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

this time, but took her hand and held it with a convulsive grasp, and something trembled on his lip, when he started and stared toward the window.

Stella turned her head quickly and stared also, for there, standing with his face turned toward them, with his eyes fixed on them, stood Jasper Adelstone. She rose, but he came forward with his finger on his lip.

"He is asleep," he said, glancing at the chair, and he held out his hand.

Stella took it; it was hot and dry.

"I ought to apologize for coming in so late," he said in a cautious voice; "but I was passing, and the music proved too great a temptation. Will you forgive me?"

"Certainly," said Stella. "We are very glad to see you. This is my Cousin Frank," she added.

The small eyes that had been fixed on her face turned to the boy's, and a strange look came into them for a second, then, in his usual tone, he said:

"Indeed! home for a holiday, I suppose? How do you do?" and he held out his hand.

Frank came out of the shadow and took it, and Jasper held his hand and looked at him with a strange smile.

"You have not introduced me," he said to Stella.

Stella smiled.

"This is Mr. Adelstone, a friend of uncle's," she said.

Jasper Adelstone looked at her.

"Will you not say a friend of yours also?" he asked, gently.

Stella laughed.

"I beg your pardon; yes, if I may. I'll say a friend of ours."

"And yours too, I hope," said Jasper Adelstone to Frank.

"Yes, thank you," answered the boy; but there was a strange, ill-concealed shyness and reluctance in his manner.

Stella drew a chair forward.

"Won't you sit down?" she asked.

He sat down.

"I am afraid I have interrupted you," he said. "Will you go on—do, please?"

Stella glanced at her uncle.

"I am afraid I should wake him," she said.

He looked disappointed.

"Some other time," said Stella.

"Thanks," he said.

"Uncle is very tired to-night; he has just come from London."

"Indeed!" said Jasper, with well-feigned surprise. "I have been to London also. That reminds me, I have ventured to[144] bring some music for you—for your uncle!" and he drew a book from his pocket.

Stella took it, and uttered a little exclamation of pleasure. It was a volume of Italian songs; some of them familiar to her, all of them good.

"How nice, how thoughtful of you!" she said. "Some of them are old favorites of mine. Uncle will be so pleased. Thank you very much."

He put his hand to his mouth.

"I am glad there are some songs you like," he said. "I thought that perhaps you would prefer Italian to English?"

"Yes—yes," said Stella, turning over the leaves. "Very much prefer it."

"Perhaps some night you will allow me to hear some of them?"

"Indeed, you shall!" she said, lightly.

"I may have an opportunity," he went on, "for I am afraid I shall be rather a frequent visitor."

"Yes?" said Stella, interrogatively.

"The fact is," he said, hesitatingly, and he could have cursed himself for his hesitation and awkwardness—he who was never awkward or irresolute at other times—he who had faced the proud disdain of Lady Lenore and conquered it!—"the fact is that I have some business with your uncle. A client of mine is a patron of the fine arts. He is a very wealthy man, and he is anxious that Mr. Etheridge, whom he greatly admires, should paint him a picture on a subject which he has given to me! It is rather a difficult subject—I mean it will require some explanation as the picture progresses, and I have promised, if Mr. Etheridge will permit me, to give the explanation."

Stella nodded. She had taken up her work again, and bent over it, quite unconscious of the admiration with which the two pair of eyes were fixed on her—the guarded, passionate, wistful, longing in the man's, the open awe-felt admiration of the boy's.

"But," she said with a smile, "you know how—I was going to say obstinate—my uncle is; do you think he will paint it?"

"I hope to be able to persuade him," he said, with a modest smile. "Perhaps he will do it for me; I am an old friend, you know."

"Is it for you, then?" she asked.

"No, no," he said, quickly; "but this art-patron is a great friend of mine, and I have pledged myself to persuade Mr. Etheridge."

"I see," said Stella.

Jasper was silent a moment, his eyes wandering round the room in search of the flowers—his flowers. They were nowhere to be seen; but on her bosom were the wild blossoms which Lord Leycester had gathered.

A dark shade crossed his face for a moment, and his hands clinched, but he composed himself. The time would come when she would wear his flowers and his alone—he had sworn it!

He turned to Frank with a smile.

[145]

"Are you going to stay at home for long?" he asked.

Frank had withdrawn into the shadow, where he had been watching Stella and Jasper's faces alternately. He started visibly.

"I don't know," he said.

"I hope we shall see a great deal of each other," he said. "I am staying at the Rectory, taking holiday also."

"Thank you," said Frank, but not overjoyously.

Jasper rose.

"I must go now," he said, "Good-night." He took Stella's hand and bent over it; then, turning to the boy, "Good-night. Yes," he added, and he held the small hands with a tight pressure, "we must see a good deal of each other, you and I."

Then he stole out noiselessly.

As he disappeared, Frank heaved a sigh of relief, and Stella looked at him.

He was still standing as he had stood when Jasper held his hand, looking after him; and there was a strange look on his face which aroused Stella's attention.

"Well?" she said, with a smile.

Frank started, and looked down at her with a smile.

"Is it true," he asked, "that he is a great friend of my father's?"

Stella nodded.

"I suppose so, yes."

"And of yours?" he said, intently.

Stella hesitated.

"I have known him such a short time," she said, almost apologetically.

"I thought so," he said. "He is not a friend of yours—you don't like him?"

"But"—said Stella.

"I know it," he said, "as well as if you had told me; and I am glad of it."

