The Project Gutenberg eBook of The gray wolf's daughter, by Gertrude Warden (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73734 ***

BY
GERTRUDE WARDEN,
Author of “A Race for Love,” “Mam’zelle Bebe,” “The Secret of a
Letter,” etc.

NEW YORK:
THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.

[COPYRIGHT]

CONTENTS.

Prologue. Part I

Prologue. Part II

I.—Knights Errant

II.—Stella

III.—A Siren

IV.—Enemies

V.—Coming Conflicts

VI.—Lord Carthew’s Wooing

VII.—A Kiss Too Long

VIII.—An Old Friend

IX.—The Gypsy’s Prophecy

X.—Father and Daughter

XI.—An Old Story

XII.—For Better, for Worse

XIII.—The Sending of The Token

XIV.—“The Romanys Have not Forgotten”

XV.—The Wedding Eve

XVI.—The Charm

XVII.—A Mad Bride

XVIII.—The Wedding Journey

XIX.—Found!

XX.—Lord Carthew Finds His Wife

XXI. AND LAST.—The Curse Fulfilled

THE GRAY WOLF’S DAUGHTER.

PROLOGUE.—PART I.

On a stormy afternoon in October, in the thirtieth year of QueenVictoria’s reign, a young doctor sat before the fire in his new homeat the sleepy old Surrey town of Grayling, warming his hands, andthinking, not too cheerfully, of his prospects.

Ernest Netherbridge was not a genius, but he was a thoughtful,intelligent, painstaking, and unselfish man. Grayling had not yetfound out his good qualities; the inhabitants, never greatlydistinguished for lucidity of vision, had only had time to discoverthat his “bedside manner” was less soothing than that of hispredecessor, and that he had an unpleasant trick of telling them thatthey ate and drank too much for their health. Young Dr. Netherbridgehad also the bad taste to ascribe melancholy to “liver,” fainting fitsand ladylike super-sensitiveness to “anæmia,” and hysterics toill-temper. Consequently he was not popular, and he knew it.

No one, therefore, was more surprised than he when a handsome closedcarriage, drawn by two splendid bays, was pulled up before his door,and a footman, after a reverberating rat-tat-tat, delivered a note,emblazoned with an imposing coat of arms, to Dr. Netherbridge’shousekeeper for her master.

On breaking the seal the doctor’s surprise increased. The letter wassent from the Chase, a very large estate, which extended for severalmiles in the vicinity of Grayling, and which belonged to Sir PhilipCranstoun, the representative of one of the oldest families in Surrey,a man reputed equally wealthy and eccentric, concerning whom wonderfultales were whispered round Grayling tea-tables. The letter was writtenin a small and cramped man’s handwriting, and ran as follows:

“Sir Philip Cranstoun, having heard that Dr. Netherbridge invariablyspeaks the truth to his patients, would be glad if he will at onceproceed to the Chase in the carriage sent herewith, and give hisopinion upon a patient there. Sir Philip wishes to inform Dr.Netherbridge that the abilities of Sir Curtis Clarkson, Sir PercivalHoare, and Dr. Tracey Wentworth have all been exerted in vain overthis special case, the drawback in every instance being theirinability to speak the truth. This, Sir Philip hopes to hear from Dr.Netherbridge.”

The doctor put down the letter, surprised and interested. Sir CurtisClarkson and Sir Percival Hoare were names to conjure with, Londonphysicians of great and established reputation, favored by royalty,and believed in unquestioningly by the wealthier middle classes. Dr.Tracey Wentworth was a highly popular practitioner from Guildford, inhis profession a triton against a minnow when compared with thestruggling young doctor who was now called to supersede him.

Ernest Netherbridge pondered for a few moments. After all, hereflected, although he might well fail over a case which had puzzledbetter heads than his, at least he could exercise his favorite andunpopular virtue of candor without fear of the consequences. Should hesucceed in pleasing so great a local magnate as Sir Philip Cranstoun,a justice of the peace, and one of the largest landowners in the southof England, it would greatly help to establish his position andpractice in the town of his adoption. The thing was at least worthtrying for. Taking his overcoat and slipping a scarf round his neck,for he was by no means robust, Dr. Netherbridge stepped out of hishouse, and entering the roomy and comfortable carriage in waiting forhim, was soon whirling along a quiet country road toward the greatgates leading to the Chase.

The wind whistled through the scantily clad branches of the swayingtrees, scattering their yellow and russet leaves, and whirling them indancing eddies a little way above the moist earth below. Dr.Netherbridge had never been within the precincts of the great park;indeed, since his marriage three years previously, Sir PhilipCranstoun had discouraged visitors, and no one in Grayling appeared tohave even seen Lady Cranstoun, concerning whose remarkable beauty,however, reports were freely circulated. Considerable interest andcuriosity dominated the young doctor’s mind as he was driven rapidlyalong the wide avenue of over-arching giant elmtrees, which formed acharacteristic feature of the Cranstoun Chase enclosure.

