"I wandered down the valley in the eventide,The birds were singing sweetly in the summer air,The river glided murm'ring to the ocean wide,But still no peace was there;For love lay lurking in the ferny brake;I saw him lying with his bow beside;He cried, 'Sweetheart, we will never, never part!'By the river in the valley at the eventide."I fled to the mountains, to the clouds and mist,Where the eagle and the hawk share their solitary throne;'Here at least,' I cried, 'wicked love I can deride,He will leave me here at peace alone.'But 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.'"
"I wandered down the valley in the eventide,The birds were singing sweetly in the summer air,The river glided murm'ring to the ocean wide,But still no peace was there;For love lay lurking in the ferny brake;I saw him lying with his bow beside;He cried, 'Sweetheart, we will never, never part!'By the river in the valley at the eventide.
"I fled to the mountains, to the clouds and mist,Where the eagle and the hawk share their solitary throne;'Here at least,' I cried, 'wicked love I can deride,He will leave me here at peace alone.'But 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.'"
With his eyes fixed on hers, he sang as if every word were addressed to her; his voice was like a flute, mellow and clear, and musical, but it was not the voice but the words that seemed to sink into Stella's heart as she listened. It seemed to her as if he dared her to fly, to seek safety from him—his love, he seemed to say, would pursue her in every quiet valley, on every mountain side.
For a moment she forgot Lady Lenore, forgot everything; she felt helpless beneath the spell of those dark eyes, the musical voice; her head drooped, her eyes closed.
"'Tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am I, in every quiet valley, on every mountain side."
Was it to be so with her? Would his presence haunt her ever and everywhere?
With a start she turned from him and glided swiftly to the couch as if seeking protection.
Lady Lilian looked at her.
"You are tired," she said.
"I think I am," said Stella.
"Leycester take her away; I will not have her wearied, or she will not come again. You will come again, will you not?"
"Yes," said Stella, "I will come again."
Lord Leycester stood beside the open door, but Lilian still clung to her hand.
"Good-night," she said, and she put up her face.
Stella bent and kissed her.
"Good-night," she answered, and passed out.
They went down the stairs in silence, and reached the fernery; then he stopped short.
"Will you not wait a moment here?" he said.
Stella shook her head.
"It must be late," she said.
"A moment only," he said. "Let me feel that I have you to myself for a moment before you go—you have belonged to others until now."
"No, no," she said—"I must go."
And she moved on; but he put out his hand, and stopped her.
"Stella!"
She turned, and looked at him most piteously; but he saw only her loveliness before him like a flower.
"Stella," he repeated, and he drew her nearer, "I must speak—I must tell you—I love you!"
"I love you," he said.
Only three words, but only a woman can understand what those three words meant to Stella.
She was a girl—a mere child, as Lady Wyndward had said; never, save from her father's lips, had she heard those words before.
Even now she scarcely realized their full meaning. She only knew that his hand was upon her arm; that his eyes were fixed on hers with a passionate, pleading entreaty, combined with a masterful power which she felt unable to resist.
White and almost breathless she stood, not downcast, for her eyes felt drawn to his, all her maidenly nature roused and excited by this first declaration of a man's love.
"Stella, I love you!" he repeated, and his voice sounded like some low, subtle music, which rang through her ears even after the words had died from his lips.
Pale and trembling she looked at him, and put her hand to gently force his grasp from her arm.
"No, no!" she panted.
"But it is 'yes,'" he said, and he took her other hand and held her a close prisoner, looking into the depths of the dark, wondering, troubled eyes. "I love you, Stella."
"No," she repeated again, almost inaudibly. "It is impossible!"
"Impossible!" he echoed, and a faint smile flitted across theeager face—a smile that seemed to intensify the passion in his eyes. "It seems to me impossible not to love you. Stella, are you angry with me—offended? I have been too sudden, too rude and rough."
At his tender pleading her eyes drooped for the first time.
Too rough, too rude! He, who seemed to her the type of knightly chivalry and courtesy.
"I should have remembered how pure and delicate a flower my beautiful love was," he murmured. "I should have remembered that my love was a star, to be approached with reverence and awe, not taken by storm. I have been too presumptuous; but, oh, Stella, you do not know what such love as mine is! It is like a mountain torrent hard to stem; it sweeps all before it. That is my love for you, Stella. And now, what will you say to me?"
As he spoke he drew her still nearer to him; she could feel his breath stirring her hair, could almost hear the passionate beating of his heart.
What should she say to him? If she allowed her heart to speak she would hide her face upon his breast and whisper—"Take me." But, girl as she was, she had some idea of all that divided them; the very place in which they stood was eloquent of the difference between them; between him, the future lord of Wyndward, and she, the poor painter's niece.
"Will you not speak to me?" he murmured. "Have you not a single word for me? Stella, if you knew how I long to hear those beautiful lips answer me with the words I have spoken. Stella, I would give all I possess in the world to hear you say, 'I love you!'"
"No, no," she said, again, almost pantingly. "Do not ask me—do not say any more. I—I cannot bear it!"
His face flushed hotly for a moment, but he held her tightly, and his eyes searched hers for the truth.
"Does it pain you to hear that I love you?" he whispered. "Are you angry, sorry? Can you not love me, Stella? Oh, my darling!—let me call you my darling, mine, if only for once, for one short minute! See, you are mine, I hold you in both hands! Be mine for a short minute at least, while you answer me. Are you sorry? Can you not give me a little love in return for all the love I bear you? Cannot you, Stella?"
Panting now, and with the rich color coming and going on her face, she looks this way and that like some wild, timid animal seeking to escape.
"Do not press me, do not force me to speak," she almost moans. "Let me go now."
"No, by Heaven!" he says, almost fiercely. "You shall not, must not go, until you have answered me. Tell me, Stella, is it because I am nothing to you, and you do not like to tell me so? Ah! better the truth at once, hard as it may be to bear, than suspense. Tell me, Stella."
"It—it—is not that," she says, with drooping head.
"What is it, then?" he whispers, and he bends his head to catchher faintly whispered words, so that his lips almost touch her face.
From the drawing-room comes the sound of some one playing; it recalls all the grandeur of the scene, all the high mightiness of the house to which he belongs—of which he is so nearly the head, and it gives her strength.
Slowly she raises her head and looks at him.
