entrance of his valet, a man who had been his faithful servant and companion for years, roused him; and, bidding the valet dispatch the letter quickly, Sir Douglas left his room and descended the broad staircase. As he passed through the wide hall to the colonnade, its white pillars, gleaming against the background of green, tinged now with the ruddy gold of the setting sun, made a picture gratifying to his artistic eye. He sauntered on, determining to seek the grounds, when his eyes fell on Stuart’s prostrate form and pale face. In an instant he was kneeling beside the young man, and his clear voice rang out to the butler, who happened to be passing to the dining-room.
The man hurried up with some brandy, and Sir Douglas, with almost professional dexterity, lifted Stuart’s head and poured a few drops between the closed lips. He watched the color slowly return, and the eyes open, with a look of anxiety and tenderness on his face.
“That is right!” he said, gently, as he met Stuart’s gaze. “Are you hurt?”
“My arm!” murmured the young man, faintly, as the butler and Sir Douglas helped him to rise.
The baronet cast a keen glance at the right hand, hanging limp and swollen.
“You have had an ugly fall,” he said, briefly. “Your arm is broken—how did it happen?”