The house itself was a great rambling, gray stone mansion, closelycovered with ivy, of ancient origin, and in some of the older portionspossessing a thickness of wall suitable for the old ante-gunpowderdays. From time to time the original building had been added to byvarious members of the family, but although numerous additions hadbeen made in the course of the five hundred years since the firstSquire Cranstoun erected his fortified hunting seat within the forest,the gray pile was dignified and imposing still, although it resembledmore a fortress than a home.

A very broad flight of shallow steps led to the heavy Gothic entrance,on either side of which life-sized wolves in stone supported theCranstoun arms. For many hundred years the wolf’s head, grasped in amail-covered hand, had been the device of the family, to whomtradition assigned many of the wolf’s characteristics of treachery andvindictiveness, while the motto, “Cranstoun, Remember!” was said to bederived from a bloodthirsty legend of long delayed vengeance in thedays of the Norman Conquest.

As the carriage drew up before the entrance, the heavy oak doors werethrown open and Dr. Netherbridge ascended the steps, and entered thehouse. The hall was spacious and impressive as the exterior, hung withancient swords and spears, and guarded by four glistening figures incomplete armor, which, as the firelight from a wide hearth below amassive marble mantelpiece struck them, added to the sombre appearanceof the house.

A stout, elderly man, evidently the butler, and two footmen stood inthe hall. Sir Philip was out, they informed the doctor. He had beenabsent since the morning, and had caused a message to be conveyed tohis house, together with a letter for Dr. Netherbridge, which he hadwished to have immediately delivered.

“Has Lady Cranstoun been ill long?” the doctor inquired.

“For some time, sir. But her ladyship’s maid will be able to informyou as to all that, if you will be so kind as to follow me.”

Lady Cranstoun’s apartments were little less gloomy than the hall. Noflowers, no dainty knick-knacks relieved their mediæval simplicity.In the bedroom and the adjoining sitting-room the floors were polishedand spread with rugs, the walls covered with moth-eaten tapestry,while the massive bed and the chairs were formed of dark oak. An oaksettle was drawn before the fire in the sitting-room, whichcommunicated by a recess draped with heavy velvet curtains with thebedroom beyond. On a fur rug thrown across the settle, a figure inwhite draperies lay with face turned to the firelight. On a chairnear, a white-capped nurse sat, holding in her hand a book from whichshe had been reading, while a dark-complexioned, pleasant-faced woman,evidently a servant, stood at a little distance, with hands tightlyclasped, and a look of keen anxiety printed on her features.

“It is the doctor, my lady,” the servant said, approaching themotionless, recumbent figure of her mistress.

Lady Cranstoun uttered a low exclamation of impatience.

“Of what use is a doctor to me?” she murmured. “Send him away,Margaret! What good have they done me yet?”

“But this is a new doctor, my lady. If you would only let him seeyou.”

The nurse rose at this point and added her entreaties to those of theold servant, before crossing the room to where the doctor stood.

“Lady Cranstoun lies like that hour after hour,” she whispered. “Sheneither eats nor sleeps, and she can hardly bear to be spoken to.”

Dr. Netherbridge came quietly forward, and placing himself between theoak settle and the fire, looked directly into Lady Cranstoun’s face.The invalid, raising her hollow eyes, perceived a small, slight man ofabout thirty, with a pale face, a dark mustache and beard, andsingularly penetrating and reliable dark blue eyes. He on his partbeheld a tall young woman of apparently not more than twenty years ofa*ge, and of truly remarkable beauty, even though her face and armswere now slender to emaciation, and her pallor was almost corpselike.Her face was small, her features were delicate, and her hair, of whichshe possessed a wavy abundance, was the blackest he had ever seen. Buther beauty and her fragility, both of which were strongly apparent,were forgotten by the doctor in the effect produced upon him by hereyes, surely the largest, darkest, and most hopelessly sad inexpression that ever gazed out of a despairing woman’s face.

Almost mechanically he raised her wrist, and began to feel her quick,feverish pulse. Her hand was extremely cold, although her dry, redlips looked hot and parched. A strong sympathy for her filled his mindas he drew a chair up to the oak settle, and began asking her somequestions concerning her illness.

At first she answered in monosyllables and evidently at random,staring into the fire, and speaking in a scarcely audible voice.Gradually, however, she took to watching his face, and at last,sitting up with some show of energy, she asked the nurse to wait inthe adjoining room while she described her symptoms to the doctor.