There is infinite tenderness, infinite yearning, and suppressed maidenly passion in her eyes.
"It is not that," she says. "But—do you forget?"
"Forget!" he asks, patiently, gently, though his eyes are burning with impetuous eagerness.
"Do you forget who I am—who you are?" she says, faintly.
"I forget everything except that you are to me the most lovely and precious of creatures on God's earth," he says, passionately. Then, with a touch of his characteristic pride, "What need have I to remember anything else, Stella?"
"But I have," she said. "Oh yes, it is for me to remember. I cannot—I ought not to forget. It is for me to remember. I am only Stella Etheridge, an artist's niece, a nobody—an insignificant girl, and you—oh, Lord Leycester!"
"And I?" he says, as if ready to meet her fairly at every point.
"And you!"—she looks around—"you are a nobleman; will be the lord of all this beautiful place—of all that you were showing me the other day. You should not, ought not to tell me that—that—what you have told me."
He bent over her, and his hand closed on her arm with a masterful caressing touch.
"You mean that because I am what I am—that because I am rich I am to be made poor; because I have so much—too much, that the one thing on earth which would make the rest worth having is to be denied me."
He laughed almost fiercely.
"Better to be the poorest son of the soil than lord of many acres, if that were true, Stella. But it is not. I do not care whether I am rich or poor, noble or nameless—yes, I do! I am glad for your sake. I have never cared before. I have never realized it before, but I do now. I am glad now. Do you know why?"
She shook her head, her eyes downcast.
"Because I can lay them all at your feet," and as he speaks he bends on one knee beside her and draws her hand with trembling hands to his heart.
"See, Stella, I lay them at your feet. I say take them, if you think them worth—take them, and make them worth having; no, I say rather, share them with me? Set against your love, my darling, title, lands, wealth—are all worthless dross to me. Give me your love, Stella; I must, I will have it!" and he presses a passionate clinging kiss on her hand.
Frightened by his vehemence, Stella draws her hand away and shrinks back.
He rises and draws her to a seat, standing beside her calm and penitent.
"Forgive me, Stella! I frighten you! See, I will be quite gentle and quiet—only listen to me!"
"No, no," she murmurs, trembling, "I must not. Think—if—if—I said what you wish me to say, how could I meet the countess? What would they say to me? They would blame me for stealing your love."
"You have not stolen; no nun from a convent could have been more free from artifice than you, Stella. You have stolen nothing; it is I who havegiven—GIVENyou all."
She shook her head.
"It is the same," she murmured. "They would be so displeased. Oh, it cannot be."
"It cannot be?" he repeated, with a smile. "But it has already come to pass. Am I one to love and unlove in a breath, Stella? Look at me!"
She raises her eyes, and meets his eager, passionate gaze.
"Do I look like one to be swayed as a reed by any passing wind, gentle or rough? No, Stella, such love as I feel for you is not to be turned aside. Even if you were to tell me that you do not, cannot love me, my love would not die; it has taken root in my heart—it has become part of myself. There is not one hour since I saw you that I have not thought about you. Stella, you have come to me even in my sleep; I have dreamed that you whispered to me, 'I love you.' Let the dream be a true one. Oh, my life, my darling, let your heart speak, if it is to say that it loves me. See, Stella, you are all the world to me—do not rob me of happiness. You do not doubt my love?"
Doubt his love! That was not possible for her to do, since every word, every look, bore the impress of truth.
But still she would not yield. Even as he spoke, she fancied she could see the stern face of the earl looking at her with hard condemnation—could see the beautiful eyes of the countess looking down at her with cold displeasure and wondering, amazed scorn.
Footsteps were approaching, and she rose hurriedly, to fly from him if need be. But Lord Leycester was not a man to be turned aside. As she rose he took her arm gently, tenderly, with loving persuasion, and drew her near to him.
"Come with me," he said. "Do not leave me for a moment. See, the door is open—it is quite warm. We shall be alone here. Oh, my darling, do not leave me in suspense."
She was powerless to resist, and he led her on to the terrace outside.
Out into the dusky night, odorous with the breath of the flowers, and mystical in the dim light of the stars. A gentle summer, zephyr-like air stirred the trees; the sound of the water falling over the weir came like music up the hillside. A nightingale sang in the woods below them; all the night seemed full of slumberous passion and unspoken love.
"We are alone here, Stella," he murmured. "Now answerme. Listen once more, darling! I am not tired of telling you; I shall never tire of it. Listen! I love you—I love you!"
The stars grew dull and misty before her eyes, the charm of his voice, of his presence, was stealing over her; the passionate love which burnt in her heart for him was finding its way through cool prudence, her lips were tremulous. A sigh, long and deep, broke from them.
"I love you!" he replied, as if the words were a spell, as indeed they were—a spell not to be resisted. "Give me your answer, Stella. Come close to me. Whisper it! whisper 'I love you,' or send me away. But you will not do that; no, you shall not do that!" and forgetful of his vow to be gentle with her, he put his arm round her, drew her to him and—kissed her.
It was the first kiss. A thrill ran through her, the sky seemed to sink, the whole night to pause as if it were waiting. With a little shudder of exquisite pleasure, mingled with that subtle pain which ecstasy always brings in its train, she laid her head upon his breast, and hiding her eyes, murmured—
"I love you!"
If the words meant much to him—to him the man of the world before whom many a beautiful woman had been ready to bow with complaisant homage—if they meant much to him, how much more did they mean to her?
All her young maiden faith spoke in those three words. With them she surrendered her young, pure life, her unstained, unsullied heart to him. With a passion as intense as his own, she repaid him tenfold. For a moment he was silent, his eyes fixed on the stars, his whole being thrilling under the music—the joy of this simple avowal. Then he pressed her to him, and poured a shower of kisses upon her hair and upon her arm which lay across his breast.
"My darling, my darling!" he murmured. "Is it really true? Can I—dare I believe it: you love me? Oh, my darling, the whole world seems changed to me. You love me! See, Stella, it seems so wonderful that I cannot realize it. Let me see your eyes, I shall find the truth there."
She pressed still closer to him, but he raised her head gently—in his very touch was a caress, and it was as if his hands kissed her—and looked long into the rapt, upturned eyes. Then he bent his head slowly, and kissed her once—hungrily, clingingly.
