He decided on the latter, and the next moment he missed hisfooting and fell into the foaming water. Stella did not utter a cry—it was not her way of expressing her emotion—but she grasped Leycester's arm.
"All right, my darling," he murmured; "it is all right," and as he spoke, he put her hand from his arm gently and tenderly.
The next moment he had torn off his coat, and springing on the weir stood for just a second to calculate the distance, and dived off.
Stella, even then, did not shriek, but she sank speechless on the bank, and with clasped hands and agonized terror, watched the struggle.
Lord Leycester rose to the surface almost instantly. He was a skilled diver and a powerful swimmer, and he had not lost his presence of mind for a moment.
It was a terrible place to jump from—a still more terrible place from which to rescue a drowning person; but Lord Leycester had done the thing before, and he was not afraid.
He saw the boy's golden head come up a few yards beyond where he, Lord Leycester, rose, and he struck out for it. A few stokes, and he reached and grasped him.
"Don't cling to me, my boy" he gasped.
"No fear, Lord Leycester!" gasped Frank, in return.
Then Lord Leycester seized him by the hair, and striking out for the shore, fought hard.
It was a hard fight. The recoil of the stream, as it fell from the weir, was tremendous; it was like forcing one's way through liquid iron. But Lord Leycester did force his way, and still clinging to the boy's hair, dragged him ashore.
Dripping wet, they stood and looked at each other. Then Lord Leycester laughed; but Frank, the boy, did not.
"Lord Leycester," he said, speaking pantingly, "you have saved my life."
"Nonsense!" said Leycester, shaking himself; "I have had a pleasant bath, that's all!"
"You have saved my life," said Frank, solemnly. "I should never have been able to force my way through that current alone. I know what a weir stream is."
"Nonsense," said Leycester, again. Then he turned to where Stella stood, white and trembling. "Don't be frightened, Stella; don't be frightened, darling!"
The word was said before he could recall it, and he glanced at Frank.
Frank nodded.
"I know," he said with a smile. "I knew it half an hour ago; since you first spoke to her."
"Frank!" murmured Stella.
"I knew he loved you," said Frank, calmly. "He could not help it; how could anybody help it who knew you?"
Leycester laid his hand on the boy's arm.
"You must go home at once," he said, gently.
"You have saved my life," said Frank again. "Lord Leycester, I shall never forget it. Perhaps some day I shall be able torepay you. It seems unlikely; but remember the story of the lion and the mouse."
"Never mind the lion and the mouse," said Leycester, smiling, as he wrung the Thames water from his clothes. "You must get home at once."
"But I do remember the lion and the mouse," said Frank, his teeth chattering. "You have saved my life."
Meanwhile Stella stood wordless and motionless, her eyes wandering from her lover to Frank.
Wordless, because she could find no words to express her admiration for her lover's heroism.
At last she spoke.
"Oh, Leycester!" she said, and that was all.
Leycester took her in his arms and kissed her.
"Frank," he said, "you must keep our secret."
"I would lay down my life for either of you," said the boy, looking up at him.
They went down to the boat in silence, and Leycester rowed them across in silence; then, as they landed, Frank spoke again, and there was a strange light in his eyes.
"I know," he said. "I know your secret. I would lay down my life for you!"
Stellahurried Frank across the meadows, a rather difficult task, as he would insist upon talking, his teeth chattering, and his clothes dripping.
"What a splendid fellow, Stella! What a happy girl you ought to be—you are!"
"Perhaps I am," assented Stella, with a little smile; "but do you make haste, Frank! Can't you run any faster? I'll race you to the lane!"
"No, you won't," he retorted cheerfully. "You run like a greyhound at the best of times, and now I seem to have got a couple of tons clinging to me, you'd beat me hollow. But, Stella! think of him plunging off the beam! Many a man would have been satisfied to jump off the bank; if he had, he wouldn't have saved me! He knew that; and he made nothing of it, nothing! And that is the man they call a dandy and a fop!"
"Never mind what they call him, but run!" implored Stella.
"I don't know any other man who could have done it," he went on, his teeth chattering; "and how friendly and jolly he was, calling me Frank and telling me to call him Leycester! Stella, what a lucky girl you are; but he is not a bit too good for you after all! No one is too good for you! And he does love you, Stella; I could see it by the way he looked at you, and you thought to hide it, and that I shouldn't see it. Did you think I was a muff?"
"I think you will be laid up with a bad cold, sir, if you don't run!" said Stella. "What will uncle say?"
Frank stopped short and his face paled; he seemed to shrink.
"My father must know nothing about it," he said. "Don't tell him, Stella; I will get in the back way and change. Don't tell him!"
"But——" said Stella.
"No, no," he reiterated; "I don't want him to know. It will only trouble him, and"—his voice faltered—"I have given him so much trouble."
"Very well," said Stella. "But come along or you will be ill, and then he must know."
This appeared to have the desired effect, and he took her hand and set off at a run. They reached the lane, and were just turning into it, when the tall, thin figure of Jasper emerged.
Both Stella and Frank stopped, and she felt his hand close in hers tightly.
"Stella, here's that man Adelstone," he said, in a whisper of aversion. "Must we stop?"
Jasper settled that question by raising his hat, and coming forward with outstretched hand.
"Good-evening!" he said, his small, keen eyes glancing from Stella to the boy, and taking in the fact of the wet clothes in a moment.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing much," said Stella with a smile, and hurriedly. "My cousin has fallen into the water. We are hurrying home."
"Fallen in the water!" said Jasper, turning and walking beside them. "How did he manage that?"
Frank was silent, and Stella, with a little flush, said, gravely:
"We were on the water——"
"I was fishing from the weir," broke in Frank, pressing her hand, warningly, "and I fell in; that is all."
There was something almost like defiance in the tone and the glance he gave at the sinister face.
"Into the weir stream!" exclaimed Jasper, "and you got ashore! You must be a good swimmer, my dear Frank!"
"I am—pretty well," said Frank, almost sullenly.
"Perhaps you had the waterman to help you," said Jasper, looking from one to the other.
Then Stella, who felt that it would be better to speak out, said, gravely:
"Lord Leycester was near, and leapt in and saved him."
Jasper's face paled, and an angry light shot from his eyes.
"How fortunate that he should happen to be near!" he said. "It was brave of him!"
There was a suspicion of a sneer in the thin voice that roused the spirit of the boy.
"It was brave," he said. "Perhaps you don't know what it is to swim through a weir current, Mr. Adelstone?"