“Seeing you sitting there fidgets me,” she said. “I can’t collect mythoughts.”

She spoke English correctly enough, in a sweet, rich voice, yetsomething in her manner struck the doctor as rough and unusual in awoman of birth and breeding. As soon as the nurse had moved away, LadyCranstoun turned impulsively to the dark-complexioned servant.

“Go after her, and prevent her from listening,” she whispered,rapidly, and the woman obeyed.

“Now draw your chair close up,” she said, imperiously, to the doctor.“I have a great deal to say. There is something about your face whichmakes me think I can trust you. And I do so badly need some one totrust. Stay, though; do you know Sir Philip Cranstoun?”

“I have never seen him in my life.”

“I’m glad of that! How did you come to be sent for?”

Thinking it might help him to gain her confidence, Dr. Netherbridgedrew from his pocket Sir Philip’s summons.

Lady Cranstoun read it eagerly. After she had returned it to him,silence reigned for a few seconds. Her next question appearedstartlingly irrelevant.

“The sessions are on at Guildford to-day, are they not?”

“I believe so.”

“And Sir Philip’s note was sent here from Guildford ordering thecarriage to go for you?”

“No doubt he was very anxious about you,” said the doctor, hardlyrealizing what he was expected to say.

She stared at him for a few seconds, and then broke into a bitter,mirthless laugh.

“You don’t know, then?” she said. “After all, why should you? Yet Ifeel sure I can trust you. What is your name?”

“Ernest Netherbridge.”

“Dr. Netherbridge, Sir Philip hates me only a little less than I hatehim.”

Silence again. It was obviously impossible to comment upon such anunexpected statement.

She stared at the fire, and then, suddenly clasping her thin whitehands, she fixed her great eyes beseechingly upon his face.

“Will you help me?” she asked, in a whisper full of intensity. “Ihaven’t a friend in the house except Margaret. Every one is againstme.”

“Surely your illness makes you fanciful,” he was beginning, when shecut him short impatiently.

“Ah! don’t talk like that—like the others did! Sir Philip so longsfor an heir. We had a child, a boy, who died—I am glad, very gladthat he is dead—and he wishes me to have every care now, not for mysake, but for the sake of the family name. I have been trying tostarve myself; I suppose you can see that; but if you will give me theinformation I want, I will take your medicines or anything.”

“Tell me what you want me to do, Lady Cranstoun.”

“Find out for me all that took place in court to-day. Sir Philip wentto Guildford early—I found out so much—but they will not let me seethe papers, they will not let me hear!”

She was quivering from head to foot in fierce, ungovernableexcitement, and her eyes were shining with a feverish glitter.

“There is some great anxiety on your mind,” he said, kindly. “Will younot confide in me more fully?”

She glanced nervously about her, and finally thrust her hand among thefolds of her dress about her neck, and slipped in his hand a crumpledletter, ill-spelt, and written evidently by an imperfectly educatedperson.

“My Own Daughter Clare” (it began),
“Your brother Jim sets sail for America on Tuesday next, and we allhope if once he gets out in Canada with Uncle Pete he’ll do well. Butyou know what the boy always was about you. It was ever Clare first,and the rest of us nowhere. He won’t budge a foot without seeing you,and giving a good-by kiss to his little sister, for all she’s a greatlady now. Now, my girl, it’s hard enough to have had never a sight ofyou for them three years, save now and again as you’ve drove past inyour carriage, and that one time you contrived to slip off to the oldcottage for half an hour. I’m hungering to speak to my beautiful girl.Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve thought I seen a sad look on your face oflate. It’s wicked and unnatural for Sir Philip to part flesh andblood, and as to us not being gentlefolks, he should have thought ofthat afore he took ye. What you say he threatened about shooting aspoachers any on us as come within his property, that’s mere tall talk.What harm to anybody will it do for your father and brother to see youfor ten minutes or so, and give you a good-by kiss, and tell you howdear you are to us still? So, my girl, to-morrow night, at any timebetween nine and eleven, do you slip out to the shrubbery at the backof the paddock. If it rains hard we shan’t expect you, but if it’sfine, seeing as the gray wolf is away, we know you’ll come, my pretty,to your loving brother, and your old father.”

Dr. Netherbridge read the letter carefully, and returned it to LadyCranstoun. He was beginning to understand several things which hadpuzzled him. One point was very clear—Sir Philip Cranstoun hadmarried beneath him, and had forbidden his young wife fromcommunicating in any way with her relations.

“Did you go?” the doctor asked.