Stella's eyes closed and her face paled under that passionate caress, then slowly and with a little sigh she raised her head and kissed him back again, kiss for kiss.
No word was spoken; side by side, with her head upon his breast, they stood in silence. For them Time had vanished, the whole world seemed to stand still.
Half amazed, with a dim wonder at this new delight which had entered her life, Stella watched the stars and listened to the music of the river. Something had happened to change her whole existence, it was as if the old Stella whom she knew so well had gone, and a new being, wonderfully blessed, wonderfully happy, had taken her place.
And as for him, for the man of the world, he too stoodamazed, overwhelmed by the new-born joy. If any one had told him that life held such a moment for him, he would not have believed it; he who had, as he thought, drained the cup of earthly pleasure to the dregs. His blood ran wildly through his veins, his heart beat madly.
"At last," he murmured; "this is love."
But suddenly the awakening came. With a start she looked up at him and strove to free herself, vainly, from his embrace.
"What have I done?" she whispered, with awe-subdued voice.
"Done!" he murmured, with a rapt smile. "Made one man happier than he ever dreamed it possible for mortal to be. That is all."
"Ah, no!" she said; "I have done wrong! I am afraid!—afraid!"
"Afraid of what? There is nothing to make you afraid. Can you speak of fear while you are in my arms—with your head on my breast? Lean back, my darling; now speak of fear."
"Yes, even now," she whispered. "Now—and I am so happy!" she broke off to herself, but he heard her. "So happy! Is it all a dream? Tell me."
He bent and kissed her.
"Is it a dream, do you think?" he answered.
The crimson dyed her face and neck, and her eyes drooped.
"And you are happy?" he said. "Think what I must be. For a man's love is deeper, more passionate than a woman's, Stella. Think what I must be!"
She sighed and looked up at him.
"But still it is wrong! I fear that. All the world will say that."
"All the world!" he echoed, with smiling scorn. "What have we to do with the world? We two stand outside, beyond it. Our world is love—is our two selves, my darling."
"All the world," she said. "Ah! what will they say?" and instinctively she glanced over her shoulder at the great house with the glow of light streaming from its many windows. "Even now—now they are wondering where you are, expecting, waiting for you. What would they say if they knew you were here with me—and—and all that has happened?"
His eyes darkened. He knew better than she, with all her fears, what they would say, and already he was braving himself to meet the storm, but he smiled to re-assure her.
"They will say that I am the most fortunate of men. They will say that the gods have lavished their good gifts with both hands—they have given me all the things that you make so much of, and the greatest of all things—the true sole love of a pure, beautiful angel."
"Oh, hush, hush!" she murmured.
"You are an angel to me," he said, simply. "I am not worthy to touch the hem of your dress! If I could but live my worthless, sinful life over again, for your sake, my darling, it should be purer and a little less unworthy of you."
"Oh, hush!" she murmured. "You unworthy of me! You are my king!"
Strong man as he was he was stirred and moved to the depths of his being at the simple words, eloquent of her absolute trust and devotion.
"My Stella," he murmured, "if you knew all; but see, my life is yours from henceforth. I place it in your hands, mold it as you will. It is yours henceforth."
She was looking at him, all her soul in her eyes, and at his words of passionate protestation, a sudden thrill ran through her, then as instantly, as if a sudden cold hand had come between them, she shivered.
"Mine," she breathed, fearfully, "until they snatch it from me."
Hestarted. The words had almost the solemnity of a prophesy.
"Who will dare?" he said; then he laughed. "My little, fearsome, trembling darling!" he murmured, "fear nothing or rather, tell me what you fear, and whom."
She glanced toward the windows.
"I fear them all!" she said, quietly and simply.
"My father?"
She inclined her head and let her head fall upon his shoulder.
"The countess, all of them. Lord Leycester——"
He put his hand upon her lips softly.
"What was that I heard?" he said, with tender reproach.
She looked up.
"Leycester," she whispered.
He nodded.
"Would to Heaven the name stood alone," he said, almost bitterly. "The barrier you fancy stands between us would vanish and fade away then. Never, even in sport, call me by my title again, my darling, or I shall hate it!"
She smiled.
"I shall never forget it," she said. "They will not let me. I am not Lady Lenore."
He started slightly, then looked down at her.
"Thank Heaven, no!" he said, with a smile.
Stella smiled almost sadly.
"She might forget; she is noble too. How beautiful she is!"
"Is she?" he said, smiling down at her. "To me there is only one beautiful face in the world, and—it is here," and he touched it with his finger—"here—my very own. But what is Lenore to us to-night, my darling? Why do you speak of her?"
"Because—shall I tell you?"
He nodded, looking down at her.
"Because they said—Lady Lilian said, that——" she stopped.
"Well?"
"That they wished you to marry her," she whispered.
He laughed, his short laugh.
"She might say the same of several young ladies," he said. "My mother is very anxious on the point. Yes, but wishes arenot horses, or one could probably be persuaded to mount and ride as their parents wish them—don't that sound wise and profound? I shall not ride to Lady Lenore; I have ridden to your feet, my darling!"
"And you will never ride away again," she murmured.
"Never," he said. "Here, by your side, I shall remain while life lasts!"
"While life lasts!" she repeated, as if the words were music. "I shall have you near me always. Ah, it sounds too beautiful! too beautiful!"
"But it will be true," he said.
The clock chimed the hour. Stella started.
"So late!" she said, with a little sigh. "I must go!" and she glanced at the windows with a little shudder. "If I could but steal away without seeing them—without being seen! I feel—" she paused, and the crimson covered her face and neck—"as if they had but to glance at me to know—to know what has happened," and she trembled.
"Are you so afraid?" he said. "Really so afraid? Well, why should they know?"
She looked up eagerly.
"Oh, no, do not let them know! Why should we tell them; it—it is like letting them share in our happiness; it is our secret, is it not?"
"Let us keep it," he said, quietly, musingly. "Why should they know, indeed! Let us keep the world outside, for a while at least. You and I alone in our love, my darling."
With his arm round her they went back to the fernery, and here she drew away from him, but not until he had taken another kiss.
"It is our real 'good night,' you know," he said; "the 'good-night' we shall say presently will mean nothing. This is our 'good-night.' Happy dreams, my angel, my star!"
Stella clung to him for a moment with a little reluctant sigh, then she looked up at him with a smile.