Jasper smiled down at the flushed, upturned face.
"No, but I think I should have tried if I had been lucky enough to be in Lord Leycester's place."
"I'm very glad you weren't," said Frank, in a low voice.
"I am sure you would," said Stella, quickly. "Anyone would. Come, Frank. Good-evening, Mr. Adelstone."
Jasper paused and looked at her. She looked very beautiful with her flushed face and eager eyes, and his heart was beating rapidly.
"I came out hoping to see you, Miss Etheridge," he said. "May I come in?"
"Yes, of course; uncle will be very pleased," she said. "But go in the front way, please; we are going in at the back, because we don't wish uncle to know. It would only upset him. You will not tell him, please?"
"You may always rely on my discretion," said Jasper.
Stella, still holding Frank's hand, dragged him into the kitchen, and stopped Mrs. Penfold's exclamation of dismay.
"Frank has had an accident, Mrs. Penfold. Yes, he fell in the river. I'll tell you all about it afterward; but he must change his things at once—at once. Run up, Frank, and get into the blanket——"
"All right," he said; then, as he went out of the room, he took her by the arm.
"Don't let that man stay, Stella. I—hate him."
"My dear Frank!"
"I hate him! What did he mean by sneering at Lord Leycester?"
"He doesn't like Lord Leycester," said Stella.
"Who cares?" exclaimed Frank, indignantly. "Curs are not particularly fond of lions, but——"
Stella would hear no more, but pushed him up the stairs with anxious impatience; then she went into the studio. As she neared the door she could hear Jasper Adelstone's voice. He was talking to her uncle, and something in the tone struck her as peculiar, and struck her unpleasantly.
There was a tone of familiarity, almost of covert power in it that annoyed her.
With her hand on the door she paused, and it seemed to her as if she heard him speak her name; she was not sure, and she would not wait, but with a little heightened color she opened the door and entered.
As she did so Jasper laid his hand upon the old man's arm as if to call his attention to her entrance, and the painter turned round with a start, and looking at her intently, said, with evident perplexity:
"A mere girl—a mere girl, Jasper!" and shaking his head, resumed his work.
Jasper stood a moment, a smile on his face, watching Stella from the corner of his eyes; then he said, suddenly:
"I have been admiring your roses, Miss Stella, and breaking the last commandment. I have been coveting them."
"Oh!" said Stella. "Pray take any you like, there are such numbers of them that we can spare them; can we not, uncle?"
As usual, the painter took no notice, and Jasper, in a matter-of-fact voice, said:
"Do you mind coming out and telling me which I may cut?I only want one or two to take to London with me, to brighten my dull rooms."
"Certainly," said Stella, moving toward the window. "Are you going to London?"
He muttered something and followed her out, his eyes taking in the lithe grace of her figure with a hungry wistfulness.
"Now then," said Stella, standing in the middle of the path and waving her hand:
"Which shall it be, white rose or red?" and she smiled up at him.
He looked at her for a moment in silence. She had never appeared to him more beautiful than this morning; there was a subtle light of hidden joy shining in her eyes, a glow of youthful hope about her face that set his heart beating with mingled pleasure and pain—delight in the beauty which he had sworn should be his, pain and torture in the thought that another—the hated Lord Leycester—had already looked upon it that morning.
Even as he stood silently regarding her, a bitter suspicion smote through his heart that the joyousness which shone from the dark eyes had been set there by Lord Leycester. He bit his lip and his face went pale, then with a start he came close to her.
"Give me which you please," he said. "Here is a knife."
Stella took the knife heedlessly and carelessly. There was no significance in the deed; she did not know that he would attach any importance to the fact that she should cut the rose and give it to him with her own hand; if she had so understood it she would have dropped the knife as if it had been an adder.
In simple truth she was not thinking of him—scarcely saw him; she was thinking of that lover, the god of her heart, and seeing him as he swam through the river foam. For she was scarcely conscious of Jasper Adelstone's presence, and in the acuteness of his passion he almost suspected it.
"White or red?" she said, knife in hand.
He glanced at her.
"Red," he said, and his lips felt hot and dry.
Stella cut a red rose—a dark red rose, and with a little womanly gesture put it to her face; it was a little girlish trick, all unthinking, unconsciously done, but it sent the blood to the heart of the man watching her in a sudden, passionate rush.
"There," she said; "it is a beauty. They speak of the roses of Florence, but give me an English rose, Florentine roses are fuller than these, but not so beautiful—oh, not so beautiful! There," and she held it out to him, without looking at him. If she had done so, she would have surely read something in the white constrained face, and small, glittering eyes that would have warned her.
He took it without a word. In simple truth he was trying to restrain himself. He felt that the time was not ripe for action—that a word of the devouring passion which consumed him would be dangerous, and he whispered to himself, "Not yet! not yet!" But her loveliness, that touch of the rose to his face, overmastered his cool, calculating spirit.
"Thank you," he said at last; "thank you very much. I shall value it dearly. I shall put it on my desk in my dark, grim room, and think of you."
Then Stella looked up and started slightly.
"Oh!" she said, hurriedly. "You would like some more perhaps? Pray take what you would like," and she held out the knife, and looked upon him with a sudden coldness in the eyes that should have warned him.
"No, I want no more," he said. "All the roses that ever bloomed would not add to my pleasure. It is this rose from your hand that I value."
Stella made a slight movement toward the window, but he put out his hand.
"Stay one moment—only a moment," he said, and in his eagerness he put out his hand and touched her arm, the arm sacred to Leycester.
Stella shrank back, and a little shudder swept through her.
"What—what is it!" she asked, in a low voice that she tried to make calm and cold and repressive.
He stood, shutting and opening the knife with a nervous restlessness, as unlike his calm impassability as the streaming torrent that forces its way through the mountain gorge is like the lake at their feet; his eyes fixed on her face with anxious eagerness.
"I want to speak to you," he said. "Only a few words—a very few words. Will you listen to me? I hope you will listen to me."
Stella stood, her face turned away from him, her heart beating, but coldly and with fear and repugnance, not as it had beat when Leycester's low tones first fell upon her ear.
He moistened his lips again, and his hand closed over the shut knife with a tight clasp, as if he were striving to regain self-command.
"I know it is unwise. I feel that—that you would rather not listen to me, and that I shall do very little good by speaking, but I cannot. There are times, Stella——"
Stella moved slightly at the familiar name.