She supported herself on her elbow, and spoke in quick, gasping tones:

“It was a beautifully clear night. I thought Sir Philip was away, buthe had returned from London without my knowledge. Somehow, someone—one of the spies who are about me, waking and sleeping—picked upand read this letter. I can only suppose this, for all I know is thatas I crept out of the house at about half-past nine I was followed.Just as I reached the shrubbery, and caught sight in the moonlight ofmy father and brother in waiting under the dark shadow of the trees, Iwas seized from behind, something was thrust into my mouth and over myeyes, and I was carried back into the house. I fought and struggled,but to no purpose, and I could plainly hear several shots, the soundof a scuffle, and a great cry as of a man in mortal agony. From thatday to this I have been able to learn nothing of what happened on thatnight. But yesterday Margaret overheard Sir Philip telling his stewardthat he was going to Guildford to-day, where the sessions are held, toappear as a witness against some poachers who were found in hisgrounds several weeks ago, and who have been in jail ever since. Dr.Netherbridge, I am certain he meant my father and my brother!”

“But how could that be?” he asked, trying to allay her fierceexcitement. “Your father and brother are not poachers surely?”

A faint red color stole into her white cheeks.

“My people don’t see that the rich are injured by the loss of a hareor a rabbit now and again,” she muttered with lowered eyelids. “Theyshould belong to the people, wild game like that, and a bird ortwo—but that’s not what we were talking of. It was no poachingbrought out Jim and father that night. Sir Philip knew that rightenough. He made me take a solemn oath never to betray to anybody whathe called my disgraceful origin. Disgraceful!” she repeated, withburning cheeks. “A Carewe’s as good as a Cranstoun any day, as I’vetold him often enough. I’ve never broken my vow until to-day; not evenMargaret knows who my people are. But I’ve told you, because I mustand will know what has happened to my father and my brother Jimto-day.”

As he watched her talking, and noted the English nature of her beauty,the intense blue-blackness of her hair, and a certain touch ofwildness about her free, graceful gestures and rapid speech, anotherconviction came home to Ernest Netherbridge’s mind, and this was thatLady Cranstoun, wife of Sir Philip Cranstoun, of the Chase, Surrey,Cranstoun Hall, in Aberdeenshire, and Berkeley Square, London, had inher veins the untamable blood of the true “Egyptian,” those despisedwanderers over the face of the earth who are found and hated in allthe chief countries of Europe.

In spite of his patient’s beauty, Dr. Netherbridge could not helpwondering how so proud a man as Sir Philip was considered had everbeen so far carried away by his feelings as to wed a girl of gypsyorigin. Lady Cranstoun seemed to divine what was passing in his mind.Raising herself to a sitting position, she tapped one slenderwell-arched foot upon the ground while she said, as though in answerto his thought:

“Of course, you wonder how Sir Philip came to marry me. I can see thatin your face. When I was only eight years old I got blamed forsomething, as we were on the road going from fair to fair in thesummer. So I ran away in a rage, and walked till I was tired and fellasleep under a hedge by the wayside, in Devonshire. A rich lady droveby, the Hon. Mrs. Neville, a widow without children, Sir PhilipCranstoun’s eldest sister. Because I was so pretty, she had me liftedinto her carriage, and took me to her beautiful home and had meeducated, taught French, and music, and dancing, and drawing, and allthat, meaning me to be a governess. Every now and then I broke looseand went tramping through the fields and lanes after my own people,whom I loved the best all along. Often and often, when my fingersached with practising the piano, and I felt all stiff in tight clothesand shoes, I’d long for the old free life again. But when I saw mypeople, stealing out at night to them, they begged me to stay where Iwas. I could help them with money, and times were hard. Before mymother died she made me promise to remain a lady, and Mrs. Neville waskind enough to me by fits and starts, and very proud of what trainingand education had done. She used to show me off as a sort ofsuccessful experiment, too, before people, and that made me mad. Shewas a hard, capricious woman, like all the Cranstouns in nature, andwas all for breaking what she called my absurd pride, and reminding meI’d only been a vagrant after all. But she didn’t do so much of thatas she’d have liked, because I told her I’d run away, and thatwouldn’t have suited her, as I played and read to her, and amused her,and she couldn’t well do without me. But I never could be reconciledto the notion of being a dependent, and so when Sir Philip Cranstouncame on a visit—he was a handsome enough man of five-and-twenty then,and me only a little bit over sixteen—and he glared at me, and couldhardly let me out of his sight, and said he loved me, I got allexcited between the notion of being a great lady and being loved andbeing free from Mrs. Neville’s taunts. But Philip wanted me to runaway with him, but I wouldn’t hear of it, and refused to speak to him.I was very pretty then, prettier than you can think just seeing menow, and he was regularly crazy about me. So, early one morning, hemade me meet him in a church at Torquay, and we were married. Justthree years ago it was yesterday, a day I shall curse as long as Ilive!”

