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Copyright Fiction by the Best Authors

NEW EAGLE SERIES

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CONTENTS.

[1]

ONLY A GIRL’S LOVE.

CHAPTER I.

It is a warm evening in early Summer; the sun is setting behind
a long range of fir and yew-clad hills, at the feet of which
twists in and out, as it follows their curves, a placid, peaceful
river. Opposite these hills, and running beside the river, are
long-stretching meadows, brilliantly green with fresh-springing
grass, and gorgeously yellow with newly-opened buttercups.
Above, the sunset sky gleams and glows with fiery red and
rich deep chromes. And London is almost within sight.

It is a beautiful scene, such as one sees only in this England
of ours—a scene that defies poet and painter. At this very moment
it is defying one of the latter genus; for in a room of a
low-browed, thatched-roofed cottage which stood on the margin
of the meadow, James Etheridge sat beside his easel, his eyes
fixed on the picture framed in the open window, his brush and
mahl-stick drooping in his idle hand.

Unconsciously he, the painter, made a picture worthy of
study. Tall, thin, delicately made, with pale face crowned and
set in softly-flowing white hair, with gentle, dreamy eyes ever
seeking the infinite and unknown, he looked like one of those
figures which the old Florentine artists used to love to put upon
their canvases, and which when one sees even now makes one
strangely sad and thoughtful.

The room was a fitting frame for the human subject; it was a
true painter’s studio—untidy, disordered, and picturesque. Finished
and unfinished pictures hung or leant against the walls,
suits of armor, antique weapons, strange costumes littered the
floor or hung limply over mediæval chairs; books, some in bindings
which would have made the mouth of a connoisseur water,
lay open upon the table or were piled in a distant corner.
And over all silence—unbroken save by the sound of the water
rushing over the weir, or the birds which flitted by the open
window—reigned supreme.

The old man sat for some time listening to Nature’s music, and
lost in dreamy admiration of her loveliness, until the striking of
the church clock floated from the village behind the house; then,[2]
with a start, he rose, took up his brushes, and turned again to
the easel. An hour passed, and still he worked, the picture
growing beneath the thin, skillful hand; the birds sank into
silence, the red faded slowly from the sky, and night unfolded
its dark mantle ready to let it fall upon the workaday world.

Silence so profound took to itself the likeness of loneliness;
perhaps the old man felt it so, for as he glanced at the waning
light and lay his brush down, he put his hand to his brow and
sighed. Then he turned the picture on the easel, made his way
with some little difficulty, owing to the litter, across the room,
found and lit an old briar-wood pipe, and dropping into the chair
again, fixed his eyes upon the scene, and fell into the dreamy
state which was habitual with him.

So lost in purposeless memory was he, that the opening of the
door failed to rouse him.

It was opened very gently and slowly, and as slowly and noiselessly
a young girl, after pausing a moment at the threshold,
stepped into the room, and stood looking round her and at the
motionless figure in the chair by the window.

She stood for full a minute, her hand still holding the handle
of the door, as if she were not certain of her welcome—as if the
room were strange to her, then, with a little hurried pressure of
her hand to her bosom, she moved toward the window.

As she did so her foot struck against a piece of armor, and
the noise aroused the old man and caused him to look round.

With a start he gazed at the girl as if impressed with the idea
that she must be something unsubstantial and visionary—some
embodiment of his evening dreams, and so he sat looking at her,
his artist eye taking in the lithe, graceful figure, the beautiful
face, with its dark eyes and long, sweeping lashes, its clearly
penciled brows, and soft, mobile lips, in rapt absorption.

It is possible that if she had turned and left him, never to
have crossed into his life again, he would have sunk back into
dreamland, and to the end of his days have regarded her as unreal
and visionary; but, with a subtle, graceful movement, the
girl threaded the maze of litter and disorder and stood beside
him.

He, still looking up, saw that the beautiful eyes were dim,
that the exquisitely curved lips were quivering with some intense
emotion, and suddenly there broke upon the silence a low,
sweet voice:

“Are you James Etheridge?”

The artist started. It was not the words, but the tone—the
voice that startled him, and for a brief second he was still dumb,
then he rose, and looking at her with faint, trembling questioning,
he answered:

“Yes, that is my name. I am James Etheridge.”

Her lips quivered again, but still, quietly and simply, she
said:

“You do not know me? I am Stella—your niece, Stella.”

The old man threw up his head and stared at her, and she saw
that he trembled.

“Stella—my niece—Harold’s child!”

[3]

“Yes,” she said, in a low voice, “I am Stella.”

“But, merciful Heaven!” he exclaimed, with agitation, “how
did you come here? Why—I thought you were at the school
there in Florence—why—have you come here alone?”

Her eyes wandered from his face to the exquisite scene beyond,
and at that moment her look was strangely like his own.

“Yes, I came alone, uncle,” she said.

“Merciful Heaven!” he murmured again, sinking into his
chair. “But why—why?”

The question is not unkindly put, full, rather, of a troubled
perplexity and bewilderment.

Stella’s eyes returned to his face.

“I was unhappy, uncle,” she said, simply.

“Unhappy!” he echoed, gently—”unhappy! My child, you
are too young to know what the word means. Tell me”—and
he put his long white hand on her arm.

The touch was the one thing needed to draw them together.
With a sudden, yet not abrupt movement, she slid down at his
side and leant her head on his arm.

“Yes, I was very unhappy, uncle. They were hard and unkind.
They meant well perhaps, but it was not to be borne.
And then—then, after papa died, it was so lonely, so lonely.
There was no one—no one to care for me—to care whether one
lived or died. Uncle, I bore it as long as I could, and then I—came.”

The old man’s eyes grew dim, and his hand rose gently to her
head, and smoothed the rich, silky hair.

“Poor child! poor child!” he murmured, dreamily, looking
not at her, but at the gloaming outside.

“As long as I could, uncle, until I felt that I must run away,
or go mad, or die. Then I remembered you, I had never seen
you, but I remembered that you were papa’s brother, and that,
being of the same blood, you must be good, and kind, and true;
and so I resolved to come to you.”

His hand trembled on her head, but he was silent for a moment;
then he said, in a low voice:

“Why did you not write?”

A smile crossed the girl’s face.

“Because they would not permit us to write, excepting under
their dictation.”

He started, and a fiery light flashed from the gentle, dreamy
eyes.

“No letters were allowed to leave the school unless the principals
had read them. We were never out alone, or I would have
posted a letter unknown to them. No, I could not write, or I
would have done so, and—and—waited.”

“You would not have waited long, my child,” he murmured.

She threw back her head and kissed his hand. It was a strange
gesture, more foreign than English, full of the impulsive gracefulness
of the passionate South in which she had been born and
bred; it moved the old man strangely, and he drew her still
closer to him as he whispered—

“Go on!—go on!”

[4]

“Well I made up my mind to run away,” she continued. “It
was a dreadful thing to do, because if I had been caught and
brought back, they would have——”

“Stop, stop!” he broke in with passionate dread. “Why did
I not know of this? How did Harold come to send you there?
Great Heaven! a young tender girl! Can Heaven permit it?”

“Heaven permits strange things, uncle,” said the girl, gravely.
“Papa did not know, just as you did not know. It was an
English school, and all was fair and pleasant outside—outside!
Well the night just after I had received the money you used to
send me each quarter, I bribed one of the servants to leave the
door open and ran away. I knew the road to the coast and
knew what day and time the boat started. I caught it and
reached London. There was just enough money to pay the fare
down here, and I—I—that is all, uncle.”

“All?” he murmured. “A young, tender child!”

“And are you not angry?” she asked, looking up into his face.
“You will not send me back?”

“Angry! Send you back! My child, do you think if I had
known, if I could have imagined that you were not well treated,
that you were not happy, that I would have permitted you to
remain a day, an hour longer than I could have helped? Your
letters always spoke of your contentment and happiness.”

She smiled.

“Remember, they were written with someone looking over my
shoulder.”

Something like an imprecation, surely the first that he had
uttered for many a long year, was smothered on the gentle
lips.

“I could not know that—I could not know that, Stella! Your
father thought it best—I have his last letter. My child, do not
cry——”

She raised her face.

“I am not crying; I never cry when I think of papa, uncle,
Why should I? I loved him too well to wish him back from
Heaven.”

The old man looked down at her with a touch of awe in his
eyes.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured; “it was his wish that you should
remain there at school. He knew what I was, an aimless dreamer,
a man living out of the world, and no fit guardian for a
young girl. Oh, yes, Harold knew. He acted for the best, and
I was content. My life was too lonely, and quiet, and lifeless
for a young girl, and I thought that all was right, while those
fiends——”

She put her hand on his arm.

“Do not let us speak of them, or think of them any more, uncle.
You will let me stay with you, will you not? I shall not think
your life lonely; it will be a Paradise after that which I have
left—Paradise. And, see, I will strive to make it less lonely;
but”—and she turned suddenly with a look of troubled fear—”but
perhaps I shall be in your way?” and she looked round.

“No, no,” he said, and he put his hand to his brow. “It is[5]
strange! I never felt my loneliness till now! and I would not
have you go for all the world!”

She wound her arms round him, and nestled closer, and there
was silence for a space; then he said:

“How old are you, Stella?”

She thought a moment.

“Nineteen, uncle.”

“Nineteen—a child!” he murmured; then he looked at her,
and his lips moved inaudibly as he thought, “Beautiful as an
angel,” but she heard him, and her face flushed, but the next
moment she looked up frankly and simply.

“You would not say that much if you had seen my mamma.
She was beautiful as an angel. Papa used to say that he wished
you could have seen her; that you would have liked to paint her.
Yes, she was beautiful.”

The artist nodded.

“Poor, motherless child!” he murmured.

“Yes, she was beautiful,” continued the girl, softly. “I can
just remember her, uncle. Papa never recovered from her
death. He always said that he counted the days till he should
meet her again. He loved her so, you see.”

There was silence again; then the artist spoke:

“You speak English with scarcely an accent, Stella.”

The girl laughed; it was the first time she had laughed, and it
caused the uncle to start. It was not only because it was unexpected,
but because of its exquisite music. It was like the trill
of a bird. In an instant he felt that her childish sorrow had not
imbittered her life or broken her spirit. He found himself
almost unconsciously laughing in harmony.

“What a strange observation, uncle!” she said, when the laugh
had died away. “Why I am English! right to the backbone, as
papa used to say. Often and often he used to look at me and
say: ‘Italy has no part and parcel in you beyond your birth,
Stella; you belong to that little island which floats on the Atlantic
and rules the world.’ Oh, yes, I am English. I should be sorry
to be anything else, notwithstanding mamma was an Italian.”

He nodded.

“Yes, I remember Harold—your father—always said you
were an English girl. I am glad of that.”

“So am I,” said the girl, naively.

Then he relapsed into one of his dreamy silences, and she
waited silent and motionless. Suddenly he felt her quiver under
his arm, and heave a long, deep sigh.

With a start he looked down; her face had gone wofully pale
to the very lips.

“Stella!” he cried, “what is it? Are you ill? Great Heaven!”

She smiled up at him.

“No, no, only a little tired; and,” with naive simplicity, “I
think I am a little hungry. You see, I only had enough for the
fare.”

“Heaven forgive me!” he cried, starting up so suddenly as almost
to upset her. “Here have I been dreaming and mooning
while the child was starving. What a brainless idiot I am!”

[6]

And in his excitement he hurried up and down the room,
knocking over a painting here and a lay figure there, and looking
aimlessly about as if he expected to see something in the
shape of food floating in the air.

At last with his hand to his brow he bethought him of the
bell, and rang it until the little cottage resounded as if it were
a fire-engine station. There was a hurried patter of footsteps
outside, the door was suddenly opened, and a middle-aged woman
ran in, with a cap very much awry and a face startled
and flushed.

“Gracious me, sir, what’s the matter?” she exclaimed.

Mr. Etheridge dropped the bell, and without a word of explanation,
exclaimed—”Bring something to eat at once, Mrs. Penfold,
and some wine, at once, please. The poor child is starving.”

The woman looked at him with amazement, that increased as
glancing round the room she failed to see any poor child, Stella
being hidden behind the antique high-backed chair.

“Poor child, what poor child! You’ve been dreaming, Mr.
Etheridge!”

“No, no!” he said, meekly; “it’s all true, Mrs. Penfold. She
has come all the way from Florence without a morsel to eat.”

Stella rose from her ambush.

“Not all the way from Florence, uncle,” she said.

Mrs. Penfold started and stared at the visitor.

“Good gracious me!” she exclaimed; “who is it?”

Mr. Etheridge rubbed his brow.

“Did I not tell you? It is my niece—my niece Stella. She
has come from Italy, and—I wish you’d bring some food. Bring
a bottle of the old wine. Sit down and rest, Stella. This is Mrs.
Penfold—she is my housekeeper, and a good woman, but,”—he
added, without lowering his tone in the slightest, though he was
evidently under the idea that he was inaudible—”but rather
slow in comprehension.”

Mrs. Penfold came forward, still flushed and excited, and with
a smile.

“Your niece, sir! Not Mr. Harold’s daughter that you so often
have spoken of! Why, how did you come in, miss?”

“I found the door open,” said Stella.

“Good gracious me! And dropped from the clouds! And
that must have been an hour ago! And you, sir,” looking at the
bewildered artist reproachfully, “you let the dear young thing
sit here with her hat and jacket on all that time, after coming
all that way, without sending for me.”

“We didn’t want you,” said the old man, calmly.

“Want me! No! But the dear child wanted something to eat,
and to rest, and to take her things off. Oh, come with me, miss!
All the way from Florence, and Mr. Harold’s daughter!”

“Go with her, Stella,” said the old man, “and—and,” he
added, gently, “don’t let her keep you long.”

The infinite tenderness of the last words caused Stella to stop
on her way to the door; she came back, and, putting her arms
around his neck, kissed him.

[7]

Then she followed Mrs. Penfold up-stairs to her room, the
good woman talking the whole while in exclamatory sentences
of astonishment.

“And you are Mr. Harold’s daughter. Did you see his portrait
over the mantel-shelf, miss? I should have known you by
that, now I come to look at you,” and she looked with affectionate
interest into the beautiful face, as she helped Stella to take
off her hat. “Yes, I should have known you, miss, in a
moment? And you have come all the way from Italy? Dear
me, it is wonderful. And I’m very glad you have, it won’t be
so lonely for Mr. Etheridge. And is there anything else you
want, miss? You must excuse me for bringing you into my
own room; I’ll have a room ready for you to-night, your own
room, and the luggage, miss——”

Stella smiled and blushed faintly.

“I have none, Mrs. Penfold. I ran—I left quite suddenly.”

“Dearie me!” murmured Mrs. Penfold, puzzled and sympathetic.
“Well, now, it doesn’t matter so long as you are here,
safe, and sound. And now I’ll go and get you something to eat!
You can find your way down?”

“Yes,” Stella said. She could find her way down. She
stood for a moment looking through the window, her long hair
falling in a silky stream down her white shoulders, and the soft,
dreamy look came into her eyes.

“Is it true?” she murmured. “Am I really here at home
with someone to love me—someone whom I can love? Or is it
only a dream, and shall I wake in the cold bare room and find
that I have still to endure the old life? No! It is no dream, it
is true!”

She wound up the long hair and went down to find that Mrs.
Penfold had already prepared the table, her uncle standing beside
and waiting with gentle impatience for her appearance.

He started as she entered, with a distinct feeling of renewed
surprise; the relief from uncertainty as to her welcome, the
kindness of her reception had already refreshed her, and her
beauty shone out unclouded by doubt or nervousness.

The old man’s eyes wandered with artistic approval over the
graceful form and lovely face, and he was almost in the land of
dreams again when Mrs. Penfold roused him by setting a chair
at the table, and handing him a cobwebbed bottle and a corkscrew.

“Miss Stella must be starving, sir!” she said, suggestively.

“Yes, yes,” he assented, and both of them set to work exhorting
and encouraging her to eat, as if they feared she might drop
under the table with exhaustion unless she could be persuaded
to eat of everything on the table.

Mr. Etheridge seemed to place great faith in the old port as a
restorative, and had some difficulty in concealing his disappointment
when Stella, after sipping the first glass, declined any
more on the score that it was strong.

At last, but with visible reluctance, he accepted her assertion
that she was rescued from any chance of starvation, and Mrs.
Penfold cleared the table and left them alone.

[8]

A lamp stood on the table, but the moonbeams poured in
through the window, and instinctively Stella drew near the
window.

“What a lovely place it is, uncle!” she said.

He did not answer, he was watching her musingly, as she
leant against the edge of the wall.

“You must be very happy here.”

“Yes,” he murmured, dreamily. “Yes, and you think you
will be, Stella.”

“Ah, yes,” she answered, in a low voice, and with a low sigh.
“Happier than I can say.”

“You will not feel it lonely, shut up with an old man, a
dreamer, who has parted with the world and almost forgotten
it?”

“No, no! a thousand times no!” was the reply.

He wandered to the fireplace and took up his pipe, but with a
sudden glance at her laid it down again. Slight as was the
action she saw it, and with the graceful, lithe movement which
he had noticed, she glided across the room and took up the
pipe.

“You were going to smoke, uncle.”

“No, no,” he said, eagerly. “No, a mere habit——”

She interrupted him with a smile, and filled the pipe for him
with her taper little fingers, and gave it to him.

“You do not want me to wish that I had not come to you
uncle?”

“Heaven forbid!” he said, simply.

“Then you must not alter anything in your life; you must go
on as if I had never dropped from the clouds to be a burden
upon you.”

“My child!” he murmured, reproachfully.

“Or to make you uncomfortable. I could not bear that,
uncle.”

“No, no!” he said, “I will alter nothing, Stella; we will be
happy, you and I.”

“Very happy,” she murmured, softly.

He wandered to the window, and stood looking out; and, unseen
by him, she drew a chair up and cleared it of the litter, and
unconsciously he sat down.

Then she glided to and fro, wandering round the room noiselessly,
looking at the curious lumber, and instinctively picking
up the books and putting them in something like order on the
almost empty shelves.

Every now and then she took up one of the pictures which
stood with their faces to the wall, and her gaze would wander
from it to the painter sitting in the moonlight, his white hair
falling on his shoulders, his thin, nervous hands clasped on his
knee.

She, who had spent her life in the most artistic city of the
world, knew that he was a great painter, and, child-woman as
she was, wondered why the world permitted him to remain unknown
and unnoticed. She had yet to learn that he cared as
little for fame as he did for wealth, and to be allowed to live for[9]
his art and dream in peace was all he asked from the world in
which he lived but in which he took no part. Presently she
came back to the window, and stood beside him; he started
slightly and put out his hand, and she put her thin white one
into it. The moon rose higher in the heavens, and the old man
raised his other hand and pointed to it in silence.

As he did so, Stella saw glide into the scene—as it was touched
by the moonbeams—a large white building rearing above the
trees on the hill-top, and she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“What house is that, uncle? I had no idea one was there
until this moment!”

“That is Wyndward Hall, Stella,” he replied, dreamily; “it
was hidden by the shadow and the clouds.”

“What a grand place!” she murmured. “Who lives there
uncle?”

“The Wyndwards,” he answered, in the same musing tone,
“the Wyndwards. They have lived there for hundreds of years,
Stella. Yes, it is a grand place.”

“We should call it a palace in Italy, uncle.”

“It is a palace in England, but we are more modest. They
are contented to call it the Hall. An old place and an old race.”

“Tell me about them,” she said, quietly. “Do you know
them—are they friends of yours?”

“I know them. Yes, they are friends, as far as there be any
friendship between a poor painter and the Lord of Wyndward.
Yes, we are friends; they call them proud, but they are not too
proud to ask James Etheridge to dinner occasionally; and they
accuse him of pride because he declines to break the stillness of
his life by accepting their hospitality. Look to the left there,
Stella. As far as you can see stretch the lands of Wyndward—they
run for miles between the hills there.”

“They have some reason to be proud,” she murmured, with a
smile. “But I like them because they are kind to you.”

He nodded.

“Yes, the earl would be more than kind, I think——”

“The earl?”

“Yes, Lord Wyndward, the head of the family; the Lord of
Wyndward they call him. They have all been called Lords of
Wyndward by the people here, who look up to them as if they
were something more than human.”

“And does he live there alone?” she asked, gazing at the gray
stone mansion glistening in the moonlight.

“No, there is a Lady Wyndward, and a daughter—poor girl.”

“Why do you say poor girl?” asked Stella.

“Because all the wealth of the race would not make her otherwise
than an object of tender pity. She is an invalid; you see
that window—the one with the light in it?”

“Yes,” Stella said.

“That is the window of her room; she lies there on a sofa,
looking down the valley all the day!”

[10]

CHAPTER II.

“Poor girl!” murmured Stella. There was silence for a moment.
“And those three live there all alone?” she said.

“Not always,” he replied, musingly. “Sometimes, not often,
the son Leycester comes down. He is Viscount Trevor.”

“The son,” said Stella. “And what is he like?”

The question seemed to set some train of thought in action;
the old man relapsed into silence for a few minutes. Then suddenly
but gently he rose, and going to the other end of the room,
fetched a picture from amongst several standing against the
wall, and held it toward her.

“That is Lord Leycester,” he said.

Stella took the canvas in her hand, and held it to the light,
and an exclamation broke involuntarily from her lips.

“How beautiful he is!”

The old man took the picture from her, and resting it on his
knees, gazed at it musingly.

“Yes,” he said, “it is a grand face; one does not see such a
face often.”

Stella leant over the chair and looked at it with a strange
feeling of interest and curiosity, such as no simply beautiful picture
would have aroused.

It was not the regularity of the face, with its clear-cut features
and its rippling chestnut hair, that, had it been worn by a
Wyndward of a hundred years ago, would have fallen in rich
curls upon the square, well-formed shoulders. It was not the
beauty of the face, but a something indefinable in the carriage
of the head and the expression of the full, dark eyes that attracted,
almost fascinated, her.

It was in a voice almost hushed by the indescribable effect
produced by the face, that she said:

“And he is like that?”

“It is lifelike,” he answered. “I, who painted it, should not
say it, but it is like him nevertheless—that is Leycester Wyndward.
Why did you ask?”

Stella hesitated.

“Because—I scarcely know. It is such a strange face, uncle.
The eyes—what is it in the eyes that makes me almost unable to
look away from them?”

“The reflection of a man’s soul, Stella,” he said.

It was a strange answer, and the girl looked down at the
strange face interrogatively.

“The reflection of a man’s soul, Stella. The Wyndwards
have always been a wild, reckless, passionate race; here, in this
village, they have innumerable legends of the daring deeds of
the lords of Wyndward. Murder, rapine, and high-handed
tyranny in the olden times, wild license and desperate profligacy
in these modern ones; but of all the race this Leycester Wyndward
is the wildest and most heedless. Look at him, Stella, you
see him here in his loose shooting-jacket, built by Poole; with
the diamond pin in his irreproachable scarf, with his hair cut
to the regulation length: I see him in armor with his sword upraised[11]
to watch the passionate fire of his eyes. There is a
picture in the great gallery up yonder of one of the Wyndwards
clad just so, in armor of glittering steel, with one foot on the
body of a prostrate foe, one hand upraised to strike the death-dealing
blow of his battle-ax. Yes, Leycester Wyndward
should have lived four centuries back.”

Stella smiled.

“Has he committed many murders, uncle, burnt down many
villages?”

The old man started and looked up at the exquisite face, with
its arch smile beaming in the dark eyes and curving the red, ripe
lips, and smiled in response.

“I was dreaming, Stella; an odd trick of mine. No, men of
his stamp are sadly circumscribed nowadays. We have left
them no vent for their natures now, excepting the gambling-table,
the turf, and——” he roused suddenly. “Yes, it’s a beautiful
face, Stella, but it belongs to a man who has done more
harm in his day than all his forefathers did before him. It is
rather a good thing that Wyndward Hall stands so firmly, or
else Leycester would have melted it at ecarte and baccarat long
ago.”

“Is he so bad then?” murmured Stella.

Her uncle smiled.

“Bad is a mild word, Stella; and yet—look at the face again.
I have seen it softened by a smile such as might have been worn
by an innocent child; I have heard those lips laugh as—as women
are supposed to laugh before this world has driven all laughter
out of them; and when those eyes smile there is no resisting
them for man or woman.”

He stopped suddenly and looked up.

“I am wandering on like an old mill. Put the picture away,
Stella.”

She took it from him and carried it across the room, but stood
for a moment silently regarding it by the lamp light. As she
did so, a strange fancy made her start and set the picture on the
table suddenly. It seemed to her as if the dark eyes had suddenly
softened in their intense fixed gaze and smiled at her.

It was the trick of a warm, imaginative temperament, and it
took possession of her so completely that with a swift gesture
she laid her hand over the dark eyes and so hid them.

Then, with a laugh at her own folly, she put the picture
against the wall and went back to the window and sat beside
the old man.