"There are times when a man loses self-control, when he flings prudence to the winds, or rather, lets it slip from him. This is one of those moments, Stella—Miss Etheridge; I feel that I must speak, let it cost me what it may."
Still silent, she stood as if turned to stone. He put his hand to his brow—his white, thin hand, with its carefully trimmed nails—and wiped away the perspiration that stood in big beads.
"Miss Etheridge, I think you can guess what it is I want to say, and I hope that you will not think any the less of me because of my inability to say it as it should be said, as I would have it said. Stella, if you look back, if you will recall the times since first we met, you cannot fail to know my meaning."
She turned her face toward him for a moment, and shook her head.
"You mean that I have no right to think so. Do you thinkthat you, a woman, have not seen what every woman sees so quickly when it is the case—that I have learned to love you!"
The word was out at last, and as it left him he trembled.
Stella did not start, but her face went paler than before, and she shrank slightly.
"Yes," he went on, "I have learned to love you. I think I loved you the first evening we met; I was not sure then, and—I will tell you the whole truth, I have sworn to myself that I would do it—I tried to fight against it. I am not a man easily given to love; no, I am a man of the world—one who has to make his way in the world, one who has an ambition; and I tried to put you from my thoughts—I tried hard, but I failed."
He paused, and eyed her watchfully. Her face was like a mask of stone.
"I grew to love you more day by day—I was not happy away from you. I carried your image up with me to London—it came between me and my work; but I was patient—I told myself that I should gain nothing by being too rash—that I must give you time to know me, and to—to love me."
He paused and moistened his lips, and looked at her. Why did she not speak—of what was she thinking?
At that moment, if he could but have known it, she was thinking of her true lover—of the young lord who had not waited and calculated, but who had poured the torrent of his passionate love at her feet—had taken her in his arms and made her love him. And as she thought, how small, how mean this other man seemed to her!
"I gave you mine—I meant to give you more," he continued; "I want to do something worthy of your love. I am—I am not a rich man, Stella—I have no title—as yet——"
Stella's eyes flashed for a moment, and her lips closed. It was an unlucky speech for him.
"No, not yet; but I shall have riches and title—I have set my mind on them, and there is nothing that I have set my mind on that I have not got, or will not get—nothing!" he repeated, with almost fierce intensity.
Still she did not speak. Like a bird charmed, fascinated by a snake, she stood, listening though every word was torture to her.
"I have set my mind on winning your love, Stella. I love you as few men love, with all my heart and soul. There is nothing I would not do to win you, there is nothing I would—pause at."
A faint shudder stole through her; and he saw it, and added, quickly:
"I would do anything to make you happy—move heaven and earth to see you always smiling as you smiled this morning. Stella, I love you! What have you to say to me?"
He stopped, white and seemingly exhausted, his thin lips tightly compressed, his whole frame quivering.
Stella, turned her eyes upon him, and something like pity took possession of her for a moment. It was a womanly feeling, and it softened her reply.
"I—am very sorry," she said, in a low voice.
"Sorry!" he repeated, hoarsely, quickly. "Do not say that!"
"Yes—I am very sorry," she repeated. "I—I—did not know——"
"Did not know that I loved you!" he retorted, almost sharply. "Were you blind? Every word, every look of mine would have told you, if you had cared to know——"
Her face flushed, and she raised her eyes to his with a flash of indignation.
"I did not know!" she breathed.
"Forgive me!" he pleaded hoarsely. "I—I am very unfortunate. I offend and anger you! I told you that I should not be able to say what I had to say with credit to myself. Pray forgive me. I meant that though I tried to hide my love, it must have betrayed itself. How could it be otherwise? Stella, have you no other word for me?"
"None," she said, looking away. "I am very sorry. I did not know. But it could not have been. Never."
He stood regarding her, his breath coming in long gasps.
"You mean you never can love me?" he asked.
Stella raised her eyes.
"Yes," she said.
His hand closed over the knife until the back of the blade pressed deeply into the quivering palm.
"Never is—is a long day," he said, hoarsely. "Do not say 'never.' I will be patient; see, I am patient, I am calm now, and will not offend you again! I will be patient and wait; I will wait for years, if you will but give me hope—if you will but try to love me a little!"
Stella's face paled, and her lips quivered.
"I cannot," she said, in a low voice. "You—you do not understand. One cannot teach oneself to love—cannottry. It is impossible. Besides—you do not know what you ask. You do not understand!"
"Do I not?" he said, and a bitter sneer curled the thin lips. "I do understand. I know—I have a suspicion of the reason why you answer me like this."
Stella's face burnt for a moment, then went pale, but her eyes met his steadily.
"There is something behind your refusal; no girl would speak as you do unless there was something behind. There is someone else. Am I not right?"
"You have no right to ask me!" said Stella, firmly.
"My love gives me the right to ask. But I need not put the question, and there is no necessity for you to answer. If you have been blind, I have not. I have seen and noted, and I tell you, I tell you plainly, that what you hope for cannot be. I say cannot—shall not be!" he added, between his closed teeth.
Stella's eyes flashed as she stood before him glorious in her loveliness.
"Have you finished?" she asked.
He was silent, regarding her watchfully.
"If you have finished, Mr. Adelstone, I will leave you."
"Stay," he said, and he stood in the path so that she could not pass him, "Stay one moment. I will not ask you to reconsider your reply. I will only ask you to forgive me." His voice grew hoarse, and his eyes drooped. "Yes, I will beg you to forgive me. Think of what I am suffering, and you will not refuse me that. Forgive me, Stella—Miss Etheridge! I have been wrong, mad, and brutal; but it has sprung from the depth of my love; I am not altogether to blame. Will you say that you will forgive me, and that—that we remain friends?"
Stella paused.
He watched her eagerly.
"If—if," he said quickly, before she could speak—"if you will let this pass as if it had not been—if you will forget all I have said—I will promise not to offend again. Do not let us part—do not send me away never to see you again. I am an old friend of your uncle's; I should not like to lose his friendship; I think I may say that he would miss mine. Let us be friends, Miss Etheridge."
Stella inclined her head.
"Thank you, thank you," he said, meekly, tremulously; "I shall be very grateful for your friendship, Miss Stella. I will keep the rose to remind me of your forbearance," and he was patting the rose in his coat, when Stella with a start stretched out her hand.
"No! give it me back, please," she said.
He stood eying her.
"Let me keep it," he said; "it is a little thing."
