He entered the room and went to the fireplace in which a log was burning brightly, to guard against the too frequent treachery of an early summer evening, and flinging his hat on to a chair, passed his hand through his hair with a thoughtful yet restless smile.
"Stella!" he murmured. "Stella! That was wrong. A star should be fair and golden, all light and sunshine, while she—great Heaven! what eyes! It was surely the sweetest, loveliest face that a man ever looked upon. No wonder that coming upon it so suddenly—with my thoughts a hundred miles away, coming upon it suddenly as it shone up above me—that I should think it only a vision! If that face as I saw it could smile out from the Academy next Spring, what crowds of fools would gather round to gape and stare at it? If—yes, but who could do it? No one! No one! As well try and catch the sunlight on a brush and paint it on the canvas—as well try——" he broke off suddenly, his eye caught by the Venus Aphrodite smiling from the easel, and going across to it, stood and contemplated it.
"Venus with a pale pink face and meaningless blue eyes, with insipid yellow hair and simpering smile! Never more will Venus take that semblance for me. No, she will be as I saw her to-night, with dark silken hair, and sweeping lashes shading the dark brown eyes, in which one sees the soul peering from their depths. That is Venus, not this," and with a smile of derision he took up a brush and drew a dark, broad effacing line across the fair face.
"So departs forever all my former dreams of womanly loveliness. Loveliness! I have never seen it until to-night. Stella! A star! Yes, she is rightly named, after all. She shone down on me like a star, and I—great Heaven!—was like one bewitched! While she—she made a laughing-stock of me. Compared me with the nag, and treated me like a school-boy too big to be whipped but not too large to be laughed at.
"By Jove it is not a thing to be proud of; called to task by a girl—a little slip of a girl not yet a woman! and yet I would nothave missed that laugh and the light scorn of those dark eyes, though they lighted up at my expense. Stella——"
There was a knock at the door, and his valet, Oliver, entered.
Lord Leycester stared at him a moment abstractedly, then roused himself from his reverie.
"What is it, Oliver?"
"You sent for me, my lord."
"Oh, yes! I had forgotten. I will wash and get into my other coat."
Oliver passed noiselessly into the other room and assisted his master to change the velvet smoking-jacket for the dress coat, brushed the thick, short-cut chestnut hair into order, and opened the door.
"Where are they all?" he asked. "Are any of them in the smoking-room?"
"Yes, my lord, Lord Barton and Captain Halliday; the Marquis of Sandford and Sir William are in the billiard-room."
Lord Leycester nodded, and went down the stairs across the hall; a servant drew a curtain aside and opened a door, and Lord Leycester entered a small ante-room, one side of which opened into a long-stretching fernery, from which came the soft trip trip of fountains, and the breath which filled the whole atmosphere with a tropical perfume.
A couple of footmen in gorgeous livery were standing beside a double curtain, and at a sign from Lord Leycester they drew it apart. Lord Leycester passed through and down a small corridor lined with statuary, at the end of which was another curtain. No passage, or door, or ante-room but was thus masked, to shut out the two things which the earl held as abominations—draught and noise.
With the opening of these curtains the large saloon was revealed like the scene on the stage of a theater. It was a magnificent room in keeping with the rest of the place, richly but not gorgeously decorated, and lighted by wax candles shining through faintly hued globes. At one end stood a grand piano in white and ormolu, and a lady was playing and singing, while others were standing round with tea-cups in their hands. Near the fireplace was a table, upon which stood a silver tea equipage, with which the countess was busied.
Lady Wyndward was still in her prime, notwithstanding that Lord Leycester was twenty-three; she had been married at eighteen, and was now in the perfection of matronly beauty; one had only to glance at her to learn from whence Leycester had got his strange beauty. Near her stood a tall, thin gentleman with proud, haughty, clean-cut face, and iron gray hair, worn rather long and brushed back from a white, lofty brow. It was the earl. His dark piercing eyes were bent upon the ground as he stood listening to the music, but he saw Leycester enter, and raised his head as a slight frown crossed his face. Lady Wyndward saw the frown and sought the cause, but her face showed no signs of surprise or displeasure. It was calm and impassive at all times, as if its owner disdained the weakness of ordinarymortals. Leycester paused a moment, taking in the scene; then he crossed the room, and went up to the table.
Lady Wyndward looked up with her serene, imperial smile.
"Will you have some tea, Leycester?"
"Thanks," he said.
She gave him his cup, and as he took it a young man left the group at the piano, and came up to him laughing.
"Where have you been, Leycester?" he asked, putting his hand on the broad shoulder. It was Lord Charles Guildford, Leycester's most intimate friend.
Between these two existed an affection which was almost, say rather more than fraternal. They had been together at Eton, where Leycester, the great, stalwart lad, had fought the slight frail boy's battles; they had lived in the same rooms at Oxford, had been comrades in all the wild escapades which made their term at college a notorious one, and they were inseparable. Leycester had grown from a tall lad into a stalwart man; Lord Charles—or Charlie, as he was called—had fulfilled the promise of his frail boyhood, and developed into a slight, thin, fair-haired youth, with the indolent grace which sometimes accompanies weakness, and the gentle nature of a woman.
Leycester turned to him with a smile, and the earl looked up to hear the answer; the countess busied herself with the teapot, as if she were not listening as intently.
"I went for a galop, Charlie," said Leycester. "You fellows were half asleep in the smoking-room, and I had listened to Barton's Indian story for the hundredth time, and it got rather slow; then I remembered that the chestnut had been eating his head off for the last five weeks, and thought I would give him a turn."
The earl frowned and turned away; Lord Charles laughed.
"Pretty behavior!" he exclaimed; "and here were we hunting all over the place for you."
"Why didn't you come into the drawing-room to us, Lord Leycester?" said a beautiful girl who was sitting near; "we should not have bored you with any Indian stories."
"But, you see, I should have bored you, Lady Constance," he said.
The girl smiled up into his face.
"Perhaps you would," she said. "You are more considerate than I thought."
"I never venture into the ladies' sanctum after dinner till the tea is announced," he retorted. "I have an idea, shared by my sex generally, that it is not safe—that, in short, you are too ferocious."
"And you prefer riding about the country till we quiet down. Are we quiet now, or do we look ferocious?"
And she smiled up at him from behind her fan with a plain invitation.