“Tell me about your past life, Stella,” he said, in a low voice.

“It seems to me as if you had always been here. You have a
quiet way of speaking and moving about, child.”

“I learnt that while papa was ill,” she said, simply. “Sometimes
he would sit for hours playing softly, and I did not wish
to disturb him.”

“I remember, I remember,” he murmured. “Stella, the world
should have known something of him; he was a born musician.”

“He used to say the same of you, uncle; you should have been
a famous artist.”

[12]

The old man looked up with a smile.

“My child, there are many men whom the world knows nothing
of—luckily for them. Your father and I were dreamers,
both; the world likes men of action. Can you play?”

She rose and stood for a moment hesitating. In the corner of
the room there was a small chamber organ—one of those wonderful
instruments which in a small space combine the grand
tones of a cathedral organ with the melodious softness of a flute.
It was one of the few luxuries which the artist had permitted
himself, and he was in the habit of playing snatches of Verdi and
Rossini, of Schubert and Mozart, when the fading light compelled
him to lay the brush aside.

Stella went up to it softly and seated herself, and presently began
to play. She attempted no difficult fugue or brilliant march,
but played a simple Florentine vesper hymn, which she had
heard floating from the devout lips of the women kneeling before
the altar of the great church in Florence, and presently began
to sing it.

The old man started as the first clear bird-like notes rose softly
upon the evening air, and then covering his face with his
hands went straight to dreamland.

The vesper hymn died softly, slowly out, and she rose, but
with a gesture of his hand he motioned her to remain at the
organ.

“You have your father’s voice, Stella; sing again.”

She sang a pleasant ditty this time, with a touch of pathos in
the refrain, and hearing a slight noise as she finished, looked
round, and saw the old man rise, and with quivering lips turn
toward the door.

The young girl’s sweet voice had brought back the past and
its dead too plainly, and he had gone out lest she should see his
emotion.

Stella rose and went to the window, and stood looking into
the night. The moonlight was glinting the river in the distance,
and falling in great masses upon the lawn at her feet. Half unconsciously
she opened the window, and stepping out, found
herself in a small garden, beautifully kept and fragrant with
violets; her love for flowers was a passion, and she stepped on
to the path in search of them. The path led in zigzag fashion to
a little wooden gate, by which the garden was entered from the
lane. Stella found some violets, and looking about in search of
further treasure store, saw a bunch of lilac blossom growing in
the lane side.

To open the gate and run lightly up the side of the bank was
the impulse of the moment, and she obeyed it; there were still
deeper masses of flowers a little further down, and she was
walking toward them when she heard the sound of a horse galloping
toward her.

For a moment she was so startled by the unexpected sound
that she stood looking toward the direction whence it came,
and in that moment a horse and rider turned the corner and
made full pelt for the spot where she was standing. Stella
glanced back toward the little white gate to discover that it was[13]
not in sight, and that she had gone further than she intended.
It was of no use to attempt to get back before the horseman
reached her, there was only time to get out of the way. Lightly
springing up the bank, she stood under the lilac tree and
waited.

As she did so, the horse and man came out of the shadow into
the moonlight. To Stella, both looked tremendously big and tall
in the deceptive light, but it was not the size, but the attitude
of the rider which struck her and chained her attention.

She could not see his face, but the figure was that of a young
man, tall and stalwart, and full of a strange, masterful grace
which displayed itself in the easy, reckless way in which he sat
the great animal, and in the poise of the head which, slightly
thrown back, seemed in its very attitude eloquent of pride and
defiance. There was something strange and unusual about the
whole bearing that struck Stella, unused as she was to meeting
horsemen in an English country lane.

As he came a little nearer she noticed that he was dressed in
evening dress, excepting his coat, which was of velvet, and sat
loosely, yet gracefully, upon the stalwart frame. In simple truth
the rider had thrown off his dress coat for a smoking jacket,
and still wore his dress boots. Stella saw the moonlight shining
upon them and upon a ruby, which blazed sullenly upon the
white hand which held the whip.

As if rider and horse were one, they came up the lane, and
were abreast of her, the man all unconscious of her presence.
But not so the horse; his quick, restless eye had caught sight of
the shimmer of Stella’s dress, and with a toss of the head he
swerved aside and stood still. The rider brought his eyes from
the sky, and raising his whip, cut the horse across the flank,
with a gesture of impatient anger; but the horse—a splendid,
huge-boned Irish mare, as fiery and obstinate as a lion—rose on
its hind legs instantly, and the whip came down again.

“Confound you! what is the matter?” exclaimed its master.
“Go on, you idiot!”

The horse pricked its ears at the sound of the familiar voice,
but stood stock still, quivering in every limb.

Stella saw the whip raised again, and instinctively, before she
was aware of it, her womanly protest sprang from her lips.

“No! no!”

At the sound of the eager, imploring voice, the rider kept his
whip poised in the air, then let his arm fall, and dragging rather
than guiding the horse, forced it near the hedge.

“Who is it? Who are you?” he demanded, angrily. “What
the——”

Then he stopped suddenly, and stared speechlessly, motionless,
and transfixed—horse and rider, as it were, turned to stone.

Tall and graceful, with that grace which belongs to the girlhood
which stands on the threshold of womanhood, with her exquisite
face fixed in an expression of mingled fear and pity, and
a shyness struggling with maidenly pride, she made a picture
which was lovely enough to satisfy the requirements of the most[14]
critical and artistic mind—a picture which he who looked upon
it carried with him till the day he died.

For a moment he sat motionless, and as he sat the moon
fell full upon his face, and Stella saw the face of the portrait
whose eyes she had but a few minutes since hidden from her
sight.

A lifetime of emotion may pass in a minute; a life’s fate hangs
upon the balance of a stroke of time. It was only for a moment
that they looked into each other’s eyes in silence, but that
moment meant so much to each of them! It was the horse
that broke the spell by attempting to rise again. With a slight
movement of the hand Leycester Wyndward forced him down,
and then slid from the saddle and stood at Stella’s feet, hat in
hand.

Even then he paused as if afraid, lest a word should cause
the vision to vanish into thin air; but at last he opened his lips.

“I beg your pardon.”

That was all. Four words only, and words that one hears
daily; words that have almost lost their import from too familiar
commonplace, and yet, as he said them, they sounded so
entirely, so earnestly, so intensely significant and full of meaning
that all the commonplace drifted from them, and they conveyed
to the listener’s ear a real and eager prayer for forgiveness;
so real and earnest that to have passed them by with the
conventional smile and bow would have been an insult, and impossible.

But it was not only the words and the tone, but the voice
that thrilled through Stella’s soul, and seemed to wake an echoing
chord. The picture which had so awed her had been dumb
and voiceless; but now it seemed as if it had spoken even as it
had smiled, and for a moment she felt a woman’s desire to shut
out the sound, as she had shut out the smiling eyes.

It was the maidenly impulse of self-protection, against what
evil she did not know or dream.

“I beg your pardon,” he said again, his voice deep and musical,
his eyes raised to hers. “I am afraid I frightened you. I
thought I was alone here. Will you forgive me?”

Stella looked down at him, and a faint color stole into her
cheeks.

“It is I who should beg pardon; I am not frightened, but
your horse was—and by me?”

He half glanced at the horse standing quiet enough now, with
its bridle over his arm.

“He is an idiot!” he said, quickly; “an obstinate idiot, and
incapable of fear. It was mere pretense.”

“For which you punished him,” said Stella, with a quick
smile.

He looked up at her, and slowly there came into his eyes and
his lips that smile of which Mr. Etheridge had spoken, and which
Stella had foreseen.

“You are afraid I am going to whip him again?”

“Yes,” she said, with simple directness.

He looked at her with a curious smile.

[15]

“You are right,” he said; “I was. There are times when he
requires a little correction; to-night is one of them. We have
not seen each other for some little time, and he has forgotten
who is master. But I shall not forget your ‘No,’ and will spare
the whip; are you satisfied?”

It was a strange speech, closing with a strangely abrupt question.
It was characteristic of the speaker, who never in all his
life probably had known for a moment what nervousness or embarrassment
meant. Judging by his tone, the easy flow of the
musical voice, the frank, open manner, one would have imagined
that this meeting with a strange and beautiful girl was the most
matter-of-fact affair.

“Are you satisfied?” he repeated, as Stella remained silent,
trying to fight against the charm of his simple and direct manner.
“If not, perhaps that will do it?” and taking the whip, a
strong hunter’s crop, in both his white hands, he broke it in two
as easily as if it were a reed, and flung it over his shoulder.

Stella flushed, but she laughed, and her dark eyes beamed
down upon him with serious archness.

“Does not that look as if you were afraid you should not keep
your promise?”

He smiled up at her.

“It does,” he said—”you are right; I may have been tempted
beyond my strength. He is a bad-tempered beast, and I am
another. Why do you laugh——?”

He broke off, his voice changing as subtly as some musical instrument.

Stella hesitated a moment.

“I beg you will tell me—I shall not be offended.”

She laughed, and clung with one hand to the lilac, looking
down on him.

“I was thinking how fortunate it was that he could not whip
you. It is not fair, as you are both so bad-tempered, that one
only should get punished.”

He did not laugh, as another man would have done; but there
came into the dark eyes a flash of surprised amusement, such as
might have shone in those of the giant Gulliver when some
Liliputian struck him with a pin-sized stick; and his lips parted
with a smile.

“It was a natural reflection,” he said, after a pause. “Will
you let me help you down?”

Stella shook her head. Somehow she felt safe up there above
him, where but the dark eyes could reach her.

“Thank you, no; I am gathering some lilac. Do not trouble.”

And she turned slightly from him, and stretched up her hand
for a branch above her head. The next moment he sprang up
the bank lightly, and stood beside her.

“Permit me,” he said. And with one sweep he drew the fragrant
branch within her reach.

“And now will you come down?” he asked, as if she were
some willful child. Stella smiled, and he held out his hand.
She put hers into it, and his fingers closed over it with a grasp
firm as steel, but as smooth as a woman’s. As the warm fingers[16]
closed over hers, which were cold with her long grasp of the
branch above her head, a thrill ran through her and caused her
to shudder slightly.

“You are cold,” he said, instantly. “The Spring evenings
are treacherous. Have you far to go?”

“I am not cold, thanks,” she said, with quick alarm, for there
was a look in his eyes and a movement of his hand which seemed
to give warning that he was about to take his coat off.

“I am not at all cold!”

“Have you far to go?” he repeated, with the air, gentle as it
was, of a man who was accustomed to have his questions answered.

“Not far; to the little white gate there,” she answered.

“The little white gate—to Etheridge’s, the artist’s?” he said
gently, with a tone of surprise.

Stella bent her head; his eyes scanned her face.

“You live there—are staying there?”

“Yes.”

“I never saw you in Wyndward before.”

“No, I was never here till to-night.”

“Till to-night?” he echoed. “I knew that I had not seen you
before.”

There was something in the tone, wholly unlike commonplace
flattery, that brought the color to Stella’s face.

They had reached the gate by this time, he walking by her
side, the bridle thrown over his arm, the great horse pacing quiet
and lamb-like, and Stella stopped.

“Good-night,” she said.

He stopped short and looked at her, his head thrown back, as
she had seen it as he rode toward her, his eyes fixed intently on
her face, and seeming to sink through her downcast eyes into
her soul.

“Good-night,” he replied. “Wait.”

It was a word of command, for all its musical gentleness, and
Stella, woman-like, stopped.

“I am going away,” he said, not abruptly, but with calm
directness. “If you have only come to-night I shall not be able
to learn your name; before I go, will you tell it me?”

Stella smiled.

“Why not?” he said, as she hesitated.

“My name is Stella Etheridge, I am Mr. Etheridge’s niece.”

“Stella!” he repeated. “Stella! Thank you. I shall not
forget. My name,” and he raised his hat with a simple gesture
of proud humility, “is Wyndward—Leycester Wyndward.”

“I know it,” said Stella, and the next moment she could have
called the impulsive words back again.

“You know it!” he said; “and came here only to-night!
How is that?”

Stella’s brows contracted, dark and full they met across her
brow in true southern fashion, and lent a significant eloquence
to her face; she would have given much to avoid answering.

“How is that?” he asked, his eyes fixed on hers.

[17]

“It is very simple,” she said, as if vexed at her hesitation. “I
saw your portrait and—knew you.”

He smiled a curious smile.

“Knew me before we met! I wonder——” he paused and his
eyes seemed to read her thoughts. “I wonder whether you
were prejudiced by what you saw by that forshadowing of me?
Is that a fair question?”

“It is a strange one,” said Stella.

“Is it? I will not press it. Good-night!” and he raised his
hat.

“Good-night, and good-bye,” she said, and impulsively again
she held out her hand.

His eyes showed no surprise, whatever he may have felt, as
he took her hand and held it.

“No,” he said, as he let her draw it away. “Not good-bye. I
have changed my mind. I shall not go. It is only good-night,”
and with a smile flashing out of his eyes, he leapt upon his horse
and was gone.

CHAPTER III.

Stella stood watching until the big chestnut had borne its
master out of sight, and down the lane, across the meadow; she
caught one more glimpse of them as he rode through the ford,
the water dashing up a silver shower of spray as high as the
horse’s head; then they vanished in the shadow of the woods
which engirdled Wyndward Hall.

But she still stood, lost in a dreamy reverie that was not
thought, until her uncle’s voice came floating down the garden,
and with a start she ran up the path and stood breathless before
him.

The old man’s placid face wore a slight look of anxiety, which
faded instantly as he said:

“Where have you been, Stella? I thought you had changed
your mind, and flown back to Italy again. Mrs. Penfold is
searching the meadows wildly.”

Stella laughed, as she put her arm round his neck.

“You will not get rid of me so easily, uncle. No, I have only
been down the pretty lane at the end of the garden. See, here
are some flowers; are they not sweet? You shall have them for
your table, and they shall stand within sight while you are at
work.” And she filled a vase with water, and arranged them.
“But the flowers are not all the fruits of my wandering, uncle,”
she went on; “I have had an adventure.”

He was strolling up and down with his pipe in his mouth, his
hands folded behind him.

“An adventure!”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I have met—can you guess whom?”

He smiled.

“Mr. Fielding, the clergyman? It is his usual evening stroll.”

“No.”

“Perhaps an old lady in a lace shawl, with a fat pug by her[18]
side. If so, you have made an acquaintance with the great Mrs.
Hamilton, the doctor’s wife.”

“No, it was not anybody’s wife, uncle—it was a man. You
shan’t guess any more; but what do you say to Lord Leycester?”

“Lord Leycester!” said Mr. Etheridge. “I did not even know
he was at home. Lord Leycester! And does my picture do him
justice?” he asked, turning to her with a smile.

She bent over the flowers, ashamed of the meaningless blush
which rose to her face.

“Yes, uncle, it is like him; but I could not see very distinctly
you know. It was moonlight. He was riding a great, huge
chestnut horse.”

“I know,” he murmured, “and tearing along like a lost
spirit. He flashed past like a meteor, I expect. No, you could
not see him, and cannot judge of my portrait.”

“But he didn’t flash past. He would have done, no doubt,
but the chestnut declined. I think it was frightened by me, for
I was standing on the bank.”

“And he stopped?” asked Mr. Etheridge. “It was a wonder;
such a little thing even as the shying of his horse was sufficient
to rouse the devil in him! He stopped!”

“Because he was obliged,” said Stella, in a low voice, a deep
blush of maidenly shame rising to her face, as she remembers
that it was she who had really stopped him.

“And was he very furious?”

“No; the proverbial lamb could not have been more quiet,”
said Stella, with a musical laugh.

Mr. Etheridge laughed.

“He must have been in a good humor. It was strange his
being out to-night. The Hall is full of people from town; but
it would not matter to him if he wanted to ride, though the
prince himself were there; he would go. And my picture?”

“Did him justice, uncle. Yes, he is very handsome; he wore
a loose velvet coat to-night of a dark purple; I did not know
gentlemen wore such colors now.”

“A smoking coat,” he explained. “I think I can see him.
No doubt he had obeyed the impulse of the moment—had jumped
up and left them there at the Hall—saddled his own horse and
tore away across the river. Well, you have probably seen the
last of him for some time, Stella. He rarely stays at the Hall
more than a day or two. Town has too great a charm for him.”

Stella’s lips opened, and she was about to reply that he had
suddenly resolved to stay, but something stopped the words on
her lips.

Presently there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Penfold came
in with the candles.

“You have given me quite a turn, Miss Stella,” she said, with
a smile of reproach; “I thought you were lost. Your room is
quite ready now, miss.”

Stella went up to the old man and kissed him.

“Good-night, uncle,” she murmured.

“Good-night, my child,” he said, his eyes dwelling on her tenderly,
but with something of the bewildered look clouding them;[19]
“Good-night, and happy dreams for this, your first night at
home.”

“At home!” murmured Stella; “at home! You are very good
to me, uncle,” and she kissed him again.

Mrs. Penfold had done wonders in so short a time permitted
her, and Stella found herself standing alone in a tiny room,
modestly but comfortably—oh, so comfortably!—furnished, with
its white bed and its old-fashioned dimity curtains framing the
lattice window. As her gaze wandered round the room, her
glorious eyes grew moist. It was all so sudden, so sweet a contrast
to the gaunt, bare room, which, for a weary year she had
shared with a score of girls as miserable as herself; so sudden
that she could scarcely believe it was real.

But youth is ever ready to accept the surprises of life, and she
fell asleep—fell asleep to dream that she was back in the wretched
school in Italy, and chained to a stone wall from which all her
efforts to free herself were unavailing, but presently she thought
that a tall, stalwart figure came riding down on a big chestnut
horse, and that with one sweep of his strong hand he broke her
chains asunder, and, lifting her into his saddle, bore her away.
Then the scene changed; she seemed to be following her rescuer
who, with his handsome face turned over his shoulder, drew her
on continually with a strange fascinating smile. All through
her dreams the smiling eyes haunted her, and once she stretched
out her hands to keep it from her, but even in the action the
gesture of repulse turned in a strange, subtle manner to one of
entreaty and welcome, and she drew the smile, as it were, to her
bosom, and folded her hands over it. A girlish fancy, perhaps,
but such fancies influence a life for good or ill, for joy or misery.

Lord Leycester Wyndward, of whose smile Stella was dreaming,
had ridden up the hills, the great chestnut scarcely breaking
his pace, but breathing hard and defiantly from its wide, red
nostrils—had ridden up the hills and through the woods, and
reached the open plateau lying round the Hall.

A noble park occupied the plateau—a park of chestnuts and
oaks, which were the pride of the county. Through the park
wound the road, gleaming white in the moonlight, to the front
gates of Wyndward. The lodge-keeper heard the beat of the
chestnut’s feet, for which he had been listening intently, and
threw open the gates, and Lord Leycester entered the grounds.
They were vast in extent and exquisitely laid out, the road winding
between a noble avenue of trees that arched overhead. The
present earl’s grandfather had gone in for arboriculture, and the
way was lined for fifty feet back with rare shrubs and conifers.

So serpentine was the road that the great gray mansion
broke upon the gaze suddenly, mentally startling him who
approached it for the first time.

To Lord Leycester it was a familiar sight, but familiar as it
was he glanced up at it with what was almost a nod of approval.
Like most men of his nature, he possessed a passionate love and
appreciation for the beautiful, and there was to-night a strange,
indefinable fire in his hot blood which made him more than
usually susceptible to the influence of the scene. A sweeping[20]
curve of the road led to the terrace which stretched along
the whole front of the house, and by which the principal entrance
was gained.

Lord Leycester struck off to the right, and entered a modern
courtyard, three sides of which were occupied by the admirable
stables. A couple of grooms had been listening as
intently as the lodge-keeper, and as he entered the yard they
hurried forward silently and took the chestnut. Lord Leycester
dropped to the ground, patted the horse, which made a
playfully-affectionate snap at his arm, and, ascending a flight
of steps, entered the lower end of the long hall, which stretched
through the building.

The hall was softly but sufficiently lighted by shaded lamps,
supported by huge figures in bronze, which diffused a charming
glow upon the innumerable pictures upon the panels of dark
oak. From the vaulted roof hung tattered flags, most of them
borne by the earlier Wyndwards, some of them bestowed by the
graceful hands of dead and gone princes; the somewhat gloomy
aspect of the place was lightened by the gleaming armor of the
knightly effigies which stood at regular intervals upon the tesselated
floor, and by the deep crimson of the curtains which screened
the heavy doors and tall windows. The whole scene, the very
atmosphere, as it seemed, was characteristic of an ancient and
powerful race. Notwithstanding that the house was full of
guests, and that a brilliant party was at that moment in the
drawing-room, not a sound penetrated the vast hall. The two
or three servants who were standing by the doors or sitting on
the benches, talking in hushed voices, were silent the moment
he entered, and one came forward to receive any commands.

Notwithstanding the brusqueness which is the salient characteristic
of our present life, the old world state and formality still
existed at Wyndward. Be as exacting and capricious as you
might, you had no fear of meeting with inattention or disrespect
from the army of servants, whose one aim and purpose in life
seemed to be to minister to the wants and moods of their superiors.

It was a princely house, conducted in stately fashion, without
regard to cost or trouble, and the servants, from the pages to the
countess’s own maid, were as proud of their position, in its
degree, as the Lord of Wyndward of his.

“Send Oliver to me,” said Lord Wyndward, as he passed the
man. “I am going to my room.”

He went up the stairs, and passing along the principal corridor,
entered a room fronting the park. It was one of a suite which
consisted of a sort of sitting-room, a dressing-room, and beyond
a bedroom.

The sitting-room gave pretty plain indications of the owner’s
tastes and dispositions.

It was a medley of objects connected with sport and art.
Here a set of boxing-gloves and foils; a gun-rack, well stocked;
fishing-rods and whips hung over the antique fireplace with the
wide open hearth and dog-irons. On one side of the room hung
a collection of etchings, unique and priceless; on another half[21]
a dozen gems in oil, while against the third stood a piano, and
an easel upon which rested a canvas displaying a half-finished
Venus rising from her cradle of sea foam; for upon this, the
only son of the house, the partial gods had bestowed many gifts;
any one of which, had he been a poor man, would have made
the world regard him as one of its masters. But as it was, he
painted and played for amusement only, and there were only a
few of his friends, and only those who were most intimate, who
suspected that the wild, reckless Leycester could do more than
ride like a centaur and shoot like a North American Indian.
How were they to know, seeing that he rarely spoke of art, and
never of his own passionate love of it? Had they known, it
would have given them a key to much in his character which
puzzled and bewildered them; they would have been nearer
understanding how it was that in one man could be combined
the soft tenderness of a southern nature with the resolute, defiant
recklessness of the northern.

He entered the room and went to the fireplace in which a log
was burning brightly, to guard against the too frequent treachery
of an early summer evening, and flinging his hat on to a
chair, passed his hand through his hair with a thoughtful yet
restless smile.

“Stella!” he murmured. “Stella! That was wrong. A star
should be fair and golden, all light and sunshine, while she—great
Heaven! what eyes! It was surely the sweetest, loveliest
face that a man ever looked upon. No wonder that coming upon
it so suddenly—with my thoughts a hundred miles away,
coming upon it suddenly as it shone up above me—that I should
think it only a vision! If that face as I saw it could smile out
from the Academy next Spring, what crowds of fools would
gather round to gape and stare at it? If—yes, but who could do
it? No one! No one! As well try and catch the sunlight on a
brush and paint it on the canvas—as well try——” he broke off
suddenly, his eye caught by the Venus Aphrodite smiling from
the easel, and going across to it, stood and contemplated it.

“Venus with a pale pink face and meaningless blue eyes, with
insipid yellow hair and simpering smile! Never more will
Venus take that semblance for me. No, she will be as I saw her
to-night, with dark silken hair, and sweeping lashes shading the
dark brown eyes, in which one sees the soul peering from their
depths. That is Venus, not this,” and with a smile of derision
he took up a brush and drew a dark, broad effacing line across
the fair face.

“So departs forever all my former dreams of womanly loveliness.
Loveliness! I have never seen it until to-night. Stella!
A star! Yes, she is rightly named, after all. She shone down
on me like a star, and I—great Heaven!—was like one bewitched!
While she—she made a laughing-stock of me. Compared me
with the nag, and treated me like a school-boy too big to be
whipped but not too large to be laughed at.

“By Jove it is not a thing to be proud of; called to task by a
girl—a little slip of a girl not yet a woman! and yet I would not[22]
have missed that laugh and the light scorn of those dark eyes,
though they lighted up at my expense. Stella——”

There was a knock at the door, and his valet, Oliver, entered.

Lord Leycester stared at him a moment abstractedly, then
roused himself from his reverie.

“What is it, Oliver?”

“You sent for me, my lord.”

“Oh, yes! I had forgotten. I will wash and get into my
other coat.”

Oliver passed noiselessly into the other room and assisted his
master to change the velvet smoking-jacket for the dress coat,
brushed the thick, short-cut chestnut hair into order, and opened
the door.