"No!" she said, firmly, and her face burnt. "You must not keep it. I—I did not think when I gave it to you! Give it me back, please," and she held out her hand.
He still hesitated, and Stella, overstrained, made a step toward him.
"Give it me," she said. "I must—I will have it!"
An angry flush came on his face, and he held the rose from her.
"It is mine," he said. "You gave it to me; I cannot give it back."
The words had scarcely left his lips, when the rose was dashed from his hand, and Frank stood white and panting between them.
"How dare you!" he gasped, passionately, his hands clinched, his eyes gleaming fiercely upon the white face. "How dare you!" and with a savage exclamation the boy dashed his foot on the flower, and ground it under his heel.
The action, so full of scornful defiance, spurred Jasper back to consciousness. With a smothered oath he grasped the boy's shoulders.
Frank turned upon him with the savage ferocity of a wildanimal, with upraised arm. Then, suddenly, like a lightning flash, Jasper's face changed and a convulsive smile forced itself upon his lips.
He caught the arm and held it, and smiled down at him.
"My dear Frank," he murmured. "What is the matter?"
So sudden was the change, so unexpected, that Stella, who had caught the boy's other arm, stood transfixed.
Frank gasped.
"What did you mean by keeping the rose?" he burst out.
Jasper laughed softly.
"Oh, I see!" he said, nodding with amused playfulness. "I see. You were watching—from the window, perhaps, eh?" and he shook his arm playfully. "And like a great many other spectators, took jest for earnest! Impetuous boy!"
Frank looked at the pale, smiling face, and at Stella's downcast one.
"Is it true?" he asked Stella, bluntly.
"Oh, come!" said Jasper, reproachfully. "Isn't that rather rude? But I must forgive you, and I do it easily, my dear Frank, when I remember that your sudden onslaught was prompted by a desire to champion Miss Stella! Now come, you owe me a rose, go and cut me one, and we will be friends—great friends, will we not?"
Frank slid from his grasp, but stood eying him suspiciously.
"You will not?" said Jasper. "Still uncertain lest it should have been sober earnest? Then I will cut one for myself. May I?" and he smiled at Stella.
Stella did not speak, but she inclined her head.
Jasper went to one of the standards and cut a red rose deliberately and carefully, and placed it in his coat, then he cut another, and with a smile held it to Stella.
"Will that do instead of the one the stupid boy has spoiled?" he said, laughing.
Stella would have liked to refuse it, but Frank's eyes were upon her.
Slowly she held out her hand and took the rose.
A smile of triumph glittered for a moment in Jasper's eyes, then he put his hand on Frank's shoulder.
"My dear Frank," he said, in a soft voice, "you must be careful; you must repress that impulsive temper of yours, must he not?" and he turned to Stella and held out his hand. "Good-bye! It is so dangerous, you know," he murmured, holding Stella's hand, but keeping his smiling eyes fixed on the boy's face. "Why, some of these days you will be doing someone an injury and find yourself in prison, doing as they call it, six months' hard labor, like a common thief—or forger!" and he laughed, as if it were the best joke in the world.
Not so Frank. As the bantering words left the thin, smiling lips, Frank recoiled suddenly, and his face went white.
Jasper looked at him.
"And now you are sorry?" he said. "Tell me it was only your fun! Why, my dear boy, you wear your heart on yoursleeve! Well, if you would really like to beg my pardon, you may do it."
The boy turned his white face toward him.
"I—beg—your—pardon," he said, as if every word cost him an agony, and then, with a sudden twitch of the face, he turned and went slowly with bent head toward the house.
Jasper looked after him with a steely, cruel glitter in his eyes, and he laughed softly.
"Dear boy!" he murmured; "I have taken so fond a liking for him, and this only deepens it! He did it for your sake. You did not think I meant to keep the rose! No; I should have given it to you! But I may keep this! I will! to remind me of your promise that we may still be friends!"
And he let her hand go, and walked away.
Lord Leycesterwas on fire as he strode up the hill to the Hall, and that notwithstanding he was wet to the skin. He was on fire with love. He swore to himself, as he climbed up the slope, that there was no one like his Stella, no one so beautiful, so lovable and sweet as the dark-eyed girl who had stolen his heart from him that moonlight night in the lane.
And he also vowed that he would wait no longer for the inestimable treasure, the exquisite happiness that lay within his grasp.
His great wealth, his time honored title seemed as nothing to him compared with the thought of possessing the first real love of his life.
He smiled rather seriously as he pictured his father's anger, his mother's dismay and despair, and Lil's, dear Lilian's, grief; but it was a smile, though a serious one.
"They will get over it when it has once been done. After all, barring that she has no title and no money—neither of which are wanted, by the way—she is as delightful a daughter-in-law as any mother or father could wish for. Yes; I'll do it!"
But how? that was the question.
"There is no Gretna Green nowadays," he pondered, regretfully. "I wish there were! A ride to the border, with my darling by my side, nestling close to me all the way with mingled love and alarm, would be worth taking. A man can't very well put up the banns in any out-of-the-way place, because there are few out-of-the-way places where they haven't heard of us Wyndwards. By Jove!" he muttered, with a little start—"there is a special license. I was almost forgetting that! That comes of not being used to being married. A special license!" and pondering deeply he reached the house.
The party at the hall was very small indeed now, but Lady Lenore and Lord Charles still remained. Lenore had once or twice declared that she must go, but Lady Wyndward had entreated her to stay.
"Do not go, Lenore," she had said, with gentle significance. "You know—you must know that we count upon you."
She did not say for what purpose she counted upon her, but Lenore had understood, and had smiled with that faint, sweet smile which constituted one of her charms.
Lord Charles stayed because Leycester was still there.
"Of course I ought to go, Lady Wyndward," he said; "you must be heartily tired of me, but who is to play billiards with Leycester if I go, or who is to keep him in order, don't you see?" and so he had stayed, with one or two others who were only too glad to remain at the Hall out of the London dust and turmoil.
By all it was quite understood that Lord Leycester should be considered as quite a free agent, free to come and go as he chose, and never to be counted on; they were as surprised as they were gratified if he joined them in a drive or a walk, and were never astonished when he disappeared without furnishing any clew to his intentions.
Lady Wyndward bore it all very patiently; she knew that what Lady Longford had said was quite true, that it was useless to attempt to drive him; but she did say a word to the old countess.
"There is something amiss!" she said, with a sigh, and the old countess had smiled and shown her teeth.