There was a tone of suppressed excitement in his voice—a restless, uneasy look in his eyes, which astonished Stella.

"Why?" she said.

"Because," he answered, "I do not like him. I"—and a shiver ran through him—"I hate him."

Stella stared.

"You hate him!" she exclaimed. "You have only seen him for a few minutes! Ought you to say that?"

"No, I suppose not," he replied; "but I can't help it. I hate him! There is something about him that—that——"

He hesitated.

"Well?"

"That makes me afraid. I felt while he was talking as if I was being smothered! Don't you know what I mean?"

"Yes," said Stella, quickly.

It was that she had felt herself sometimes, when Jasper's low, smooth voice was in her ears. But she felt that it was foolish to encourage the boy's fancy.

[146]

"But that is nonsense!" she said. "He is very kind and considerate. He has sent me some beautiful flowers——"

"He has?" he said, gloomily.

"And this music."

Frank took up the book and eyed it scornfully, and threw it on the table as if he were tempted to pitch it out of the window.

"What does he do it for!" he demanded.

"I don't know—only out of kindness."

Frank shook his head.

"I don't believe it! I—I wish he hadn't! I beg your pardon. Have I offended you?" he added, contritely.

"No," said Stella, laughing. "Not a bit, you foolish boy," and she leant on her elbows and looked up at him with her dark eyes smiling.

He came nearer and looked down at her.

"I am glad you don't like him."

"I didn't say——"

"But I know it. Because I shouldn't like to hate anyone you liked," he added.

"Then," said Stella, with her rare, musical laugh, "as it's very wicked to hate anyone, and I ought to help you to be good, the best thing I can do is to like Mr. Adelstone."

"Heaven forbid!" he said, so earnestly, so passionately, that Stella started.

"You are a wicked boy!" she said, with a smile.

"I am," he said, gravely, and his lips quivered. "But if anything could make me better it would be living near you. You are not offended?"

"Not a bit," laughed Stella; "but I shall be directly, so you had better go to bed. Your room is quite ready, and you look tired. Good-night," and she gave him her hand.

He too bent over it, but how differently to Jasper! and he touched it reverently with his lips.

"Good-night," he said; "say good-night to my father for me," and he went out.

CHAPTER XX.

One hears of the devotion of a dog to its master, the love of a horse for its rider; such devotion, such love Stella received from the boy Frank. He was a very singular boy, and strange; he soon lost the air of melancholy and sadness which hung about him on the first night of his arrival, and became happier and sometimes even merry; there was always a certain kind of reserve about him.

As Stella—knowing nothing of the history of the forged bill—said, he had his thinking fits, when he used to sit with his head in his hands, his eyes fixed on vacancy.

But these fits were not of frequent occurrence, and oftener he was in the best of boyish moods, chatty and cheerful, and "chaffy." His devotion to Stella, indeed, was extraordinary. It was more than the love of a brother, it was not the love of a sweetheart, it was a kind of worship. He would sit for hours[147] by her side, more often at her feet listening to her singing, or watching her at work. He was never so happy as when he was with her, walking in the meadows, and he would gladly lay aside his fishing rod or his book, to hang about with her in the garden.

There had never been anyone so beautiful as Stella—there had never been anyone so good. The boy looked up to her with the same admiration and love with which the devotee might regard his patron saint.

His attachment was so marked that even his father, who noticed so little, observed it and commented on it.

"Frank follows you like a dog, Stella," he said, the third evening after the boy's arrival. "Don't let him bother you; he has his reading to get through, and there's the river and his rod. Send him about his business if he worries you."

Stella laughed.

"Frank worry me!" she exclaimed lightly. "He is incapable of such a thing. There never was such a dear considerate boy. Why, I should miss him dreadfully if he were to go away for an hour or two even. No, he doesn't bother me in the slightest, and as to his books and his rod, he shamelessly confessed yesterday, that he didn't care for any of them half as much as he cared for me."

The old man looked up and sighed.

"It is strange," he said, "you seem to be the only person who ever had any influence over him."

"I ought to be very proud, then," said Stella, "and I am. No one could help loving him, he is so irresistible."

The old man went on with his work with a little sigh.

"Then he's so pretty!" continued Stella. "It is a shame to call a boy pretty, but that is just what he is."

"Yes," said Mr. Etheridge, grimly. "It is the face of a girl, with all a girl's weakness."

"Hush," said Stella, warningly. "Here he comes. Well, Frank," she said, as he came in, his slim form dressed in boating flannels, his rod in his hand. "What have you been doing—fishing?"

"No," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "I meant to, but you said that you would come out directly, and so I waited. Are you ready? It doesn't matter—I'll wait. I suppose it's the pudding, or the custards, or the canary wants feeding. I wish there were no puddings or canaries."

"What an impatient boy it is," she exclaimed, with a laugh. "Well, now I'm ready."

"Let's go down to the river," he said. "There's someone fishing there—at least, he's supposed to be fishing, but he keeps his eyes fixed in this direction, so that I don't imagine he is getting much sport."

"What is he like?" said Stella.

"Like?" said Frank. "Oh, a tall, well-made young fellow, in brown velvet. A man with a yellow mustache."

Stella's face flushed, and she glanced round at her uncle.

[148]

"Let us go," she said. "I know who it is. It is Lord Leycester."

"Not Lord Leycester Wyndward," exclaimed Frank. "Not really! I should like to see him. Do you know him, Stella?"

"Yes—a little," said Stella, shyly. "A little."

"Yes, it