“Where are they all?” he asked. “Are any of them in the
smoking-room?”

“Yes, my lord, Lord Barton and Captain Halliday; the Marquis
of Sandford and Sir William are in the billiard-room.”

Lord Leycester nodded, and went down the stairs across the
hall; a servant drew a curtain aside and opened a door, and
Lord Leycester entered a small ante-room, one side of which
opened into a long-stretching fernery, from which came the soft
trip trip of fountains, and the breath which filled the whole
atmosphere with a tropical perfume.

A couple of footmen in gorgeous livery were standing beside
a double curtain, and at a sign from Lord Leycester they drew
it apart. Lord Leycester passed through and down a small corridor
lined with statuary, at the end of which was another curtain.
No passage, or door, or ante-room but was thus masked,
to shut out the two things which the earl held as abominations—draught
and noise.

With the opening of these curtains the large saloon was revealed
like the scene on the stage of a theater. It was a magnificent
room in keeping with the rest of the place, richly but
not gorgeously decorated, and lighted by wax candles shining
through faintly hued globes. At one end stood a grand piano in
white and ormolu, and a lady was playing and singing, while
others were standing round with tea-cups in their hands. Near
the fireplace was a table, upon which stood a silver tea equipage,
with which the countess was busied.

Lady Wyndward was still in her prime, notwithstanding that
Lord Leycester was twenty-three; she had been married at
eighteen, and was now in the perfection of matronly beauty; one
had only to glance at her to learn from whence Leycester had
got his strange beauty. Near her stood a tall, thin gentleman
with proud, haughty, clean-cut face, and iron gray hair, worn
rather long and brushed back from a white, lofty brow. It was
the earl. His dark piercing eyes were bent upon the ground as
he stood listening to the music, but he saw Leycester enter, and
raised his head as a slight frown crossed his face. Lady Wyndward
saw the frown and sought the cause, but her face showed
no signs of surprise or displeasure. It was calm and impassive
at all times, as if its owner disdained the weakness of ordinary[23]
mortals. Leycester paused a moment, taking in the scene; then
he crossed the room, and went up to the table.

Lady Wyndward looked up with her serene, imperial smile.

“Will you have some tea, Leycester?”

“Thanks,” he said.

She gave him his cup, and as he took it a young man left the
group at the piano, and came up to him laughing.

“Where have you been, Leycester?” he asked, putting his
hand on the broad shoulder. It was Lord Charles Guildford,
Leycester’s most intimate friend.

Between these two existed an affection which was almost, say
rather more than fraternal. They had been together at Eton,
where Leycester, the great, stalwart lad, had fought the slight
frail boy’s battles; they had lived in the same rooms at Oxford,
had been comrades in all the wild escapades which made their
term at college a notorious one, and they were inseparable.
Leycester had grown from a tall lad into a stalwart man; Lord
Charles—or Charlie, as he was called—had fulfilled the promise
of his frail boyhood, and developed into a slight, thin, fair-haired
youth, with the indolent grace which sometimes accompanies
weakness, and the gentle nature of a woman.

Leycester turned to him with a smile, and the earl looked up
to hear the answer; the countess busied herself with the teapot,
as if she were not listening as intently.

“I went for a galop, Charlie,” said Leycester. “You fellows
were half asleep in the smoking-room, and I had listened to
Barton’s Indian story for the hundredth time, and it got rather
slow; then I remembered that the chestnut had been eating his
head off for the last five weeks, and thought I would give him a
turn.”

The earl frowned and turned away; Lord Charles laughed.

“Pretty behavior!” he exclaimed; “and here were we hunting
all over the place for you.”

“Why didn’t you come into the drawing-room to us, Lord
Leycester?” said a beautiful girl who was sitting near; “we
should not have bored you with any Indian stories.”

“But, you see, I should have bored you, Lady Constance,” he
said.

The girl smiled up into his face.

“Perhaps you would,” she said. “You are more considerate
than I thought.”

“I never venture into the ladies’ sanctum after dinner till the
tea is announced,” he retorted. “I have an idea, shared by my
sex generally, that it is not safe—that, in short, you are too
ferocious.”

“And you prefer riding about the country till we quiet down.
Are we quiet now, or do we look ferocious?”

And she smiled up at him from behind her fan with a plain
invitation.

He sat down beside her and began to talk the infinite nothings
which came to his lips so easily, the trivial small change which
his musical voice and rare smile seemed to transform to true
coin; but while he talked his thoughts were wandering to the[24]
dark-haired girl who had shone down upon him from her green
and fragrant bower in the lane, and he found himself picturing
her in the little room at the cottage in the meadows, amongst
the curious litter of the old artist’s studio; and gradually his
answers grew disjointed and inconsequential.

He got up presently, got up abruptly, and wandered across the
room stopping to exchange a word or two with one and the
other, his tall, graceful figure towering above those of the other
men, his handsome head thrown back musingly. Many an admiring
and wistful glance followed him from among the
women, and not a few would have exerted all their fascinations
to keep him by their side, had they not known by experience,
that when he was in his present mood he was deaf to the voice
and smile of the charmer, charmed she never so wisely.

CHAPTER IV.

The countess watched him from her table, and, looking up at
the earl, murmured:

“Leycester is in one of his restless moods to-night.”

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh. “What is it?—do you know?”

“No,” she said, calmly. “He was all right at dinner.”

“Why can he not behave like other people?” said the earl,
sadly. “Can you fancy any other man leaving his father’s
guests and riding about the country?”

“Leycester never was like any other,” she said, not without a
touch of pride. “He is as he is, and nothing can alter him.”

The earl was silent for a moment, his long white hands folded
behind his back, his dark eyes fixed on the floor.

“Has he told you of his last escapade—his last mad freak?” he
said, in a low voice.

“Yes,” she answered, calmly. “He has never concealed anything
from me.”

“It is nearly twenty thousand pounds. Even Wyndward
must feel such strains as this.”

The countess raised her head.

“I know,” she said; “he has told me everything. It was a
point of honor. I did not quite understand; horse-racing is a
pastime with which I have little sympathy, though we have
always owned race-horses. It was a point of honor. Some one
had been taking advantage of his name to act dishonestly, and
he withdrew the horse. He could take no other course,” he says.

The earl sighed.

“No doubt. But it is mad folly, and there is no end to it—if
he could see some limit! Why does he not marry?”

The countess glanced at the handsome face.

“He will not marry until he meets with some one he can
love.”

The earl looked round the room at the many beautiful graceful
women who adorned it, and sighed impatiently.

“He is hard to please.”

“He is,” assented the countess, with the same touch of pride.

“It is time he married and settled,” continued the earl. “For[25]
most men a year or two would not matter, but with him—I do
not like to think that the title rests only on our two lives, as
mine must be near its close.”

“Algernon!”

“And on his, which is risked daily.”

He stooped, silenced by the sudden look of pain in the beautiful
eyes.

“Why do you not speak to him? He will do anything for
you.”

The countess smiled.

“Everything but that. No, I cannot speak to him; it would
be useless. I do not wish to weaken my influence.”

“Get Lilian to speak to him,” he said.

The countess sighed.

“Lilian!” she murmured; “she would not do it. She thinks
him something more than human, and that no woman in the
world can be good enough to—to hold his stirrup or fill his wineglass.”

The earl frowned.

“Between you,” he said, “you have spoiled him.”

The countess shook her head gently.

“No, we have not. He is now as a man what he was as a boy.
Do you remember what Nelson said, when Hardy asked him
why he did nothing while one of their ships was fighting two of
the enemy’s? ‘I am doing all I can—watching.'”

Before the earl could reply, a cabinet minister came up and
engaged him in conversation, and the countess rose and crossed
the room to where an elderly lady sat with a portfolio of engravings
before her. It was the Dowager Countess of Longford,
a tiny little woman with a thin wrinkled face, and keen but
kindly gray eyes that lit up her white face and made it remarkable.

She was dressed as simply as a quakeress, excepting for some
old and priceless lace which softened the rigor of her plainly
made gray satin dress. She looked up as the younger countess
approached, and made room for her on the sofa.

Lady Wyndward sat down in silence, which was unbroken
for a minute. Then the old countess said without looking at
her—

“The boy grows handsomer every day, Ethel!”

Lady Wyndward sighed.

“What is the matter?” asked the other, with a keen smile.
“What has he been doing now, burning a church or running off
with a Lord Mayor’s daughter?”

“He has not been doing anything very much,” answered Lady
Wyndward. “Except losing some money.”

The old countess raised her eyebrows lightly.

“That does not matter.”

“Not much. No, he has not been doing anything; I wish he
would. That’s what is the matter.”

“I understand,” retorted the other. “He is most dangerous
when quiet; you are always afraid he is preparing for some
piece of madness beyond the ordinary. Well, my dear, if you[26]
will give the world such a creature you must put up with the
consequences—be prepared to pay the penalty. I should be quite
content to do so.”

“Ah, you don’t know,” said the countess, with a smile that
had something pathetic in it.

“Yes, I do,” retorted the old lady, curtly. “And I envy you
still. I love the boy, Ethel. There is not a woman of us in the
room, from the youngest to the oldest, who does not love him.
You cannot expect one whom the gods have so favored to behave
like an ordinary mortal.”

“Why not? It is just what Algernon has said to me.”

“I thought as much. I was watching you two. Of all things,
beware of this: don’t let Algernon interfere with him. It is a
strange thing to say, but his father is the worst man in all the
world to attempt to put the bridle on Leycester. It is we women
who alone have the power to guide him.”

“That is where my fear lies,” said the countess. “It is the
thought of what may happen in that quarter which fills me with
daily dread.”

“There is only one safeguard—marry him,” remarked the old
countess, but with a comical smile.

The countess sighed.

“Again, that is what Algernon says. You both say it as
calmly as if you told me to give him a cup of tea.”

The old countess was silent for a moment, then she said—

“Where is Lenore Beauchamp?”

Lady Wyndward was almost guilty of a start.

“You read my thoughts,” she said.

The old lady nodded.

“She is the only woman who can really touch him. Ask her
here; let them be together. She will be glad to come.”

“I am not sure, Lenore is proud; she might guess why we
wanted her.”

The old lady drew up her head as haughtily as if she was
Leycester’s mother.

“And then? Is there any girl among them who would not
jump at the chance? I don’t mean because he is the heir to
Wyndward; he is enough in himself without that.”

“It is well you are not his mother; you would have made him
what he is not now—vain.”

The old lady sighed.

“I know it. But you are wrong about Lenore. If she ever
cared for anyone, it is Leycester. She is proud, but love levels
pride, and she may put forth her power. If she should, not even
Leycester can withstand her. Ask her down, and leave the rest
to her—and Providence.”

The countess sat for a moment in silence, then she put her
hand upon the thin, wrinkled hand, unadorned by a single gem.

“I have always you to come to. I think you understand him
better than his own mother.”

“No,” said the old lady, “but I love him nearly as well.”

“I will write at once,” said the countess. And she rose and
crossed to the ante-room.

[27]

There was a writing-table amongst the furniture; the servants
saw her go to it, and noiselessly left the room.

She took up the pen and thought a moment, then wrote:

“My Dear Lenore,—Will you come down and spend a week
with us? We have a few friends with us, but we are not complete
without you. Do not say ‘No,’ but come. I do not name
any day, so that you may be free to fix your own.”

“Yours affectionately,

“Ethel Wyndward.”

“P.S.—Leycester is with us.”

As she wrote the signature she heard a step behind her, which
she knew was Leycester’s.

He stopped short as he saw her, and coming up to her, put his
hand on her white shoulder.

“Writing, mother?” he said.

The countess folded her letter.

“Yes. Where are you going?”

He pointed to the Louis Quatorze clock that ticked solemnly
on a bracket.

“Ten o’clock, mother,” he said, with a smile.

“Oh, yes; I see,” she assented.

He stood for a moment looking down at her with all a young
man’s filial pride in a mother’s beauty, and, bending down,
touched her cheek with his lips, then passed out.

The countess looked after him with softened eyes.

“Who could help loving him?” she murmured.

Humming an air from the last opera bouffe, he ran lightly up
the staircase and passed along the corridor, but as he reached
the further end and knocked at a door, the light air died upon
his lips.

A low voice murmured, “Come in;” and opening the door
gently, he entered.

The room was a small one, and luxuriously furnished in a
rather strange style. On the first entrance, a stranger would
have been struck by the soft and delicate tints which pervaded
throughout. There was not a brilliant color in the apartment;
the carpet and hangings, the furniture, the pictures themselves
were all of a reposeful tint, which could not tire the eye or
weary the sense. The carpet was a thick Persian rug, which
deadened the sound of footsteps, costly hangings of a cool and
restful gray covered the walls, save at intervals; the fire itself
was screened by a semi-transparent screen, and the only light in
the room came from a lamp which was suspended by a silver
chain from the ceiling, and was covered by a thick shade.

On a couch placed by the window reclined a young girl. As
Leycester entered, she half rose and turned a pale, but beautiful
face toward him with an expectant smile.

Beautiful is a word that is easily written, and written so often
that its significance has got dulled: it fails to convey any idea
of the ethereal loveliness of Lilian Wyndward. Had Mr.
Etheridge painted a face with Leycester’s eyes, and given it the
delicately-cut lips and spiritual expression of one of Raphael’s[28]
angels, it would have been a fair representation of Lilian Wyndward.

“It is you Leycester,” she said. “I knew you would come,”
and she pointed to a small traveling clock that stood on a table
near her.

He went up to her and kissed her, and she put her arms round
his neck and laid her face against his, her eyes looking into his
with rapt devotion.

“How hot you are, dear. Is it hot down there?”

“Awfully,” he said, seating himself beside her, and thrusting
his hands into his pockets. “There is not a breath of air
moving, and if there were the governor would take care to shut
it out. This room is deliriously cool, Lil; it is a treat to come
into it.”

“Is it?” she said, with a glad eagerness. “You really think
it is. I like to hear you say that.”

“Yes, it’s the prettiest room in the house. What is it smells
so sweet?”

“Lilac,” she said, and she pointed to a bunch on the table.

He started slightly, and, stretching out his hand, took a spray
out of the epergne.

“I thought it was lilac,” he said, quietly. “I noticed it when
I came in.”

She took the spray from him and fastened it in his coat, against
which her hands looked white as the driven snow.

“You shall take it to your own room, Ley,” she said. “You
shall take them all.”

“Not for worlds, Lil,” he said. “This will do.”

“And what are they doing?” she asked.

“The usual thing,” he replied; “playing, singing, rubber at
whist, and boring each other to death generally.”

She smiled.

“And what have you been doing?”

“Assisting in the latter amusement,” he answered, lightly.

“They told me you had gone out,” she said.

He nodded.

“Yes, I took the chestnut for a spin.”

She laughed, a soft, hushed laugh.

“And left them the first night! That was like you, Ley!”

“What was the use of staying? It was wrong, I suppose. I
am unfortunate! Yes, I went for a ride.”

“It was a lovely evening. I watched the sunset,” and she
looked at the window. “If I had known you were going, I
would have looked for you. I like to see you riding that big
chestnut. You went across the meadows?”

“Yes,” he said, “across the meadows.”

He was silent for a minute, then he said, suddenly, “Lil, I
have seen a vision to-night.”

“A vision, Ley!” she repeated, looking up at him eagerly.

He nodded.

“A vision. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen, excepting
you, Lil!”

She made no protest, but smiled.

[29]

“Ley! A girl! What was she like?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “I came upon her in a moment.
The chestnut saw her first, and was human enough to be struck
motionless. I was struck too!”

“And you can’t tell me what she was like?”

“No; if I were to describe her with usual phrases you would
smile. You women always do. You can’t help being a woman,
Lil!”

“Was she dark or fair?”

“Dark,” he replied. “I did not know it at the time; it was
impossible to think whether she was dark or fair while one looked
at her, but I remembered afterward. Lil, you remember that picture
I sent you from Paris—the picture of the girl with the dark
eyes and long, silky hair—not black, but brown in the
sunlight, with long lashes shading the eyes, and the lips curved
in a half-serious smile as she looks down at the dog fawning at
her feet?”

“I remember, Ley. Was she like that?”

“Yes; only alive. Fancy the girl in the picture alive. Fancy
yourself the dog she was smiling at! I was the dog!”

“Ley!”

“And she spoke as well as smiled. You can imagine the voice
that girl in the picture would have. Soft and musical, but clear
as a bell and full of a subtle kind of witchery, half serious, half
mockery. It was the voice of the girl I met in the lane this
evening.”

“Ley! Ley, you have come to make poetry to me to-night. I
am very grateful.”

“Poetry! It is truth. But you are right; such a face, such a
voice would make a poet of the hardest man that lives.”

“And you are not hard, Ley! But the girl! Who is she?
What is her name?”

“Her name”—he hesitated a moment, and his voice unconsciously
grew wonderfully musical—”is Stella—Stella.”

“Stella!” she repeated. “It is a beautiful name.”

“Is it not? Stella!”

“And she is—who?”

“The niece of old Etheridge, the artist, at the cottage.”

Lilian’s eyes opened wide.

“Really, Ley, I must see her!”

His face flushed, and he looked at her.

She caught the eager look, and her own paled suddenly.

“No,” she said, gravely. “I will not see her. Ley—you will forget
her by to-morrow.”

He smiled.

“You will forget her by to-morrow. Ley, let me look at you!”

He turned his face to her, and she looked straight into his eyes,
then she put her arm round his neck.

“Oh, Ley! has it come at last?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, not angrily, but with a touch
of grimness, as if he were afraid of the answer.

“Ley,” she said, “you must not see her again. Ley, you will
go to-morrow, will you not?”

[30]

“Why?” he asked. “It is not like you to send me away,
Lil.”

“No, but I do. I who look forward to seeing you as the
sweetest thing in my life—I who would rather have you near
me than be—other than I am—I who lie and wait and listen for
your footsteps—I send you, Ley. Think! You must go, Ley.
Go at once, for your own sake and for hers.”

He rose, and smiled down at her.

“For my sake, perhaps, but not for hers. You foolish girl, do
you think all your sex is as partial as you are? You did not see
her as I saw her to-night—did not hear her ready wit at my expense.
For her sake! You make me smile, Lil.”

“I cannot smile, Ley. You will not stay! What good can
come of it? I know you so well. You will not be content until
you have seen your Venus again, and then—ah, Ley, what can
she do but love you, and love you but to lose you? Ley, all that
has gone before has made me smile, because with them I knew
you were heart-whole; I could look into your eyes and see the
light of laughter in their depths; but not this time, Ley—not
this time. You must go. Promise me!”

His face went pale under her gaze, and the defiant look, which
so rarely shone out in her presence, came into his eyes, and about
his lips.

“I cannot promise, Lil,” he said.

CHAPTER V.

  For love lay lurking in the clouds and mist,
    I heard him singing sweetly on the mountain side:
“‘Tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am I—
    In every quiet valley, on every mountain side!”

In the clear, bird-like tones of Stella’s voice the musical words
floated from the open window of her room above and through
the open French windows of the old man’s studio.

With a little start he turned his head away from the easel and
looked toward the door.

Stella had only been in the house three days, but he had already
learned something of her habits, and knew that when he heard
the beautiful voice singing at the window in the early morning,
he might expect to see the owner of the voice enter shortly.

His expectation was not doomed to disappointment. The voice
sounded on the stairs, in the hall, and a moment afterward the
door opened and Stella stood looking smilingly into the room.

If he had thought her beautiful and winsome on that first
evening of her coming, when she was weary with anxiety and
traveling, and dressed in dust-stained clothes, be sure he thought
her more beautiful still, now that the light heart felt free to reveal
itself, and the shabby dress had given place to the white
and simple but still graceful morning gown.

Mrs. Penfold had worked hard during those three days, and
with the aid of the Dulverfield milliner had succeeded in filling
a small wardrobe for “her young lady,” as she had learned to
call her. The old artist, ignorant of the power of women in[31]
such direction, had watched the transformation with inward
amazement and delight, and was never tired of hearing about
dresses, and hats, jackets, and capes, and was rather disappointed
than otherwise when he found that the grand transformation
had been effected at a very small cost.

Bright and beautiful she stood, like a vision of youth and
health in the doorway, her dark eyes laughingly contemplating
the old man’s gentle stare of wonder,—the look which always
came into his eyes when she appeared.

“Did I disturb you by my piping, uncle?” she asked as she
kissed him.

“Oh no, my dear,” he answered, “I like to hear you,—I like
to hear you.”

She leant against his shoulder, and looked at his work.

“How beautiful it is!” she murmured. “How quickly it
grows. I heard you come down this morning, and I meant to
get up, but I was so tired—lazy, wasn’t I?”

“No, no!” he said, eagerly. “I am sorry I disturbed you. I
came down as quietly as I could. I knew you would be tired
after your dissipation. You must tell me all about it.”

“Yes, come to breakfast and I will tell you.”

“Must I?” he said, glancing at his picture reluctantly.

He had been in the habit of eating his breakfast by installments,
painting while he ate a mouthful and drank his cup of
coffee, but Stella insisted upon his changing what she called a
very wicked habit.

“Yes, of course! See how nice it looks,” and she drew him
gently to the table and forced him into a chair.

The old man submitted with a sigh that was not altogether
one of regret, and still humming she sat opposite the urn and
began to fill the cups.

“And did you enjoy yourself?” he asked, gazing at her
dreamily.

“Oh, very much; they were so kind. Mrs. Hamilton is the
dearest old lady; and the doctor—what makes him smile so
much, uncle?”

“I don’t know. I think doctors generally do.”

“Oh, very well. Well, he was very kind too, and so were the
Miss Hamiltons. It was very nice indeed, and they took so
much notice of me—asked me all sorts of questions. Sometimes
I scarcely knew what to answer. I think they thought
because I had been brought up in Italy, I ought to have spoken
with a strong accent, and looked utterly different to themselves.
I think they were a little disappointed, uncle.”

“Oh,” he said, “and who else was there?”

“Oh, the clergyman, Mr. Fielding—a very solemn gentleman
indeed. He said he didn’t see much of you, and hoped he
should see me in church.”

Mr. Etheridge rubbed his head and looked rather guilty.

“I expect that was a back-handed knock for me, Stella,” he
said rather ruefully. “You see I don’t go to church often. I
always mean to go, but I generally forget the time, or I wander[32]
into the fields, or up into the woods, and forget all about the
church till it’s too late.”

“But that’s very wicked, abominably so,” said Stella, gravely,
but with a twinkle in her dark eyes. “I must look after your
morals as well as your meals, I see, uncle.”

“Yes,” he assented, meekly—”do, do.”

“Well, then there was a Mr. Adelstone, a young gentleman
from London. He was quite the lion of the evening. I think
he was a nephew of Mr. Fielding’s.”

The old man nodded.

“Yes; and did you like him?”

Stella thought a moment, holding the cream-jug critically over
the coffee-cup.

“Not much, uncle. It was very wrong, and very bad taste,
I am afraid, for they all seemed to admire him immensely, and
so did he himself.”

Mr. Etheridge looked at her rather alarmed.

“I must say, Stella, you get too critical. I don’t think we are
quite used to it.”

She laughed.

“I don’t fancy Mr. Adelstone was at all conscious of adverse
criticism; he seemed quite satisfied with everybody, himself in
particular. He certainly was beautifully dressed, and he had the
dearest little hands and feet in the world; and his hair was
parted to a hair, and as smooth as a black-and-tan terrier’s; so
that he had some grounds for satisfaction.”

“What did he do to offend you, Stella?” asked the old man,
rather shrewdly.

She laughed again, and a little touch of color came into her
face, but she answered quite frankly:

“He paid me compliments, uncle.”

“That doesn’t offend your sex generally, Stella.”

“It offends me,” said Stella, quickly. “I—I detest them!
especially when the man who pays them does it with a self-satisfied
smile which shows that he is thinking more of his own
eloquence and gallantry than of the person he is flattering.”

The old man looked at her.

“Will you oblige me by telling me your age again?” he said.

She laughed.

“Am I too wise, uncle? Well, never mind—I’ll promise to be
good and stupid, if you like. But you are not eating any breakfast;
and you must not keep looking at that odious easel all the
time, as if you were longing to get back to it. Did you ever see
a jealous woman?”

“No, never.”

“Well, if you don’t want to, you must not confine all your attention
to your work.”

“I don’t think there is much fear of that when you are near,”
he said, meekly.

She laughed, and jumped up to kiss him with delight.

“Now that was a splendid compliment, sir! You are improving
rapidly—Mr. Adelstone himself couldn’t have done it more
neatly.”

[33]

Scarcely had the words left her lips than the door opened.

“Mr. Adelstone,” said Mrs. Penfold.