“Surely,” said the doctor, as she paused, apparently lost in sombrethought, “Sir Philip must have been very deeply attached to you?”

“Yes,” she returned, bitterly, “and for how long? First, nothing wastoo good for me, but that state lasted only a few weeks, and even thenI was afraid of him. Then violent, raging scenes of jealousy if, whenwe were in Italy, I so much as looked at a waiter and asked him forbread. Then, forever storming at me, and reproaching me, if agondolier so much as called me the ‘beautiful signora.’ And, afterthat, scenes constantly. I’ve a temper like fire myself, I own. WeCarewes have never been known for meekness, and even when I was a babychild I’d been taught to think myself a princess. All his life SirPhilip had his own way in everything, and all who came in his path hadobeyed him, cowed by his masterful temper and sullen fury. But Iwithstood him. I thought he loved me well enough to let me have myway, and when I found out my mistake I began to hate him, and morethan once tried to run away from him. But he followed, and swore hewould murder me if I dared, gypsy as I was, to bring disgrace upon hisancient name. Gradually, my will and my health seemed to be breakingdown. Our first child pined away and died, because I could not carefor it—could not look at it. It was his child, like him, I thought,even at that age, and so I could not love it. When his son died, SirPhilip was mad with anger, but I had grown past caring. It isn’t allmy fault, Dr. Netherbridge,” she added, suddenly, while big tearsrolled down her cheeks. “I may have been silly when I married, but Itried my utmost for over a year to love Sir Philip, and to please him,but he is more a fiend than a man, I think, and I would rather diethan see a child of mine grow up resembling him. It is all thesethoughts which, together with my awful anxiety for my father and Jim,are breaking my heart, and ruining my health. It is hate, and terror,and misery, and cruel, cruel anxiety, which make me starve myself andhope to die. But now that I have trusted you, and told you everything,you will befriend me, will you not? Come to-morrow early, and let meknow everything—everything, mind—that took place in court to-day,and I will let you cure me, if you choose. Will you promise?”

“I promise,” he said, “to do everything in my power to serve you,” andwith that assurance he took his leave.

PROLOGUE.—PART II.

As Dr. Netherbridge left Lady Cranstoun’s apartments, and proceededdown the broad oak staircase to the ground floor, he found a manservant waiting for him in the hall.

“Sir Philip has just arrived, sir, and wishes to see you before yougo. Will you kindly come to the library?”

The little doctor followed the man, filled with considerable curiosityas to what manner of man could have inspired so strong a sensation offear and dislike in the breast of his young wife. Lady Cranstoun’sfather had spoken of the son-in-law who would not acknowledge hisexistence as the “gray wolf.” But then Gypsy Carewe was hardly anunprejudiced person, and Dr. Netherbridge, who always desired topreserve an impartial mind, reminded himself of the fact that a girlof Clare Cranstoun’s undisciplined, keenly emotional nature wouldnecessarily be an extremely trying companion to a man as reserved andproud as Sir Philip was popularly supposed to be.

“Dr. Netherbridge, sir.”

The servant threw open the library door after a deferential tap on itspanels, which was followed by a curt “Come in!” The young doctor foundhimself in a spacious apartment completely lined with oaken book-caseswell filled with volumes. Before the fire, in the Englishman’sfavorite attitude, his hands behind him, and his feet set rather wideapart on a lion-skin rug, stood a broad-shouldered and deep-chestedman, rather below the medium height, with a square pale face, andblack hair which, in spite of the fact that he was buteight-and-twenty, was already streaked with gray. In some indefinableway Sir Philip impressed all who saw him with the sense of power, ofmental as well as physical force of very exceptional kind. In featureshe somewhat resembled the first Napoleon Bonaparte, but, if anything,his mouth was even more rigidly compressed and hard in outline thanthat of the great conqueror. He appeared to be a man of superb healthand physique, notwithstanding his exceptional pallor, which contrastedstrangely with the inky blackness of his eyebrows, and of the lasheswhich bordered his deep-set, glittering, steel-gray eyes. He gazedkeenly at the doctor, and then with haughty condescension waved hislong white hand toward a chair, which the latter did not take, butremained standing.

“You have seen Lady Cranstoun?” Sir Philip began abruptly, in alow-pitched but peculiarly grating voice.

“I have just left her.”

“What is your opinion?”

“She is extremely ill, but more so in mind than in body.”

Sir Philip smothered an exclamation of impatience.

“As I presume your business doesn’t extend to the mind, perhaps youwill be good enough to tell me what is wrong with the body?”