He sat down beside her and began to talk the infinite nothings which came to his lips so easily, the trivial small change which his musical voice and rare smile seemed to transform to true coin; but while he talked his thoughts were wandering to thedark-haired girl who had shone down upon him from her green and fragrant bower in the lane, and he found himself picturing her in the little room at the cottage in the meadows, amongst the curious litter of the old artist's studio; and gradually his answers grew disjointed and inconsequential.
He got up presently, got up abruptly, and wandered across the room stopping to exchange a word or two with one and the other, his tall, graceful figure towering above those of the other men, his handsome head thrown back musingly. Many an admiring and wistful glance followed him from among the women, and not a few would have exerted all their fascinations to keep him by their side, had they not known by experience, that when he was in his present mood he was deaf to the voice and smile of the charmer, charmed she never so wisely.
Thecountess watched him from her table, and, looking up at the earl, murmured:
"Leycester is in one of his restless moods to-night."
"Yes," he said, with a sigh. "What is it?—do you know?"
"No," she said, calmly. "He was all right at dinner."
"Why can he not behave like other people?" said the earl, sadly. "Can you fancy any other man leaving his father's guests and riding about the country?"
"Leycester never was like any other," she said, not without a touch of pride. "He is as he is, and nothing can alter him."
The earl was silent for a moment, his long white hands folded behind his back, his dark eyes fixed on the floor.
"Has he told you of his last escapade—his last mad freak?" he said, in a low voice.
"Yes," she answered, calmly. "He has never concealed anything from me."
"It is nearly twenty thousand pounds. Even Wyndward must feel such strains as this."
The countess raised her head.
"I know," she said; "he has told me everything. It was a point of honor. I did not quite understand; horse-racing is a pastime with which I have little sympathy, though we have always owned race-horses. It was a point of honor. Some one had been taking advantage of his name to act dishonestly, and he withdrew the horse. He could take no other course," he says.
The earl sighed.
"No doubt. But it is mad folly, and there is no end to it—if he could see some limit! Why does he not marry?"
The countess glanced at the handsome face.
"He will not marry until he meets with some one he can love."
The earl looked round the room at the many beautiful graceful women who adorned it, and sighed impatiently.
"He is hard to please."
"He is," assented the countess, with the same touch of pride.
"It is time he married and settled," continued the earl. "Formost men a year or two would not matter, but with him—I do not like to think that the title rests only on our two lives, as mine must be near its close."
"Algernon!"
"And on his, which is risked daily."
He stooped, silenced by the sudden look of pain in the beautiful eyes.
"Why do you not speak to him? He will do anything for you."
The countess smiled.
"Everything but that. No, I cannot speak to him; it would be useless. I do not wish to weaken my influence."
"Get Lilian to speak to him," he said.
The countess sighed.
"Lilian!" she murmured; "she would not do it. She thinks him something more than human, and that no woman in the world can be good enough to—to hold his stirrup or fill his wineglass."
The earl frowned.
"Between you," he said, "you have spoiled him."
The countess shook her head gently.
"No, we have not. He is now as a man what he was as a boy. Do you remember what Nelson said, when Hardy asked him why he did nothing while one of their ships was fighting two of the enemy's? 'I am doing all I can—watching.'"
Before the earl could reply, a cabinet minister came up and engaged him in conversation, and the countess rose and crossed the room to where an elderly lady sat with a portfolio of engravings before her. It was the Dowager Countess of Longford, a tiny little woman with a thin wrinkled face, and keen but kindly gray eyes that lit up her white face and made it remarkable.
She was dressed as simply as a quakeress, excepting for some old and priceless lace which softened the rigor of her plainly made gray satin dress. She looked up as the younger countess approached, and made room for her on the sofa.
Lady Wyndward sat down in silence, which was unbroken for a minute. Then the old countess said without looking at her—
"The boy grows handsomer every day, Ethel!"
Lady Wyndward sighed.
"What is the matter?" asked the other, with a keen smile. "What has he been doing now, burning a church or running off with a Lord Mayor's daughter?"
"He has not been doing anything very much," answered Lady Wyndward. "Except losing some money."
The old countess raised her eyebrows lightly.
"That does not matter."
"Not much. No, he has not been doing anything; I wish he would. That's what is the matter."
"I understand," retorted the other. "He is most dangerous when quiet; you are always afraid he is preparing for some piece of madness beyond the ordinary. Well, my dear, if youwill give the world such a creature you must put up with the consequences—be prepared to pay the penalty. I should be quite content to do so."
"Ah, you don't know," said the countess, with a smile that had something pathetic in it.
"Yes, I do," retorted the old lady, curtly. "And I envy you still. I love the boy, Ethel. There is not a woman of us in the room, from the youngest to the oldest, who does not love him. You cannot expect one whom the gods have so favored to behave like an ordinary mortal."
"Why not? It is just what Algernon has said to me."
"I thought as much. I was watching you two. Of all things, beware of this: don't let Algernon interfere with him. It is a strange thing to say, but his father is the worst man in all the world to attempt to put the bridle on Leycester. It is we women who alone have the power to guide him."
"That is where my fear lies," said the countess. "It is the thought of what may happen in that quarter which fills me with daily dread."
"There is only one safeguard—marry him," remarked the old countess, but with a comical smile.
The countess sighed.
"Again, that is what Algernon says. You both say it as calmly as if you told me to give him a cup of tea."
The old countess was silent for a moment, then she said—
"Where is Lenore Beauchamp?"
Lady Wyndward was almost guilty of a start.
"You read my thoughts," she said.
The old lady nodded.
"She is the only woman who can really touch him. Ask her here; let them be together. She will be glad to come."
"I am not sure, Lenore is proud; she might guess why we wanted her."
The old lady drew up her head as haughtily as if she was Leycester's mother.
"And then? Is there any girl among them who would not jump at the chance? I don't mean because he is the heir to Wyndward; he is enough in himself without that."
"It is well you are not his mother; you would have made him what he is not now—vain."
The old lady sighed.
"I know it. But you are wrong about Lenore. If she ever cared for anyone, it is Leycester. She is proud, but love levels pride, and she may put forth her power. If she should, not even Leycester can withstand her. Ask her down, and leave the rest to her—and Providence."
The countess sat for a moment in silence, then she put her hand upon the thin, wrinkled hand, unadorned by a single gem.