A young man, tall and dark, and faultlessly dressed, stood in
the doorway, his hat in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the
other. He was undeniably good-looking, and as he stood with a
smile upon his face, looked at his best. A severe critic might
have found fault with his eyes, and said that they were a little
too small and a little too near together, might also have added
that they were rather shifty, and that there was something approaching
the sinister in the curves of the thin lips; but he was
undeniably good-looking, and notwithstanding his well cut
clothes and spotless boots with their gray gaiters, his white hands
with the choice selection of rings, there was an indication of
power about him; no one could have suspected him of being a
fool, or lacking the power of observation; for instance, as he
stood now, smiling and waiting for a welcome, his dark eyes
took in every detail of the room without appearing to leave
Stella’s face.

Mr. Etheridge looked up with the usual confused air with
which he always received his rare visitors, but Stella held out
her hand with a smile calm and self-possessed. There is a great
deal of the woman even about a girl of nineteen.

“Good-morning, Mr. Adelstone,” she said. “You have come
just in time for a cup of coffee.”

“I ought to apologize for intruding at such an unseasonable
hour,” he said, as he bent over her hand, “but your good housekeeper
would not hear of my going without paying my respects.
I am afraid I’m intruding.”

“Not at all, not at all,” murmured the artist. “Here’s a
chair,” and he rose and cleared a chair of its litter by the simple
process of sweeping it on to the floor.

Mr. Adelstone sat down.

“I hope you are not tired after your mild dissipation last
night?” he asked of Stella.

She laughed.

“Not at all. I was telling uncle how nice it was. It was my
first party in England, you know.”

“Oh, you musn’t call it a party,” he said. “But I am very
glad you enjoyed it.”

“What beautiful flowers,” said Stella, glancing at the bouquet.

He handed them to her.

“Will you be so kind as to accept them?” he said. “I heard
you admire them in the conservatory last night and I brought
them for you from the rectory green-house.”

“For me?” exclaimed Stella, open-eyed. “Oh, I didn’t know!
I am so sorry you should have troubled. It was very kind.
You must have robbed the poor plants terribly.”

“They would be quite consoled if they could know for whom
their blossoms were intended,” he said, with a low bow.

Stella looked at him with a smile, and glanced half archly at
her uncle.

“That was very nice,” she said. “Poor flowers! it is a pity[34]
they can’t know! Can’t you tell them? There is a language of
flowers, you know!”

Mr. Adelstone smiled. He was not accustomed to have his
compliments met with such ready wit, and was nonplussed for a
moment, while his eyes dropped from her face with a little
shifty look.

Mr. Etheridge broke the rather embarrassing pause.

“Put them in the vase for her, Mr. Adelstone, will you,
please, and come and have some breakfast. You can’t have had
any.”

He waited until Stella echoed the invitation, then drew up to
the table.

Stella rang for cup and saucer and plates, and poured him out
some coffee; and he plunged into small talk with the greatest
ease, his keen eyes watching every graceful turn of Stella’s arm,
and glancing now and again at the beautiful face.

It was very good small talk, and amusing. Mr. Adelstone was
one of those men who had seen everything. He talked of the
London season that was just coming on, to Stella, who sat and
listened, half amused, half puzzled, for London was an unknown
land to her, and the string of names, noble and fashionable,
which fell from his ready tongue, was entirely strange to her.

Then he talked of the coming Academy to Mr. Etheridge, and
seemed to know all about the pictures that were going to be exhibited,
and which ones would make a stir, and which would
fail. Then he addressed himself to Stella again.

“You must pay London a visit, Miss Etheridge; there is no
place like it the whole world through—not even Paris or
Rome.”

Stella smiled.

“It is not very likely that I shall see London for a long time.
My uncle does not often go, although it is so near, do you?”

“No, no,” he assented, “not often.”

“Perhaps you are to be congratulated,” said Mr. Adelstone.
“With all its charms, I am glad to get away from it.”

“You live there?” said Stella.

“Yes,” he said, quietly, welcoming the faint look of interest
in her eyes. “Yes; I live in chambers, as it is called, in one of
the old law inns. I am a lawyer!”

Stella nodded.

“I know. You wear a long black gown and a wig.”

He smiled.

“And address a jury; and do you say ‘m’lud’ instead of ‘my
lord,’ as people in novels always make barristers say?”

“I don’t know; perhaps I do,” he answered, with a smile;
“but I don’t address a jury, or have an opportunity of calling a
judge ‘my lud,’ or ‘my lord,’ often. Most of my work is done
at my chambers. I am very glad to get down into the country
for a holiday.”

“Are you going to stay long?” asked Mr. Etheridge, with
polite interest.

Mr. Adelstone paused a moment, and glanced at Stella before
answering.

[35]

“I don’t know,” he said. “I meant going back to-day, but—I
think I have changed my mind.”

Stella was only half listening, but the words caused her to
start. They were the same as those which Lord Leycester had
uttered three nights ago.

Mr. Adelstone’s keen eyes saw the start, and he made a mental
note of it.

“Ah! it is beautiful weather,” said Mr. Etheridge. “It would
be a pity to leave Wyndward for London now.”

“Yes: I shall be more than ever sorry to go now,” said Mr.
Adelstone, and his glance rested for a moment on Stella’s face,
but it was quite lost, for Stella’s eyes were fixed on the scene beyond
the window dreamily.

With almost a start she turned to him.

“Let me give you some more coffee!”

“No, thanks,” he said; then, as Stella rose and rang the bell,
he walked to the easel. “That will be a beautiful picture, Mr.
Etheridge,” he said, viewing it with a critical air.

“I don’t know,” said the artist, simply.

“You will exhibit it?”

“I never exhibit anything,” was the quiet reply.

“No! I am surprised!” exclaimed the young man, but there
was something in the quiet manner of the old man that stopped
any further questions.

“No,” said Mr. Etheridge; “why should I? I have”—and
he smiled—”no ambition. Besides I am an old man, I have had
my chance; let the young ones take theirs, I leave them room.
You are fond of art?”

“Very,” said Mr. Adelstone. “May I look round?”

The old man waved his hand, and took up his brush.

Jasper Adelstone wandered round the room, taking up the
canvases and examining them; Stella stood at the window humming
softly.

Suddenly she heard him utter an involuntary exclamation, and
turning round saw that he had the portrait of Lord Leycester in
his hand.

His face was turned toward her, and as she turned quickly,
he was in time to catch a sinister frown of dislike, which rested
for a moment on his face, but vanished as he raised his eyes and
met hers.

“Lord Leycester,” he said, with a smile and an uprising of the
eyebrows. “A remarkable instance of an artist’s power.”

“What do you mean?” asked Stella, quietly, but with lowered
eyes.

“I mean that it is a fair example of ideality. Mr. Etheridge
has painted a likeness of Lord Leycester, and added an ideal
poetry of his own.”

“You mean that it is not like him?” she said.

Mr. Etheridge painted on, deaf to both of them.

“No,” he said, looking at the picture with a cold smile. “It
is like him, but it—honors him. It endows him with a poetry
which he does not possess.”

“You know him?” said Stella.

[36]

“Who does not?” he answered, and his thin lips curled with a
smiling sneer.

A faint color came into Stella’s face, and she raised her eyes
for a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Lord Leycester has made himself too famous—I
was going to say infamous—”

A vivid crimson rushed to her face, and left it pale again the
next instant.

“Do not,” she said, then added quickly, “I mean do not forget
that he is not here to defend himself.”

He looked at her with a sinister scrutiny.

“I beg your pardon. I did not know he was a friend of
yours,” he said.

She raised her eyes and looked at him steadily.

“Lord Leycester is no friend of mine,” she said, quietly.

“I am glad of it,” he responded.

Stella’s eyes darkened and deepened in a way peculiar to her,
and her color came. It was true that Lord Leycester was no
friend of hers, she had but seen and spoken with him by chance,
and for a few moments; but who was this Mr. Adelstone that
he should presume to be glad or sorry on her account?

He was quick to see that he had made a slip, and quick to recover
himself.

“Pray forgive me if I have presumed too far upon our slight
acquaintance, but I was only thinking at that moment that you
had been so short a time in England as to be ignorant of people
who are well known to us with whom they have lived, and that
you would not know Lord Leycester’s real character.”

Stella inclined her head gravely. Something within her stirred
her to take up arms in the absent man’s defense; the one word
“infamous,” stuck and rankled in her mind.

“You said that Lord Leycester was ‘infamous,'” she said, with
a grave smile. “Surely that is too strong a word.”

He thought a moment, his eyes resting on her face keenly.

“Perhaps, but I am not sure. I certainly used it as a play
upon the word ‘famous,’ but I don’t think even then that I did
him an injustice. A man whose name is known all over the
country—whose name is familiar as a household word—must
be notorious either for good or evil, for wisdom or folly. Lord
Leycester is not famous for virtue or wisdom. I cannot say
any more.”

Stella turned aside, a faint crimson dyeing her face, a strange
thrill of pity, ay, and of impatience, at her heart. Why
should he be so wicked, so mad and reckless—so notorious that
even this self-satisfied young gentleman could safely moralize
about him and warn her against making his acquaintance!
“Oh, the pity of it—the pity of it!” as Shakespeare has it—that
one with such a beautiful, god-look face, should be so bad.

There was a few moments’ silence. Jasper Adelstone still
stood with the picture in his hand, but glancing at Stella’s face
with covert watchfulness. For all his outward calmness, his heart
was beating quickly. Stella’s was the sort of beauty to make a[37]
man’s heart beat quickly, or not at all; those who came to offer
at her shrine would offer no half-measured oblations. As he
watched her his heart beat wildly, and his small, bright eyes
glittered. He had thought her beautiful at the party last night,
where she had outshone all the other girls of the village as a star
outshines a rushlight; but this morning her loveliness revealed
itself in all its fresh purity, and he—Jasper Adelstone, the critical
man of the world, the man whose opinion about women
was looked upon by his companions in Lincoln’s-inn and the
bachelors’ haunts at the West-end as worth having—felt his
heart slipping from him. He put the picture down and approached
her.

“You have no idea how beautiful and fresh the meadows are.
Will you stroll down to the river with me?” he said, resolving
to take her by surprise and capture her.

But he did not know Stella. She was only a school-girl—innocent
and ignorant of the ways of men and the world; but,
perhaps, because of that—because she had not learnt the usual
hackneyed words of evasion—the ordinary elementary tactics of
flirtation, she was not to be taken by surprise.

With a smile she turned her eyes upon him and shook her
head.

“Thank you; no, that is impossible. I have all my household
duties to perform, and that”—pointing to the sun with
her white slim hand—”reminds me that it is time I set about
them.”

He took up his hat instantly, turning to hide the frown that
knitted his brow and spoiled his face, and went up to the painter
to say “good-morning.”

Mr. Etheridge started and stared at him; he had quite forgotten
his presence.

“Good-morning, good-morning—going? I beg your pardon.
Won’t you stop and take some tea with us?”

“Mr. Adelstone would like some dinner first, uncle,” said
Stella.

Then she gave him her hand.

“Good-morning,” she said, “and thank you very much for
the flowers.”

He held her hand as long as he dared, then passed out.

Stella, perhaps unconsciously, gave a sigh of relief.

“Very nice young fellow, my dear,” said Mr. Etheridge, without
taking his eyes from the canvas. “Very clever, too. I remember
him quite a little boy, and always said he would make
his way. They say that he has done so. I am not surprised.
Jasper——”

“Jasper!” said Stella. “What a horrible name.”

“Eh? Horrible? I don’t know—I don’t know.”

“But I do,” said Stella, laughing. “Well, what were you
going to say?”

“That Jasper Adelstone is the sort of man to insist upon
having anything he sets his heart upon.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Stella, as she opened the door,
“for his sake; and I hope, also for his sake, that he won’t set his[38]
mind upon the sun or the moon!” and with a laugh she ran
away.

In the kitchen Mrs. Penford was awaiting her with unconcealed
impatience. Upon the white scrubbed table stood the preparations
for the making of pastry, an art which Stella, who had
insisted upon making herself useful, had coaxed Mrs. Penfold
into teaching her. At first that good woman had insisted that
Stella should do nothing in the little household. She had announced
with terrible gravity that such things weren’t becoming
to a young lady like Miss Stella, and that she had always
done for Mr. Etheridge, and she always would; but before the
second day had passed Stella had won the battle. As Mrs. Penfold
said, there was no resisting the girl, who mingled willfulness
with bewitching firmness and persuasion, and Mrs. Penfold
had given in. “You’ll cover yourself with flour, Miss Stella,
and give your uncle the indigestion, miss, that you will,” she
remonstrated.

“But the flour will brush off, and uncle needn’t eat pies and
puddings for a little while; I’ll eat them, I don’t mind indigestion,”
Stella declared, and she made a delightfully piquant little
apron, which completed Mrs. Penfold’s conquest.

With a song upon her lips she burst into the kitchen and
caught up the rolling pin.

“Am I not awfully late?” she exclaimed. “I was afraid you
would have done it all before I came, but you wouldn’t be so
mean as to take an advantage, would you?”

Mrs. Penfold grunted.

“It’s all nonsense, Miss Stella, there’s no occasion for it.”

Stella, with her hand in the flour, elevated the rolling-pin in
heroic style.

“Mrs. Penfold!” she exclaimed, with the air of a princess,
“the woman, be her station what it may, who cannot make a
jam roley-poley or an apple tart is unworthy the name of an
Englishwoman. Give me the jam; stop though, don’t you
think rhubarb would be very nice for a change?”

“I wish you’d go and play the organ, Miss Stella, and leave
the rhubarb alone.”

“Man cannot live on music,” retorted Stella; “his soul craves
for puddings. I wonder whether uncle’s soul craves for jam or
rhubarb. I think I’ll go and ask him,” and dropping the rolling-pin—which
Mrs. Penfold succeeded in catching before it fell on
the floor—she wiped her hand of a fifteenth part of the floor and
ran into the studio.

“Uncle! I have come to lay before you the rival claims of
rhubarb and strawberry jam. The one is sweet and luscious to
the taste, but somewhat cloying; the other is fresh and young,
but somewhat sour——”

“Good Heavens! What are you talking about?” exclaimed
the bewildered painter, staring at her.

“Rhubarb or jam. Now, noble Roman, speak or die!” she
exclaimed with upraised arm, her eyes dancing, her lips apart
with rippling laughter.

[39]

Mr. Etheridge stared at her with all an artist’s admiration in
his eyes.

“Oh! the pudding,” he said, then he suddenly stopped, and
stared beyond her.

CHAPTER VI.

Stella heard a step on the threshold of the window, and
turning to follow the direction of his eyes, saw the stalwart form
of Lord Leycester standing in the window.

He was dressed in a suit of brown velveteen, with tight-fitting
breeches and stockings, and carried a whip in his hand with
which he barred the entrance against a couple of colleys, a huge
mastiff, and a Skye terrier, the last barking with furious indignation
at being kept outside.

Even at the moment of surprise, Stella was conscious of a
sudden reluctant thrill of admiration for the graceful figure in
the close-fitting velvet, and the handsome face with its dark
eyes regarding her with a grave, respectful intenseness.

“Back dogs!” he said. “Go back, Vix!” then as they drew
back, the big ones throwing themselves down on the path with
patient obedience, he came into the room.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, standing before Stella, his head
bent. “I thought Mr. Etheridge was alone, or I should not have
entered in this rough fashion.”

As he spoke in the lane, so now it was no meaningless excuse,
but with a tone of most reverential respect and proud humility,
Stella, girl-like, noticed that he did not even venture to hold out
his hand, and certainly Mr. Adelstone’s self-satisfied smile and
assured manner rose in her mind to contrast with this stately,
high-bred humility.

“Do not apologize; it does not matter,” she said, conscious
that her face had grown crimson and that her eyes were downcast.

“Does it not? I am forgiven,” and he held out his hand.

Stella had crossed her hands behind her as he entered with an
instinctive desire to hide her bare arms and the flour, now she
put out her hand a few inches and held it up with a smile.

“I can’t,” she said.

He looked at the white hand—at the white arm so beautifully
molded that a sculptor would have sighed over it in despair at
his inability to imitate it, and he still held out his hand.

“I do not mind the flour,” he said, not as Mr. Adelstone
would have said it, but simply, naturally.

Stella gave him one small taper finger and he took it and held
it for a moment, his eyes smiling into hers; then he relinquished
it, with not a word of commonplace compliment, but in
silence, and turned to Mr. Etheridge.

“It is quite hopeless to ask you to forgive me for interrupting
you I know, so I won’t ask,” he said, and there was in his voice,
Stella noticed, a frank candor that was almost boyish but full of
respect. At once it seemed to intimate that he had known and
honored the old man since he, Leycester, was a boy.

[40]

“How are you, my lord?” said Mr. Etheridge, giving him his
long, thin hand, but still keeping a hold, as it were, on his beloved
easel. “Taking the dogs for a walk? Are they safe?
Take care, Stella!”

For Stella was kneeling down in the midst of them, making
friends with the huge mastiff, much to the jealous disgust of the
others, who were literally crowding and pushing round her.

Lord Leycester looked round and was silent for a moment;
his eyes fixed on the kneeling girl rather than on the dogs.
Then he said, suddenly:

“They are quite safe,” and then he added, for Stella’s behalf,
“they are quite safe, Miss Etheridge.”

Stella turned her face toward him.

“I am not afraid. I should as soon think of biting them as
they would dream of biting me, wouldn’t you?” and she drew
the mastiffs great head on to her lap, where it lay with his big
eyes looking up at her piteously, as he licked her hand.

“Great Heavens, what a herd of them!” said Mr. Etheridge,
who loved dogs—on canvas.

“I ought not to have brought them,” said Lord Leycester,
“but they will be quite quiet, and will do no harm, I assure
you.”

“I don’t care if they don’t bite my niece,” said Mr. Etheridge.

“There is no fear of that,” he said, quietly, “or I should not
allow her to go near them. Please go on with your work, or I
shall think I am a nuisance.”

Mr. Etheridge waved him to a chair.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said.

Lord Leycester shook his head.

“I have come to ask you a favor,” he said.

Mr. Etheridge nodded.

“What is it?”

Lord Leycester laughed his rare laugh.

“I am trembling in my shoes,” he said. “My tongue cleaves
to my mouth with nervousness——”

The old painter glanced round at him, and his face relaxed
into a smile as his eyes rested on the bold, handsome face and
easy grace of the speaker.

“Yes, you look excessively frightened,” he said. “What
is it?”

It was noticeable that, excepting in his first greeting, the old
man had not given him the benefit of his title; he had known
him when Leycester had been a boy, running in and out of the
cottage, always followed by a pack of dogs, and generally doing
some mischief.

“I want you to do a little scene for me.”

The old man groaned and looked at his picture firmly.

“You know the glade in the woods opening out opposite the
small island. I want you to paint it.”

“I am sorry,” began the old man.

Lord Leycester went on, interrupting him gently:

“Have you seen it lately?” he said, and as he spoke Stella
came into the room enticing the mastiff after her, with a handful[41]
of biscuits she had taken from the cheffonier. “It is very
beautiful. It is the loveliest bit on the whole river. Right up
from the stream it stretches green, with the young Spring
leaves, to the sky above the hill. In the open space between the
trees the primroses have made a golden carpet. I saw two kingfishers
sailing up it as I stood and looked this morning, and as I
looked I thought how well, how delightfully you would put it on
canvas. Think! The bright green, the golden foreground, the
early Summer sky to crown the whole, and reflected in the river
running below.”

Mr. Etheridge paused in his work and listened, and Stella,
kneeling over the dog, listened too, with down-bent face, and
wondered how the painter could stand so firm and obstinate.

To her the voice sounded like the sweetest music set to some
poem. She saw the picture as he drew it, and in her heart the
music of the words and voice found an echoing harmony.

Forgotten was the other man’s warning; vain it would have
been if he had repeated it at that moment. As well associate
the darkness of a Winter’s night with the bright gladness of a
Summer’s morning, as think of evil in connection with that
noble face and musical voice.

Mr. Etheridge paused, but he shook his head.

“Very fine, very temptingly put; you are a master of words,
Leycester; but I am immovable as a rock. Indeed your eloquence
is wasted; it is not an impressionable man whom you
address. I, James Etheridge, am on this picture. I am lost in
my work, Lord Leycester.”

“You will not do it?”

The old man smiled.

“I will not. To another man I should present an excuse, and
mask my refusal. With you anything but a simple ‘no’ is of
no avail.”

Lord Leycester smiled and turned away.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I meant it for a present to my sister
Lilian.”

Again Stella’s eyes turned toward him. This man—infamous!

The old man put down his brush and turned upon him.

“Why didn’t you say so at first?” he said.

Lord Leycester smiled.

“I wanted to see if you would do something for me—for myself,”
he said, with infinite naivete.

“You want it for Lady Lilian,” said Mr. Etheridge. “I will
do it, of course.”

“I shan’t say thank you,” said Lord Leycester. “I have
nothing to thank you for. She shall do that. When will you
come——”

“Next week—next month——”

“Now at once,” said Lord Leycester, stretching out his hand
with a peculiar gesture which struck Stella by its infinite grace.

The old man groaned.

“I thought so! I thought so! It would always be now at
once with you.”

“The Spring won’t wait for you! The green of those leaves[42]
is changing now, very slowly, but surely, as we speak; in a week
it will be gone, and with it half—all the beauty will go too. You
will come now, will you not?”

Mr. Etheridge looked round with comical dismay, then he
laughed.

Lord Leycester’s laugh chimed in, and he turned to Stella
with the air of a man who has conquered and needs no more
words.

“You see,” said Mr. Etheridge, “that is the way I am led, like
a pig to market, will I or will I not! And the sketch will take
me, how long?”

“A few hours!”

“And there will be all the things to drag down——”

Lord Leicester strode to an old-fashioned cabinet.

“I will carry them, and yourself into the bargain if you
like.”

Then, with his hand upon the cabinet, he stopped short and
turned to Stella.

“I beg your pardon!—I am always sinning. I forgot that
there was now a presiding spirit. I am so used to taking liberties
with your uncle’s belongings; I know where all his paraphernalia
is so well, that——”

Stella rose and smiled at them.

“Your knowledge is deeper than my uncle’s, then,” she said.
“Do not beg pardon of me.”

“May I?” he said, and he opened the cabinet and took out the
sketching-pad and color-box; then, with some difficulty, he disentangled
a folding camp-stool from a mass of artistic litter in a
corner, and then prepared to depart.

Mr. Etheridge watched these proceedings with a rueful countenance,
but seeing that resistance had long passed out of his
power, he said:

“Where is my hat, Stella? I must go, I suppose.”

Lord Leycester opened the door for her, and she went out, followed
by all the dogs, and fetched the soft felt hat, holding it by
the very tips of her fingers.

With a sigh, Mr. Etheridge dropped it on his head.

“Give me some of the things,” he said; but Lord Leycester
declined.

“Not one,” he said, laughing. And Mr. Etheridge, without
another word, walked out.

Lord Leycester stood looking at Stella, a wistful eagerness in
his eyes.

“I have gone so far,” he said, “that I am emboldened to
venture still further. Will you come too?”

Stella started, and an eager light flashed for a moment in her
eyes; then she held out her hands and laughed.

“I have to make a pudding,” she said.

He looked at the white arms, and then at her, with an intensified
eagerness.

“If you knew how beautiful the morning is—how grand the
river looks—you would let the pudding go.”

Stella shook her head.

[43]

He inclined his head, too highly bred to persist.

“I am so sorry,” he said, simply. “I am sorry now that I
have gained my way. I thought that you would have come.”

Stella stood silent, and, with something like a sigh, put down
the things and held out her hand; but as he took the finger
which she gave him, his face brightened, and a light came into
his eyes.

“Are you still firm?”

“I would not desert the pudding for anything, my lord,” said
Stella, naively.

At the “my lord,” a slight shade covered his face, but it went
again instantly, as he said:

“Well, then, will you come when the inevitable pudding is
made? There,” he said, eagerly, and still holding her hand he
drew her to the window and pointed with his whip, “there’s the
place! It is not far—just across the meadows, and through the
first gate. Do you see it?”

“Yes,” said Stella, gently withdrawing her hand.

“And you will come?” he asked, his eyes fixed on hers with
their intent earnestness.

At that instant the word—the odious word—”infamous” rang
in her ears, and her face paled. He noticed the sudden pallor,
and his eyes grew dark with earnest questioning.

“I see,” he said, quietly, “you will not come!”

What was it that moved her? With a sudden impulse she
raised her eyes and looked at him steadily.

“Yes, I will come!” she said.

He inclined his head without a word, called to the dogs, and
passed out.

Stella stood for a moment looking after them; then she went
into the kitchen—not laughing nor singing, but with a strange
gravity; a strange feeling had got possession of her.

She felt as if she was laboring under some spell. “Charmed”
is an often misused word, but it is the right word to describe the
sensation. Was it his face or his voice that haunted her? As
she stood absently looking down at the table, simple words, short
and commonplace, which he had used rang in her ears with a
new meaning.