“Certainly, Sir Philip. Lady Cranstoun is deliberately starvingherself because she does not wish to live.”

Sir Philip’s black eyebrows bent heavily over his eyes, which gleamedwith suppressed anger.

“Can’t she be made insensible by drugs, and food be administered toher then?” he asked, harshly.

“Scarcely. But she has promised me to take the medicine which I shallsend her as soon as I get back; and there will be no possibility ofher death from inanition while she takes that. She seems to me to havenaturally a splendid constitution, and there is no doubt that if shecan be persuaded to take nourishment, and to cease from worrying, herhealth will be all that can be desired.”

“You seem to have had exceptional success with your patient,” sneeredSir Philip, with a short and very unpleasant laugh. “Her other doctorscouldn’t get a word out of her. Pray what method did you adopt toloosen her tongue?”

Ernest Netherbridge was a quiet tempered man, by no means easilyroused to wrath. But there was something in the hard contempt of theBaronet’s manner which seemed to rouse all the latent aggressivenessof his nature. Looking Sir Philip full in the eyes, he answered hisquestion steadily.

“I was extremely sorry for Lady Cranstoun, Sir Philip, and possibly Imade up in sympathy for what I lacked in skill.”

A very slight flush passed over Sir Philip’s colorless face.

“I am extremely grateful for your most kind pity for my wife,” hesaid, with biting sarcasm. “In her name and my own I offer you myhearty thanks for your sympathy. May I ask how she has merited it?”

“Certainly. Lady Cranstoun is very young. I understood her to say sheis still under twenty. She appears to be very dull and lonely, and aprey to great depression. Also, she had not, so she told me, beenoutside the house for two months. Hers is a temperament imperativelydemanding fresh air, plenty of exercise and change of scene, andbright and sympathetic society. Had she more of these things, I thinkit unlikely that she would entertain the idea of suicide, and requiresuch constant watching as she does now.”

“I am deeply obliged to you for your valuable advice as to how my wifeshould be treated. Perhaps it is a little outside your province as ageneral country practitioner; but I am none the less sensible of yourgenerosity in conferring it upon me.”

“Sir Philip,” returned the little doctor, taking his hat from thetable, “in your letter you requested me to speak the truth.Unfortunately for my success in my profession, I am unable to dootherwise, and I can only regret that it has been unpalatable to you.I wish you good evening.”

“Stop!” Sir Philip called out, imperiously, as Dr. Netherbridgereached the door. “You will please send Lady Cranstoun’s medicine, andcall to see her to-morrow. I will send the carriage for you at noon.If she has taken the whim in her head to be cured by you, she musthave her way. Oh, by the bye, I may mention to you what you have nodoubt found out for yourself. Lady Cranstoun’s father, Mr. Carewe, ofYorkshire, died in a madhouse, and I have often reason to fear my wifehas inherited a touch of the complaint. Her statements since herillness began are incoherent in the extreme, and totally unreliable.But you will, of course, make allowance for that. Good-evening.”

“Good-evening, Sir Philip.”

Dr. Netherbridge seemed to breathe more freely when he found himselfoutside the gray fortress-like walls of the Chase. No patient he hadever yet had could approach in interest that fragile creature with thedeathly white face and great dark eyes, whose husband was her worstenemy, and whose servants were her spies.

“You will be my friend, will you not?”

The words and the pathetic look which accompanied them haunted theyoung man. Especially since he had seen her husband a deep pity forher had taken possession of his mind. In speaking of his wife, SirPhilip’s voice, naturally hard, grew harder still, and the cold gleamof his eyes appeared absolutely diabolical. The whole of theCranstouns’ miserable married life seemed to be laid bare before thedoctor as he made his way thoughtfully toward his bachelor home, bornealong the dark roads in the comfortable carriage in which he had come.He pictured to himself the spoiled, impulsive girl, little more than achild, whose strange beauty and proud maidenliness had won Sir PhilipCranstoun’s short-lived but passionate love. Such a union could onlyend in one way between so ill-matched a pair, and the woman who, withkind and tender but firm treatment, might have proved herself a lovingand devoted wife and mother, had been cowed, terrified, sneered at,and repressed, until she had become the miserable nerve-wrackedcreature whom he had just seen.

It was with some approach to excitement that the little doctorprepared to inquire of his housekeeper—a garrulous, gossiping, stoutwoman—concerning what had taken place before the Recorder that day.But the initiative was taken by Mrs. Brooks herself, who, as she laidhis frugal supper on the table, plunged at once into the subject onher mind:

“Lor’, sir! to think of your going off in the Cranstoun carriage, likethat! It’ll make some folks I know that live in a great house outsidethe town, with a brass plate, and a boy in buttons to carry round themedicine-bottles in a basket, fit to burst themselves of envy. Whenyou’re rested, sir, I’m just longing to know all about the Chase. I’vealways heard tell it’s such a fine place, grand enough for a royaldook. But to think of poor Sir Philip having such things said to himin court to-day, and all along of an impudent poacher fellow, who, Idare say, fully deserves his five years and more if the truth beknown.”

