Let ev’ry eye negotiate for itself,
And trust no agent.”
Vane Charteris closed abruptly the book she was reading. She had commenced the quotation scarcely heeding what she read, but the sense dawned upon her as she reached the end. She colored faintly and looked up hurriedly, then gave a sigh of relief. Soothed by the musical monotony of her voice, Stuart had fallen into a doze, and the last words had had no meaning for him.
Vane opened her fan and sat back; her eyes were fixed on the lovely picture before her, but her thoughts were a tumult of anger, vexation and jealousy. To find her plans upset, her hope of power pass from her in the very moment of its birth, was a bitter mortification. Her short dream of ambition was broken, and for what? A mere country girl, whose eyes had bewitched Stuart, and whose charm had beguiled the passing hour. A feeling of self-annoyance succeeded the vexation. Vane bit her lip and tapped the ground with her foot. What had she done? Promised to befriend and assist the very woman who had pushed her aside. She was a fool, the proud girl told herself, not to have laughed Stuart’s tale of love to scorn. A few cold words might, perchance, have checked the ardor of his flame. Now it was too late; she had given her promise, and she must meet this woman. A deeper flush spread over Vane’s cheeks.
She shut her fan quickly, and looked curiously at her sleeping cousin. A thought had suddenly come into her mind. After all, she had not been so foolish, for was she not to meet Margery alone, with no other influence to work against hers? Could she not so manage as to rouse, say, if not the demon of jealousy, at least the spirit of pride? The girl had pride, Vane was compelled to admit—she had not forgotten Margery’s dignity that day in the courtyard, nor the graceful hauteur and ease with which she had moved away. Wordy warfare was not unknown to Miss Charteris, and it would be strange, indeed, if she could not plant some poisoned arrows in this presumptuous country girl’s breast.
Stuart could not write a line—that was fortunate; he would not be able to leave the castle for three or four days at the least—that also was fortunate. Vane felt her spirits rise again, and her hatred, fanned by piqued vanity and jealousy, grew stronger and stronger.
Some vague thought of trouble seemed to come at that moment to Stuart, for, on turning her head, she met his open eyes fixed with an anxious look on her.
“You have had a delightful sleep,” she said, rising, and moving toward him. “I am so glad!”
Stuart passed his left hand over his brow.
“How rude you must think me, Vane!” he murmured. “Your voice sent me to sleep; but I have not slumbered peacefully. My arm is a most annoying member.”