"I have always you to come to. I think you understand him better than his own mother."
"No," said the old lady, "but I love him nearly as well."
"I will write at once," said the countess. And she rose and crossed to the ante-room.
There was a writing-table amongst the furniture; the servants saw her go to it, and noiselessly left the room.
She took up the pen and thought a moment, then wrote:
"My Dear Lenore,—Will you come down and spend a week with us? We have a few friends with us, but we are not complete without you. Do not say 'No,' but come. I do not name any day, so that you may be free to fix your own.""Yours affectionately,"Ethel Wyndward.""P.S.—Leycester is with us."
"My Dear Lenore,—Will you come down and spend a week with us? We have a few friends with us, but we are not complete without you. Do not say 'No,' but come. I do not name any day, so that you may be free to fix your own."
"Yours affectionately,"Ethel Wyndward."
"P.S.—Leycester is with us."
As she wrote the signature she heard a step behind her, which she knew was Leycester's.
He stopped short as he saw her, and coming up to her, put his hand on her white shoulder.
"Writing, mother?" he said.
The countess folded her letter.
"Yes. Where are you going?"
He pointed to the Louis Quatorze clock that ticked solemnly on a bracket.
"Ten o'clock, mother," he said, with a smile.
"Oh, yes; I see," she assented.
He stood for a moment looking down at her with all a young man's filial pride in a mother's beauty, and, bending down, touched her cheek with his lips, then passed out.
The countess looked after him with softened eyes.
"Who could help loving him?" she murmured.
Humming an air from the last opera bouffe, he ran lightly up the staircase and passed along the corridor, but as he reached the further end and knocked at a door, the light air died upon his lips.
A low voice murmured, "Come in;" and opening the door gently, he entered.
The room was a small one, and luxuriously furnished in a rather strange style. On the first entrance, a stranger would have been struck by the soft and delicate tints which pervaded throughout. There was not a brilliant color in the apartment; the carpet and hangings, the furniture, the pictures themselves were all of a reposeful tint, which could not tire the eye or weary the sense. The carpet was a thick Persian rug, which deadened the sound of footsteps, costly hangings of a cool and restful gray covered the walls, save at intervals; the fire itself was screened by a semi-transparent screen, and the only light in the room came from a lamp which was suspended by a silver chain from the ceiling, and was covered by a thick shade.
On a couch placed by the window reclined a young girl. As Leycester entered, she half rose and turned a pale, but beautiful face toward him with an expectant smile.
Beautiful is a word that is easily written, and written so often that its significance has got dulled: it fails to convey any idea of the ethereal loveliness of Lilian Wyndward. Had Mr. Etheridge painted a face with Leycester's eyes, and given it the delicately-cut lips and spiritual expression of one of Raphael'sangels, it would have been a fair representation of Lilian Wyndward.
"It is you Leycester," she said. "I knew you would come," and she pointed to a small traveling clock that stood on a table near her.
He went up to her and kissed her, and she put her arms round his neck and laid her face against his, her eyes looking into his with rapt devotion.
"How hot you are, dear. Is it hot down there?"
"Awfully," he said, seating himself beside her, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. "There is not a breath of air moving, and if there were the governor would take care to shut it out. This room is deliriously cool, Lil; it is a treat to come into it."
"Is it?" she said, with a glad eagerness. "You really think it is. I like to hear you say that."
"Yes, it's the prettiest room in the house. What is it smells so sweet?"
"Lilac," she said, and she pointed to a bunch on the table.
He started slightly, and, stretching out his hand, took a spray out of the epergne.
"I thought it was lilac," he said, quietly. "I noticed it when I came in."
She took the spray from him and fastened it in his coat, against which her hands looked white as the driven snow.
"You shall take it to your own room, Ley," she said. "You shall take them all."
"Not for worlds, Lil," he said. "This will do."
"And what are they doing?" she asked.
"The usual thing," he replied; "playing, singing, rubber at whist, and boring each other to death generally."
She smiled.
"And what have you been doing?"
"Assisting in the latter amusement," he answered, lightly.
"They told me you had gone out," she said.
He nodded.
"Yes, I took the chestnut for a spin."
She laughed, a soft, hushed laugh.
"And left them the first night! That was like you, Ley!"
"What was the use of staying? It was wrong, I suppose. I am unfortunate! Yes, I went for a ride."
"It was a lovely evening. I watched the sunset," and she looked at the window. "If I had known you were going, I would have looked for you. I like to see you riding that big chestnut. You went across the meadows?"
"Yes," he said, "across the meadows."
He was silent for a minute, then he said, suddenly, "Lil, I have seen a vision to-night."
"A vision, Ley!" she repeated, looking up at him eagerly.
He nodded.
"A vision. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen, excepting you, Lil!"
She made no protest, but smiled.
"Ley! A girl! What was she like?"
"I can't tell you," he said. "I came upon her in a moment. The chestnut saw her first, and was human enough to be struck motionless. I was struck too!"
"And you can't tell me what she was like?"
"No; if I were to describe her with usual phrases you would smile. You women always do. You can't help being a woman, Lil!"
"Was she dark or fair?"
"Dark," he replied. "I did not know it at the time; it was impossible to think whether she was dark or fair while one looked at her, but I remembered afterward. Lil, you remember that picture I sent you from Paris—the picture of the girl with the dark eyes and long, silky hair—not black, but brown in the sunlight, with long lashes shading the eyes, and the lips curved in a half-serious smile as she looks down at the dog fawning at her feet?"
"I remember, Ley. Was she like that?"
"Yes; only alive. Fancy the girl in the picture alive. Fancy yourself the dog she was smiling at! I was the dog!"
"Ley!"
"And she spoke as well as smiled. You can imagine the voice that girl in the picture would have. Soft and musical, but clear as a bell and full of a subtle kind of witchery, half serious, half mockery. It was the voice of the girl I met in the lane this evening."
"Ley! Ley, you have come to make poetry to me to-night. I am very grateful."
"Poetry! It is truth. But you are right; such a face, such a voice would make a poet of the hardest man that lives."
"And you are not hard, Ley! But the girl! Who is she? What is her name?"
"Her name"—he hesitated a moment, and his voice unconsciously grew wonderfully musical—"is Stella—Stella."
"Stella!" she repeated. "It is a beautiful name."
"Is it not? Stella!"
"And she is—who?"