The doctor put down his knife and fork.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Brooks?” he asked. “Tell me just whathappened.”

“Willingly, sir. If I might make so bold as to take a chair, beingrather bad like, with rheumatism in the knees. It was this way, sir.My young sister-in-law, my brother William’s wife, you know, sir, shelives just across the way to the court-house, and William being in theforce, she gets in to see the cases, and mostly drops in to tea withme afterward, to tell me about them; well, to-day she says there was abig, dark, young man, and well enough looking for his class of life,as was brought up on a charge of unlawfully wounding one of Sir PhilipCranstoun’s gamekeepers in a plantation near the Chase some few weeksago. It appears it was about ten or a little before, and two of SirPhilip’s men, one of them with his arm all bandaged up, and a wound inhis head, gave evidence as they were on the lookout for poachers, whenthey caught sight of this young man and another in a plantation nearthe Chase. Both were well-known poachers, and awful desperate men. Thegamekeepers crept silently until they came upon them; but the poacherswere very powerfully built and violent, and in the fight Sir Philip’smen were getting the worst of it, and the older ruffian had his knifeout to murder the gamekeeper, as he knelt on his chest, pinning him tothe ground, when Sir Philip himself, who was in the woods with hisgun, hearing the scuffle, came up in the nick of time, and shot thepoacher dead.”

Dr. Netherbridge started from his chair.

“Dead, do you say?” he asked. “Be quite sure. Do you really mean thatSir Philip Cranstoun, with his own hand, shot one of the poachersdead?”

“With his own gun, sir, most certainly. The man’s been buried forweeks now. It all came out at the inquest, when Sir Philip and hisgamekeeper attended to explain the accident. Didn’t you read of it inthe papers?”

“No; or if I did, I did not attach much importance to it then. It isdifferent now, and horrible, most horrible! What was the dead man’sname?”

“Hiram Carewe, sir, a man of forty-one, a gypsy fellow, against whommore than one could bear witness he was a confirmed poacher, as washis precious son, James Carewe, who is now starting his five years.But you never heard anything like the savage way in which he turnedupon Sir Philip when he saw him in the witness-box. ‘You murdered myfather,’ he shouted out. ‘You, Philip Cranstoun, liar, and coward!Your men are liars and perjurers, too. You know right well what fatherand I came to the Chase for, and that we never struck a blow but inself-defence. We hadn’t a weapon about us but our clasp-knives, andafter you’d murdered my father you were three to one against me, and Ihad to fight for my life. You’re a perjurer and a villain, but I swearI’ll be even with you yet.’ He was hushed down, of course, and whenthe doctors had proved how bad the gamekeeper’s wounds were, he beingdreadfully hacked about the neck and shoulders by James Carewe’sknife, the jury found him guilty of unlawfully wounding with intent tokill, and gave him five years, as served him right. But, lor’, sir,that wasn’t the end of it, for poor Sir Philip, who in his evidencesaid all he could to screen the man, I’m sure, as soon as he wasleaving the building to get on his horse, as his groom was holding forhim, up comes a ragged, wicked-looking, old gray-haired gypsy woman,all yellow and wrinkled, with a pair of eyes like burning coals, soWilliam’s wife told me. ‘Where’s my son’s murderer?’ she yelled.‘Where’s the man who’s killing my Hiram’s child?’ Up she come close toSir Philip, before any one could stop her, and flings in his face ahandful of mud she picked up in the roadway. Sir Philip he swears, andthe witch she shrieks with laughter. Then suddenly she stops, liftsher finger, and rolls out the most awful curse a body ever heard.William’s wife said it made her cold to her bones to listen. The womancursed his whole life and all that he did. He should lose wife andchild, she said, his name should become a scoff and a bywordthroughout the land; he should be wretched at home and hated abroad;no one should ever love him again; and she would live, if it was forfifty years, to laugh at him, as he lay dying in a miserable hovel,deserted and alone.

