“I feared you were suffering,” Vane answered, gently. “Stuart, why not go back to your room again? I am sure it will be wiser.”
“I don’t feel a Hercules, certainly,” confessed Stuart. “Who could think that four days would pull a fellow down so low?” He rose slowly from his chair, then added, suddenly. “But my mother! Vane! I must see her to-day.”
“I am going to propose something,” Vane said, slowly, as she drew his hand through her arm. “Let me speak to Aunt Constance. Believe me, I shall do it far better than you. You would probably be hurt at what she says, and then you would both be angry. Now, if I speak, Stuart, I, being an impartial person, shall be more calm and collected. I will plead your cause well, and—don’t think me vain—I think I shall succeed as I wish.”
Vane drew a quick breath. Stuart did not see the transitory gleam of triumph that flashed from her eyes.
“I am your friend; you will trust me?” she added, gently.
“Trust you? Yes, Vane; but it seems cowardly, unmanly, not to plead for myself.”
“Do you want to win your mother’s consent? Yes, of course you do? Then be assured, Stuart, that in my hands you will be more certain of it than if you act for yourself. See—here is your servant! Take my advice, rest and be happy, and all will go well.”
“Vane,” began Stuart; but she stopped him.
“Do as I ask you,” she pleaded; and with a smile of grateful thanks, Stuart retired to his room.
“All will go well—yes,” mused Vane, as she turned back to the colonnade. “I see the end clearly now. I must enlist Aunt Constance on my side, and the rest will follow in due course. Margery Daw, your chance of reigning at Crosbie Castle grows smaller and smaller.”