Mrs. Penfold stood and regarded her in curious astonishment.
She was getting used to Stella’s quickly changing moods, but the
sudden change bewildered her.

“Let me do it, Miss Stella,” she pleaded, but Stella shook her
head firmly; not by one inch would she swerve from her cause
for all the beautiful voice and noble face.

In rapt silence she finished her work, then she went up-stairs
and put on her hat and came down. As she passed out of
the house and down the path, the mastiff leaped the gate and
bounded toward her, and the next moment she saw Lord Leycester
seated on a stile.

He dropped down and came toward her.

“How quick you have been,” he said, “I thought a pudding
was a mystery which demanded an immensity of time.”

[44]

Stella looked up at him, her dark brows drawn to a straight
line.

“You waited for me?” she said.

“No,” he said, simply, “I came back. I did not like to think
that you should come alone.”

Stella was silent.

“Are you angry?” he asked, in a low voice.

Stella was silent for a moment, then she looked at him frankly.

“No,” she said.

If she had but said “yes,” and turned back! But the path,
all beautiful with the bright coloring of Spring stretched before
her, and she had no thought of turning back, no thought or
suspicion of the dark and perilous land toward which she was
traveling by his side.

Already the glamour of love was falling upon her like the soft
mist of a Summer evening; blindly, passively she was moving
toward the fate which the gods had prepared for her.

CHAPTER VII.

Side by side they walked across the meadows; the larks rising
before them and soaring up to the heavens with a burst of song;
the river running in silvery silence to the sea; the green trees
waving gently in the Summer breeze; and above them the long
stretching gray masonry of Wyndward Hall.

Lord Leycester was strangely silent for some minutes since
that “Are you angry?” and Stella, as she walked by his side,
stooping now and again to gather a cowslip, glanced up at his
face and wondered whether her uncle could be mistaken, whether
they were not all deceived in thinking the quiet, graceful creature
with the beautiful face and dreamy, almost womanly, soft
eyes, wild and reckless, and desperate and altogether bad. She
almost forgot how she had seen him on that first night of their
meeting, with his whip upraised and the sudden fire of anger in
his eyes.

Presently he spoke, so suddenly that Stella, who had been lost
in her speculations respecting him, started guiltily:

“I have been wondering,” he said, “how Mr. Etheridge takes
the change which your presence must make in the cottage.”

Stella looked up with surprise, then she smiled.

“He bears it with admirable resignation,” she said, with that
air of meek archness which her uncle found so amusing.

Lord Leycester looked down at her.

“That is a rebuke for the presumption of my remark?” he
said.

“No,” said Stella.

“I did not mean to be presumptuous. Think. Your uncle has
lived the whole of his life alone, the life of a solitary, a hermit;
suddenly there enters into that life a young and beau—a young
girl, full of the spirit of youth and its aspirations. It must make
a great change.”

“As I said,” says Stella, “he bears it with pious fortitude.”
Then she added, in a lower voice, “He is very good to me.”

[45]

“He could not be otherwise,” was the quiet response. “I
mean that he could not be anything but good, gentle, and loving
with any living thing. I have known him since I was a boy,” he
added. “He was always the same, always living a life of dreams.
I wonder whether he takes you as a dream?”

“A very substantial and responsible one, then,” said Stella,
with her little laugh. “One that lasts through the daytime.”

He looked at her with that strange intent look which she had
learned that she could not meet.

“And you?” he said.

“I?” said Stella, though she knew what he meant.

He nodded.

“How do you like the change?—this still, quiet life in the
Thames valley. Are you tired of it already? Will you pine for
all the gayeties you have left?”

Stella looked up at him—his eyes were still fixed on hers.

“I have left no gayeties,” she said. “I left a bare and horrid
school that was as unlike home as the desert of Sahara is like
this lovely meadow. How do I feel? As if I had been translated
to Paradise—as if I, who was beginning to think that I was alone
in the world I had no business to be in, had found some one
friend to love——”

She paused, and he, glancing at the black waistband to her
white dress, said, with the tenderest, most humble voice:

“I beg your pardon. Will you forgive me?—I did not
know——”

And his voice broke.

Stella looked up at him with a smile shining through the
unshed tears.

“How—why should you know? Yes, I was quite alone in
the world. My father died a year ago.”

“Forgive me,” he murmured; and he laid his hand with a
feather’s weight on her arm. “I implore you to forgive me.
It was cruel and thoughtless.”

“No,” said Stella. “How should you know?”

“If I had been anything better than an unthinking brute, I
might have guessed.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Stella spoke.

“Yes, it is Paradise. I had no idea England was like this,
they called it the land of fogs.”

“You have not seen London on a November evening,” he said,
with a laugh. “Most foreigners come over to England and put
up at some hotel at the west-end, and judge the whole land by
the London sample—very few come even so far as this. You
have not been to London?”

“I passed through it,” said Stella, “that is all. But I heard
a great deal about it last night,” she added, with a smile.

“Yes!” he said, with great interest—”last night?”

“Yes, at Mrs. Hamilton’s. She was kind enough to ask me
to an evening party, and one of the guests took great pains
to impress me with the importance and magnificence of London.”

He looked at her.

[46]

“May I ask who she was?” he said.

“It was not a she, but a gentleman. It was Mr. Adelstone.”

Lord Leycester thought a moment.

“Adelstone. Adelstone. I don’t know him.”

Before she was quite aware of it the retort slipped from her
lips.

“He knows you.”

He looked at her with a thoughtful smile.

“Does he? I don’t remember him. Stay, yes, isn’t he a relation
of Mr. Fielding’s?”

“His nephew,” said Stella, and feeling the dark, penetrating
eyes on her she blushed faintly. It annoyed her, and she struggled
to suppress it, but the blush came and he saw it.

“I remember him now,” he said; “a tall, thin dark man. A
lawyer, I believe. Yes, I remember him. And he told you
about London?”

“Yes,” said Stella, and as she remembered the conversation
of a few hours ago, her color deepened. “He is very amusing
and well-informed, and he took pity on my ignorance in the
kindest way. I was very grateful.”

There was something in her tone that made him look at her
questioningly.

“I think,” he said, “your gratitude is easily earned.”

“Oh, no,” she retorted; “I am the most ungrateful of beings.
Isn’t that uncle sitting there?” she added, quickly, to change the
subject.

He looked up.

“Yes, he is hard at work. I did not think I should have won
him. It was my sister’s name that worked the magic charm.”

“He is fond of your sister,” said Stella, thoughtfully.

His eyes were on her in an instant.

“He has spoken of her?” he said.

Stella could have bitten her tongue out for the slip.

“Yes,” she said. “He—he told me about her—I asked him
whose house it was upon the hills.”

“Meaning the Hall?” he said, pointing with his whip.

“Yes, and he told me. I knew by the way he spoke of your
sister that he was fond of her. Her name is Lilian, is it not?”

“Yes,” he said, “Lilian,” and the name left his lips with soft
tenderness. “I think every one who knows her loves her.
This picture is for her.”

Stella glanced up at his face; anything less imperious at that
moment it would be impossible to imagine.

“Lady Lilian is fond of pictures?” she said.

“Yes,” he said; “she is devoted to art in all its forms. Yes,
that little sketch will give her more pleasure than—than—I
scarcely know what to say. What are women most fond of?”

Stella laughed.

“Diamonds, are they not?”

“Are you fond of them?” he said. “I think not.”

“Why not?” she retorted. “Why should I not have the
attributes of my sex? Yes, I am fond of diamonds. I am fond[47]
of everything that is beautiful and costly and rare. I remember
once going to a ball at Florence.”

He looked at her.

“Only to see it!” she exclaimed. “I was too young to be
seen, and they took me in a gallery overlooking the great salon;
and I watched the great ladies in their beautiful dresses and
shining gems, and I thought that I would give all the world to
be like one of them; and the thought spoiled my enjoyment. I
remember coming away crying; you see it was so dark and
solitary in the great gallery, and I felt so mean and insignificant.”
And she laughed.

He was listening with earnest interest. Every word she said
had a charm for him; he had never met any girl—any woman—like
her, so frank and open-minded. Listening to her was like
looking into a crystal lake, in which everything is revealed and
all is bright and pure.

“And are you wiser now?” he asked.

“Not one whit!” she replied. “I should like now, less than
then, to be shut up in a dark gallery and look on at others
enjoying themselves. Isn’t that a confession of an envious and
altogether wicked disposition?”

“Yes,” he assented, with a strange smile barely escaping from
under his tawny mustache. “I should be right in prophesying
all sorts of bad endings to you.”

As he spoke he opened the gate for her, driving the dogs back
with a crack of his whip so that she might pass first—a small
thing, but characteristic of him.

The painter looked up.

“Keep those dogs off my back, Leycester,” he said. “Well,
Stella, have you concocted your poison?”

Stella went and looked over his shoulder.

“Yes, uncle,” she said.

“You have been long enough to make twenty indigestible
compounds,” he said, gazing at the view he was sketching.

Stella bent her head, to hide the blush which rose as she remembered
how slowly they had walked across the meadows.

“How are you getting on?” said Lord Leycester.

The old man grunted.

“Pretty well; better than I shall now you have come to fidget
about.”

Lord Leycester laughed.

“A pretty plain hint that our room is desired more than our
company, Miss Etheridge. Can we not vanish into space?”

Stella laughed and sank down on the grass.

“It is uncle’s way of begging us to stay,” she said.

Lord Leycester laughed, and sending the dogs off, flung himself
down almost at her feet.

“Did I exaggerate?” he said, pointing his whip at the view.

“Not an atom,” replied Stella. “It is beautiful—beautiful,
and that is all that one can find to say.”

“I wish you would be content to say it and not insist upon my
painting it,” replied Mr. Etheridge.

Lord Leycester sprang to his feet.

[48]

“That is the last straw. We will not remain to be abused,
Miss Etheridge,” he said.

Stella remained immovable. He came and stood over her,
looking down at her with wistful eagerness in silence.

“What lovely woods,” she said. “You were right; they are
carpeted with primroses. We have none in our meadow.”

“Would you like to go and get some?” he asked.

Stella turned her face up to him.

“Yes, but I don’t care to swim across.”

He smiled, and went down to the bank, unfastened a boat, and
leaping into it, called to her.

Stella sprang to her feet with the impulsive delight of a girl
at the sight of a boat, when she had expected nothing better
than rushes.

“Is it a boat—really?” she exclaimed.

“Come and see,” he said.

She went down to the water’s edge and looked at it.

“How did it come there?” she asked.

“I pay a fairy to drop a boat from the skies whenever I want
it.”

“I see,” said Stella, gravely.

He laughed.

“How did you think I came across? Did you think I swam?”
and he arranged a cushion.

She laughed.

“I forgot that; how stupid of me.”

“Will you step in?” he said.

Stella looked back at her uncle, and hesitated a moment.

“He will assure you that I shall not drown you,” he said.

“I am not afraid—do you think I am afraid?” she said, scornfully.

“Yes, I think that at this moment you are trembling with
nervousness and dread.”

She put her foot—he could not help seeing how small and
shapely it was—on the gunwale, and he held out his hand and
took hers; it was well he did so, for the boat was only a small,
lightly built gig, and her sudden movement had made it rock.

As it was, she staggered slightly, and he had to take her by
the arm. So, with one hand grasping her hand and the other
her arm, he held her for a moment—for longer than a moment.
Then he placed her on the cushion, and seating himself, took up
the sculls and pushed off.

Stella leant back, and of course dropped one hand in the
water. Not one woman out of twenty who ever sat in a boat
can resist that impulse to have closer communion with the
water; and he pulled slowly across the stream.

The sun shone full upon them, making their way a path of
rippling gold, and turning Stella’s hair into a rich brown.

Little wonder that, as he sat opposite her, his eyes should rest
on her face, and less that, thus resting, its exquisite beauty and
freshness and purity should sink into the soul of him to whom
beauty was the one thing worth living for.

Unconscious of his rapt gaze, Stella leant back, her eyes fixed[49]
on the water, her whole attention absorbed by its musical ripple
as it ran through her fingers.

In silence he pulled the sculls, slowly and noiselessly; he
would not have spoken and broken the spell for worlds. Before
him, as he looked upon her, rose the picture of which he had
spoken to his sister last night.

“But more beautiful,” he mused—”more beautiful! How
lost she is! She has forgotten me—forgotten everything. Oh,
Heaven! if one were to waken her into love!”

For an instant, at the thought, the color came into his face
and the fire to his eyes; then a half guilty, half repentful feeling
struck through him.

“No, it would be cruel—cruel: and yet to see the azure light
shining in those eyes—to see those lips half parted with the
breath of a great passion, would be worth—what? It would
make amends for all that a man might suffer, though he died
the next moment, if those eyes smiled, if those lips were upturned,
for love of him!”

So lost were they that the touching of the boat and the bank
made them start.

“So soon,” murmured Stella. “How beautiful it is! I think
I was dreaming.”

“And I know that I was,” he said, with a subtle significance,
as he rose and held out his hand. But Stella sprang lightly on
shore without accepting it. He tied up the boat and followed
her; she was already on her knee, picking the yellow primroses.

Without a word, he followed her example. Sometimes they
were so near together that she could feel his breath stirring her
hair—so near that their hands almost met.

At last she sank on to the mossy ground with a laugh, and,
pointing to her hat, which was full of the spring earth-stars, said
laughingly:

“What ruthless pillage! Do not pick any more; it is wanton
waste!”

“Are you sure you have plenty?” he said. “Why hesitate
when there are such millions?”

“No, no more!” she said. “I feel guilty already!”

He glanced at the handful he had gathered, and she saw the
glance and laughed.

“You do not know what to do with those you have, and still
want more. See, you must tie them in bundles.

“Show me,” he said, and he threw himself down beside her.

She gathered them up into bundles, and tied them with a long
stem of fern, and he tried to do the same, but his hands, white
and slender as they were, were not so deft as hers, and he held
the huge bundle to her.

“You must tie it,” he said.

She laughed and put the fern round, but it broke, and the primroses
fell in a golden shower over their hands. They both made
a grasp at them, and their hands met.

For a moment Stella laughed, then the laugh died away, for
he still held her hand, and the warmth of his grasp seemed stealing[50]
upward to her heart. With something like an effort she
drew her hand away, and sprang to her feet.

“I—I must go,” she said. “Uncle will wonder where I have
gone,” and she looked down at the water with almost frightened
eagerness.

“He will know you are here, quite safe,” he said. “Wait, do
not go this moment. Up there, above our heads, we can see the
river stretching away for miles. It is not a step; will you
come?”

She hesitated a moment, then she turned and walked beside
him between the trees.

A step or two, as he said, and they reached a sort of plateau,
crowned by a moss-grown rock, in which some rough steps were
hewn. He sprang up the steps and reached the top, then bent
down and held out his hand.

Stella hesitated a moment.

“It will repay your trouble; come,” he said, and she put her
hand in his and her foot on the first step, and he drew her up
beside him.

“Look!” he said.

An exclamation of delight broke from Stella’s lips.

“You are not sorry you came?”

“I did not think it would be so lovely,” she said.

He stood beside her, not looking at the view, but at her dark
eyes dilating with dreamy rapture—at her half-parted lips, and
the sweet, clear-cut profile presented to him.

She turned suddenly, and to hide the look of admiration he
raised his hand and pointed out the objects in the view.

“And what is that little house there?” asked Stella.

“That is one of the lodges,” he said.

“One of the lodges—one of your own lodges, you mean?” she
asked.

He nodded lightly, “Yes.”

“And all this between here and that lodge belongs to you?”

“No, not an inch,” he said, laughing. “To my father.”

“It is a great deal,” she said.

“Too much for one man, you think?” he said, with a smile.
“A great many other people think so too. I don’t know what
you would think if you knew how much we Wyndwards have
managed at one time or the other to lay our acquiring grasp on.
This is one of our smallest estates,” he said, simply.

Stella looked at the view dreamily.

“One of the smallest? Yes, I have heard that you are very
rich. It must be very nice.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You see one cannot tell until one
has been poor. I don’t think there is anything in it. I don’t think
one is any the happier. There is always something left to long
for.”

She turned her dark eyes on him with a smile of incredulity.

“What can you possibly have to long for?” she said.

He looked at her with a strange smile; then suddenly his face
grew grave and wistful—almost sad, as it seemed to her.

“You cannot guess, and I cannot tell you; but believe me that,[51]
as I stand here, there is an aching void in my heart, and I do
long for something very earnestly.”

The voice was like music, deep and thrilling; she listened and
wondered.

“And you should be so happy,” she said, almost unconsciously.

“Happy!” he echoed, and his dark eyes rested on hers with a
strange expression that was half-mocking, half-sad. “Do you
know what the poets say?”

“‘Count no man happy till he dies,’ do you mean?” said
Stella.

“Yes,” he said. “I do not think I know what happiness means.
I have been pursuing it all my life; sometimes have been within
reach of it but it has always evaded me—always slipped from
my grasp. Sometimes I have resolved to let it go—to pursue it
no longer; but fate has decreed that man shall always be seeking
for the unattainable—that he who once looks upon
happiness with the eyes of desire, who stretches out his hands
toward her, shall pursue her to the end.”

“And—but surely some get their desire.”

“Some,” he said, “to find that the prize is not worth the race
they have run for it; to find that they have wearied of it when
it is gained; to find that it is no prize at all, but a delusive blank;
all dead sea fruit that turns to dust upon the lips.”

“Not all; surely not all!” she murmured, strangely moved
by his words.

“No; not all,” he said, with a hidden light in his eyes that
she did not see. “To some there comes a moment when they
know that happiness—real true happiness—lies just beyond their
grasp. And the case of rich men is more to be pitied than all
others. What would you say if I told you that it was mine?”

She looked up at him with a gentle smile, not on her lips but
in her eyes.

“I should say that I was very sorry,” she murmured. “I
should say that you deserved——” she stopped short, smitten by
sudden remembrance of all she had heard of him.

He filled up the pause with a laugh: a laugh such as she had
not heard upon his lips till now.

“You were right to stop,” he said. “If I get all the happiness
I deserve—well, no man will envy me.”

“Let us go down now,” said Stella, gently; “my uncle——”

He leapt down, and held up his hand.

CHAPTER VIII.

Stella put hers into it, but reluctantly, and tried to spring,
but her dress caught and she slipped forward.

She would have fallen but that he was on the alert to save
her. Quite simply and naturally he put his arms round her and
lifted her down.

Only for a moment he held her in his embrace, her panting
form close to his, her face almost resting on his shoulders, but
that moment roused the blood in his fiery heart, and her face
went pale.

[52]

“Are you hurt?” he murmured.

“No, no!” she said, and she slipped out of his arms and stood
a little away from him, the color coming and going in her face;
it was the first time that any man’s arms, save her father’s, had
ever encircled her.

“Are you quite sure?” he repeated.

“Quite,” she said, then she laughed. “What would have
happened if I had slipped?”

“You would have sprained your ankle,” he said.

“Sprained my ankle, really?” she repeated, with open eyes.

“Yes, and I should have had to carry you down to the boat,”
he said, slowly.

She looked away from him.

“I am glad I did not slip.”

“And I,” he said, “am—glad also.”

She stooped and picked up the primroses and ran down the
slope, her cheeks aflame, a feeling that was something like
shame, and yet too full of a strange, indefinable joy to be sullen
shame, took possession of her.

With light feet, her hat swinging in her hand, she threaded
her way between the trees and sprang on to the grassy road beside
the river bank.

He did not follow so quickly, but stood for a moment looking
at her, his face pale, his eyes full of a strange, wistful restlessness.

Then Stella heard his step, firm and masterful, behind her.
A sudden impulse tempted her sorely to jump into the boat and
push off—she could pull a pair of sculls—and her hand was
on the edge of the boat, when she heard the sound of bells, and
paused with astonishment. Looking up she saw a tiny phæton
drawn by a pair of cream-white ponies coming along the road;
it was the bells on their harness that she had heard.

They came along at a fair pace, and Stella saw that the
phæton was being driven by a coachman in dark-brown
livery, but the next moment all her attention was absorbed
by the young girl who sat beside him.

She was so fair, so lovely, so ethereal looking, that Stella was
spellbound.

A book was in her hand—ungloved and small and white as a
child’s—but she was not reading. She held it so loosely that as
the phæton came along the top of the bank which hid Stella,
the book dropped from the lax grasp of the white fingers.

The girl uttered an exclamation, and Stella, obeying one of her
sudden impulses, sprang lightly up the bank, and picking up
the book, held it toward her.

Her appearance was so sudden that Lady Lilian was startled
and for a moment the pale face was dyed with a faint color;
even after the moment had passed she sat speechless, and the
surprise in her eyes gave place to a frank, generous admiration.

“Oh, thank you—thank you!” she said. “How kind of you.
It was so stupid of me to drop it. But where did you come from—the
clouds?” And there was a delicious hint of flattery in the
look that accompanied the words.

[53]

“Quite the reverse,” said Stella, with her open smile. “I
was standing below there, by the boat.”

And she pointed.

“Oh?” said Lady Lilian. “I did not see you.”

“You were looking the other way,” said Stella, drawing back
to allow the carriage to proceed; but Lady Lilian seemed reluctant
to go, and made no sign to the coachman, who sat holding
the reins like an image of stone, apparently deaf and dumb.

For a few strokes of Time’s scythe the two girls looked at
each other—the one with the pale face and the blue eyes regarding
the fresh, healthful beauty of the other with sad, wistful
gaze. Then Lady Lilian spoke.

“What beautiful primroses! You have been gathering them
on the slopes?” with a suggestion of a sigh.

“Yes,” said Stella. “Will you take them?”

“Oh, no, no; I could not think of robbing you.”

Stella smiled with her characteristic archness.

“It is I who have been the thief. I have been taking what
did not belong to me. You will take these?”

Lady Lilian was too well bred to refuse; besides, she thirsted
for them.

“If you will give them to me, and will not mind picking
some more,” she said.

Stella laid the bunch on the costly sables which wrapped the
frail figure.

Lady Lilian put them to her face with a caressing gesture.
“You are, like me, fond of flowers?” she said.

Stella nodded. “Yes.”

Then there was a pause. Above them, unseen by Lilian, forgotten
by Stella, stood Lord Leycester.

He was watching and waiting with a strange smile. He could
read the meaning in his sister’s eyes; she was longing to know
more of the beautiful girl who had sprang like a fairy to her side.

With a faint flush, Lady Lilian said:

“You—you are a stranger, are you not? I mean you do not
live here?”

“Yes,” said Stella; “I live”—and she smiled and pointed to
the cottage across the meadow—”there.”

Lady Lilian started, and Lord Leycester seized the moment,
and coming down, quietly stood by Stella’s side.

“Leycester!” exclaimed Lilian, with a start of surprise.

He smiled into her eyes, his strange, masterful, irresistible
smile. It was as if he had said, “Did I not tell you? Can you
withstand her?”

But aloud he said:

“Let me make the introduction in due form. This is Miss
Etheridge, Lilian. Miss Etheridge, this is my sister. As the
French philosopher said, ‘Know each other.'”

Lady Lilian held out her hand.

“I am very glad,” she said.

Stella took the thin, white hand, and held it for a moment;
then Lady Lilian looked from one to the other.

Lord Leycester interpreted the glance at once.

[54]

“Miss Etheridge has intrusted herself on the watery deep with
me,” he said. “We came across to gather flowers, leaving Mr.
Etheridge to paint there.”

And he waved his hand across the river.

Lady Lilian looked.

“I see,” she said—”I see. And he is painting. Is he not
clever? How proud you must be of him!”

Stella’s eyes grew dark. It was the one word wanting to
draw them together. She said not a word.

“Your uncle and I are old friends,” Lady Lilian continued.
“Sometime when—when I am stronger, I am coming to see him—when
the weather gets warmer—” Stella glanced at the frail
form clad in sables, with a moistened eye—”I am going to spend
a long afternoon among the pictures. He is always so kind and
patient, and explains them all to me. But, as I am not able to
come to you, you will come and see me, will you not?”

There was a moment’s silence. Lord Leycester stood looking
over the river as if waiting for Stella’s reply.

Stella looked up.

“I shall be very glad,” she said, and Lord Leycester drew a
breath, almost of relief.

“You will, will you not?” said Lady Lilian, with a sweet
smile.

“Yes, I will come,” said Stella, almost solemnly.

“You will find me poor company,” said the daughter of the
great earl, with meek humility. “I see so little of the world
that I grow dull and ignorant; but I shall be so glad to see
you,” and she held out her hand.

Stella took it in her warm, soft fingers.

“I will come,” she said.

Lady Lilian looked at the coachman, who, though his eyes
were fixed in quite another direction, seemed to see the glance,
for he touched the horses with the whip.

“Good-bye,” she said, “good-bye.”

Then, as the phæton moved on, she called out, in her low,
musical voice, that was a low echo of her brother’s:

“Oh, Leycester, Lenore has come!”

Leycester raised his hat.

“Very well,” he said. “Good-bye.”