"I am afraid I am awfully tumbled and tangled," she said, putting her hand to her hair.
He smoothed the silken threads with his hand, and as he did so drew the rose from her hair.
"This is mine," he murmured, and he put it in his coat.
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "And this is how you keep our secret! Do you not think every eye would notice that great rose, and know whence it came?"
"Yes, yes, I see," he said. "After all, a woman is the one for a secret—the man is not in the field; but then it will be safe here," and he put the rose inside the breast of his coat.
Then trying to look as if nothing had happened, trying to look as if the whole world had not become changed for her, Stella sauntered into the drawing-room by his side.
And it really seemed as if no one had noticed their entrance. Stella felt inclined to congratulate herself, not taking into consideration the usages of high breeding, which enable so manypeople to look as if they were unaware of an entrance which they had been expecting for an hour since.
"No one seems to notice," she whispered behind her fan, but Lord Leycester smiled—he knew better.
She walked up the room, and Lord Leycester stopped before a picture and pointed to it; but he did not speak of the picture—instead, he murmured:
"Will you meet me by the stile by the river to-morrow evening, Stella?"
"Yes," she murmured.
"I will bring the boat, and we will row down the stream. Will you come at six o'clock?"
"Yes," she said again.
If he asked her to meet him on the banks of the Styx, she would have answered as obediently.
Then Mr. Etheridge approached with the countess, and before he could speak Lord Leycester took the bull by the horns, as it were.
"Lilian is delighted with the sketch," he said. "We left her filled with gratitude, did we not Miss Etheridge?"
Stella inclined her head. The large, serene eyes of the countess seemed to penetrate to the bottom of her heart and read her—their—secret already.
"I think we must be going, Stella; the fly has been waiting some time," said her uncle in his quiet fashion.
"So soon!" murmured the countess.
But Mr. Etheridge glanced at the clock with a smile, and Stella held out her hand.
As she did so, she felt rather than saw the graceful form of Lady Lenore coming toward them.
"Are you going, Miss Etheridge?" she said, her clear voice full of regret. "We have seen so little of you; and I meant to ask you so much about Italy. I am so sorry."
And as she spoke, she looked full into poor Stella's eyes.
For a moment Stella was silent and downcast, then she raised her eyes and held out her hand.
"It is late," she murmured. "Yes, we must go."
As she looked up, she met the gaze of the violet eyes, and almost started, for there seemed to be shining in them a significant smile of mocking scorn and contemptuous amusement; they seemed to say, quite plainly:
"You think that no one knows your secret. You think that you have triumphed, that you have won him. Poor simple child, poor fool. Wait and see!"
If ever eyes spoke, this is what Lady Lenore's seemed to say in that momentary glance, and as Stella turned aside, her face paled slightly.
"You must come and see us again, Miss Etheridge," said the countess, graciously.
"Lilian has extorted a solemn promise to that effect," said Leycester, as he shook hands with Mr. Etheridge.
Then he held out his hand to Stella, but in spite of prudence he could not part from her till the last moment.
"Let me take you to your carriage," he said, "and see that you are well wrapped up."
The countess's eyes grew cold, and she looked beyond them rather than at them, and Stella murmured something about trouble, but he laughed softly, and drawing her hand on his arm led her away.
All the room saw it, and a sort of thrill ran through them; it was an attention he paid only to such old and honored friends as the old countess and Lenore.
"Oh, why did you come?" whispered Stella, as they reached the hall. "The countess looked so angry."
He smiled.
"I could not help it. There, not a word more. Now let me wrap this round you;" and, of course, as he wrapped it round her, he managed to convey a caress in the touch of his hand.
"Remember, my darling," he murmured, almost dangerously loud, as he put her into the fly. "To-morrow at six."
Then he stood bareheaded, and the last Stella saw was the light of tender, passionate love burning in his dark eyes.
She sank back in the furthermost corner of the fly in silent, rapt reflection. Was it all a dream? Was it only a trick of fancy, or did she feel his passionate kisses on her lips and face entangled in her hair. Had she really heard Lord Leycester Wyndward declare that he loved her?
"Are you asleep, Stella?" said her uncle, and she started.
"No, not asleep, dear," she said. "But—but tired and so happy!" The word slipped out before she was aware of it.
But the unsuspecting recluse did not notice the thrill of joy in the tone of her reply.
"Ah, yes, just so, I daresay. It was something new and strange to you. It is a beautiful place. By the way, what do you think of Lady Lenore?"
Stella started.
"Oh, she is very beautiful, and as wonderful as you said, dear," she murmured.
"Yes, isn't she. She will make a grand countess, will she not?"
"What!" said Stella.
He smiled.
"Wonderful creatures women are, to be sure. For the life of me I could not tell in exact words how the countess managed to give me the impression, but she did give it me, and unmistakably."
"What impression!" said Stella.
He laughed.
"That matters were settled between Lord Leycester and Lady Lenore, and that they were to be married. They will make a fine match, will they not?"
"Yes—no—I mean yes," said Stella, and a happy smile came into her eyes as she leant back.
No, it was not Lady Lenore he was going to marry—not the great beauty with the golden hair and violet eyes, but a little mere nobody, called Stella Etheridge. She leant back and huggedher secret to her bosom and caressed it. The fly trundled along after the manner of flys, and stopped at last at the white gate in the lane.
Mr. Etheridge got out and held his hand for Stella, and she leapt out. As she did so, she uttered a slight cry, for a tall figure was standing beside the gate in the light by the lamps.
"Bless my soul, what's the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Etheridge, turning round. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Adelstone."
"I am very sorry to have startled you, Miss Stella," said Jasper Adelstone, and he came forward with his hat raised by his left hand; his right was in a sling. Stella's gentle eyes saw it, and her face paled.
"I was taking a stroll through the meadows and looked in. Mrs. Penfold said that you had gone to the Hall. Coming back from the river I heard the fly, and waited to say 'good-night.'"
"It is very kind," murmured Stella, her eyes still fixed on the useless arm with a kind of fascination.
"Come in and have a cigar," said Mr. Etheridge. "Ah! what is the matter with your arm, man?"
Jasper looked at him, then turned his small keen eyes on Stella's face.