"The niece of old Etheridge, the artist, at the cottage."
Lilian's eyes opened wide.
"Really, Ley, I must see her!"
His face flushed, and he looked at her.
She caught the eager look, and her own paled suddenly.
"No," she said, gravely. "I will not see her. Ley—you will forget her by to-morrow."
He smiled.
"You will forget her by to-morrow. Ley, let me look at you!"
He turned his face to her, and she looked straight into his eyes, then she put her arm round his neck.
"Oh, Ley! has it come at last?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, not angrily, but with a touch of grimness, as if he were afraid of the answer.
"Ley," she said, "you must not see her again. Ley, you will go to-morrow, will you not?"
"Why?" he asked. "It is not like you to send me away, Lil."
"No, but I do. I who look forward to seeing you as the sweetest thing in my life—I who would rather have you near me than be—other than I am—I who lie and wait and listen for your footsteps—I send you, Ley. Think! You must go, Ley. Go at once, for your own sake and for hers."
He rose, and smiled down at her.
"For my sake, perhaps, but not for hers. You foolish girl, do you think all your sex is as partial as you are? You did not see her as I saw her to-night—did not hear her ready wit at my expense. For her sake! You make me smile, Lil."
"I cannot smile, Ley. You will not stay! What good can come of it? I know you so well. You will not be content until you have seen your Venus again, and then—ah, Ley, what can she do but love you, and love you but to lose you? Ley, all that has gone before has made me smile, because with them I knew you were heart-whole; I could look into your eyes and see the light of laughter in their depths; but not this time, Ley—not this time. You must go. Promise me!"
His face went pale under her gaze, and the defiant look, which so rarely shone out in her presence, came into his eyes, and about his lips.
"I cannot promise, Lil," he said.
For love lay lurking in the clouds and mist,I heard him singing sweetly on the mountain side:"'Tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am I—In every quiet valley, on every mountain side!"
Inthe clear, bird-like tones of Stella's voice the musical words floated from the open window of her room above and through the open French windows of the old man's studio.
With a little start he turned his head away from the easel and looked toward the door.
Stella had only been in the house three days, but he had already learned something of her habits, and knew that when he heard the beautiful voice singing at the window in the early morning, he might expect to see the owner of the voice enter shortly.
His expectation was not doomed to disappointment. The voice sounded on the stairs, in the hall, and a moment afterward the door opened and Stella stood looking smilingly into the room.
If he had thought her beautiful and winsome on that first evening of her coming, when she was weary with anxiety and traveling, and dressed in dust-stained clothes, be sure he thought her more beautiful still, now that the light heart felt free to reveal itself, and the shabby dress had given place to the white and simple but still graceful morning gown.
Mrs. Penfold had worked hard during those three days, and with the aid of the Dulverfield milliner had succeeded in filling a small wardrobe for "her young lady," as she had learned to call her. The old artist, ignorant of the power of women insuch direction, had watched the transformation with inward amazement and delight, and was never tired of hearing about dresses, and hats, jackets, and capes, and was rather disappointed than otherwise when he found that the grand transformation had been effected at a very small cost.
Bright and beautiful she stood, like a vision of youth and health in the doorway, her dark eyes laughingly contemplating the old man's gentle stare of wonder,—the look which always came into his eyes when she appeared.
"Did I disturb you by my piping, uncle?" she asked as she kissed him.
"Oh no, my dear," he answered, "I like to hear you,—I like to hear you."
She leant against his shoulder, and looked at his work.
"How beautiful it is!" she murmured. "How quickly it grows. I heard you come down this morning, and I meant to get up, but I was so tired—lazy, wasn't I?"
"No, no!" he said, eagerly. "I am sorry I disturbed you. I came down as quietly as I could. I knew you would be tired after your dissipation. You must tell me all about it."
"Yes, come to breakfast and I will tell you."
"Must I?" he said, glancing at his picture reluctantly.
He had been in the habit of eating his breakfast by installments, painting while he ate a mouthful and drank his cup of coffee, but Stella insisted upon his changing what she called a very wicked habit.
"Yes, of course! See how nice it looks," and she drew him gently to the table and forced him into a chair.
The old man submitted with a sigh that was not altogether one of regret, and still humming she sat opposite the urn and began to fill the cups.
"And did you enjoy yourself?" he asked, gazing at her dreamily.
"Oh, very much; they were so kind. Mrs. Hamilton is the dearest old lady; and the doctor—what makes him smile so much, uncle?"
"I don't know. I think doctors generally do."
"Oh, very well. Well, he was very kind too, and so were the Miss Hamiltons. It was very nice indeed, and they took so much notice of me—asked me all sorts of questions. Sometimes I scarcely knew what to answer. I think they thought because I had been brought up in Italy, I ought to have spoken with a strong accent, and looked utterly different to themselves. I think they were a little disappointed, uncle."
"Oh," he said, "and who else was there?"
"Oh, the clergyman, Mr. Fielding—a very solemn gentleman indeed. He said he didn't see much of you, and hoped he should see me in church."
Mr. Etheridge rubbed his head and looked rather guilty.
"I expect that was a back-handed knock for me, Stella," he said rather ruefully. "You see I don't go to church often. I always mean to go, but I generally forget the time, or I wanderinto the fields, or up into the woods, and forget all about the church till it's too late."
"But that's very wicked, abominably so," said Stella, gravely, but with a twinkle in her dark eyes. "I must look after your morals as well as your meals, I see, uncle."
"Yes," he assented, meekly—"do, do."
"Well, then there was a Mr. Adelstone, a young gentleman from London. He was quite the lion of the evening. I think he was a nephew of Mr. Fielding's."
The old man nodded.
"Yes; and did you like him?"
Stella thought a moment, holding the cream-jug critically over the coffee-cup.
"Not much, uncle. It was very wrong, and very bad taste, I am afraid, for they all seemed to admire him immensely, and so did he himself."
Mr. Etheridge looked at her rather alarmed.
"I must say, Stella, you get too critical. I don't think we are quite used to it."
She laughed.
"I don't fancy Mr. Adelstone was at all conscious of adverse criticism; he seemed quite satisfied with everybody, himself in particular. He certainly was beautifully dressed, and he had the dearest little hands and feet in the world; and his hair was parted to a hair, and as smooth as a black-and-tan terrier's; so that he had some grounds for satisfaction."