"Of course there is, my dear Ethel," she retorted; "there always is where he is concerned. He is about some mischief, I am as convinced as you are. But it does not matter, it will come all right in time."
"But will it?" asked Lady Wyndward with a sigh.
"Yes, I think so," said the old countess, "and Lenore agrees with me, or she would not stay."
"It is very good of her to stay," said Lady Wyndward, with a sigh.
"Very!" assented the old lady, with a smile. "It is encouraging. I am sure she would not stay if she did not see excuse. Yes, Ethel it will all come right; he will marry Lenore, or rather, she will marry him, and they will settle down, and—I don't know whether you have asked me to stand god-mother to the first child."
Lady Wyndward tried to feel encouraged and confident, but she felt uneasy. She was surprised that Lenore still remained. She knew nothing of that meeting between the proud beauty and Jasper Adelstone.
And Lenore! A great change had come over her. She herself could scarcely understand it.
At night—as she sat before her glass while her maid brushed out the long tresses that fell over the white shoulders like a stream of liquid gold—she asked herself what it meant? Was it really true that she was in love with Lord Leycester? She had not been in love with him when she first came to the Hall—she would have smiled away the suggestion if anyone had made it; but now—how was it with her now? And as she asked herself the question, a crimson flush would stain the beautiful face, and the violet eyes would gleam with mingledshame and self-scorn, so that the maid would eye her wonderingly under respectfully lowered lids.
Yes, she was forced to admit that she did love him—love him with a passion which was a torture rather than a joy. She had not known the full extent of that passion until the hour when she had stood concealed between the trees at the river, and heard Leycester's voice murmuring words of love to another.
And that other! An unknown, miserable, painter's niece! Often, at night, when the great Hall was hushed and still, she lay tossing to and fro with miserable longing and intolerable shame, as she recalled that hour when she had been discovered by Jasper Adelstone and forced to become his confederate.
She, the great beauty—before whom princes had bent in homage—to be love-smitten by a man whose heart was given to another—she to be the confederate and accomplice of a scheming, under-bred lawyer.
It was intolerable, unbearable, but it was true—it was true; and in the very keenest paroxysm of her shame she would confess that she would do all that she had done, would conspire with even a baser one than Jasper Adelstone to gain her end.
"She!" she would murmur in the still watches of the night—"she to marry the man to whom I have given my love! It is impossible—it shall not be! Though I have to move heaven and earth, it shall not be."
And then, after a sleepless night, she would come down to breakfast—fair, and sweet, and smiling—a little pale, perhaps, but looking all the lovelier for such paleness, without the shadow of a care in the deep violet eyes.
Toward Leycester her bearing was simply perfection. She did not wish to alarm him; she knew that a hint of what she felt would put him on his guard, and she held herself in severe restraint.
Her manner to him was simply what it was to anyone else—exquisitely refined and charming. If anything, she adopted a lighter tone, and sought to and succeeded in calling forth his rare laughter.
She deceived him completely.
"Lenore in love with me!" he said to himself more than once; "the idea is ridiculous! What could have made the mother imagine such a thing?"
And so they met freely and frankly, and he talked and laughed with her at his ease, little dreaming that she was watching him as a cat watches a mouse, and that not a thing he said or did escaped her.
She knew by instinct where he spent the times in which he was missing from the Hall, and pictured to herself the meetings between him and the girl who had robbed her of his love. And as the jealousy increased, so did the love which created it. Day by day she realized still more fully that he had won her heart—that it was gone to him forever—that her whole future happiness depended upon him.
The very tone of his voice, so deep and musical—his rarelaugh—the smile that made his face so gay and bright—yes, even the bursts of the passionate temper which lit up the dark eyes with sudden fire, were precious to her.
"Yes, I love him," she murmured to herself—"it is all summed up in that. I love him."
And Leycester, still smiling to himself over his mother's "amusing mistake," was all unsuspecting. All his thoughts were of Stella.
Now as he came toward the terrace, she stood with Lady Longford and Lord Charles looking down at him.
She watched him, her cheek resting on her white hand, her face hidden from the rest by the sunshade, whose lining of hearty blue harmonized with the golden hair, and "her heart hungered," as Victor Hugo says.
"Here's Leycester," said Lord Charles.
Lady Longford looked over the balustrade.
"What has he been doing? Rowing—fishing?"
"He went out with a fishing rod," said Lord Charles, with a grin, "but the fish appear to have devoured it; at any rate Leycester hasn't got it now. Hullo, old man, where have you been? Come up here!"
Leycester sprang up the steps and stood beside Lenore. It was the first time she had seen him that morning, and she inclined her head and held out her hand with a smile.
He took her hand; it was warm and soft, his own was still cold from his bath, and she opened her eyes widely.
"Your hand is quite cold," she said, then she touched his sleeve, "and you are wet. Where have you been?"
Leycester laughed carelessly.
"I have met with a slight accident, and gained a pleasant bath."
"An accident?" she repeated, not curiously, but with calm, serene interest.
"Yes," he said, shortly, "a young friend of mine fell into the river, and I joined company, just for company's sake."
"I understand," she said with a smile, "you went in to save him."
"Well, that's putting rather a fine point to it," he said, smilingly.
"But it's true. May one ask his name?"
Leycester flicked a piece of moss from the stone coping and hesitated for a moment:
"His name is Frank," he said; "Frank Etheridge."
Lady Lenore nodded.
"A pretty name; I don't remember it. I hope he is grateful."
"I hope so," said Leycester. "I am sure he is more grateful than the occasion merits."
The old countess looked round at him.
"What is it you say?" she said. "You have been in the river after some boy, and you stand there lounging about in your wet clothes? Well, the lad ought to be grateful, for though you will not catch your death, you will in all probability catch a chronic influenza cold, and that's worse than death; it's life witha pocket-handkerchief to your nose. Go and change your things at once."
"I think I had better, after that fearful prognostication," said Leycester, with a smile, and he sauntered off.
"Etheridge," said Lady Longford, "that is the name of that pretty girl with the dark eyes who dined here the other night."
"Yes," said Lenore, indifferently, for the old countess looked at her; she knew that the indifference was assumed.
"If Leycester doesn't take care, he will find himself in danger with those dark eyes. Girls are apt to be grateful toward men who rescue their cousins from a watery grave."
Lady Lenore shifted her sunshade and smiled serenely.
"No doubt she is very grateful. Why should she not be? Do you think Lord Leycester is in danger? I do not." And she strolled away.