"A mere trifle," he said. "I—met with an accident the other day and sprained it. It is a mere nothing. No, I won't come in, thanks. By-the-way, I'm nearly forgetting a most important matter," and he put his left hand in his pocket and drew something out. "I met the post-office boy in the lane, and he gave me this to save his legs," and he held out a telegram envelope.
"A telegram for me!" exclaimed Mr. Etheridge. "Wonders will never cease. Come inside, Mr. Adelstone."
But Jasper shook his head.
"I will wish you good-night, now," he said. "Will you excuse my left hand, Miss Stella?" he added, as he extended it.
Stella took it; it was burning, hot, and dry.
"I am so sorry," she said, in a low voice. "I cannot tell how sorry I am!"
"Do not think of it," he said. "Pray forget it, as—I do," he added, with hidden irony. "It is a mere nothing."
Stella looked down.
"And I am sure that—Lord Leycester is sorry."
"No doubt," he said. "I am quite sure Lord Leycester did not want to break my arm. But, indeed, I was rightly punished for my carelessness, though, I assure you, that I should have pulled up in time."
"Yes, yes; I am sure of that. I am sure I was in no danger," said Stella, earnestly.
"Yes," he said, in a low voice. "There was really no necessity for Lord Leycester to throw me off my horse, or even to insult me. But Lord Leycester is a privileged person, is he not?"
"I—I don't know what you mean!" said Stella, faintly.
"I mean that Lord Leycester may do things with impunity which others cannot even think of," and his sharp eyes grew to her face, which Stella felt was growing crimson.
"I—I am sure he will be very sorry," she said, "when heknows how much you are hurt, and he will apologize most sincerely."
"I have no doubt," he said, lightly, "and, after all, it is something to have one's arm sprained by Lord Leycester Wyndward, is it not? It is better than a broken heart."
"A broken heart! What do you mean?" said Stella, her face flushed, her eyes challenging his with a touch of indignation.
He smiled.
"I meant that Lord Leycester is as skilled in breaking hearts as limbs. But I forgot I must not say anything against the heir to Wyndward in your hearing. Pray forgive me. Good-night."
And, with a bow and a keen look from his small eyes, he moved away.
Stella stood looking after him for a moment, and a shiver ran through her as if from a cold wind.
Breaking hearts! What did he mean?
An exclamation from her uncle caused her to turn suddenly.
He was standing in the light of the window, with the open telegram in his hand, his face pale and anxious.
"Great Heaven!" he muttered, "what am I to do?"
"Whatshall I do?" exclaimed Mr. Etheridge.
Stella came to him quickly, with a little cry of dismay.
"What is it, uncle? Are you ill—is it bad news? Oh, what is the matter?"
And she looked up into his pale and agitated face with anxious concern.
His gaze was fixed on vacancy, but there was more than abstraction in his eyes—there was acute pain and anguish.
"What is it, dear?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm. "Pray tell me."
At the words he started slightly, and crushed the telegram in his hand.
"No, no!" he said—"anything but that." Then, composing himself with an effort, he pressed her hand and smiled faintly. "Yes, it is bad news, Stella; it is always bad news that a telegram brings."
Stella led him in; his hands were trembling, and the dumb look of pain still clouded his eyes.
"Will you not tell me what it is?" she murmured, as he sank into his accustomed chair and leant his white head on his hand. "Tell me what it is, and let me help you to bear it by sharing it with you."
And she wound her arm around his neck.
"Don't ask me, Stella. I can't tell you—I cannot. The shame would kill me. No! No!"
"Shame!" murmured Stella, her proud, lovely face paling, as she shrank back a little; but the next moment she pressed closer to him, with a sad smile.
"Not shame for you, dear; shame and you were never meant to come together."
He started, and raised his head.
"Yes, shame!" he repeated, almost fiercely, his hands clinched—"such bitter, debasing shame and disgrace. For the first time the name we have held for so many years will be stained and dragged in the dirt. What shall I do?" And he hid his face in his hands.
Then, with a sudden start, he rose, and looked round with trembling eagerness.
"I—I must go to London," he said, brokenly. "What is the time? So late! Is there no train? Stella, run and ask Mrs. Penfold. I must go at once—at once; every moment is of consequence."
"Go to London—to-night—so late? Oh, you cannot!" exclaimed Stella, aghast.
"My dear, I must," he said more calmly. "It is urgent, most urgent business that calls for me, and I must go."
Stella stole out of the room, and was about to wake Mrs. Penfold, when she remembered having seen a time-table in the kitchen, and stealing down-stairs again, hunted until she found it.
When she took it into the studio, she found her uncle standing with his hat on and his coat buttoned.
"Give it to me," he said. "There is a train, an early market train that I can catch if I start at once," and with trembling fingers he turned over the pages of the time-book. "Yes, I must go, Stella."
"But not alone, uncle!" she implored. "Not alone, surely. You will let me come with you."
He put his hand upon her arm and kissed her, his eyes moist.
"Stella, I must go alone; no one can help me in this matter. There are some troubles that we must meet unaided except by a Higher Power; this is one of them. Heaven bless you, my dear; you help me to bear it with your loving sympathy. I wish I could tell you, but I cannot, Stella—I cannot."
"Do not then, dear," she whispered. "You will not be away long?"
"Not longer than I can help," he sighed. "You will be quite safe, Stella?"
"Safe!" and she smiled sadly.
"Mrs. Penfold must take care of you. I don't like leaving you, but it cannot be helped! Child, I did not think to have a secret from you so soon!"
At the words Stella started, and a red flush came over her face.
She, too, had a secret, and as it flashed into her mind, from whence the sudden trouble had momentarily banished it, her heart beat fast and her eyes drooped.
"There should be no secrets between us two," he said. "But—there—there—don't look so troubled, my dear. I shall not be long gone."
She clung to him to the last, until indeed the little white gate had closed behind him, then she went back to the house and sat down in his chair, and sat pondering and trembling.
For a time the secret trouble which had befallen her uncle absorbed all her mind and care, but presently the memory of all that had happened to her that evening awoke and overcame her sorrow, and she sat with clasped hands and drooping head recalling the handsome face and passionate voice of Lord Leycester.