Stella stood a moment looking after her. Strangely enough
the last words rang in her ears with a senseless kind of insistence
and emphasis. “Lenore has come!” She found herself
repeating them mentally.

Recalling herself she turned swiftly to Lord Leycester.

“How beautiful she is!” she said, almost in a whisper.

He looked at her with gratitude in his eloquent eyes.

“Yes.”

“So beautiful and so kind!” Stella murmured, and the tears
sprang to her eyes. “I can see her face now. I can hear her
voice. I do not wonder that you love her as you do.”

“How do you know that I love her?” he said. “Brothers,
generally——”

Stella stopped him with a gesture.

[55]

“No man with a heart warmer than a stone could help loving
her.”

“And so you agree that my heart is warmer than a stone.
Thank you for that, at least,” he said, with a smile that was not
at all unselfish.

Stella looked at him.

“Let us go now,” she said. “See, uncle is getting his things
together.”

“Not without the primroses,” he said; “Lilian will break
her heart if you go without any. Let me get some,” and he
went up the slope.

Stella stood in thought. The sudden meeting with the fairy-like
creatures, had filled her with strange thoughts. She understood
now that rank and money are not all that is wanted for
earthly happiness.

So lost in thought was she that she did not hear the sound of a
horse coming along the mossy road, though the animal was coming
at a great pace.

Lord Leycester’s ears were freer or quicker however, for he
caught the sound and turned round.

Turned round in time to see a huge bay horse ridden by a tall,
thin, dark young man, almost upon the slim form, standing with
its back to it.

With something like an oath on his lips, he dropped the flowers
and with one spring stood between her and the horse, and
seizing the bridle with both hands threw the beast, with sheer
force, on to its haunches.

The rider had been staring at the river, and was taken by surprise
so complete, that, as the horse rose on its legs, he was
thrown from the saddle.

Stella, alarmed by the noise, turned and swerved out of the
path. And so they were grouped. Lord Leycester, pale with
furious passion, still holding the reins and forcing the horse in
an iron grip, and the erstwhile rider lying huddled up on the
mossy road.

He lay still, only for a moment, however; the next he was
on his feet and advancing toward Lord Leycester. It was Jasper
Adelstone.

His face was deadly pale, making, by contrast, his small eyes
black as coals.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed, furiously, and half-unconsciously
he raised his whip.

It was an unlucky gesture, for it was all that was needed to
rouse the devil in Lord Leycester’s breast.

With one little irresistible gesture he seized the whip arm and
the whip, and flinging the owner to the ground again with one
movement, broke the whip, and flung it on the top of him with
the other.

It was all done in a second. With all the will in the world,
Stella had no time to interpose before the rash act was accomplished;
but now she sprang between them.

“Lord Leycester,” she cried, pale and horror-stricken, as she
gazed into his face, white and working with passion; all its[56]
beauty gone, and with the mask of a fury in its place. “Lord
Leycester!”

At the sound of her voice—pleading, expostulating, rebuking—a
shiver ran through him, his hand fell to his side, and still
holding the now plunging and furious horse with a grip of steel,
he stood humbly before her.

Not so Jasper Adelstone. With a slow, sinuous movement he
rose and shook himself, and glared at him. Speechless from the
sheer breathlessness of furious hate he stood and looked at the
tall, velvet-clad figure.

Stella was the first to break the silence.

“Oh, my lord!” she said.

At the sound of her reproachful voice, Lord Leycester’s face
paled.

“Forgive me,” he said, humbly. “I beg—I crave your forgiveness;
but I thought you were in danger, you were—you
were!” Then, at the thought, his fiery passion broke out again,
and he turned to the silent, white-faced Jasper. “What the
devil do you mean by riding in that fashion?”

Jasper Adelstone’s lips moved, and at last speech came.

“You shall answer for this, Lord Leycester.”

It was the worst word he could have said.

In an instant all Lord Leycester’s repentances fled.

With a smothered oath on his lips, he advanced toward him.

“What! Is that all you have to say? Do you know, you
miserable wretch, that you nearly rode over this lady—yes, rode
over her? Answer for it! Confound you——” and he raised his arm.

But Stella, all her wits on the qui vive, was in time, and her
own arms were wound about his, on which the muscles stood
thick and prominent—like iron bands.

With a gesture he became calm again, and there was a mute
prayer for pardon in his eyes as he looked at her.

“Do not be afraid,” he murmured, between his lips; “I will
not hurt him. No, no.”

Then he pointed to the horse.

“Mount, sir, and get out of my sight. Stop!” and the fiery
passion broke out again. “No, by Heaven, you shall not, until
you have begged the lady’s pardon.”

“No, no!” said Stella.

“But I say ‘Yes!'” said Lord Leycester, his eyes blazing. “Is
every tailor to ride through the Chase and knock down whom he
will? Ask for pardon, sir, or——”

Jasper stood looking from one to the other.

“No, no!” said Stella. “It was all an accident. Please, pray
do not say another word. Mr. Adelstone, I beg you will go without
another word.”

Jasper Adelstone hesitated for a moment.

“Miss Stella,” he said, hoarsely.

Alas! it was oil on the smoldering fire.

“Miss Stella!” exclaimed Lord Leycester. “Who gave you
the right to address this lady by her Christian name, sir?”

Jasper bit his lip.

“Miss Etheridge, you cannot doubt that I am heartily sorry[57]
that this unpleasant contretemps should have been caused by
my carelessness. I was riding carelessly——”

“Like an idiot!” broke in Lord Leycester.

“And did not see you. No harm would have resulted, however,
if this man—if Lord Leycester Wyndward had not, with
brutal force, thrown me from the saddle. I should have seen
you in time, and, as I say, no harm would have been done. All
that has occurred is this man—Lord Leycester Wyndward’s—fault.
Again I beg your pardon.”

And he bent his head before her. But as he did so a malignant
gleam shot out of his eyes in the direction of the tall, stalwart
figure and white, passionate face.

“No, no, there is no occasion!” said Stella, trembling. “I do
not want you to beg my pardon. It was only an accident. You
did not expect to see anyone here—I—I—oh, I wish I had not
come.”

Lord Leycester started.

“Do not say that,” he murmured.

Then aloud:

“Here is your horse, sir; mount him and go home, and thank
your stars the lady has escaped without a broken limb.”

Jasper stood a moment looking at him, then, with another inclination
of the head, he slowly mounted the horse.

Lord Leycester, his passion gone, stood calm and motionless
for a moment, then raised his hat with an old-world gesture.

“Good-day to you, and remember to ride more carefully in
future.”

Jasper Adelstone looked down at him with a malignant smile
on his thin lips.

“Good-day, my lord. I shall remember. I am not one to
forget. No, I am not one to forget,” and striking spurs into the
horse, he rode off.

CHAPTER IX.

“Who is ‘Lenore,’ uncle?”

It was the evening of the same day—a day never to be forgotten
by Stella, a day marked with a white stone in her mental
calendar. Never would she be able to look upon a field of primroses,
never hear the music of the river running over the weir,
without remembering this morning the first she had spent with
Lord Leycester.

It was evening now, and the two—the painter and the girl—were
sitting by the open window, looking out into the gloaming,
he lost in memory, she going over and over again the incidents
of the morning, from the visit of Mr. Jasper Adelstone to his
encounter with Lord Leycester.

It was strange, it was almost phenomenal—for Stella was
frankness and candor itself—that she had said nothing of the
encounter to her uncle; once or twice she had opened her lips—once
at dinner, and once again as she sat beside him, leaning her
arm on his chair while he smoked his pipe—she had opened her
lips to tell him of that sudden outburst of fury on the part of[58]
Lord Leycester—that passionate rage which proved all that the
painter had said of his hot temper to be true, but she had found
some difficulty in the recital which had kept her silent.

She had told him of her walk in the woods, had told him of
her meeting with Lady Lilian, but of that passionate encounter
between the two men she said nothing.

When Jasper had ridden on, pale and livid with suppressed
passion, Lord Leycester had stood looking at her in silence.
Now, as she sat looking into the gloaming, she saw him in her
mind’s eye still, his beautiful eyes eloquent with remorse and
humility, his clear-cut lip quivering with the sense of his weakness.

“Will you forgive me?” he said, at last, and that was all.
Without another word, he had offered to help her into the boat,
help which Stella had disregarded, and had rowed her across to
her uncle. Without a word, but with the same penitent, imploring
look in his eyes, he raised his hat and left her—had gone
home to the Hall, to his sister Lady Lilian, and to Lenore.

Ever since she had heard the name drop softly from Lady
Lilian’s lips it had rung in her ears. There was a subtle kind of
charm about it that half fascinated, half annoyed her.

And now, leaning her head on her arm, and with her dark
eyes fixed on the stars which glittered merrily in the sky, she
put the question:

“Who is Lenore, uncle?”

He stirred in his chair and looked at her absently.

“Lenore, Lenore? I don’t know, Stella, and yet the name
sounds familiar. Where did you hear it? It’s scarcely fair to
spring a question like that on me; you might ask me who is
Julia, Louisa, Anna Maria——”

Stella laughed softly.

“I heard it this morning, uncle. Lady Lilian told her brother
as she left us that ‘Lenore had come.'”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Now I know. So she has come, has
she? Who is Lenore?” and he smiled. “There is scarcely
another woman in England who would need to ask that question,
Stella.”

“No?” she said, turning her eyes upon him with surprise.
“Why? Is she so famous?”

“Exactly, yes; that is just the word. She is famous.”

“For what, uncle? Is she a great actress, painter, musician—what?”

“She is something that the world, nowadays, reckons far
above any of the classes you have named, Stella—she is a great
beauty.”

“Oh, is that all!” said Stella, curtly.

“All!” he echoed, amused.

“Yes,” and she nodded. “It seems so easy.”

“So easy!” and he laughed.

“Yes,” she continued; “so very easy, if you happen to be born
so. There is no merit in it. And is that all she is?”

He was staggered by her sang froid for a moment.

“Well, I was scarcely fair, perhaps. As you say, it is very[59]
easy to be a great beauty—if you are one—but it is rather difficult
if you are not; but Lenore is something more than that—she
is an enchantress.”

“That’s better,” remarked Stella. “I like that. And how does
she enchant? Does she keep tame snakes, and play music to
them, or mesmerize people, or what?”

The painter laughed again with great enjoyment at her
naivete.

“You are quite a cynic, Stella. Where did you learn the
trick; from your father, or is it a natural gift? No, she does
not keep tame snakes, and I don’t know that she has acquired
the art of mesmerism; but she can charm for all that. First,
she is, really and truly, very beautiful——”

“Tell me what she is like?” interrupted Stella, softly.

The old man paused a moment to light his pipe.

“She is very fair,” he said.

“I know,” said Stella, dreamily, and with a little smile; “with
yellow hair and blue eyes, and a pink and white complexion,
and blue veins and a tiny mouth.”

“All wrong,” he said, with, a laugh. “You have, woman-like,
pictured a china doll. Lenore is as unlike a china doll as
it is possible to imagine. She has golden hair it is true—but
golden hair, not yellow; there is a difference. Then her eyes
are not blue; they are violet.”

“Violet!”

“Violet!” he repeated, gravely. “I have seen them as
violet as the flowers that grow on the bank over there. Her
mouth is not small; there was never yet a woman worth a fig
who had a small mouth. It is rather large than otherwise, but
then it is—a mouth.”

“Expressive?” said Stella, quietly.

“Eloquent,” he corrected. “The sort of mouth that can speak
volumes with a curve of the lip. You think I exaggerate?
Wait until you see her.”

“I don’t think,” said Stella, slowly, “that I am particularly
desirous of seeing her, uncle. It reminds me of what they say
of Naples—see Naples and die! See Lenore and die!”

He laughed.

“Well, it is not altogether false; many have seen her—many
men, and been ready to die for love of her.”

Stella laughed, softly.

“She must be very beautiful for you to talk like this, uncle.
She is charming too?”

“Yes, she is charming,” he said, low; “with a charm that
one is bound to admit at once and unreservedly.”

“But what does she do?” asked Stella, with a touch of feminine
impatience.

“What does she not?” he answered. “There is scarcely an
accomplishment under the sun or moon that she has not at her
command. In a word, Stella, Lenore is the outcome of the
higher civilization; she is the type of our latest requirement,
which demands more than mere beauty, and will not be satisfied
with mere cleverness; she rides beautifully and fearlessly; she[60]
plays and sings better than one-half the women one hears at
concerts; they tell me that no woman in London can dance
with greater grace, and I have seen her land a salmon of twenty
pounds with all the skill of a Scotch gillie.”

Stella was silent a moment.

“You have described a paragon, uncle. How all her women
friends must detest her.”

He laughed.

“I think you are wrong. I never knew a woman more popular
with her sex.”

“How proud her husband must be of her,” murmured Stella.

“Her husband! What husband? She is not married.”

Stella laughed.

“Not married! Such a perfection unmarried! Is it possible
that mankind can permit such a paragon to remain single.
Uncle, they must be afraid of her!”

“Well, perhaps they are—some of them,” he assented, smiling.
“No,” he continued, musingly; “she is not married. Lenore
might have been married long before this: she has had many
chances, and some of them great ones. She might have been a
duchess by this time if she had chosen.”

“And why did she not?” said Stella. “Such a woman should
be nothing less than a duchess. It is a duchess whom you have
described, uncle.”

“I don’t know,” he said, simply. “I don’t think anyone
knows; perhaps she does not know herself.”

Stella was silent for a moment; her imagination was hard at
work.

“Is she rich, poor—what, uncle?”

“I don’t know. Rich, I should think,” he answered.

“And what is her other name, or has she only one name, like
a princess or a church dignitary?”

“Her name is Beauchamp—Lady Lenore Beauchamp.”

“Lady!” repeated Stella, surprised. “She has a title, then;
it was all that was wanted.”

“Yes, she is the daughter of a peer.”

“What a happy woman she must be;—is she a woman or a
girl, though. I have imagined her a woman of thirty.”

He laughed.

“Lady Lenore is—is”—he thought a moment—”just twenty-three.”

“That’s a woman,” said Stella, decidedly. “And this wonderful
creature is at the Hall, within sight of us. Tell me, uncle,
do they keep her in a glass case, and only permit her to be seen
as a curiosity at so much a head? They ought to do so, you
know.”

He laughed, and his hand stroked her hair.

“What is it Voltaire says, Stella,” he remarked. “‘If you
want a woman to hate another, praise her to the first one.'”

Stella’s face flushed hotly, and she laughed with just a touch
of scorn.

“Hate! I don’t hate her, uncle—I admire her; I should like
to see her, to touch her—to feel for myself the wonderful charm[61]
of which you speak. I should like to see how she bears it; it
must be strange, you know, to be superior to all one’s kind.”

“If she feels strange,” he said, thoughtfully, “she does not
show it. I never saw more perfect grace and ease than hers.
I do not think anything in the world would ruffle her. I think
if she were on board a ship that was going down inch by inch,
and she knew that she was within, say, five minutes of death,
she would not flinch, or drop for a moment the smile which
usually rests upon her lips. That is her charm, Stella—the perfect
ease and perfect grace which spring from a consciousness
of her power.”

There was silence for a moment. The painter had spoken in
his usual dreamy fashion, more like communion with his own
thoughts than a direct address to his hearer, and Stella, listening,
allowed every word to sink into her mind.

His description impressed her strongly, more than she cared
to admit. Already, so it seemed to her, she felt fascinated by
this beautiful creature, who appeared as perfect and faultless as
one of the heathen goddesses—say Diana.

“Where does she live?” she asked, dreamily.

He smoked in silence for a moment.

“Live? I scarcely know; she is everywhere. In London in
the season, visiting in country houses at other times. There is
not a house in England where she would not be received with a
welcome accorded to princes. It is rather strange that she
should be down here just now; the season has commenced, most
of the visitors have left the Hall, some of them to be in their
places in Parliament. It is rather strange that she should have
come down at this time.”

Stella colored, and a feeling of vague irritation took possession
of her—why, she scarcely knew.

“I should think that everyone would be glad to come to
Wyndward Hall at any time—even Lady Lenore Beauchamp,”
she said, in a low voice.

He nodded.

“Wyndward Hall is a fine place,” he said, slowly, “but Lady
Lenore is accustomed to—well, to palaces. There is not a ball-room
in London where her absence will not be noticed. It is
strange. Perhaps”—and he smiled—”Lady Wyndward has
some motive.”

“Some motive?” repeated Stella, turning her eyes toward him.
“What motive can she have?”

“There is Leycester,” he said, musingly.

“Leycester?”

The word was out of her lips before she was aware of it, and a
vivid crimson dyed her face.

“Lord Leycester, I mean.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Nothing would please his mother
more than to see him marry, and he could not marry a more
suitable person than Lenore. Yes, that must be it, of course.
Well, he could not do better, and as for her, though she has refused
greater chances, there is a charm in being the future[62]
Countess of Wyndward, which is not to be despised. I wonder
whether he will fall into the trap—if trap it is intended to be.”

Stella sat silent, her head thrown back, her eyes fixed on the
stars. He saw she was very pale, and there was a strange, intent
look in her eyes. There was also a dull aching in her heart
which was scarcely distinct enough for pain, but which annoyed
and shamed her. What could it matter to her—to her, Stella
Etheridge, the niece of a poor painter—whom Lord Leycester,
future Earl of Wyndward, married? Nothing, less than nothing.
But still the dull aching throbbed in her heart, and his face
floated between her and the stars, his voice rang in her ears.

How fortunate, how blessed, some women were! Here, for
instance, was this girl of twenty-three, beautiful, famously beautiful,
noble, and reigning like a queen in the great world, and
yet the gods were not satisfied, but they must give her Leycester
Wyndward! For of course it was impossible that he should
resist her if she chose to put forth her charm. Had not her
uncle just said that she could fascinate?—had she not even evidently
fascinated him, the dreamer, the artist, the man who had
seen and who knew the world so well?

For a moment she gave herself up to this reflection and to the
dull aching, then with a gesture of impatience she rose, so suddenly
as to startle the old man.

“What is the matter, Stella?” he asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said. “Shall we have lights? The
room is so dark and still, and——” her voice broke for a moment.

She went to the mantel-shelf and lit a candle, and as she did
so she looked up and saw her face reflected in the antique mirror
and started.

Was that her face?—that pale, half-startled visage looking at
her so sadly. With a laugh she put the dark hair from her
brow, and gliding to the organ began to play; feverishly, restlessly
at first, but presently the music worked its charm and
soothed her savage breast.

Yes, she was savage, she knew it, she felt it! This woman
had everything, while she——

The door opened and a stream of light broke in from the lamp
carried by Mrs. Penfold.

“Are you there, Miss Stella? Oh, yes, there you are! I
thought it was Mr. Etheridge playing; you don’t often play like
that. There’s a note for you.”

“A note! For me!” exclaimed Stella, turning on her stool
with amazement.

Mrs. Penfold smiled and nodded.

“Yes, miss; and there’s an answer, please.”

Stella took the note hesitatingly, as if she half expected it to
contain a charge of explosive dynamite; the envelope was addressed
in a thin, beautiful hand to Miss Stella Etheridge.
Stella turned the envelope over and started as she saw the arms
stamped upon it. She knew it, it was the Wyndward crest.

For a moment she sat looking down at it without offering to
open it, then with an effort she tore it open, slowly, and read
the note enclosed.

[63]

“Dear Miss Etheridge:—Will you redeem the promise you
made me this afternoon and come and see me? Will you ask
Mr. Etheridge to bring you to dine with them to-morrow at
eight o’clock? I say ‘them’ because I dine always alone; but
perhaps you will not mind coming to me after dinner for a little
while. Do not let Mr. Etheridge refuse as he generally does, but
tell him to bring you for my sake.”

“Yours very truly,

“Lilian Wyndward.”

Stella read it and re-read it as if she could not believe her
senses. Lady Lilian’s invitation had sounded so vague that she
had scarcely remembered it, and now here was a direct invitation
to Wyndham Hall, and to dinner.

“Well, miss?” said Mrs. Penfold.

Stella started.

“I will give you the answer directly,” she said.

Then she went across to her uncle and stood beside him, the
letter in her hand. He was lost in thought, and quite unsuspicious
of the thunder-clap preparing for him.

“Uncle, I have just got a letter.”

“Eh? Where from, Stella?”

“From Lady Lilian.”

He looked up quickly.

“She has asked me to dinner to-morrow.”

“No!” he said. She put the letter in his hand. “Read it,
will you, my dear?” he said.

And she read it, conscious that her voice trembled.

“Well?” he said.

“Well?” she repeated, with a smile.

He put his hand to his brow.

“To dinner—to-morrow? Oh, dear me! Well, well! You
would like to go?” and he looked up at her. “Of course you
would like to go.”

She looked down, her face was delicately flushed—her eyes
shone.

“Of course,” he said. “Well, say ‘Yes.’ It is very kind.
You see, Stella, your wish is gratified almost as soon as you utter
it. You will see your paragon—Lady Lenore.”

She started, and her face went pale.

“I have changed my mind,” she said, in a low voice. “I find
I don’t want to see her so badly as I thought. I think I don’t
care to go, uncle.”

He stared at her. She was still an enigma to him.

“Nonsense, child! Not care to see Wyndward Hall! Nonsense!
Besides, it’s Lady Lilian; we must go, Stella.”

She still stood with the letter in her hand.

“But—but, uncle—I have nothing to wear.”

“Nothing to wear!” And he looked at her up and down.

“Nothing fit for Wyndward Hall,” she said. “Uncle, I don’t
think I care to go.”

He laughed gently.

“You will find something to wear between now and half-past[64]
seven to-morrow,” he said, “or my faith in Mrs. Penfold’s resources
will be shaken. Accept, my dear.”

She went slowly to the table and wrote two lines—two lines
only.

“Dear Lady Lilian.—We shall be very glad indeed to come
and see you to-morrow. Yours very truly,”

“Stella Etheridge.”

Then she rang the bell and gave the note to Mrs. Penfold.

“I am going to Wyndward Hall to-morrow,” she said, with a
smile, “and I have got nothing to wear, Mrs. Penfold!” and she
laughed.

Mrs. Penfold threw up her hands after the manner of her kind.

“To the Hall, Miss Stella, to-morrow! Oh, dear, what shall
we do?” Then she glanced at the arm-chair, and beckoned
Stella out of the room.

“Come up-stairs, then, and let us see what we can manage.
To the Hall! Think of that!” and she threw up her head proudly.

Stella sat on a chair, looking on with a smile, while the scanty
wardrobe was overhauled.

Scanty as it was it contained everything that was needful for
such use as Stella might ordinarily require, but a dinner at the
Hall was quite out of the ordinary. At last, after holding up
dress after dress, and dropping it with a shake of the head, Mrs.
Penfold took up a cream sateen.

“That’s very pretty,” said Stella.

“But it’s only sateen!” exclaimed Mrs. Penfold.

“It looks like satin—a little,” said Stella “by candlelight, at
least.”

“And they have real satin, and silks, and velvets,” deplored
Mrs. Penfold, eagerly.

“Nobody will notice me,” said Stella, consolingly. “It doesn’t
matter.”

Mrs. Penfold glanced at her with a curious smile.

“Will they not, Miss Stella? I don’t know, I think they will;
but it must be this dress or nothing; you can’t go in a cotton, or
the black merino, and the muslin you wore the other night——”

“Wouldn’t do at all,” said Stella. “We’ll make this sateen
do, Mrs. Penfold. I think it looks very nice; the lace is good,
isn’t it?”

“The lace?” said Mrs. Penfold, thoughtfully, then her face
brightened. “Wait a moment,” she said, and she dropped the
dress and hurried from the room, returning in a few moments
with a small box. “Speaking of lace just reminded me, Miss
Stella, that I had some by me. It was made by my mother—I
don’t know whether it’s good,” and as she spoke she opened the
box and lifted some lace from the interior.

“Why it’s point!”

“Point, is it, miss? I didn’t know. Then it is good.”

“Good!” exclaimed Stella—”it’s beautiful, delicious, heavenly.
And will you lend it to me?”

[65]

“No, I’ll give it to you if you will take it, Miss Stella,” said the
good woman, with a proud smile.

“No, no, not for worlds, but I will wear it if you’ll let me?”
said Stella, and she took a long strip and put it round her throat.
“Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful! It would make the poorest dress
look handsome! I will take great care of it, indeed I will.”

“What nonsense, dear Miss Stella! How glad I am I thought
of it. And it does look pretty now you wear it,” and she looked
at the beautiful face admiringly. “And you’ll want gloves—let
me see—yes, you have got some cream gloves; they’ll go with
the dress, won’t they? Now, you go down-stairs, and I’ll look
the things out and tack the lace on. Going to the Hall? I’m so
glad, Miss Stella.”

“Are you?” said Stella, softly, as she went down-stairs, “I
don’t know whether I’m glad or sorry!”

CHAPTER X.