"What did he do to offend you, Stella?" asked the old man, rather shrewdly.
She laughed again, and a little touch of color came into her face, but she answered quite frankly:
"He paid me compliments, uncle."
"That doesn't offend your sex generally, Stella."
"It offends me," said Stella, quickly. "I—I detest them! especially when the man who pays them does it with a self-satisfied smile which shows that he is thinking more of his own eloquence and gallantry than of the person he is flattering."
The old man looked at her.
"Will you oblige me by telling me your age again?" he said.
She laughed.
"Am I too wise, uncle? Well, never mind—I'll promise to be good and stupid, if you like. But you are not eating any breakfast; and you must not keep looking at that odious easel all the time, as if you were longing to get back to it. Did you ever see a jealous woman?"
"No, never."
"Well, if you don't want to, you must not confine all your attention to your work."
"I don't think there is much fear of that when you are near," he said, meekly.
She laughed, and jumped up to kiss him with delight.
"Now that was a splendid compliment, sir! You are improving rapidly—Mr. Adelstone himself couldn't have done it more neatly."
Scarcely had the words left her lips than the door opened.
"Mr. Adelstone," said Mrs. Penfold.
A young man, tall and dark, and faultlessly dressed, stood in the doorway, his hat in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other. He was undeniably good-looking, and as he stood with a smile upon his face, looked at his best. A severe critic might have found fault with his eyes, and said that they were a little too small and a little too near together, might also have added that they were rather shifty, and that there was something approaching the sinister in the curves of the thin lips; but he was undeniably good-looking, and notwithstanding his well cut clothes and spotless boots with their gray gaiters, his white hands with the choice selection of rings, there was an indication of power about him; no one could have suspected him of being a fool, or lacking the power of observation; for instance, as he stood now, smiling and waiting for a welcome, his dark eyes took in every detail of the room without appearing to leave Stella's face.
Mr. Etheridge looked up with the usual confused air with which he always received his rare visitors, but Stella held out her hand with a smile calm and self-possessed. There is a great deal of the woman even about a girl of nineteen.
"Good-morning, Mr. Adelstone," she said. "You have come just in time for a cup of coffee."
"I ought to apologize for intruding at such an unseasonable hour," he said, as he bent over her hand, "but your good housekeeper would not hear of my going without paying my respects. I am afraid I'm intruding."
"Not at all, not at all," murmured the artist. "Here's a chair," and he rose and cleared a chair of its litter by the simple process of sweeping it on to the floor.
Mr. Adelstone sat down.
"I hope you are not tired after your mild dissipation last night?" he asked of Stella.
She laughed.
"Not at all. I was telling uncle how nice it was. It was my first party in England, you know."
"Oh, you musn't call it a party," he said. "But I am very glad you enjoyed it."
"What beautiful flowers," said Stella, glancing at the bouquet.
He handed them to her.
"Will you be so kind as to accept them?" he said. "I heard you admire them in the conservatory last night and I brought them for you from the rectory green-house."
"For me?" exclaimed Stella, open-eyed. "Oh, I didn't know! I am so sorry you should have troubled. It was very kind. You must have robbed the poor plants terribly."
"They would be quite consoled if they could know for whom their blossoms were intended," he said, with a low bow.
Stella looked at him with a smile, and glanced half archly at her uncle.
"That was very nice," she said. "Poor flowers! it is a pitythey can't know! Can't you tell them? There is a language of flowers, you know!"
Mr. Adelstone smiled. He was not accustomed to have his compliments met with such ready wit, and was nonplussed for a moment, while his eyes dropped from her face with a little shifty look.
Mr. Etheridge broke the rather embarrassing pause.
"Put them in the vase for her, Mr. Adelstone, will you, please, and come and have some breakfast. You can't have had any."
He waited until Stella echoed the invitation, then drew up to the table.
Stella rang for cup and saucer and plates, and poured him out some coffee; and he plunged into small talk with the greatest ease, his keen eyes watching every graceful turn of Stella's arm, and glancing now and again at the beautiful face.
It was very good small talk, and amusing. Mr. Adelstone was one of those men who had seen everything. He talked of the London season that was just coming on, to Stella, who sat and listened, half amused, half puzzled, for London was an unknown land to her, and the string of names, noble and fashionable, which fell from his ready tongue, was entirely strange to her.
Then he talked of the coming Academy to Mr. Etheridge, and seemed to know all about the pictures that were going to be exhibited, and which ones would make a stir, and which would fail. Then he addressed himself to Stella again.
"You must pay London a visit, Miss Etheridge; there is no place like it the whole world through—not even Paris or Rome."
Stella smiled.
"It is not very likely that I shall see London for a long time. My uncle does not often go, although it is so near, do you?"
"No, no," he assented, "not often."
"Perhaps you are to be congratulated," said Mr. Adelstone. "With all its charms, I am glad to get away from it."
"You live there?" said Stella.
"Yes," he said, quietly, welcoming the faint look of interest in her eyes. "Yes; I live in chambers, as it is called, in one of the old law inns. I am a lawyer!"
Stella nodded.
"I know. You wear a long black gown and a wig."
He smiled.
"And address a jury; and do you say 'm'lud' instead of 'my lord,' as people in novels always make barristers say?"
"I don't know; perhaps I do," he answered, with a smile; "but I don't address a jury, or have an opportunity of calling a judge 'my lud,' or 'my lord,' often. Most of my work is done at my chambers. I am very glad to get down into the country for a holiday."
"Are you going to stay long?" asked Mr. Etheridge, with polite interest.
Mr. Adelstone paused a moment, and glanced at Stella before answering.
"I don't know," he said. "I meant going back to-day, but—I think I have changed my mind."
Stella was only half listening, but the words caused her to start. They were the same as those which Lord Leycester had uttered three nights ago.
Mr. Adelstone's keen eyes saw the start, and he made a mental note of it.
"Ah! it is beautiful weather," said Mr. Etheridge. "It would be a pity to leave Wyndward for London now."
"Yes: I shall be more than ever sorry to go now," said Mr. Adelstone, and his glance rested for a moment on Stella's face, but it was quite lost, for Stella's eyes were fixed on the scene beyond the window dreamily.
With almost a start she turned to him.
"Let me give you some more coffee!"