The old lady glanced at Lord Charles.
"That is a wonderful girl, Charles," she said, with earnest admiration.
"What, Lenore?" he said. "Rather. Just found it out, Lady Longford?"
"No, Mr. Impertinence. I have known it all along; but she astonishes me afresh every day. What a great name she would have won on the stage. But she will do better as Lady Wyndward."
Lord Charles shook his head, and whistled softly.
"Rather premature that, isn't it?" he said. "Leycester doesn't seem very keen in that quarter, does he?"
Lady Longford smiled at him and showed her teeth.
"What does it matter how he seems?" she said. "It rests with her—with her. You are a nice boy, Charles, but you are not clever."
"Just exactly what my old schoolmaster used to say before he birched me," said Lord Charles.
"If you were clever, if you were anything else than unutterably stupid, you would go and see that Leycester changes his clothes," snapped the old lady. "I'll be bound he is sitting or lounging about in those wet things still!"
"A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse," said Lord Charles, laughing. "I'll go and do as I am bidden. He will probably tell me to go and mind my own business, but here goes," and he walked off toward the house.
He found Leycester in the hands of his valet, being rapidly transferred from wet flannels to orthodox morning attire, and apparently the valet was not having a particularly easy time of it.
Lord Charles sank into a chair, and watched the performance with amused interest.
"What's the matter Ley?" he asked, when the man left the room for a moment. "You'll drive that poor devil into a lunatic asylum."
"He's so confoundedly slow," answered Leycester, brushing away at his hair, which the valet had already arranged, and tugging at a refractory scarf. "I haven't a moment to lose."
"May one ask whence this haste?" said Lord Charles, with a smile.
Leycester colored slightly.
"I've half a mind to tell you, Charlie," he said, "but I can't. I'd better keep it to myself."
"I'm glad of it," retorted Lord Charles. "I'm sure it's some piece of madness, and if you told me, you'd want me to take a hand in it."
"But that's just it," said Leycester, with a laugh. "You've got to take a hand in it, old fellow."
"Oh!"
Leycester nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, with a musical laugh.
"The best of you, Charlie," he said, "is, that one can always rely on you."
Lord Charles groaned.
"Don't—don't, Ley!" he implored. "I know that phrase so well; you always were wont to use it when there was some particularly evil piece of business to be done in the old days. Frankly, I'm a reformed character, and I decline to aid and abet you in any further madness."
"This isn't madness," said Leycester;—"oh, keep outside a moment, Oliver, I don't want you;—this is not madness, Charlie; it's the sanest thing I've ever done in my life."
"I dare say."
"It is indeed. Look here! I am going up to London."
"I guessed that. Poor London!"
"Do stop and listen to me—I haven't a moment to spare. I want you to do a little delicate service for me."
"I decline. What is it?" retorts Lord Charles, inconsistently.
"It is very simple. I want you to deliver a note for me."
"Oh, come, you know! Won't one of the army of servants, who devour the land like locusts, serve your turn?"
"No; no none will do but yourself. I want this note delivered, at once. And I don't want anyone but our two selves to know anything about it; I don't want it to be carried about in one of the servant's pockets for an hour or two."
Lord Charles stretched his legs and shook his head.
"Look here, Ley, isn't this rather too 'thin?'" he remonstrated. "Of course it's to someone of the gentler sex!"
Leycester smiled.
"You are wrong," he said, with a smile. "Where's the Bradshaw, Oliver!" and he opened the door. "Put out the note-paper, and then tell them to get a dogcart to take me to the station."
"You will want me, my lord?"
"No, I am going alone. Look sharp!"
Oliver put out the writing materials and departed, and Leycester sat down and stared for a moment at the crested paper.
"Shall I go?" asked Lord Charles, ironically.
"No, I don't mean to lose sight of you, old fellow," replied Leycester. "Sit where you are."
"Can I help you? I am rather good at amorous epistles, especially other people's."
"Be quiet."
Then he seized the pen and wrote:—
"My Dear Frank—I have inclosed a note for Stella. Will you give it to her when she is alone, and with your own hand! She will tell you that I have asked her to come with you by the eleven o'clock train to-morrow. Will you bring her to 24 Bruton Street? I shall meet you there instead of meeting you at the station. You see I put it quite simply, and am quite confident that you will help us. You know our secret, and will stand by us, will you not? Of course you will come without any luggage, and without letting anyone divine your intentions.""Yours, my dear Frank,"Leycester."
"My Dear Frank—I have inclosed a note for Stella. Will you give it to her when she is alone, and with your own hand! She will tell you that I have asked her to come with you by the eleven o'clock train to-morrow. Will you bring her to 24 Bruton Street? I shall meet you there instead of meeting you at the station. You see I put it quite simply, and am quite confident that you will help us. You know our secret, and will stand by us, will you not? Of course you will come without any luggage, and without letting anyone divine your intentions."
"Yours, my dear Frank,"Leycester."
This was all very well. It was easy enough to write to the boy, because he, Leycester, knew that if he had asked Frank to walk through fire, Frank would do it! But Stella?
A sharp pang of doubt assailed him as he took up the second sheet of paper. Suppose she should not come!
He got up and strode to and fro the room, his brows knit, the old look of determination on his face.
"Drop it, Ley," said Lord Charles, quietly.
Leycester stopped, and smiled down at him.
"You don't know what that would mean, Charlie," he said.
"Perhaps I do to—her, whomsoever it should be."
Then Leycester laughed outright.
"You are on the wrong track this time, altogether," he said, "quite wrong."
And he sat down and plunged into his letter.
Like the first, it was very short.
"My Darling,—Do not be frightened when you read what follows, and do not hesitate. Think, as you read, that our happiness depends upon your decision. I want you to come, with Frank, by the eleven o'clock train to London, whither I am going now. I want you to take a cab and go to 24 Bruton Street, where I shall be waiting for you. You know what will happen, my darling! Before the morrow you and I will have set out on that long journey through life, hand-in-hand, man and wife. My pen trembles as I write the words. You will come, Stella? Think! I know what you will feel—I know as if I were standing beside you, how you will tremble, and hesitate, and dread the step; but you must take it, dearest! Once we are married all will go well and pleasantly. I cannot wait any longer: why should I? I have written to Frank, and confided him to your care. Trust yourself to him, throw all your doubts and fears to the winds. Think only of my love, and, may I add, your own?""Yours ever,"Leycester."