It was all so wonderful, so unreal, that it seemed like a stage play, in which the magnificent house formed the scene and the noble men and women the players, with the tall, stalwart, graceful form of Lord Leycester for the hero. It was difficult to realize that she too took a part, so to speak, in the drama, that she was, in fact, the heroine, and that it was to her that all the passionate vows of the young lord had been spoken. She could feel his burning kisses on her lips; could feel the touch of the clinging, lingering caresses on her neck; yes, it was all real; she loved Lord Leycester, and he, strange and wonderful to add, loved her.
Why should he do it? she marveled. Who was she that he should deign to shower down upon her such fervent admiration and passionate devotion?
Mechanically she rose and went over to the Venetian mirror, and looked at the reflection which beamed softly in the dim light.
He had called her beautiful, lovely! She shook her head and smiled with a sigh as she thought of Lady Lenore. There were beauty and loveliness indeed! How had it happened that he had passed her by, and chosen her, Stella?
But it was so, and wonder, and gratitude and love welled up in her heart and filled her eyes with those tears which show that the cup of human happiness is full to overflowing. The clock struck the hour, and with a sigh, as she thought of her uncle, she turned from the glass. She felt that she could not go to bed; it was far pleasanter to sit up in the stillness and silence and think—think! To take one little incident after another, and go over it slowly and enjoyingly. She wandered about her room in this frame of mind, filled with happiness one moment as she thought of the great good which the gods had given unto her, then overwhelmed by a wave of troubled anxiety as she remembered that her uncle, the old man whose goodness to her had won her love, was speeding on the journey toward his secret trouble and sorrow.
Wandering thus she suddenly bethought her of a picture that stood with its face to the wall, and swooping down on it, as one does on a suddenly remembered treasure, she took up Leycester Wyndward's portrait, and gazing long and eagerly at it, suddenly bent and kissed it. She knew now what the smile in those dark eyes meant; she knew now how the lovelight could flash from them.
"Uncle was right," she murmured with a smile that was half sad. "There is no woman who could resist those eyes if they said 'I love you.'"
She put the portrait down upon the cabinet, so that she could see it when she chose to look at it, and abstractedly began to setthe room in order, putting a picture straight here and setting the books upon their shelves, stopping occasionally to glance at the handsome eyes watching her from the top of the cabinet. As often happens when the mind is set on one thing and the hands upon another, she met with an accident. In one corner of the room stood a three-cornered what-not of Japanese work, inclosed by doors inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl; in attempting to set a bronze straight upon the top of this piece of furniture while she looked at the portrait of her heart's lord and master, she let the bronze slip, and in the endeavor to save it from falling, overturned the what-not.
It fell with the usual brittle sounding crash which accompanies the overthrow of such bric-a-brac, and the doors being forced open, out poured a miscellaneous collection of valuable but useless articles.
With a little exclamation of self-reproach and dismay, Stella went down on her knees to collect the scattered curios. They were of all sorts; bits of old china from Japan, medals, and coins of ancient date, and some miniatures in carved frames.
Stella eyed each article as she picked it up with anxious criticism, but fortunately nothing appeared the worse for the downfall, and she was putting the last thing, a miniature, in its accustomed place, when the case flew open in her hand and a delicately painted portrait on ivory looked up at her. Scarcely glancing at it, she was about to replace it in the case, when an inscription on the back caught her eye, and she carried case and miniature to the light.
The portrait was that of a boy, a fair-haired boy, with a smiling mouth and laughing blue eyes. It was a pretty face, and Stella turned it over to read the inscription.
It consisted of only one word, "Frank."
Stella looked at the face again listlessly, but suddenly something in it—a resemblance to someone whom she knew, and that intimately—flashed upon her. She looked again more curiously. Yes, there could be no doubt of it; the face bore a certain likeness to that of her uncle. Not only to her uncle, but to herself, for raising her eyes from the portrait to the mirror she saw a vague something—in expression only perhaps—looking at her from the glass as it did from the portrait.
"Frank, Frank," she murmured; "I know no one of that name. Who can it be?"
She went back to the cabinet, and took out the other miniatures, but they were closed, and the spring which she had touched accidentally of the one of the boy she could not find in the others.
There was an air of mystery about the matter, which not a little heightened by the lateness of the hour and the solemn silence that reigned in the house, oppressed and haunted her.
With a little gesture of repudiation she put the boy's face into its covering, and replaced it in the cabinet. As she did so she glanced up at that other face smiling down at her, and started, and a sudden thought, half-weird, half-prophetical, flashed across her mind.
It was the portrait of Lord Leycester which had greeted her on the night of her arrival, and foreshadowed all that had happened to her. Was there anything of significance in this chance discovery of the child's face?
With a smile of self-reproach she put the fantastic idea from her, and setting the beloved face in its place amongst the other canvases, took the candle from the table, and stole quietly up-stairs.
But when she slept the boy's face haunted her, and mingled in her dreams with that of Lord Leycester's.
Lord Leycesterstood for a minute or two looking after the carriage that bore Stella and her uncle away; then he returned to the house. They were a hot-headed race, these Wyndwards, and Leycester was, to put it mildly, as little capable of prudence or calculation as any of his line; but though his heart was beating fast, and the vision of the beautiful girl in all her young unstained loveliness danced before his eyes as he crossed the hall, even he paused a moment to consider the situation. With a grim smile he felt forced to confess that it was rather a singular one.
The heir of Wyndward, the hope of the house, the heir to an ancient name and a princely estate, had plighted his troth to the niece of a painter—a girl, be she beautiful as she might, without either rank or wealth, to recommend her to his parents!
He might have chosen from the highest and the wealthiest; the highest and the wealthiest had been, so to speak, at his feet. He knew that no dearer wish existed in his mother's heart of hearts than that he should marry and settle. Well, he was going to marry and settle. But what a marriage and settlement it would be! Instead of adding luster to the already illustrious name, instead of adding power to the already influential race of Wyndward, it would, in the earl and countess's eyes, in the opinion of the world, be nothing but a mesalliance.
He paused in the corridor, the two footmen eying him with covert and respectful attention, and a smile curved his lips as he pictured to himself the manner in which the proud countess would receive his avowal of love for Stella Etheridge, the painter's niece.
Even as it was, he was quite conscious that he had gone very far indeed this evening toward provoking the displeasure of the countess. He had almost neglected the brilliant gathering for the sake of this unknown girl; he had left his mother's oldest friends, even Lady Lenore herself, to follow Stella. How would they receive him?