"No, thanks," he said; then, as Stella rose and rang the bell, he walked to the easel. "That will be a beautiful picture, Mr. Etheridge," he said, viewing it with a critical air.
"I don't know," said the artist, simply.
"You will exhibit it?"
"I never exhibit anything," was the quiet reply.
"No! I am surprised!" exclaimed the young man, but there was something in the quiet manner of the old man that stopped any further questions.
"No," said Mr. Etheridge; "why should I? I have"—and he smiled—"no ambition. Besides I am an old man, I have had my chance; let the young ones take theirs, I leave them room. You are fond of art?"
"Very," said Mr. Adelstone. "May I look round?"
The old man waved his hand, and took up his brush.
Jasper Adelstone wandered round the room, taking up the canvases and examining them; Stella stood at the window humming softly.
Suddenly she heard him utter an involuntary exclamation, and turning round saw that he had the portrait of Lord Leycester in his hand.
His face was turned toward her, and as she turned quickly, he was in time to catch a sinister frown of dislike, which rested for a moment on his face, but vanished as he raised his eyes and met hers.
"Lord Leycester," he said, with a smile and an uprising of the eyebrows. "A remarkable instance of an artist's power."
"What do you mean?" asked Stella, quietly, but with lowered eyes.
"I mean that it is a fair example of ideality. Mr. Etheridge has painted a likeness of Lord Leycester, and added an ideal poetry of his own."
"You mean that it is not like him?" she said.
Mr. Etheridge painted on, deaf to both of them.
"No," he said, looking at the picture with a cold smile. "It is like him, but it—honors him. It endows him with a poetry which he does not possess."
"You know him?" said Stella.
"Who does not?" he answered, and his thin lips curled with a smiling sneer.
A faint color came into Stella's face, and she raised her eyes for a moment.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Lord Leycester has made himself too famous—I was going to say infamous—"
A vivid crimson rushed to her face, and left it pale again the next instant.
"Do not," she said, then added quickly, "I mean do not forget that he is not here to defend himself."
He looked at her with a sinister scrutiny.
"I beg your pardon. I did not know he was a friend of yours," he said.
She raised her eyes and looked at him steadily.
"Lord Leycester is no friend of mine," she said, quietly.
"I am glad of it," he responded.
Stella's eyes darkened and deepened in a way peculiar to her, and her color came. It was true that Lord Leycester was no friend of hers, she had but seen and spoken with him by chance, and for a few moments; but who was this Mr. Adelstone that he should presume to be glad or sorry on her account?
He was quick to see that he had made a slip, and quick to recover himself.
"Pray forgive me if I have presumed too far upon our slight acquaintance, but I was only thinking at that moment that you had been so short a time in England as to be ignorant of people who are well known to us with whom they have lived, and that you would not know Lord Leycester's real character."
Stella inclined her head gravely. Something within her stirred her to take up arms in the absent man's defense; the one word "infamous," stuck and rankled in her mind.
"You said that Lord Leycester was 'infamous,'" she said, with a grave smile. "Surely that is too strong a word."
He thought a moment, his eyes resting on her face keenly.
"Perhaps, but I am not sure. I certainly used it as a play upon the word 'famous,' but I don't think even then that I did him an injustice. A man whose name is known all over the country—whose name is familiar as a household word—must be notorious either for good or evil, for wisdom or folly. Lord Leycester is not famous for virtue or wisdom. I cannot say any more."
Stella turned aside, a faint crimson dyeing her face, a strange thrill of pity, ay, and of impatience, at her heart. Why should he be so wicked, so mad and reckless—so notorious that even this self-satisfied young gentleman could safely moralize about him and warn her against making his acquaintance! "Oh, the pity of it—the pity of it!" as Shakespeare has it—that one with such a beautiful, god-look face, should be so bad.
There was a few moments' silence. Jasper Adelstone still stood with the picture in his hand, but glancing at Stella's face with covert watchfulness. For all his outward calmness, his heart was beating quickly. Stella's was the sort of beauty to make aman's heart beat quickly, or not at all; those who came to offer at her shrine would offer no half-measured oblations. As he watched her his heart beat wildly, and his small, bright eyes glittered. He had thought her beautiful at the party last night, where she had outshone all the other girls of the village as a star outshines a rushlight; but this morning her loveliness revealed itself in all its fresh purity, and he—Jasper Adelstone, the critical man of the world, the man whose opinion about women was looked upon by his companions in Lincoln's-inn and the bachelors' haunts at the West-end as worth having—felt his heart slipping from him. He put the picture down and approached her.
"You have no idea how beautiful and fresh the meadows are. Will you stroll down to the river with me?" he said, resolving to take her by surprise and capture her.
But he did not know Stella. She was only a school-girl—innocent and ignorant of the ways of men and the world; but, perhaps, because of that—because she had not learnt the usual hackneyed words of evasion—the ordinary elementary tactics of flirtation, she was not to be taken by surprise.
With a smile she turned her eyes upon him and shook her head.
"Thank you; no, that is impossible. I have all my household duties to perform, and that"—pointing to the sun with her white slim hand—"reminds me that it is time I set about them."
He took up his hat instantly, turning to hide the frown that knitted his brow and spoiled his face, and went up to the painter to say "good-morning."
Mr. Etheridge started and stared at him; he had quite forgotten his presence.
"Good-morning, good-morning—going? I beg your pardon. Won't you stop and take some tea with us?"
"Mr. Adelstone would like some dinner first, uncle," said Stella.
Then she gave him her hand.
"Good-morning," she said, "and thank you very much for the flowers."
He held her hand as long as he dared, then passed out.
Stella, perhaps unconsciously, gave a sigh of relief.
"Very nice young fellow, my dear," said Mr. Etheridge, without taking his eyes from the canvas. "Very clever, too. I remember him quite a little boy, and always said he would make his way. They say that he has done so. I am not surprised. Jasper——"
"Jasper!" said Stella. "What a horrible name."
"Eh? Horrible? I don't know—I don't know."
"But I do," said Stella, laughing. "Well, what were you going to say?"
"That Jasper Adelstone is the sort of man to insist upon having anything he sets his heart upon."
"I am glad to hear it," said Stella, as she opened the door, "for his sake; and I hope, also for his sake, that he won't set hismind upon the sun or the moon!" and with a laugh she ran away.
