Margery Daw by Bertha M. Clay — Read

The fortnight's stay of the Crosbie Castle party in town was extended to nearly six weeks; then Stuart escorted his mother home, and Vane Charteris remained in London. She was now thoroughly vexed and wearied. In spite of all her scheming, she was no nearer the goal. Indeed, she began almost to fear that Stuart would slip through her fingers altogether. She grew cross and worried, driving her mother almost frantic by her return to what she called ill-health. The suspense was really telling upon her, and with the birth of fear came strong determination. For her own pride's sake, she must win now; the bitter mortification, the humiliation of failure would be too terrible to bear. Had she not tacitly encouraged the idea that her marriage with the heir of Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park was a foregone conclusion? Already she had experienced the pleasure of seeing envy and disappointment gather on several of her rivals' faces. What barrier now remained? Stuart had, to all outward appearances, blotted the foolish episode of Margery Daw from his memory -- there was no other influence to combat hers. Why, then, did he not wake to the reality and complete her satisfaction? The delay was annoying, the suspense killing.

Stuart, little guessing the workings of Vane's mind, was recovering gradually from the wound that his heart had received. His reckless mood had gone now, and he was once more his calm, manly self; but the happy brightness of his nature was dulled, his light, laughter-loving ways had fled forever. His love for Margery had never died; he treasured it now as a beautiful dream, too great a happiness to be realized on earth. The first agony of surprise, doubt and grief over, he grew to judge her as he judged all woman now -- he thought of her, not as Margery, the pure, sweet, fresh young girl, but Margery the worldly, selfish, artificial coquette, of the same nature as the fashionable butterflies he met in town. His love for her was a thing apart from her memory; he deemed her unworthy of so great, so true a feeling; he had worshiped an ideal, and he kept that ideal still shrined in his heart.