With a smile half-defiant, half anticipatory of amusement, he motioned to the servants to withdraw the curtain, and entered the room.
Some of the ladies had already retired; Lady Longford had gone for one, but Lady Lenore still sat on her couch attended by a circle of devoted adherents. As he entered, the countess,without seeming to glance at him, saw him, and noticed the peculiar expression on his face.
It was the expression which it always wore when he was on the brink of some rashly mad exploit.
Leycester had plenty of courage—too much, some said. He walked straight up to the countess, and stood over her.
"Well, mother," he said, almost as if he were challenging her, "what do you think of her?"
The countess lifted her serene eyes and looked at him. She would not pretend to be ignorant of whom he meant.
"Of Miss Etheridge?" she said. "I have not thought about her. If I had, I should say that she was a very pleasant-looking girl."
"Pleasant-looking!" he echoed, and his eyebrows went up. "That is a mild way of describing her. She is more than pleasant."
"That is enough for a young girl in her position," said the countess.
"Or in any," said a musical voice behind him, and Lord Leycester, turning round, saw Lady Lenore.
"That was well said," he said, nodding.
"She is more than pleasant," said Lady Lenore, smiling at him as if he had won her warmest approbation by neglecting her all the evening. "She is very pretty, beautiful, indeed, and so—may I say the word, dear Lady Wyndward?—so fresh!"
The countess smiled with her even brows unclouded.
"A school-girl should be fresh, as you put it Lenore, or she is nothing."
Lord Leycester looked from one to the other, and his gaze rested on Lady Lenore's superb beauty with a complacent eye.
To say that a man in love is blind to all women other than the one of his heart is absurd. It is not true. He had never admired Lady Lenore more than he did this moment when she spoke in Stella's defense; but he admired her while he loved Stella.
"You are right, Lenore," he said. "She is beautiful."
"I admire her exceedingly," said Lady Lenore, smiling at him as if she knew his secret and approved of it.
The countess glanced from one to the other.
"It is getting late," she said. "You must go now, Lenore."
Lady Lenore bowed her head. She, like all else who came within the circle of the mistress of Wyndward, obeyed her.
"Very well, I am a little tired. Good-night!"
Lord Leycester took her hand, but held it a moment. He felt grateful to her for the word spoken on Stella's behalf.
"Let me see you to the corridor," said Lord Leycester.
And with a bow which comprehended the other occupants of the room, he accompanied her.
They walked in silence to the foot of the stairs, then Lady Lenore held out her hand.
"Good-night," she said, "and happy dreams."
He looked at her curiously. Was there any significance in herwords?—did she know all that had passed between Stella and himself?
But nothing more significant met his scrutiny than the soft languor of her eyes, and pressing her hand as he bent over it, he murmured:
"I wish you the same."
She nodded smilingly to him, and went away, and he turned back to the hall.
As he did so the billiard-room door opened, and Lord Charles put out his head.
"One game, Ley?" he said.
Lord Leycester shook his head.
"Not to-night, Charlie."
Lord Charles looked at him, then laughed, and withdrew his head.
Leycester sauntered down the hall and back again; he felt very restless and disinclined for bed; Stella's voice was ringing in his ears, Stella's lips still clung with that last soft caress to his. He could not face the laughter and hard voices of the billiard-room; it would be profanation! With a sudden turn he went lightly up the stairs and entered his own room.
Throwing himself into a chair, he folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, to call up a vision of the girl who had rested on his breast—whose sweet, pure lips had murmured "I love you!"
"My darling!" he whispered—"my darling love! I have never known it till now. And I shall see you to-morrow, and hear you whisper that again, 'I love you!' And it'sMEshe loves, not the viscount and heir to Wyndward, butme, Leycester! Leycester—it was a hard, ugly name until she spoke it—now it sounds like music. Stella, my star, my angel!"
Suddenly his reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door. With a start, he came back to reality, and got up, but before he could reach the door it opened, and the countess came in.
"Not in bed?" she said, with a smile.
"I have only just come up," he replied.
The countess smiled again.
"You have been up nearly half an hour."
He was almost guilty of a blush.
"So long!" he said, "I must have been thinking."
And he laughed, as he drew a chair forward. He waited until she was seated before he resumed his own; never, by word or deed, did he permit himself to grow lax in courtesy to her; and then he looked up at her with a smile.
"Have you come for a chat, my lady?" he said, calling her by her title in the mock-serious way in which he was accustomed to address her when they were alone.
"Yes, I have come for a chat, Leycester," she said, quietly.
"Does that mean a scold?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, but still smiling. "Your tone is suspicious, mother. Well, I am at your mercy."
"I have nothing to scold you for," said the countess, leaningback in the comfortable chair—all the chairs were comfortable in these rooms of his. "Do you feel that you deserve one?"
Lord Leycester was silent. If he had answered he might have been compelled to admit that perhaps there was some excuse for complaint in regard to his conduct that evening; silence was safest.
"No, I have not come to scold you, Leycester. I don't think I have ever done that," said the countess, softly.
"No, you have been the best of mothers, my lady," he responded. "I never saw you in an ill temper in my life; perhaps that is why you look so young. You do look absurdly young, you know," he added, gazing at her with affectionate admiration.
When the countess seemed lost in thought, Leycester added:
"Devereux says that the majority of English wives and mothers look so girlish that he believes it must be the custom to marry them when they are children."
The countess smiled.
"Lord Devereux is master of fine phrases, Leycester. Yes, I was married very young."
Then she looked round the room: a strange reluctance to commence the task she had set herself took possession of her.
"You have made your rooms very pretty, Leycester."
He leant back, watching her with a smile.
"You haven't come to talk about my rooms, mother."
Then she straightened herself for her work.
"No, Leycester, I have come to talk about you."
"Rather an uninteresting subject. However, proceed."
"You may make it very hard for me," said the countess, with a little sigh.
He smiled.
"Then you have come to scold?"
"No, only to advise."
"That is generally the same thing under another name."
"I do not often do it," said the countess, in a low voice.
"Forgive me," he said, stooping forward and kissing her. "Now, mother, fire away. What is it? Not about that race money—you don't want me to give up the horses?"
The countess smiled almost scornfully.
"Why should I, Leycester; they cost a great deal of money, but if they amuse you, why——" and she shrugged her shoulders slightly.