The great clock in the Hall stables chimed the half-hour—half-past
seven, and the sound came floating down the valley.

Mr. Etheridge stood at the door clad in evening dress, which,
old-fashioned and well-worn as it was, sat upon him with a
gracious air, and made him look more distinguished than ever.
The fly was waiting at the door, and he glanced at his watch
and took a step toward the stairs, when a light appeared above,
and a light step sounded over his head. The next moment a
vision, as it seemed to him, floated into sight, and came down
upon him.

Stella was in the cream sateen dress—the exquisite lace was
clinging round her slender, graceful throat—there was a red rose
in her hair; but it was not the dress, nor the lace, nor the rose
even, which chained the painter’s eye—it was the lovely girlish
face. The excitement had brought a dash of warm color in the
clear olive cheeks and a bright light into the dark eyes; the lips
were half-apart with a smile, and the whole face was eloquent
of youth’s fresh tide of life and spirits. If they had had all
Howell and James’ stock to choose from, they could not have
chosen a more suitable dress—a more becoming color; the whole
made a fitting frame for the girlish beauty.

“Well, uncle!” she said, with a little blush.

“What have you done to yourself, my child?” he said, with
simple open-eyed wonder.

“Isn’t she—isn’t it beautiful?” murmured Mrs. Penfold, in an
ecstasy. “But then, if it had been a morning cotton, it would
have been all the same.” And she proceeded to wrap a woolen
shawl round her so carefully as if she was something that might
be destroyed at too hard a touch. “Mind she has this wound
round her like this when she comes out, sir, and be sure and
keep the window up.”

“And don’t let the air breathe on me, or I shall melt, uncle,”
laughed Stella.

“Upon my word, I’m half disposed to think so,” he muttered.

[66]

Then they entered the fly—Mrs. Penfold disposing the short
train of the despised sateen with gingerly care—and started.

“How have you managed it all?” asked the old man, quite
bewildered. “I feel quite strange conveying a brilliant young
lady.”

“And I feel—frightened out of my life,” said Stella, with a
little breath and a laugh.

“Then you conceal your alarm with infinite art,” he retorted.

“That’s just it,” she assented. “My heart is beating like a
steam hammer, but, like an Indian at the stake, I am determined
to smile to the end. They will be very terrible, uncle,
will they not?”

“Who?” he asked.

“The countess and the paragon—I mean Lady Lenore Beauchamp.
I shall have to be careful, or I shall be calling her the
paragon to her face. What would she do, uncle?”

“Smile and pass it by with a gracious air,” he said, laughing.
“You are a clever and a bold girl, Stella, but even you could
not take ‘a rise,’ as we used to say in my school-days, out of
Lady Lenore.”

“I am not clever, and I am trembling like a mouse,” said
Stella, with a piteous little pout. “You’ll stand by me, uncle,
won’t you?”

He laughed.

“I think you are quite able to defend yourself, my dear,” he
said. “Never knew one of your sex who was not.”

The fly rumbled over the bridge and entered the long avenue,
and Stella, looking out, saw the lights of the house shining at
the end of the vista.

“What a grand place it is,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“Uncle, I feel as if I were about to enter another world; and I
am, I think. I have never seen a countess in my life before;
have been shut up within the four walls of a school. If she says
one word to me I shall expire.”

He laughed, and began to feel for the sketch which he had
brought with him.

“You will not find her so very terrible,” he said.

The fly got to the end of the avenue at last, and wound round
the broad drive to the front entrance.

It loomed so large and awe-inspiring above them, that Stella’s
heart seemed to sink; but her color came again as two tall footmen,
in grand, but not gorgeous, livery, came down the broad
steps and opened the fly door. She would not let them see that
she was—afraid. Afraid; yes that was the word which described
her feelings as she was ushered into the hall, and she
looked round at its vastness.

There were several other footmen standing about with solemn
faces, and a maid dressed in black, with a spotless muslin cap,
came forward with what seemed to Stella solemn and stately
steps, and asked her, in almost a reverential whisper, whether
she would come up-stairs; but Stella shook her head, and was
about to unwind the shawl, when the maid, with a quick but respectful[67]
movement, undertook the task, going through it with
the greatest care and attention.

Then her uncle held his arm and she put her hand upon it, and
in the instant, as if they had been waiting and watching, though
their eyes had been fixed on the ground, two footmen drew aside
the curtains shutting off the corridor to the drawing-room, and
another footman paced slowly and with head erect before them.

It was all so solemn, the dim yet sufficient light, the towering
hall, with its flags and armor, the endless curtains, with their
gold fringe, that Stella was reminded of some gothic cathedral.
The white gleaming statues seemed to look down at her, as she
passed between them, with a frown of astonishment at her
audacity in entering their solemn presence, the very silence
seemed to reproach her light footsteps on the thickly-carpeted
mosaic floor.

She began to be overpowered, but suddenly she remembered
that she too was of ancient birth, that she was an Etheridge, and
that the man whose arm she was leaning upon was an artist, and
a great one, and she held her head erect and called the color to
her face.

It was not a moment too soon, for another pair of curtains
were drawn aside, and the next instant she stood on the threshold
of the drawing-room, and she heard a low but distinct voice
say—

“Mr. and Miss Etheridge.”

She had not time to look round; she saw, as in a flash, the exquisite
room, with its shaded candles and softly-gleaming mirrors,
saw several tall, black-coated, white-chested forms of gentlemen,
and richly-dressed ladies; then she was conscious that a
tall, beautiful, and stately lady was gliding across the room
toward them, and knew it was the countess.

Lady Wyndward had heard the announcement and had risen
from where she was sitting with the Countess of Longford to
welcome the guests. The painter was a favorite of hers, and if
she could have had her will he would have been a frequent visitor
at the hall.

When Lilian had told her of her meeting with Mr. Etheridge’s
niece and asked permission to invite her, she had assented at
once, expecting to see some well-subdued middle-aged woman.
Why she should have thus pictured her she could not have told;
perhaps because Mr. Etheridge was old and so subdued himself.
She had scarcely listened to Lilian’s description, and Leycester
had said no word.

But now as she came forward and saw a young and beautiful
girl, graceful and self-possessed, dressed with perfect taste, and
looking as distinguished as if she had gone through a couple of
London seasons, when the vision of Stella, in all her fresh young
loveliness, broke upon her suddenly and unexpectedly, an infinite
surprise took possession of her, and for a moment she half
paused, but it was only for a moment, and by no change in her
face, however slight, was her surprise revealed.

“How do you do, Mr. Etheridge? It was so kind of you to
come. I know how great an honor this is, and I am grateful.”

[68]

This is what Stella heard in the softest, most dulcet of voices—”Kind,
grateful!” This was how a countess welcomed a poor
painter. A glow of light seemed to illumine Stella’s mind. She
had expected to see a tall stately woman dressed in satin and
diamonds, and with a courtly severe manner, and instead here
was a lady with a small gentle voice and a face all softness and
kindness. In an instant she had learned her first lesson—that a
mark of high rank and breeding is pure gentleness and humility.
The queen sits beside the bed of a sick peasant; the peer thanks
the waiter who hands him his umbrella.

“Yes, it was very good of you to come. And this is your
niece? How do you do, Miss Etheridge? I am very glad to see
you.”

Stella took her gloved hand, her courage came instantly, and
she raised her eyes to the beautiful, serene face, little guessing
that as she did so, the countess was filled with surprise and admiration
as the dark orbs raised.

“We are quite a small party,” said the countess. “Nearly all
our friends have left us. We should have been in town before
this, but Lord Wyndward is detained by business.”

As she spoke the earl approached them, and Stella saw a tall,
thin, noble-looking man bending before her as if he were expecting
a touch of her hand.

“How do you do, Mr. Etheridge? We have managed to entice
you from your hermitage at last, eh? How do you do, Miss
Etheridge? I hope you didn’t feel the cold driving.”

Stella smiled, and she knew why every approach was screened
by curtains.

The earl drew the painter aside, and the countess, just laying
her fingers on Stella’s arm, guided her to the old countess of
Longford.

“Mr. Etheridge’s niece,” she said; then, to Stella, “This is
Lady Longford.”

Stella was conscious of a pair of keen gray eyes fixed on her
face.

“Glad to know you, my dear,” said the old lady. “Come and
sit beside me, and tell me about your uncle; he is a wonderful
man, but a very wicked one.”

“Wicked!” said Stella.

“Yes, wicked,” repeated the old lady, with a smile on her
wrinkled face. “All obstinate people are wicked; and he is
obstinate because he persists in hiding himself away instead of
coming into the world and consenting to be famous, as he should
be.”

Stella’s heart warmed directly.

“But perhaps now that you have come, you will persuade
him to leave his shell.”

“Do you mean the cottage? I don’t think anything would
persuade him to leave that. Why should he? He is quite
happy.”

The countess looked at her.

“That’s a sensible retort,” she said. “Why should he? I
don’t know—I don’t know what to answer. But I owe him a[69]
grudge. Do you know that he has persistently refused to come
and see me, though I have almost gone on my knees to him?”

Stella smiled.

“He does not care to go anywhere,” she said. “If he went
anywhere, I am sure he would come to you.”

The old countess glanced at her approvingly.

“That was nicely said,” she murmured. “How old are
you?”

“Nineteen,” said Stella, simply.

“Then you have inherited your uncle’s brains,” the old lady
replied, curtly. “It is not given to every girl to say the right
thing at nineteen.”

Stella blushed, and looked round the room.

There were ten or twelve persons standing and sitting about,
some of them beautiful women, exquisitely dressed, talking to
some gentlemen; but Lord Leycester was not amongst the
latter. She was conscious of that, although she scarcely knew
that she was looking for him. She wondered which was
Lady Lenore. There was a tall, fair girl leaning against the
piano, but somehow Stella did not think it was the famous
beauty.

The clock on the bracket struck eight, and she saw the earl
take out his watch and glance at it mechanically; and as he did
so, a voice behind her said:

“Dinner is served, my lady.”

Nobody took any notice however, and the countess did not
show by sign or look that she heard. Suddenly the curtains at
the other end of the room were swung apart, and a tall form
entered.

Though her eyes were fixed on another part of the room, she
knew who it was, and for a moment she would not look that
way, then she directed her eyes slowly, and saw that her instinct
had not misled her.

It was Leycester!

For a moment she was conscious of a feeling of surprise. She
thought she knew him well, but in that instant he looked so
different that he seemed almost a stranger.

She had not seen him before in evening dress, and the change
from the velvet coat and knickerbockers to the severe, but
aristocratic, black suit struck her.

Like all well-made, high-bred men he looked at his best in the
dress which fashion has decreed shall be the evening costume of
gentlemen. She had thought him handsome, noble, in the easy,
careless suit of velvet, she knew that he was distinguished looking
in his suit of evening sables.

With his hand upon the curtain he stood, his head erect, his
eyes not eagerly, but commandingly, scanning the room.

She could not tell why or how she knew, but she knew that
he was looking for her.

Presently he sees her, and a subtle change came over his face,
it was not a smile so much as a look of satisfaction, and she
knew again that a frown would have settled on his white brow
if she whom he sought had not been there.

[70]

With a high but firm step he came across the room and stood
before her, holding out his hand.

“You have come,” he said; “I thought you would not come.
It is very kind of Mr. Etheridge.”

She gave him her hand without a word. She knew that the
keen gray eyes of the old lady beside her were fixed on her face.
He seemed to remember too, for in a quieter, more commonplace,
tone, he added:

“I am late; it is an habitual fault of mine.”

“It is,” said the old countess.

He turned his smile upon her.

“Are you going to scold me?”

“I am not fond of wasting my time,” she said. “Come and
sit down for a minute if you can.”

He glanced at the clock.

“Am I not keeping you all waiting?” he said.

Lady Longford shook her head.

“No; we are waiting for Lenore.”

“Then she is not here!” thought Stella.

“Oh, Lenore!” he said, with a smile. “Well, no one will
dare to scold her.”

As he spoke the curtain parted, and someone entered.

Framed by the curtain that fell behind her in crimson folds
stood a girl—not yet a woman, for all her twenty-three years—of
wonderful beauty, with deep golden hair and violet eyes.

Stella knew her at once from her uncle’s description, but it
was not the beauty that surprised her and made her start; it was
something more than that. It was the nameless, indescribable
charm which surrounded her; it was the grace which distinguished
her figure, her very attitude.

She stood a moment, with a faint half-smile upon her lips,
looking round; then she glided with a peculiar movement, that
struck Stella as grace itself, to Lady Wyndward, and bent her
head down to the countess.

Stella could not hear what she said, but she knew that she was
apologizing for her tardiness by the way the earl, who was standing
by, smiled at her. Yes, evidently Lady Lenore would not
be scolded for keeping dinner waiting.

Stella sat watching her; she felt her eyes riveted to her in
fact, and suddenly she was aware that the violet eyes were fixed
on hers.

She saw the beautiful lips move, saw the earl make answer,
and then watched them move together across the room.

Whither were they going? To her surprise they came toward
her and stopped in front of her.

“Miss Etheridge,” said the earl, in his low, subdued voice,
“let me introduce Lady Lenore Beauchamp to you.”

Stella looked up, and met the violet eyes fixed on her.

For a moment she was speechless; the eyes, so serene and full
and commanding, seemed to seek out her soul and to read every
thought it held; to read it so closely and clearly that her own
eyes dropped; then with an effort she held out her hand, and as
the great beauty’s closed softly over it she raised her lids again,[71]
and so they stood looking at each other, and Lord Leycester
stood beside with the characteristic smile on his face.

CHAPTER XI.

As Stella looked up at the great beauty, she felt for the
first time that her own dress, pretty as it was, was only
sateen. She had not been conscious of it before, but she felt
it now in the presence of this exquisitely-dressed woman. In
very truth, Lady Lenore was well-dressed; it was not only that
her costumes came from Redfern’s or Worth’s, and her millinery
from Louise, but Lenore had acquired the art of wearing the
productions of these artistes. When looking at her, one was
forcibly reminded of the Frenchman’s saying, that the world
was divided into two classes—the people who were clothed
and the people who wore their clothes. Lady Lenore belonged
to those who wear their clothes; the beautiful dress sat upon her
as if she had been made to it, instead of it to her; not a piece of
lace, not a single article of jewelry, but sat in its place gracefully
and artistically.

To-night she wore a dress composed of some soft and readily-draping
material, neither cashmere nor satin—some one of the
new materials which have come over from the far east, and
of which we scarcely yet know the names. It was of the
most delicate shade of grayish-blue, which was brought out
and accentuated by the single camellia resting amidst the soft
lace on her bosom. The arms were bare from the elbows,
exquisitely, warmly white and beautifully formed; one heavy
bracelet, set with huge Indian pearls, lined the wrist; there
were similar huge pearls in the rings on her fingers, and in
the pendant which hung by a seed-pearl necklace.

Imagine a beautiful, an almost faultlessly-beautiful face, rising
from the delicate harmony of color—imagine a pair of dark
eyes, now blue, now violet, as she stood in repose or smiled, and
fringed, by long, silken lashes—and you may imagine the bare
material outward beauty of Lenore Beauchamp, but no words
can describe what really was the charm of the face—its wonderful
power of expression, its eloquent mobility, which, even when
the eyes and lips were in repose, drew you to watching and
waiting for them to speak.

Stella, though she had scarcely heard those lips utter a word
knew what her uncle meant when he said that there was a peculiar
fascination about her which went beyond her mere beauty;
and, as she looked, a strange feeling crossed Stella’s mind. She
remembered an old story which she had heard years ago, when
she was sitting on the lap of her Italian nurse—the story of the
strange and beautiful Indian serpent which sits beneath the tree,
and fixing its eyes upon the bird overhead, draws and charms
it with its spell, until the bird drops senseless and helpless to its
fate.

But even as she thought of this she was ashamed of the idea,
for there is nothing serpent-like in Lenore’s beauty; only this
Stella thought, that if ever those eyes and lips smiled and murmured[72]
to a man “I love you,” that man must drop; resistance
would be vain and useless.

All this takes long to write; it flashed across Stella’s mind in
a moment, even as they looked at each other in silence; then at
last Lady Lenore spoke.

“Have you been gathering primroses to-day?” she said, with
a smile.

It was a strange way of beginning an acquaintance, and Stella
felt the color mount to her face; the words recalled the whole of
the scene of yesterday morning. The speaker intended that they
should.

“No,” she said, “not to-day.”

“Miss Etheridge gathered enough yesterday for a week, did
you not?” said Lord Leycester, and the voice sounded to Stella
like an assistance. She half glanced at him gratefully, and
met his eyes fixed on her with a strange light in them that
caused hers to drop again.

“I must find this wonderful flower-land,” said Lady Lenore.
“Lilian was quite eloquent about it last night.”

“We shall be happy to act as pioneers in the discovery,” he
said, and Stella could not help noticing the “we.” Did he mean
she and he?

At that moment Lady Wyndward came toward them, and
murmured something to him, and he left them and offered his
arm to a lady at the other end of the room; then Lady Wyndward
waved her fan slightly and smiled, and a tall, thin, fair-haired
man came up.

“Lord Charles, will you take charge of Miss Etheridge?”

Lord Guildford bowed and offered his arm.

“I shall be delighted,” he said, and he smiled down at Stella
in his frank way.

There was a general movement, ladies and gentlemen were
pairing off and moving toward the door, beside which stood the
two footmen, with the solemn air of soldiers attending an execution.

“Seven minutes late,” said Lord Charles, glancing up at the
clock as they passed. “We must chalk that up to Lady Lenore.
I admire and envy her courage, don’t you, Miss Etheridge? I
should no more dare to be late for dinner at Wyndward than—than—what’s
the most audacious thing you can think of?”

Stella smiled; there was something catching in the light-hearted,
frank, and free tones of the young viscount.

“Standing on a sofa in muddy boots has always been my idea
of a great social crime,” she said.

He laughed approvingly, and his laugh seemed to float lightly
through the quiet room.

“That’s good—that’s awfully good!” he said, with intense enjoyment.
“Standing on a sofa—that’s awfully good! Must tell
Leycester that! Did you ever do it, by the way?”

“Never,” said Stella, gravely, but with a smile.

“No!” he said. “Do you know I think you are capable of it
if you were provoked?”

“Provoked?” said Stella.

[73]

“Dared, I mean,” he explained. “You know we used to have
a game at school called ‘Dare him?’ I expect all fellows have
played it. One fellow does the most extraordinary things and
dares the other fellows to do it. Leycester used to play it best.
He was a regular good hand at it. The worst of it was that we
all used to get thrashed; the masters didn’t care about half-a-dozen
fellows flinging stones at the windows and climbing on to
the roof at the dead of night.”

“Poor masters!” said Stella.

He laughed.

“Yes, they didn’t have a particularly fine time of it when
Leycester was at school.”

As he spoke, he glanced at the tall figure of Lord Leycester in
front of them with an admiring air such as a school-boy might
wear.

“There isn’t much that Leycester wouldn’t dare,” he said.

They entered the dining-room, a large room lined with oak
and magnificently furnished, in which the long table with its
snowy cloth, and glittering plate and glass, shone out conspicuously.

Lord Guildford found no difficulty in discovering their seats,
each place being distinguished by a small tablet bearing the
name of the intended occupant. As Stella took her seat, she
noticed a beautiful bouquet beside her serviette, and saw that
one was placed for every lady in the room.

A solemn, stately butler, who looked like a bishop, stood beside
the earl’s chair, and with a glance and a slight movement
of his hand directed the noiseless footmen.

A clergyman said grace, and the dinner commenced. Stella,
looking round, saw that her uncle was seated near Lady Wyndward,
and that Lady Lenore was opposite herself. She looked
round for Lord Leycester, and was startled to hear his voice at
her left. He was speaking to Lady Longford. As she turned to
look at him she happened to catch Lady Wyndward’s eye also
fixed upon him with a strange expression, and wondered what it
meant; the next moment she knew, for, bending his head and
looking straight before him, he said—

“Do you like your flowers?”

Stella took up the bouquet; it was composed almost entirely
of white blossoms, and smelt divinely.

“They are beautiful,” she said. “Heliotrope and camellias—my
favorite flowers.”

“It must have been instinct,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I chose them,” he said, in the same low voice.

“Chose them?” she retorted.

“Yes,” and he smiled. “That was what made me late. I
came in here first and had a grand review of the bouquets. I
was curious to know if I could guess your favorite flowers.”

“You—you—changed them!” said Stella, with a feeling of
mild horror. “Lord Guildford asked me just now what I considered
the most audacious act a man would commit. I know
now.”

[74]

He smiled.

“I changed something else,” he said.

Stella looked at him inquiringly. There was a bold smile in
his dark eyes.

He pointed to the little tablet bearing his name.

“This. I found it over the way there, next to that old lady in
the emeralds. She is a dreadful old lady—beware of her. She
is a politician, and she always asks everybody who comes near
her what they think of the present Parliament. I thought it
would be nicer to come over here.”

The color crept slowly into Stella’s face, and her eyes dropped.

“It was very wrong,” she said. “I am sure Lady Wyndward
will be angry. How could you interfere with the arrangements?
They all seem so solemn and grand to me.”

He laughed softly.

“They are. We always eat our meals as if they were the last
we could expect to have—as if the executioner was waiting outside
and feeling the edge of the ax impatiently. There is only
one man here who dares to laugh outright.”

“Who is that?” asked Stella.

He nodded to Lord Guildford, who was actively engaged in
bending his head over his soup with the air of a hungry man.
“Charlie,” he said—”Lord Guildford, I mean. He laughs everywhere,
don’t you, Charlie?”

“Eh? Yes, oh, yes. What is he telling you about me, Miss
Etheridge? Don’t believe a word he says. I mean to have him
up for libel some day.”

“He says you laugh everywhere,” said Stella.

Lord Charles laughed at once, and Stella looked round half
alarmed, but nobody seemed to faint or show any particular
horror.

“Nobody minds him,” said Lord Leycester, balancing his
spoon. “He is like the King’s Jester, licensed to play wheresoever
he pleases.”

“I’m fearfully hungry,” said Lord Charles. “I’ve been in the
saddle since three o’clock—is that the menu, Miss Etheridge?
Let us mark our favorite dishes,” and he offered her a half-hold
of the porcelain tablet on which was written the items of the
various courses.

Stella looked down the long list with something like amused
dismay.

“It’s dreadfully long,” she said. “I don’t think I have any
favorite dishes.”

“No; not really!” he demanded. “What a treat! Will you
really let me advise you?”

“I shall be most grateful,” said Stella.

“Oh, this is charming,” said Lord Guildford. “Next to
choosing one’s own dinner, there is nothing better than choosing
one for someone else. Let me see;” and thereupon he made a
careful selection, which Stella broke into with an amused laugh.

“I could not possibly eat all these things,” she said.

“Oh, but you must,” he said. “Why, I have been most careful
to pick out only those dishes suitable for a lady’s delicate[75]
appetite; you can’t leave one of them out, you can’t, indeed,
without spoiling your dinner.”

“My dear,” said the countess, bending forward, “don’t let
him teach you anything, except to take warning by his epicureanism;
he is only anxious that you should be too occupied to
disturb him.”

Lord Charles laughed.

“That is cruel,” he said. “You take my advice, Miss Etheridge;
there are only two things I understand, and those are a
horse and a good dinner.”

Meanwhile the dinner was proceeding, and to Stella it seemed
that “good” scarcely adequately described it. One elaborate
course after another followed in slow succession, borne in by the
richly-liveried footmen on the massive plate for which Wyndward
Hall was famous. Dishes which she had never heard of
seemed to make their appearance only to pass out again untouched,
excepting by the clergyman, Lord Guildford, and one
or two other gentlemen. She noticed that the earl scarcely
touched anything beyond a tiny piece of fish and a mutton cutlet;
and Lord Guildford, who seemed to take an interest in anything
connected with the dinner, remarked, as he glanced at the
stately head of the house—

“There is one other person present who is of your way of
thinking, Miss Etheridge—I mean the earl. He doesn’t know
what a good dinner means. I don’t suppose he will taste anything
more than the fish and a piece of Cheshire. When he is
in town and at work——”

“At work? said Stella.

“In the House of Lords, you know; he is a member of the
Cabinet.”

Stella nodded.

“He is a statesman?”

“Exactly. He generally dines off a mutton chop served in
the library. I’ve seen him lunching off a penny biscuit and a
glass of water. Terrible, isn’t it?”

Stella laughed.

“Perhaps he finds he can work better on a chop and a glass of
water,” she said.

“Don’t believe it!” retorted Lord Guildford. “No man can
work well unless he is well-fed.”

“Guildford ought to know,” said Lord Leycester, audibly.
“He does so much work.”

“So I do,” retorts Lord Charles. “Stay and keep you in order,
and if that isn’t hard work I don’t know what is!”

This was very amusing for Stella; it was all so strange, too,
and so little what she imagined; here were two peers talking
like school-boys for her amusement, as if they were mere nobodies
and she were somebody worth amusing.

