Vane sank back and buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Crosbie put her arms around her niece and drew her to her shoulder.
“Unwomanly, Vane?” she said, gently. “I honor you. This is as it should be.”
“Ah, you will keep my secret, Aunt Constance? He must not know—I would not let him know for untold gold. If we succeeded in satisfying this girl’s ambition or avarice—money generally heals such wounds as hers—we must remember he will be troubled perhaps for a time. I would not let him think my heart hungered for him; my pride would suffer—it would kill me.”
“He shall not know, I promise,” Mrs. Crosbie responded, stroking Vane’s soft hair. “But what shall we do—how break this off? It has taken me at a disadvantage; the very thought seems so monstrous, I cannot yet believe it.”
“I want you to humor Stuart,” Vane said. “Let him think that you may consent eventually; be proud and cold, but not unkind. The blow must come from her.”
“How?” inquired Mrs. Crosbie, for once roused from her calm demeanor.
“She must be convinced of the uselessness of her scheme. I am going to her now, sent as Stuart’s messenger. I think I shall pave the way, at any rate.”
Mrs. Crosbie clasped her niece’s hand for an instant, and then turned aside.
“It is very bitter to me, Vane, to have to stoop to deceit; but it is a deep wound to my pride, that Stuart, my son, should so far forget his dignity as to think of such a girl for his wife. You are prompted by the best and noblest feelings, Vane; but I cannot bring myself to submit to this degradation even for a minute. Stuart must know the truth—must know how I judge him in this.”
Vane rose hurriedly from her seat.