In the kitchen Mrs. Penford was awaiting her with unconcealed impatience. Upon the white scrubbed table stood the preparations for the making of pastry, an art which Stella, who had insisted upon making herself useful, had coaxed Mrs. Penfold into teaching her. At first that good woman had insisted that Stella should do nothing in the little household. She had announced with terrible gravity that such things weren't becoming to a young lady like Miss Stella, and that she had always done for Mr. Etheridge, and she always would; but before the second day had passed Stella had won the battle. As Mrs. Penfold said, there was no resisting the girl, who mingled willfulness with bewitching firmness and persuasion, and Mrs. Penfold had given in. "You'll cover yourself with flour, Miss Stella, and give your uncle the indigestion, miss, that you will," she remonstrated.
"But the flour will brush off, and uncle needn't eat pies and puddings for a little while; I'll eat them, I don't mind indigestion," Stella declared, and she made a delightfully piquant little apron, which completed Mrs. Penfold's conquest.
With a song upon her lips she burst into the kitchen and caught up the rolling pin.
"Am I not awfully late?" she exclaimed. "I was afraid you would have done it all before I came, but you wouldn't be so mean as to take an advantage, would you?"
Mrs. Penfold grunted.
"It's all nonsense, Miss Stella, there's no occasion for it."
Stella, with her hand in the flour, elevated the rolling-pin in heroic style.
"Mrs. Penfold!" she exclaimed, with the air of a princess, "the woman, be her station what it may, who cannot make a jam roley-poley or an apple tart is unworthy the name of an Englishwoman. Give me the jam; stop though, don't you think rhubarb would be very nice for a change?"
"I wish you'd go and play the organ, Miss Stella, and leave the rhubarb alone."
"Man cannot live on music," retorted Stella; "his soul craves for puddings. I wonder whether uncle's soul craves for jam or rhubarb. I think I'll go and ask him," and dropping the rolling-pin—which Mrs. Penfold succeeded in catching before it fell on the floor—she wiped her hand of a fifteenth part of the floor and ran into the studio.
"Uncle! I have come to lay before you the rival claims of rhubarb and strawberry jam. The one is sweet and luscious to the taste, but somewhat cloying; the other is fresh and young, but somewhat sour——"
"Good Heavens! What are you talking about?" exclaimed the bewildered painter, staring at her.
"Rhubarb or jam. Now, noble Roman, speak or die!" she exclaimed with upraised arm, her eyes dancing, her lips apart with rippling laughter.
Mr. Etheridge stared at her with all an artist's admiration in his eyes.
"Oh! the pudding," he said, then he suddenly stopped, and stared beyond her.
Stellaheard a step on the threshold of the window, and turning to follow the direction of his eyes, saw the stalwart form of Lord Leycester standing in the window.
He was dressed in a suit of brown velveteen, with tight-fitting breeches and stockings, and carried a whip in his hand with which he barred the entrance against a couple of colleys, a huge mastiff, and a Skye terrier, the last barking with furious indignation at being kept outside.
Even at the moment of surprise, Stella was conscious of a sudden reluctant thrill of admiration for the graceful figure in the close-fitting velvet, and the handsome face with its dark eyes regarding her with a grave, respectful intenseness.
"Back dogs!" he said. "Go back, Vix!" then as they drew back, the big ones throwing themselves down on the path with patient obedience, he came into the room.
"I beg your pardon," he said, standing before Stella, his head bent. "I thought Mr. Etheridge was alone, or I should not have entered in this rough fashion."
As he spoke in the lane, so now it was no meaningless excuse, but with a tone of most reverential respect and proud humility, Stella, girl-like, noticed that he did not even venture to hold out his hand, and certainly Mr. Adelstone's self-satisfied smile and assured manner rose in her mind to contrast with this stately, high-bred humility.
"Do not apologize; it does not matter," she said, conscious that her face had grown crimson and that her eyes were downcast.
"Does it not? I am forgiven," and he held out his hand.
Stella had crossed her hands behind her as he entered with an instinctive desire to hide her bare arms and the flour, now she put out her hand a few inches and held it up with a smile.
"I can't," she said.
He looked at the white hand—at the white arm so beautifully molded that a sculptor would have sighed over it in despair at his inability to imitate it, and he still held out his hand.
"I do not mind the flour," he said, not as Mr. Adelstone would have said it, but simply, naturally.
Stella gave him one small taper finger and he took it and held it for a moment, his eyes smiling into hers; then he relinquished it, with not a word of commonplace compliment, but in silence, and turned to Mr. Etheridge.
"It is quite hopeless to ask you to forgive me for interrupting you I know, so I won't ask," he said, and there was in his voice, Stella noticed, a frank candor that was almost boyish but full of respect. At once it seemed to intimate that he had known and honored the old man since he, Leycester, was a boy.
"How are you, my lord?" said Mr. Etheridge, giving him his long, thin hand, but still keeping a hold, as it were, on his beloved easel. "Taking the dogs for a walk? Are they safe? Take care, Stella!"
For Stella was kneeling down in the midst of them, making friends with the huge mastiff, much to the jealous disgust of the others, who were literally crowding and pushing round her.
Lord Leycester looked round and was silent for a moment; his eyes fixed on the kneeling girl rather than on the dogs. Then he said, suddenly:
"They are quite safe," and then he added, for Stella's behalf, "they are quite safe, Miss Etheridge."
Stella turned her face toward him.
"I am not afraid. I should as soon think of biting them as they would dream of biting me, wouldn't you?" and she drew the mastiffs great head on to her lap, where it lay with his big eyes looking up at her piteously, as he licked her hand.
"Great Heavens, what a herd of them!" said Mr. Etheridge, who loved dogs—on canvas.
"I ought not to have brought them," said Lord Leycester, "but they will be quite quiet, and will do no harm, I assure you."
"I don't care if they don't bite my niece," said Mr. Etheridge.
"There is no fear of that," he said, quietly, "or I should not allow her to go near them. Please go on with your work, or I shall think I am a nuisance."
Mr. Etheridge waved him to a chair.
"Won't you sit down?" he said.
Lord Leycester shook his head.
"I have come to ask you a favor," he said.
Mr. Etheridge nodded.
"What is it?"
Lord Leycester laughed his rare laugh.
"I am trembling in my shoes," he said. "My tongue cleaves to my mouth with nervousness——"
The old painter glanced round at him, and his face relaxed into a smile as his eyes rested on the bold, handsome face and easy grace of the speaker.
