Only a Girl's Love by Charles Garvice (the rosie project TXT) 📕

something about trouble, but he laughed softly, and drawing her hand on his arm led her away.

All the room saw it, and a sort of thrill ran through them; it was an attention he paid only to such old and honored friends as the old countess and Lenore.

"Oh, why did you come?" whispered Stella, as they reached the hall. "The countess looked so angry."

He smiled.

"I could not help it. There, not a word more. Now let me wrap this round you;" and, of course, as he wrapped it round her, he managed to convey a caress in the touch of his hand.

"Remember, my darling," he murmured, almost dangerously loud, as he put her into the fly. "To-morrow at six."

Then he stood bareheaded, and the last Stella saw was the light of tender, passionate love burning in his dark eyes.

She sank back in the furthermost corner of the fly in silent, rapt reflection. Was it all a dream? Was it only a trick of fancy, or did she feel his passionate kisses on her lips and face entangled in her hair. Had she really heard Lord Leycester Wyndward declare that he loved her?

"Are you asleep, Stella?" said her uncle, and she started.

"No, not asleep, dear," she said. "But—but tired and so happy!" The word slipped out before she was aware of it.

But the unsuspecting recluse did not notice the thrill of joy in the tone of her reply.

"Ah, yes, just so, I daresay. It was something new and strange to you. It is a beautiful place. By the way, what do you think of Lady Lenore?"

Stella started.

"Oh, she is very beautiful, and as wonderful as you said, dear," she murmured.

"Yes, isn't she. She will make a grand countess, will she not?"

"What!" said Stella.

He smiled.

"Wonderful creatures women are, to be sure. For the life of me I could not tell in exact words how the countess managed to give me the impression, but she did give it me, and unmistakably."

"What impression!" said Stella.

He laughed.

"That matters were settled between Lord Leycester and Lady Lenore, and that they were to be married. They will make a fine match, will they not?"

"Yes—no—I mean yes," said Stella, and a happy smile came into her eyes as she leant back.

No, it was not Lady Lenore he was going to marry—not the great beauty with the golden hair and violet eyes, but a little mere nobody, called Stella Etheridge. She leant back and hugged[97] her secret to her bosom and caressed it. The fly trundled along after the manner of flys, and stopped at last at the white gate in the lane.

Mr. Etheridge got out and held his hand for Stella, and she leapt out. As she did so, she uttered a slight cry, for a tall figure was standing beside the gate in the light by the lamps.

"Bless my soul, what's the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Etheridge, turning round. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Adelstone."

"I am very sorry to have startled you, Miss Stella," said Jasper Adelstone, and he came forward with his hat raised by his left hand; his right was in a sling. Stella's gentle eyes saw it, and her face paled.

"I was taking a stroll through the meadows and looked in. Mrs. Penfold said that you had gone to the Hall. Coming back from the river I heard the fly, and waited to say 'good-night.'"

"It is very kind," murmured Stella, her eyes still fixed on the useless arm with a kind of fascination.

"Come in and have a cigar," said Mr. Etheridge. "Ah! what is the matter with your arm, man?"

Jasper looked at him, then turned his small keen eyes on Stella's face.

"A mere trifle," he said. "I—met with an accident the other day and sprained it. It is a mere nothing. No, I won't come in, thanks. By-the-way, I'm nearly forgetting a most important matter," and he put his left hand in his pocket and drew something out. "I met the post-office boy in the lane, and he gave me this to save his legs," and he held out a telegram envelope.

"A telegram for me!" exclaimed Mr. Etheridge. "Wonders will never cease. Come inside, Mr. Adelstone."

But Jasper shook his head.

"I will wish you good-night, now," he said. "Will you excuse my left hand, Miss Stella?" he added, as he extended it.

Stella took it; it was burning, hot, and dry.

"I am so sorry," she said, in a low voice. "I cannot tell how sorry I am!"

"Do not think of it," he said. "Pray forget it, as—I do," he added, with hidden irony. "It is a mere nothing."

Stella looked down.

"And I am sure that—Lord Leycester is sorry."

"No doubt," he said. "I am quite sure Lord Leycester did not want to break my arm. But, indeed, I was rightly punished for my carelessness, though, I assure you, that I should have pulled up in time."

"Yes, yes; I am sure of that. I am sure I was in no danger," said Stella, earnestly.

"Yes," he said, in a low voice. "There was really no necessity for Lord Leycester to throw me off my horse, or even to insult me. But Lord Leycester is a privileged person, is he not?"

"I—I don't know what you mean!" said Stella, faintly.

"I mean that Lord Leycester may do things with impunity which others cannot even think of," and his sharp eyes grew to her face, which Stella felt was growing crimson.

"I—I am sure he will be very sorry," she said, "when he[98] knows how much you are hurt, and he will apologize most sincerely."

"I have no doubt," he said, lightly, "and, after all, it is something to have one's arm sprained by Lord Leycester Wyndward, is it not? It is better than a broken heart."

"A broken heart! What do you mean?" said Stella, her face flushed, her eyes challenging his with a touch of indignation.

He smiled.

"I meant that Lord Leycester is as skilled in breaking hearts as limbs. But I forgot I must not say anything against the heir to Wyndward in your hearing. Pray forgive me. Good-night."

And, with a bow and a keen look from his small eyes, he moved away.