Every now and then she could hear Lady Lenore’s voice, musical
and soft, yet full and distinct; she was talking of the coming
season, and Stella heard her speak of great people—persons’
names which she had read of, but never expected to hear spoken
of so familiarly. It seemed to her that she had got into some[76]
charmed circle; it scarcely seemed real. Then occasionally,
but very seldom, the earl’s thin, clear, high-bred voice would be
heard, and once he looked across at Stella herself, and said:

“Will you not try some of those rissoles, Miss Etheridge?
They are generally very good.”

“And he never touches them,” murmured Lord Charles, with
a mock groan.

She could hear her uncle talking also—talking more fluently
than was his wont—to Lady Wyndward, who was speaking
about the pictures, and once Stella saw her glance in her direction
as if they had been speaking of her. The dinner seemed
very long, but it came to an end at last, and the countess rose.
As Stella rose with the rest of the ladies, the old Countess of
Longford locked her arm in hers.

“I am not so old that I can’t walk, and I am not lame, my
dear,” she said, “but I like something young and strong to lean
upon; you are both. You don’t mind?”

“No!” said Stella. “Yes, I am strong.”

The old countess looked up at her with a glance of admiration
in her gray eyes.

“And young,” she said significantly.

They passed into a drawing-room—not the one they had entered
first, but a smaller room which bore the name of “my
lady’s.” It was exquisitely furnished in the modern antique
style. There were some beautiful hangings that covered the
walls, and served as background for costly cabinets and brackets,
upon which was arranged a collection of ancient china second to
none in the kingdom. The end of the room opened into a fernery,
in which were growing tall palms and whole miniature forests
of maidenhair, kept moist by sparkling fountains that fell
with a plash, plash, into marble basins. Birds were twitting
and flitting about behind a wire netting, so slight and carefully
concealed as to be scarcely perceptible.

No footman was allowed to enter this ladies’ paradise; two
maids, in their soft black dresses and snowy caps, were moving
about arranging a table for the countess to serve tea upon.

It was like a scene from the “Arabian Nights,” only more
beautiful and luxurious than anything Stella had imagined even
when reading that wonderful book of fairy-tales.

The countess went straight to her table and took off her gray-white
gloves, some of the ladies settled themselves in the most
indolent of attitudes on the couches and chairs, and others
strolled into the fern house. The old countess made herself
comfortable on a low divan, and made room for Stella beside
her.

“And this is your first visit to Wyndward Hall, my dear?” she
said.

“Yes,” answered Stella, her eyes still wandering round the
room.

“And you live in that little village on the other side of the
river?”

“Yes,” said Stella, again. “It is very pretty, is it not?”

[77]

“It is, as pretty as anything in one of your uncle’s pictures.
And are you quite happy?”

Stella brought her eyes upon the pale, wrinkled face.

“Happy! Oh, yes, quite,” she said.

“Yes, I think you are,” said the old lady with a keen glance at
the beautiful face and bright, pure eyes. “Then you must keep so,
my dear,” she said.

“But isn’t that rather difficult?” said Stella, with a smile.

Lady Longford looked at her.

“That serves me right for meddling,” she said. “Yes, it is difficult,
very difficult, and yet the art is easy enough; it contains
only one rule, and that is ‘to be content.'”

“Then I shall continue to be happy,” said Stella; “for I am very
content.”

“For the present,” said the old lady. “Take care, my dear!”

Stella smiled; it was a strange sort of conversation, and there
was a suggestion of something that did not appear on the surface.

“Do you think that I look very discontented, then?” she asked.

“No,” said the old lady, eying her again. “No, you look very
contented—at present. Isn’t that a beautiful forest?”

It was an abrupt change of the subject, but Stella was equal
to it.

“I have been admiring it since I came in,” she said; “it is like
fairy land.”

“Go and enter it,” said the old countess—”I am going to sleep
for exactly ten minutes. Will you come back to me then? You
see, I am very frank and rude; but I am very old indeed.”

Stella rose with a smile.

“I think you are very kind to me,” she said.

The old countess looked up at the beautiful face with the dark,
soft eyes bent down on her; and something like a sigh of regret
came into her old, keen eyes.

“You know how to make pretty speeches, my dear,” she said.
“You learnt that in Italy, I expect. Mind you come back to
me.”

Then, as Stella moved away, the old lady looked after her.

“Poor child!” she murmured—”poor child! she is but a child;
but he won’t care. Is it too late, I wonder? But why should I
worry about it?”

But it seemed as if she must worry about it, whatever it was,
for after a few minutes’ effort to sleep, she rose and went across
to the tea-table.

Lady Wyndward was making tea, but looked up and pushed a
chair close beside her.

“What is it?” she asked, with a smile.

“Who is she?” asked the countess, taking a cup and stirring the
tea round and round, very much as Betty the washerwoman does—very
much indeed.

Lady Wyndward did not ask “Who?” but replied in her serene,
placid voice directly:

“I don’t know. Of course, I know that she is Mr. Etheridge’s
niece, but I don’t know anything about her, except that she has[78]
just come here from Italy. She said that she was not happy
there.”

“She is very beautiful,” murmured the countess.

“She is—very,” assented Lady Wyndward.

“And something more than distinguished. I never saw a
more graceful girl. She is only a child, of course.”

“Quite a child,” assented Lady Wyndward again.

There was a pause, then the old countess said, almost abruptly:

“Why is she here?”

Lady Wyndward filled a cup carefully before replying.

“She is a friend of Lilian’s,” she said; “at least she invited
her.”

“I thought she was rather a friend of Leycester’s,” said the
old lady, dryly.

Lady Wyndward looked at her, and a faint, a very faint color
came into her aristocratic face.

“You mean that he has noticed her?” she said.

“Very much! I sat next to him at dinner. Was it wise to put
him next to her? A child’s head is quickly turned.”

“I did not arrange it so,” replied Lady Wyndward. “I put
his tablet next to Lenore’s, as usual; but it got moved. I don’t
know who could have done it.”

“I do,” said the old lady. “It was Leycester himself. I
am sure of it by the way he looked.”

Lady Wyndward’s white brow contracted for a moment.

“It is like him. He will do or dare anything for an hour’s
amusement. I ought to be angry with him!”

“Be as angry as you like, but don’t let him know that you are,”
said the old lady, shrewdly.

Lady Wyndward understood.

“How beautiful Lenore looks to-night,” she said, looking
across the room where Lady Lenore stood fanning herself, her
head thrown back, her eyes fixed on a picture.

“Yes,” assented the old countess. “If I were a man I should
not rest until I had won her; if I were a man—but then men are
so different to what we imagine them. They turn aside from a
garden lily to pluck a wayside flower——”

“But they come back to the lily,” said Lady Wyndward, with
a smile.

“Yes,” muttered the old countess, suavely; “after they have
grown tired of the wild flower and thrown it aside.”

As she spoke the curtains were withdrawn and the gentlemen
came sauntering in.

No one rests long over the wine, nowadays; the earl scarcely
drank a glass after the ladies left; he would fill his glass—fill
two perhaps, but rarely did more than sip them. Lord Leycester
would take a bumper of claret—the cellars were celebrated for
the Chateau Margaux. To-night it seemed as if he had taken
an additional one, for there was a deeper color on his face,
and a brighter light in his eyes than usual; the light which
used to shine there in his school-days, when there was some
piece of wildness on, more mad than usual. Lord Guildford came[79]
in leaning lightly upon his arm, and he was talking to him in a
low voice.

“One of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen, Ley: not
your regular cut-out-to-pattern kind of face, but fresh and—and—natural.
The sort of face Venus might have had when she
rose from the sea that fine morning——”

“Hush!” said Lord Leycester, with a slight start, and he
thought of the picture in his room, the picture of the Venus
with the pale, fair face, across which he had drawn the defacing
brush that night he had come home from his meeting
with Stella. “Hush! they will hear you! Yes, she is beautiful.”

“Yes, beautiful! Take care, take care, Ley!” muttered Lord
Charles.

Leycester put his hand from him with a smile.

“You talk in parables to-night, Charlie, and don’t provide the
key. Go and get some tea.”

He went himself toward the table and got a cup, but his eyes
wandered round the room, and the old countess and Lady Wyndward
noticed the searching glance.

“Leycester,” said his mother, “will you ask Lenore to sing
for us?”

He put down his cup and went down the room to where she
was sitting beside the earl.

“My mother has sent me as one of her ambassadors to
the queen of music,” he said. “Will your majesty deign to sing
for us?”

She looked up at him with a smile, then gave her cup to one
of the maids, and put her hand upon his arm.

“Do you know that this is the first time you have spoken
to me since—since—I cannot remember?”

“One does not dare intrude upon royalty too frequently; it
would be presumptuous,” he said.

“In what am I royal?” she asked.

“In your beauty!” he said, and he was the only man in the
room who would have dared so pointed a reply.

“Thanks,” she said, with a calm smile; “you are very frank
to-night.”

“Am I? And why not? We do not hesitate to call the summer
sky blue or the ocean vast. There are some things so palpable
and generally acknowledged that to be reserved about
them would be absurd.”

“That will do,” she said. “Since when have you learnt such
eloquent phrases? What shall I sing, or shall I sing at all?”

“To please me you have but to sing to please yourself!” he
said.

“Find me something then,” she said, and sat down with her
hands folded, looking a very queen indeed.

He knelt down beside the canterbury, and, as at a signal, there
was a general gathering round the piano, but she still sat calm
and unconscious, very queen-like indeed.

Leycester found a song, and set it up for her, opened the
piano, took her bouquet from her lap, and waited for her gloves,[80]
the rest looking on as if interference were quite out of the question.

Slowly she removed her gloves and gave them to him, touched
the piano with her jeweled fingers, and began to sing.

At this moment Stella, who had been wandering round the
fernery, came back to the entrance, and stood listening and absorbed.

She had never heard so beautiful a voice, not even in Italy.
But presently, even while a thrill of admiration was running
through her, she became conscious that there was something
wanting. Her musical sense was unsatisfied. The notes were
clear, bell-like, and as harmonious as a thrush’s, the modulation
perfect; but there was something wanting. Was it heart?
From where she stood she could see the lovely face, with its dark
violet eyes upturned, its eloquent mouth curved to allow the
music vent, and the loveliness held her inthralled, though the
voice did not move her.

The song came to an end, and the singer sat with a calm smile
receiving the murmurs of gratitude and appreciation, but she
declined to sing again, and Stella saw Lord Leycester hand her
her gloves and bouquet and stand ready to conduct her whither
she would.

“He stands like her slave, to obey her slightest wish,” she
thought. “Ah! how happy she must be,” and with a something
that was almost a sigh, she turned back into the dim calm of the
fernery; she felt strangely alone and solitary at that moment.

Suddenly there was a step behind her, and looking up she saw
Lord Leycester.

“I have found you!” he said, and there was a ring of satisfaction
and pleasure in his voice that went straight to her heart.
“Where have you been hiding?”

She looked up at the handsome face full of life and strong
manhood, and her eyes fell.

“I have not been hiding,” she said. “I have been here.”

“You are right,” he said, seating himself beside her; “this is
the best place; it is cool and quiet here; it is more like our
woods, is it not, with the ferns and the primroses?” and at the
“our” he smiled into her eyes.

“It is very lovely here,” she said. “It’s all lovely. How
beautifully she sings!” she added, rather irrelevantly.

“Sings?” he said. “Oh, Lenore! Yes, she sings well, perfectly.
And that reminds me. I have been sent to ask you to
make music for us.”

Stella shrank back with a glance of alarm.

“I? Oh, no, no! I could not.”

He smiled at her.

“But your uncle——”

“He should not!” said Stella, with a touch of crimson. “I
could not sing. I am afraid.”

“Afraid! You?” he said. “Of what?”

“Of—of—everything,” she said, with a little laugh. “I could
not sing before all these people. I have never done so. Besides,
to sing after Lady Lenore would be like dancing a hornpipe.”

[81]

“I should be content if you would dance a hornpipe,” he said.
“I should think it good and wise.”

“Are you laughing at me?” she said, looking up at the dark
eyes. “Why?”

“Laughing at you?” he repeated. “I! I could not. It is you
who laugh at me; I think you are laughing at me most times.
You will not sing, then?”

“I cannot,” she said.

“Then you shall not,” he responded; “you shall not do anything
you do not like. But some time you will sing for us, will
you not? Your uncle has been telling us about your voice, and
how you came by it,” and his own voice grew wonderfully
gentle.

“My father, he meant,” said Stella, simply. “Yes; he could
sing. He was a great musician, and when I think of that, I am
inclined to resolve never to open my lips again.”

There was a moment’s pause. Stella sat pulling a piece of
maidenhair apart, her eyes downcast; his eyes were reading her
beautiful face, and noting the graceful turns of the white neck.
Someone was playing the grand piano, and the music floated in
and about the tall palms. It was an intoxicating moment for
him! The air was balmy with perfumes from the exotics, the
warm blood was running freely in his veins, the beauty of the
girl beside him seemed to entrance him. Instinctively his hand,
being idly near her, went toward hers, and would have touched
it, but suddenly one of the maids entered, and with a slow, respectful
air approached them. She held a silver salver, on which
lay a small note, folded in a lover’s knot.

Lord Leycester looked up; the interruption came just in
time.

“For me?” he said.

“For Miss Etheridge, my lord,” replied the maid, with a
courtesy.

“For me?” echoed Stella, taking the note.

“I can guess who it is from,” he said, with a smile. “Lilian
is growing impatient—if she is ever that.”

Stella unfolded the note. This was it: “Will you come to me
now, if you care to?”

“Oh, yes, I will go at once,” she said, standing up.

He rose with a sigh.

“It is the first time I have envied Lilian anything,” he said,
in a low voice.

“This way, if you please, miss,” said the maid.

“A moment—a moment only,” said Lord Leycester, and as
Stella stopped, he gathered a few sprays of maidenhair from the
margin of the fountain.

“It is a peace-offering. Will you take it to her? I promised
that I would ask you to go directly after dinner,” he said, softly.

“Yes,” said Stella, and as she took it there rose once more in
her mind the word Jasper Adelstone had spoken—”infamous.”
This man who sent his sister such a message in such a voice!

“Thanks,” he said. “But it was scarcely necessary. I have
sent her something more beautiful, more precious.”

[82]

Stella did not understand far a moment, then as her eyes met
his, she knew that he meant herself, and the color flooded her
face.

“You should not say that,” she said, gravely, and before he
could answer she moved away, and followed the maid.

The maid led her through the hall and up the broad stairs,
across the corridor and knocked at Lady Lilian’s door.

Stella entered, and a grave peace seemed to fall upon her.

Lady Lilian was lying on the couch by the window, and raised
herself to hold out her hand.

“How good of you to come!” she said, eagerly, and as the
voice broke on Stella’s ear, she knew what Lady Lenore’s voice
wanted. “You think me very selfish to bring you away from
them all do you not?” she added, still holding Stella’s hand in
her white, cool one.

“No,” said Stella, “I am very glad to come. I would have
come before, but I did not know whether I might.”

“I have been waiting, and did not like to send for you,” said
Lady Lilian, “and have you had a pleasant evening?”

Stella sank into a low seat beside the couch, and looked up
into the lovely face with a smile.

“I have had a wonderful evening!” she said.

Lady Lilian looked at her inquiringly.

“Wonderful,” said Stella, frankly. “You see I have never
been in such a place as this before; it all seems so grand and
beautiful—more beautiful than grand indeed, that I can scarcely
believe it is real.”

“It is real—too real,” said Lady Lilian, with a smile and a little
sigh. “I daresay you think it is very nice, and I—do you
know what I think?”

Stella shook her head.

“I think, as I look down at your little cottage, how beautiful,
how nice your life must be.”

“Mine!” said Stella. “Well, yes, it is very nice. But this is
wonderful.”

“Because you are not used to it,” said Lady Lilian. “Ah!
you would soon get tired of it, believe me.”

“Never,” breathed Stella, looking down; as she did so she saw
the maidenhair, and held it up.

“Lord Leycester sent these to you,” she said.

A loving light came into Lady Lilian’s eyes as she took the
green, fragrant sprays.

“Leycester?” she said, touching her cheek with them. “That
is like him—he is too good to me.”

Stella looked across the room at a picture of the Madonna rising
from the earth, with upturned, glorious eyes.

“Is he?” she murmured.

“Oh, yes, yes, there never was a brother like him in all the
wide world,” said Lady Lilian, in a rapt voice. “I cannot tell
you how good he is to me; he is always thinking of me—he
who has so much to think of. I fancy sometimes that people
are apt to deem him selfish and—and—thoughtless, but they do
not know——”

[83]

“No,” said Stella again. The voice sounded like music in her
ears—she could have listened forever while it sung his song;
and yet that word suddenly rang out in discord, and she smiled.
“He seems very kind,” she said—”he is very kind to me.”

Lady Lilian looked at her suddenly, and an anxious expression
came into her eyes. It was not many nights ago that she had
implored Leycester to see no more of the girl with the dark eyes
and silky hair; and here was the girl sitting at her feet, and it
was her doing! She had not thought of that before; she had
been so fascinated by the fresh young beauty, by the pure, frank
eyes, that she had actually acted against her own instincts, and
brought her into Leycester’s path!

“Yes, he is very kind to everybody,” she said. “And you
have enjoyed yourself? Have they been singing?”

“Yes, Lady Beauchamp.”

“Lenore,” said Lilian, eagerly. “Ah, yes; does she not sing
beautifully, and is she not lovely?”

“She sings beautifully, and she is very lovely,” said Stella,
still looking at the Madonna.

Lady Lilian laughed softly.

“I am very fond of Lenore. You will like her very much
when you know her better. She is—I was going to say—very
imperial.”

“That would be right,” said Stella; “she is like a queen, only
more beautiful than most queens have been.”

“I am so glad you admire her,” said Lady Lilian; then she
paused a moment, and her white hand fell like a thistle down on
the dark head beside her. “Shall I tell you a secret?”

Stella looked up, with a smile.

“Yes; I will promise to keep it.”

Lilian smiled down at her.

“How strangely you said that—so gravely. Yes, I think you
would keep a secret to the death. But this is not one of that
sort; it is only this—that we hope, all of us, that Lenore will become
my sister.”

Stella did not start; did not remove her eyes from the pale,
lovely face, but into those eyes a something came that was not
wonder nor pain, but a strong, indefinable expression, as if she
were holding her breath in the effort to suppress any sign of
feeling.

“Do you mean that Lord Leycester will marry her?” she said,
distinctly.

Lady Lilian nodded.

“Yes, that is it. Would it not be nice?”

Stella smiled.

“For Lord Leycester?”

Lady Lilian laughed her soft laugh.

“What a strange girl you are,” she said, smoothing the silky
hair. “What am I to say to that? Well—yes, of course. And
for Lenore, too,” she added, with a touch of pride.

“Yes, for Lady Lenore also,” said Stella, and her eyes went
back to the Madonna.

“We are all so anxious to see Leycester married,” went on[84]
Lady Lilian, with a smile. “They say he is—so wild, I think
it is, they say! Ah, they do not see him as I see him. Do
you think he is wild?”

Stella paled. The strain was great, her heart was beating
with suppressed throbs. The gentle girl did not know how
she was torturing her with such questions.

“I?” she murmured. “I do not know. I cannot tell. How
should I? I scarcely know your brother.”

“Ah, no, I forget,” said Lady Lilian. “To me it seems as if
we had known each other so long, and we only met the other
morning for a few minutes. How is it? Do you possess some
charm, and did you conceal it in the flowers you gave me, so
that I am under a spell, Stella? That is your name, isn’t it?
It is a beautiful name; are you angry with me for calling you
by it?”

“Angry! No!” said Stella, putting up her warm, firm hand,
and touching the thin white one resting on her hair. “No, I
like you to call me by it.”

“And you will call me by mine—Lilian?”

“If you wish it,” said Stella. “Yes, I will.”

“And we shall be great friends. See, I have kept your flowers
quite cool and fresh,” and she pointed to a vase in which the
primroses stood at the other end of the room. “I love wild
flowers. They are Heaven’s very own, are they not? No human
hand does anything for them, or helps them to grow.”

Stella listened to the low, beautiful voice with a rapt awe.

Lady Lilian looked down at her with a smile.

“I wonder whether you would grant me a favor if I asked it?”
she said.

“I would do anything for you,” said Stella, looking up at her.

“Will you go and play for me?” she said. “I know that you
can play and sing because I have looked into your eyes.”

“Suppose I say that I cannot,” said Stella, laughing softly.

“You cannot!” said Lady Lilian. “I am never mistaken.
Leycester says that I am a witch in such matters.”

“Well, I will try,” said Stella, and she crossed the room and
opened the tiny piano, and began to play a sonata by Schubert.

“I cannot play like Lady Lenore,” she said, almost to herself,
but Lady Lilian heard her.

“You play exquisitely,” she said.

“No, I can’t play,” repeated Stella, with almost a touch of
impatience; then she looked up and saw the Madonna, and on
the impulse of the moment began to sing Gounod’s “Ave
Maria.” There is no more exquisite piece of devotional music in
the world, and it was Stella’s favorite. She had sung it often
and often in the dreary school-days, with all her longing heart
in her voice; she had sung it in solemn aisled cathedrals, while
the incense rose to the vaulted roof; but she had never sung it
as she sang it now—now that the strange, indefinable pain was
filling her heart with wistful vague longing. Lady Lilian leant
forward—her lips parted, her eyes filling with tears—so rapt that
she did not notice that the door had opened, and that Lord
Leycester stood in the room. When she did see him he held up[85]
his hand to silence any word of greeting, and stood with his
head lowered, his eyes fixed on Stella’s face, upturned, white,
and rapt. As he listened, his handsome face grew pale, his dark
eyes deepened with intense emotion; he had stood beside the
piano down-stairs while Lady Lenore had been singing, with a
calm, polite attention; here and at this moment his heart beat
and throbbed with an intense longing to bend and kiss the upturned
face—with an intense longing to draw the eyes toward
his—to silence the exquisite voice—to change its imploring
prayer into a song of love.

All unconsciously Stella sang on till the end, that last, lingering,
exquisite, long-drawn sigh; then she turned and saw him,
but she did not move—only turned pale, her eyes fixed on his.
And so they looked at each other.

With an effort he broke the spell, and moved. But he did not
speak to her at once, but to Lilian.

“I have brought you something,” he said, in a low voice, and
he held up the sketch.

Lady Lilian uttered a cry of delight.

“And it is for me! Oh, Leycester, that is nice! It is beautiful!
I know who painted it—it was your uncle, Stella! Oh,
yes, I know!”

“You are right,” said Leycester, then he went toward Stella.

“How can I thank you?” he said, in a low voice. “I know
now why you would not sing to to us down-stairs! You were
quite right. I would not have you sing to a mob in a drawing-room
after dinner. What shall I say?—what can I say?”

Stella looked up pale and almost breathless beneath the passionate
fire that burned in his eyes.

“I did not know you were here,” she said, at last.

“Or you would not have sung. I am glad I came—I cannot
say how glad! You will not sing again?”

“No, no,” she said.

“No,” he said. “I did not think you would, and yet I would
give something to hear you once—only once more.”

“No,” said Stella, and she rose and went back to her seat.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Lady Lilian, in a murmur. “I have
been richly endowed to-night. Your song and this picture.
How exquisite it was! Where did you learn to sing like that?”

“Nowhere,” said Leycester. “That cannot be learnt!”

Lilian looked at him; he was still pale, and his eyes seemed to
burn with suppressed eagerness.

“Go and thank Mr. Etheridge,” she said.

“Presently,” he said, and he came and put his hand on her
arm. “Presently! let me rest here a little while. It is Paradise
after——” he paused.

“You shall not rest,” she said. “Go and sing something,
Ley.”

Then, as Stella looked up, she laughed softly.

“Did you not know he could sing? He is a bad, wicked, indolent
boy. He can do all sorts of things when he likes, but
he never will exert himself. He will not sing, now will you?”

[86]

He stood looking at Stella, and as if constrained to speak and
look at him, Stella raised her eyes.

“Will you sing?” she said, almost inaudibly.

As if waiting for her command, he bent his head and went to
the piano.

His fingers strayed over the notes slowly for a moment or two,
then he said, without turning his head:

“Have you seen these flowers?”

Stella did not wish to move; but the voice seemed to draw her,
and she rose and crossed to the piano.

He looked up.

“Stay,” he murmured.

She hesitated a second, then stood with downcast eyes, which,
hidden as they were, seemed to feel his ardent gaze fixed upon
her.

He still touched the keys gently, and then, without further
prelude, he began in a low voice:

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.

[87]

“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!”

CHAPTER XII.

“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 the[88]
eager 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 catch[89]
her 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.

[90]

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 have given—GIVEN you 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 answer[91]
me. 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 stood[92]
amazed, 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!”

[93]

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.”

CHAPTER XIII.

He started. 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.