"They do cost a great deal of money," he said, with a laugh, "but I don't know that they amuse me very much. I don't think anything amuses me very greatly."
Then the countess looked at him.
"When a man talks like that, Leycester, it generally means that it is time he was married!"
He half expected what was coming, but he looked grave; nevertheless he turned to her with a smile.
"Isn't that rather a desperate remedy, my lady?" he said. "I can give up my horses if they cease to amuse me and bore me too much; I can give up most of the other so-called amusements,but marriage—supposing that should fail? It would be rather serious."
"Why should it fail?"
"It does sometimes," he retorted, gravely.
"Not when love enters into it," she answered, gently.
He was silent, his eyes bent on the ground, from which seemed to rise a slim, girlish figure, with Stella's face and eyes.
"There is no greater happiness than that which marriage affords when one is married to the person one loves. Do you think your father has been unhappy, Leycester?"
He turned to her with a smile.
"Every man—few men have his luck, my lady. Will you find me another Lady Ethel?"
She colored. This was a direct question, and she longed to answer it, but she dared not—not just yet.
"The world is full of fond, loving women," she said.
He nodded. He thought he knew one at least, and his eyes went to that mental vision of Stella again.
"Leycester, I want to see you married and settled," she murmured, after a pause. "It is time; it is fitting that you should be. I'll put the question of your own happiness aside for the moment; there are other things at stake."
"You would not like me to be the last Earl of Wyndward, mother? The title would die with me, would it not?"
"Yes," she said. "That must not be, Leycester."
He shook his head with a quiet smile. No, it should not be, he thought.
"I wonder," she continued, "that the thing has not come about before this, and without any word of mine. I don't think you are very hard-hearted, unimpressionable, Leycester. You and I have met some beautiful women, and some good and pure ones. I should not have been surprised if you had come to me with the confession of your conquest long ago. You would have come to me, would you not, Leycester?" she asked.
A faint flush stole over his face, and his eyes dropped slightly. He did not answer for a moment, and she went on as if he had assented.
"I should have been very glad to have heard of it. I should have welcomed your choice very heartily."
"Are you sure?" he said, almost mechanically.
"Quite," she answered, serenely. "Your wife will be a second daughter to me, I hope, Leycester. I know that I should love her if you do; are we ever at variance?"
"Never until to-night," he might have answered, but he remained silent.
What if he should turn to her with the frank openness with which he had gone to her in all his troubles and joys, and say:
"I have made my choice—welcome her. She is Stella Etheridge, the painter's daughter."
But he could not do this; he knew so well how she would have looked at him, saw already with full prophetic insight the calm, serene smile of haughty incredulity with which she would have received his demand. He was silent.
"You wonder why I speak to you about this to-night, Leycester?"
"A little," he said, with a smile that had very little mirth in it; he felt that he was doing what he had never done before—concealing his heart from her, meeting her with secrecy and evasion, and his proud, finely-tempered mind revolted at the necessity for it. "A little. I was just considering that I had not grown older by a score of years, and had not been doing anything particularly wild. Have they been telling you any dreadful stories about me, mother, and persuading you that matrimony is the only thing to save me from ruin?" and he laughed.
The countess colored.
"No one tells me any stories respecting you, Leycester, for the simple reason that I should not listen to them. I have nothing to do with—with your outer life, unless you yourself make me part and parcel of it. I am not afraid that you will do anything bad or dishonorable, Leycester."
"Thanks," he said, quietly. "Then what is it, mother? Why does this advice press so closely on your soul that you feel constrained to unburden yourself?"
"Because I feel that the time has come," she said; "because I have your happiness and welfare so closely at heart that I am obliged to watch over you, and secure them for you if I can."
"There never was a mother like you!" he said, gently. "But this is a serious step, my lady, and I am—shall I say slightly unprepared. You speak to me as if I were a sultan, and had but to throw my handkerchief at any fair maid whom I may fancy, to obtain her!"
The countess looked at him, and for a moment all her passionate pride in him shone in her eyes.
"Is there no one to whom you think you could throw that handkerchief, Leycester?" she asked, significantly.
His face flushed, and his eyes glowed. At that moment he felt the warm lips of his girl-love resting on his own.
"That is a blunt question, my lady," he said; "would it be fair to reply, fair to her, supposing that there be one?"
"In whom should you confide but in me?" said the countess, with a touch of hauteur in her voice, hauteur softened by love.
He looked down and turned the ruby ring on his finger. If he could but confide in her!
"In whom else but in me, from whom you have, I think, had few secrets? If your choice is made, you would come to me, Leycester? I think you would; I cannot imagine your acting otherwise. You see I have no fear"—and she smiled—"no fear that your choice would be anything but a good and a wise one. I know you so well, Leycester. You have been wild—you yourself said it, not I!"
"Yes," he said, quietly.
"But through it all you have not forgotten the race from whence you sprung, the name you bear. No, I do not fear thatmost disastrous of all mistakes which a man in your position can make—a mesalliance."
He was silent, but his brows drew together.
"You speak strangely, my lady," he said, almost grimly.
"Yes," she assented, calmly, serenely, but with a grave intensity in her tone which lent significance to every word—"yes, I feel strongly. Every mother who has a son in your position feels as strongly, I doubt not. There are few mad things that you can do which will not admit of remedy and rectification; one of them, the worst of them, is a foolish marriage."
"Marriages are made in heaven," he murmured.
"No," she said, gently, "a great many are made in a very different place. But why need we talk of this? We might as well discuss whether it would be wise of you to commit manslaughter, or burglary, or suicide, or any other vulgar crime—and indeed a mesalliance would, in your case, strongly resemble one, suicide; it would be social suicide, at least; and from what I know of your nature, Leycester, I do not think that would suit you."
"I think not," he said, grimly. "But, mother, I am not contemplating a matrimonial union with one of the dairymaids, not at present."
She smiled.
"You might commit a mesalliance with one in higher position, Leycester. But why do we talk of this?"
"I think you commenced it," he said.
"Did I?" she said, sweetly. "I beg your pardon. I feel as if I had insulted you by the mere chance mention of such a thing; and I have tired you, too."
And she rose with queenly grace.
"No, no," he said, rising, "I am very grateful, mother; you will believe that?"