Stella stood looking after him for a moment, and a shiver ran through her as if from a cold wind.

Breaking hearts! What did he mean?

An exclamation from her uncle caused her to turn suddenly.

He was standing in the light of the window, with the open telegram in his hand, his face pale and anxious.

"Great Heaven!" he muttered, "what am I to do?"

CHAPTER XIV.

"What shall I do?" exclaimed Mr. Etheridge.

Stella came to him quickly, with a little cry of dismay.

"What is it, uncle? Are you ill—is it bad news? Oh, what is the matter?"

And she looked up into his pale and agitated face with anxious concern.

His gaze was fixed on vacancy, but there was more than abstraction in his eyes—there was acute pain and anguish.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm. "Pray tell me."

At the words he started slightly, and crushed the telegram in his hand.

"No, no!" he said—"anything but that." Then, composing himself with an effort, he pressed her hand and smiled faintly. "Yes, it is bad news, Stella; it is always bad news that a telegram brings."

Stella led him in; his hands were trembling, and the dumb look of pain still clouded his eyes.

"Will you not tell me what it is?" she murmured, as he sank into his accustomed chair and leant his white head on his hand. "Tell me what it is, and let me help you to bear it by sharing it with you."

And she wound her arm around his neck.

"Don't ask me, Stella. I can't tell you—I cannot. The shame would kill me. No! No!"

"Shame!" murmured Stella, her proud, lovely face paling, as she shrank back a little; but the next moment she pressed closer to him, with a sad smile.

"Not shame for you, dear; shame and you were never meant to come together."

[99]

He started, and raised his head.

"Yes, shame!" he repeated, almost fiercely, his hands clinched—"such bitter, debasing shame and disgrace. For the first time the name we have held for so many years will be stained and dragged in the dirt. What shall I do?" And he hid his face in his hands.

Then, with a sudden start, he rose, and looked round with trembling eagerness.

"I—I must go to London," he said, brokenly. "What is the time? So late! Is there no train? Stella, run and ask Mrs. Penfold. I must go at once—at once; every moment is of consequence."

"Go to London—to-night—so late? Oh, you cannot!" exclaimed Stella, aghast.

"My dear, I must," he said more calmly. "It is urgent, most urgent business that calls for me, and I must go."

Stella stole out of the room, and was about to wake Mrs. Penfold, when she remembered having seen a time-table in the kitchen, and stealing down-stairs again, hunted until she found it.

When she took it into the studio, she found her uncle standing with his hat on and his coat buttoned.

"Give it to me," he said. "There is a train, an early market train that I can catch if I start at once," and with trembling fingers he turned over the pages of the time-book. "Yes, I must go, Stella."

"But not alone, uncle!" she implored. "Not alone, surely. You will let me come with you."

He put his hand upon her arm and kissed her, his eyes moist.

"Stella, I must go alone; no one can help me in this matter. There are some troubles that we must meet unaided except by a Higher Power; this is one of them. Heaven bless you, my dear; you help me to bear it with your loving sympathy. I wish I could tell you, but I cannot, Stella—I cannot."

"Do not then, dear," she whispered. "You will not be away long?"

"Not longer than I can help," he sighed. "You will be quite safe, Stella?"

"Safe!" and she smiled sadly.

"Mrs. Penfold must take care of you. I don't like leaving you, but it cannot be helped! Child, I did not think to have a secret from you so soon!"

At the words Stella started, and a red flush came over her face.

She, too, had a secret, and as it flashed into her mind, from whence the sudden trouble had momentarily banished it, her heart beat fast and her eyes drooped.

"There should be no secrets between us two," he said. "But—there—there—don't look so troubled, my dear. I shall not be long gone."

She clung to him to the last, until indeed the little white gate had closed behind him, then she went back to the house and sat down in his chair, and sat pondering and trembling.

[100]

For a time the secret trouble which had befallen her uncle absorbed all her mind and care, but presently the memory of all that had happened to her that evening awoke and overcame her sorrow, and she sat with clasped hands and drooping head recalling the handsome face and passionate voice of Lord Leycester.

It was all so wonderful, so unreal, that it seemed like a stage play, in which the magnificent house formed the scene and the noble men and women the players, with the tall, stalwart, graceful form of Lord Leycester for the hero. It was difficult to realize that she too took a part, so to speak, in the drama, that she was, in fact, the heroine, and that it was to her that all the passionate vows of the young lord had been spoken. She could feel his burning kisses on her lips; could feel the touch of the clinging, lingering caresses on her neck; yes, it was all real; she loved Lord Leycester, and he, strange and wonderful to add, loved her.

Why should he do it? she marveled. Who was she that he should deign to shower down upon her such fervent admiration and passionate devotion?

Mechanically she rose and went over to the Venetian mirror, and looked at the reflection which beamed softly in the dim light.

He had called her beautiful, lovely! She shook her head and smiled with a sigh as she thought of Lady Lenore. There were beauty and loveliness indeed! How had it happened that he had passed her by, and chosen her, Stella?

But it was so, and wonder, and gratitude and love welled up in her heart and filled her eyes with those tears which show that the cup of human happiness is full to overflowing. The clock struck the hour, and with a sigh, as she thought of her uncle, she turned from the glass. She felt that she could not go to bed; it was far pleasanter to sit up in the stillness and silence and think—think! To take one little incident after another, and go over it slowly and enjoyingly. She wandered