"My Darling,—Do not be frightened when you read what follows, and do not hesitate. Think, as you read, that our happiness depends upon your decision. I want you to come, with Frank, by the eleven o'clock train to London, whither I am going now. I want you to take a cab and go to 24 Bruton Street, where I shall be waiting for you. You know what will happen, my darling! Before the morrow you and I will have set out on that long journey through life, hand-in-hand, man and wife. My pen trembles as I write the words. You will come, Stella? Think! I know what you will feel—I know as if I were standing beside you, how you will tremble, and hesitate, and dread the step; but you must take it, dearest! Once we are married all will go well and pleasantly. I cannot wait any longer: why should I? I have written to Frank, and confided him to your care. Trust yourself to him, throw all your doubts and fears to the winds. Think only of my love, and, may I add, your own?"
"Yours ever,"Leycester."
He inclosed Stella's letter in a small envelope, and that, with Frank's letter, in a larger one, which he addressed to Frank.
"There," he said, balancing it on his finger and smiling, in his eager, impatient way—"there is the missive, Charlie. Read the superscription thereof."
Lord Charles took the letter gingerly, and shook his head.
"The lad you picked out of the water," he said. "What does it mean? I wish you'd drop it, Ley."
Leycester shook his head.
"This is the last time I shall ask you to do me a favor, Charlie——"
"Till the next."
"You mustn't refuse. I want you to give this to the boy. You will find him down at Etheridge's cottage. You cannot mistake him; he is a fair, delicate-looking boy, with yellow hair and blue eyes."
Lord Charles hesitated and looked up with a grave light in his eyes and a faint flush on his face.
"Ley," he said, in a low voice, "she is too good, far too good."
Lord Leycester's face flushed.
"If it were any other man, Charlie," he said, looking him full in the eyes, "I should cut up rough. I tell you that you misunderstand me—and you wrong me."
"Then," said Lord Charles, "it is almost a worse case. Ley, Ley, what are you going to do?"
"I am going to do what no man on earth could prevent me doing," said Leycester, calmly, but with a fierce light in his eyes. "Not even you, Charlie."
Lord Charles rose.
"Give me the letter," he said, quietly. "At any rate, I know when words are useless. Is there anything else? Shall I order a straight waistcoat? This, mark my words, Ley!—this—if it is what I conjecture it to be—this is the very maddest thing you have ever done!"
"It is the very wisest and sanest," responded Leycester. "No, there is nothing else, Charlie. I may wire for you to-morrow. If I do, you will come?"
"Yes, I will come," said Lord Charles.
Oliver knocked at the moment.
"The dogcart is waiting, my lord, and there is only just time."
Leycester and Lord Charles passed out and down the stairs.
The sound of laughter and music floated faintly through the parted curtains of the drawing-room.
"What shall I say to them?" asked Lord Charles, nodding toward the room.
Leycester smiled, grimly.
"Tell them," he said, "that I have gone to townon business," and he laughed quietly.
Then suddenly he stopped as if a thought had struck him, and glanced at his watch.
"One moment," he said, and ran lightly up the stairs to Lilian's room. Her maid met him at the door.
"Her ladyship is asleep," she said.
Leycester hesitated, then he signed to her to open the door, and entered.
Lady Lilian lay extended on her couch, her eyes closed, a faint, painful smile on her face.
He stood and looked at her a moment, then he bent and lightly touched her lips with his.
"Good-bye, Lil," he murmured. "You at least will understand."
Then he ran down, putting on his gloves, and had one foot on the dogcart step when Lady Wyndward came into the hall.
"Leycester," she said, "where are you going?"
He turned and looked at her rather wistfully. Lord Charles fingered the letter in his pocket, and wished himself in Peru.
"To London, mother," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
It was an unusual question for her, who rarely asked him his intentions, or the why and wherefore, and he hesitated.
"On business," he said.
She looked at the flushed face and the fire smoldering in his eyes, and then at Lord Charles, who jingled the money in his pocket, and whistled softly, with an air of pure abstraction.
"What is it?" she asked, and an unusual look of trouble and doubt came into her eyes.
"Nothing that need trouble you, mother," he said. "I shall be back—" he stopped; when should he be back?—"soon," he added.
Then he stooped and kissed her.
Lady Wyndward looked up into his eyes.
"Don't go, Leycester," she murmured.
Almost roughly, in his impatience, he put her arm from him.
"You don't know what you ask," he said. Then in a gentle tone he said "Good-bye," and sprang into the cart.
The horse rose for a moment, then put his fore feet down and went off like a rocket under the sharp cut of the whip, and Lady Wyndward, with a sigh of apprehension, turned to where Lord Charles had stood.
Had stood; for he had seized the moment of departure to steal off.
He had helped Leycester in many a mad freak, had stood in with him in many a wild adventure, which had cost them much after trouble and no small amount of money, but Lord Charles had a shrewd suspicion that this which he was asked to assist in was the climax of all that had gone before. But he felt that he must do it. As we have said, there were times when words were of as little use as chaff with Leycester, and this was one of them.
Ruefully, but unshaken in his devotion, he went up-stairs for his hat and stick, and sauntered down, still wishing that he could have been in Peru.
"There will be a terrible storm," he muttered. "His people will cut up rough, and I shall, of course, bear some portion ofthe blame; but I don't mind that! It is Ley I am thinking of! Will it turn out all right?"
He was asking himself the question dolefully and helplessly as he descended the stairs, when he became conscious of the graceful form of Lady Lenore standing in the hall and looking up at him.
She had watched Lord Leycester's departure from the window; she knew that he was going to town suddenly—knew that Lord Charles had been closeted with him, and now only needed to glance at Lord Charles' rueful face to be convinced that something had happened. But there was nothing of this in her smile as she looked up at him, gently fluttering a Japanese fan, and holding back the trailing skirts with her white, bejeweled fingers.
Lord Charles started as he saw her.
"By Jove!" he murmured, "if it is as I think, what will she do?" and with an instinctive dread he felt half inclined to turn and reascend the stairs, but Lenore was too quick for him.
"We have been looking for you, Lord Charles," she said, languidly. "Some rash individual has proposed lawn-tennis; we want you to play."
Lord Charles looked confused. The letter burnt his pocket, and he knew that he should know no peace until he got rid of it.
"Awfully sorry," he said; "going down to the post-office to post a letter."
Lady Lenore smiled, and glanced archly at the clock.