"Yes, you look excessively frightened," he said. "What is it?"
It was noticeable that, excepting in his first greeting, the old man had not given him the benefit of his title; he had known him when Leycester had been a boy, running in and out of the cottage, always followed by a pack of dogs, and generally doing some mischief.
"I want you to do a little scene for me."
The old man groaned and looked at his picture firmly.
"You know the glade in the woods opening out opposite the small island. I want you to paint it."
"I am sorry," began the old man.
Lord Leycester went on, interrupting him gently:
"Have you seen it lately?" he said, and as he spoke Stella came into the room enticing the mastiff after her, with a handfulof biscuits she had taken from the cheffonier. "It is very beautiful. It is the loveliest bit on the whole river. Right up from the stream it stretches green, with the young Spring leaves, to the sky above the hill. In the open space between the trees the primroses have made a golden carpet. I saw two kingfishers sailing up it as I stood and looked this morning, and as I looked I thought how well, how delightfully you would put it on canvas. Think! The bright green, the golden foreground, the early Summer sky to crown the whole, and reflected in the river running below."
Mr. Etheridge paused in his work and listened, and Stella, kneeling over the dog, listened too, with down-bent face, and wondered how the painter could stand so firm and obstinate.
To her the voice sounded like the sweetest music set to some poem. She saw the picture as he drew it, and in her heart the music of the words and voice found an echoing harmony.
Forgotten was the other man's warning; vain it would have been if he had repeated it at that moment. As well associate the darkness of a Winter's night with the bright gladness of a Summer's morning, as think of evil in connection with that noble face and musical voice.
Mr. Etheridge paused, but he shook his head.
"Very fine, very temptingly put; you are a master of words, Leycester; but I am immovable as a rock. Indeed your eloquence is wasted; it is not an impressionable man whom you address. I, James Etheridge, am on this picture. I am lost in my work, Lord Leycester."
"You will not do it?"
The old man smiled.
"I will not. To another man I should present an excuse, and mask my refusal. With you anything but a simple 'no' is of no avail."
Lord Leycester smiled and turned away.
"I am sorry," he said. "I meant it for a present to my sister Lilian."
Again Stella's eyes turned toward him. This man—infamous!
The old man put down his brush and turned upon him.
"Why didn't you say so at first?" he said.
Lord Leycester smiled.
"I wanted to see if you would do something for me—for myself," he said, with infinitenaivete.
"You want it for Lady Lilian," said Mr. Etheridge. "I will do it, of course."
"I shan't say thank you," said Lord Leycester. "I have nothing to thank you for. She shall do that. When will you come——"
"Next week—next month——"
"Now at once," said Lord Leycester, stretching out his hand with a peculiar gesture which struck Stella by its infinite grace.
The old man groaned.
"I thought so! I thought so! It would always be now at once with you."
"The Spring won't wait for you! The green of those leavesis changing now, very slowly, but surely, as we speak; in a week it will be gone, and with it half—all the beauty will go too. You will come now, will you not?"
Mr. Etheridge looked round with comical dismay, then he laughed.
Lord Leycester's laugh chimed in, and he turned to Stella with the air of a man who has conquered and needs no more words.
"You see," said Mr. Etheridge, "that is the way I am led, like a pig to market, will I or will I not! And the sketch will take me, how long?"
"A few hours!"
"And there will be all the things to drag down——"
Lord Leicester strode to an old-fashioned cabinet.
"I will carry them, and yourself into the bargain if you like."
Then, with his hand upon the cabinet, he stopped short and turned to Stella.
"I beg your pardon!—I am always sinning. I forgot that there was now a presiding spirit. I am so used to taking liberties with your uncle's belongings; I know where all his paraphernalia is so well, that——"
Stella rose and smiled at them.
"Your knowledge is deeper than my uncle's, then," she said. "Do not beg pardon of me."
"May I?" he said, and he opened the cabinet and took out the sketching-pad and color-box; then, with some difficulty, he disentangled a folding camp-stool from a mass of artistic litter in a corner, and then prepared to depart.
Mr. Etheridge watched these proceedings with a rueful countenance, but seeing that resistance had long passed out of his power, he said:
"Where is my hat, Stella? I must go, I suppose."
Lord Leycester opened the door for her, and she went out, followed by all the dogs, and fetched the soft felt hat, holding it by the very tips of her fingers.
With a sigh, Mr. Etheridge dropped it on his head.
"Give me some of the things," he said; but Lord Leycester declined.
"Not one," he said, laughing. And Mr. Etheridge, without another word, walked out.
Lord Leycester stood looking at Stella, a wistful eagerness in his eyes.
"I have gone so far," he said, "that I am emboldened to venture still further. Will you come too?"
Stella started, and an eager light flashed for a moment in her eyes; then she held out her hands and laughed.
"I have to make a pudding," she said.
He looked at the white arms, and then at her, with an intensified eagerness.
"If you knew how beautiful the morning is—how grand the river looks—you would let the pudding go."
Stella shook her head.
He inclined his head, too highly bred to persist.
"I am so sorry," he said, simply. "I am sorry now that I have gained my way. I thought that you would have come."
Stella stood silent, and, with something like a sigh, put down the things and held out her hand; but as he took the finger which she gave him, his face brightened, and a light came into his eyes.
"Are you still firm?"
"I would not desert the pudding for anything, my lord," said Stella, naively.
At the "my lord," a slight shade covered his face, but it went again instantly, as he said:
"Well, then, will you come when the inevitable pudding is made? There," he said, eagerly, and still holding her hand he drew her to the window and pointed with his whip, "there's the place! It is not far—just across the meadows, and through the first gate. Do you see it?"
"Yes," said Stella, gently withdrawing her hand.
"And you will come?" he asked, his eyes fixed on hers with their intent earnestness.
At that instant the word—the odious word—"infamous" rang in her ears, and her face paled. He noticed the sudden pallor, and his eyes grew dark with earnest questioning.
"I see," he said, quietly, "you will not come!"
What was it that moved her? With a sudden impulse she raised her eyes and looked at him steadily.
"Yes, I will come!" she said.
He inclined his head without a word, called to the dogs, and passed out.
Stella stood for a moment looking after them; then she went into the kitchen—not laughing nor singing, but with a strange gravity; a strange feeling had got possession of her.