"No post till seven," she said; "won't it do after our game?"
"No post!" he said, with affected concern. "Better telegraph," he muttered.
"I'll get you a form!" she said, sweetly; "and you can send it by one of the pages."
"Eh?" he stammered, blushing like a school-boy. "No, don't trouble; couldn't think of it. After all it doesn't matter."
Then she knew that Leycester had given him some missive, and she watched him closely. No poorer hand at deception than poor Charles could possibly be imagined; he felt as if the softly-smiling velvet eyes could see into his pocket, and his hand closed over the letter with a movement that she noted instantly.
"It is a letter," she thought, "and it is for her."
And a pang of jealous fire ran through her, but she still looked up at him with a languid smile.
"Well, are you coming?"
"Of course," he assented, with too palpably-feigned alacrity. And he ran down the stairs.
She caught up a sun-hat and put it on, and pointed to the racquets that stood in their stand in the hall. She would not let him out of her sight for a moment.
"They are all waiting," she said.
He followed her on to the lawn. The group stood playing with the balls, and waiting impatiently.
Lord Charles looked round helplessly, but he had no time to think.
"Shall we play together?" said Lenore. "We know each other's play so well."
Lord Charles nodded, not too gallantly.
"All right," he said; and as he spoke, his hand wandered to his pocket.
The game commenced. They were well matched, and presently Lord Charles, whose two games were billiards and tennis, got interested. He also got warm, and taking off his coat, flung it on to the grass.
Lady Lenore glanced at it, and presently, as she changed places with him, took off her bracelet and threw it on the coat.
"Jewelery is superfluous in tennis," she said, with a soft laugh. "We mean to win this set, do we not, Lord Charles?"
He laughed.
"If you say so," he replied. "You always win if you mean it."
"Nearly always," she said, with a significant smile.
All the four were enthusiasts, if Lenore could be called enthusiastic about anything, and the game was hotly contested. The sun poured down upon their faces, but they played on, pausing occasionally for the usual squabble over the scoring; the servants brought claret and champagne cup; Lady Wyndward and the earl came out and sat in the shade, watching.
"We shall win!" exclaimed Lord Charles, the perspiration running down his face, his whole soul absorbed in the work, the letter entirely forgotten.
"I think so," said Lady Lenore, but as she spoke she missed a long ball.
"How did you manage that?" he inquired.
"It is the racquet," she said, apologetically. "It is a little too heavy. It always gets too heavy when I have been playing a little while. I wish I had my other one."
"I'll send for it," he said, eagerly.
"No, no," she said. "They won't know which it is—they never do."
"I'll go for it, then," he said, gracefully. "Can't lose the game, you know."
"Will you?" she said, eagerly. "It stands on the hall table——"
"I know," he said. "Wait a moment!" he called out to the others, and bolted off.
Lenore looked after him for a moment, then she glanced round. The other two were standing discussing the game; the on-lookers were gathered round the champagne cup. Lady Wyndward was lost in thought, with eyes bent to the ground.
The beauty's eyes flashed, and her face grew slightly pale. Her eyes wandered to the coat, she hesitated for a moment, then she walked leisurely toward it and stooped down and picked up the bracelet. As she did so she turned the coat over with her other hand, and drew the note from the pocket.
A glance put her in possession of the address, and she returned the note to its place, and strolled back to the tennis-courtwith an unmoved countenance; but her heart beat fast, as her acute brain seized upon the problem and worked it out.
A note to the boy! A letter which can be confided to no less trusty a hand than Lord Charles! Leycester's sudden departure for London! Lord Charles's confusion and embarrassment! Secresy and mystery! What does it mean?
A presentiment seemed to possess her that a critical moment had arrived. She seemed to feel, by instinct, that some movement was in progress by which she should lose all chance of securing Leycester.
Her heart beat fast, so fast that the delicate veins in her white hands throbbed; but she still smiled, and even glided across to Lady Wyndward, who sat thoughtfully in the shade, looking at the tennis, but thinking of Leycester.
She looked up as the tall graceful figure approached.
"You are tiring yourself to death, my dear," she said, with a sigh.
"No, I am enjoying it. What is the matter?"
Lady Wyndward looked at her candidly.
"I am troubled about my only troublous subject. Leycester has gone off again."
"I know," was the quiet answer.
"Where, I know not; he said London. I don't know why I should feel particularly uneasy, but I do. There is some plot afoot between Lord Charles and him."
"I know it," smiled Lenore, "Lord Charles is not good at keeping a secret. He makes a very bad conspirator."
"He would do anything for Leycester, any mad thing," sighed Lady Wyndward.
The beautiful face smiled down at her thoughtfully for a moment, then Lenore said:
"Do you think you could keep Lord Charles on the tennis-lawn, here, for half-an-hour?"
"Why?" asked Lady Wyndward. "Yes, I think so."
"Do so, then," replied Lady Lenore, "I will tell you why afterward. Lord Charles is very clever, no doubt, but I think I am cleverer, don't you?"
"I think you are all that is good and beautiful, my dear," sighed the anxious mother.
"Dear Lady Wyndward," softly murmured the beauty. "Well, keep him chained here for half-an-hour, and leave the rest to me. I am not apt to ask unreasonable requests, dear."
"No. I'll do anything you want or tell me," replied Lady Wyndward. "I am full of anxious fears, Lenore. Do you know what it means?"
Lady Lenore hesitated.
"No. I do not know, but I think I can guess. See, here he comes."
Lord Charles came striding along, swinging the racquet.
"Here you are, Lady Lenore. Is that the right one?"
"Yes," she said, "but I can't play any longer. I am so sorry, but I have hurt my hand. No, it's a mere nothing. I am going in to bathe it."
"Oh, it's an awful pity," said Lord Charles. "I am very sorry. Well, the game is over. We must play it out another day. I'm going down to the village, and I'll call at the chemist's for a lotion. I expect you have sprained your hand." And suddenly, reminded of his mission, he was walking toward his coat, but Lenore glanced at the countess, and Lady Wyndward stopped him with a word.
"We can't have the game stopped," she said. "Here is Miss Dalton dying to play, aren't you, dear?" she said, turning to a young girl who had been watching the game. "Yes, I knew it. You must take her in place of Lenore. Go on, my dear."
Miss Dalton, or Miss any one else, would as soon have thought of disobeying Lady Wyndward as jumping off the top story of the Hall, and the girl rose obediently and took the racquet which Lenore smilingly held out to her.