“She took such a tone of command, and looked so terrible, that thepeople about seemed afraid to stop her; and even Sir Philip himself,as he stood wiping the mud from his face, seemed sort of dazed likefor the minute. As soon as she’d finished, he was for calling for thepolice, but not as if he was in much of a hurry for them, and no onemeddled with the old woman, who went off muttering and cursing. Butthere was a sharp stone in the mud she threw, and William’s wife sawthe blood running down the side of Sir Philip’s face as he wiped itwith his handkerchief. But, poor man! what a day for him, to beinsulted like that, and out of court, all on account of a pack offilthy gypsies. And they do say, though, of course, I’m not so sillyas to believe it, that those gypsies have the evil eye, and that it’smost awful unlucky to be cursed by one of them. William’s wife saidshe felt she’d rather have died at once than have such things said toher. The old woman’s eyes looked that dreadful that William’s wife wastaken with hysterics as she was telling me about the affair. Lor’,sir, I do hope nothing dreadful will happen in consequence.”

Dr. Netherbridge dismissed Mrs. Brooks presently, and going over tothe Boar’s Head Hotel, where the latest local gossip was always to beheard, he found that his housekeeper’s account had been in no wayexaggerated. James Carewe’s threats in court occupied a measure ofpublic attention, but the gypsy woman’s curse was the cream of thenews, and much solemn head-wagging took place over it. Not one personthere, however, had the slightest suspicion of the relationship whichexisted between these poachers and gypsies and the lovely wife of SirPhilip Cranstoun, and Dr. Netherbridge returned to his home oppressedby the terrible responsibility which developed upon him of impartingthe news of her father’s death and her brother’s imprisonment to LadyCranstoun in her present critical state of health.

As to the chief actor in these scenes, Sir Philip Cranstoun, he was inhis secret heart less unmoved by to-day’s events than he made himselfappear. Old Mrs. Carewe’s curse lingered in his ears as he sat by hislonely dinner-table, trying vainly to dim his recollection of thatunpleasant scene outside the court-house by deep draughts of rare oldwine. But no amount of drinking had ever yet clouded his faculties,which to-night seemed abnormally on the alert.

His marriage had been a great, a terrible mistake, he told himself, ashe sat in a deep, comfortable arm-chair before the great fire-place.Disdaining women of his own rank as silly, and those of a lowerposition in life as coarse and vulgar, nature had suddenly revengedherself upon him for his indifference to the other sex by inspiring inhim a mad love for his sister’s beautiful gypsy protégée. In theheight of this he had married her, and his passion had cooled almostas rapidly as it had grown hot. Instead of a docile and humble tool,he found a proud and self-willed girl, who seemed in no way impressedby his extraordinary condescension and kindness in making her LadyCranstoun. Very speedily his love turned to a sombre dislike, and heset himself to work to crush all opposition out of her nature. On onepoint particularly he had insisted from the first. She must utterlyand forever renounce her kindred, whose very existence he consideredas an insult to him. His last remaining spark of affection for her wasextinguished when he discovered that she had disobeyed his strenuousorders on this point, and had contrived to see and speak with herrelatives. But his wish for an heir, and his fear lest the estates,which were strictly entailed, should pass to his brother, whom heheartily detested, forced him to tolerate his wife’s presence, and hisanger, therefore, knew no bounds when, owing, as he believed toClare’s indifference and neglect, his infant son’s life faded away. Onthat unlucky night when Hiram Carewe met his death, Sir Philip, whohad been informed of the gypsies’ intention to visit his daughter, sethis men on to seize the Carewes as poachers, and drive them out of thegrounds. His men, over-zealous in executing their master’s orders,attacked the Carewes so savagely that, the wild gypsy blood of thelatter being roused, one of the gamekeepers might well have paid forhis obedience with his life but for Sir Philip’s shot. The Baronet hadno intention of killing his wife’s father, although he was viciouslyglad of an opportunity to wound him. He hated Lady Cranstoun’s gypsykindred most heartily, and wished them all out of the world; but itwas a momentary matter of regret with him that his hand had fired thefatal shot which made Clare a orphan. After that point, affairs seemedtaken out of his hands. The police interference, the inquest, andJames Carewe’s trial, had all taken place without any impetus on hisside; the one imperative necessity was that Lady Cranstoun should be,for some time at least, kept in ignorance of the fate of her fatherand brother.

Even as he thus reasoned, the door of the dining-room was suddenlyopened, and Clare Cranstoun, corpse-like in her pallor, her long blackhair dishevelled about her shoulders, and her eyes gleaming with whatlooked like madness, advanced toward him, ghost-like in her loosewhite dressing-gown, and he knew in an instant that she had learnedthe truth.

Sir Philip’s groom had, indeed, described to Margaret the sceneoutside the courthouse that afternoon, and the woman, totally ignorantof the interests at stake, had retailed the story to her mistress asshe was brushing her hair for the night.

“My father! My brother!” Lady Cranstoun murmured, with parched lips,as she staggered forward into the room. “What have you done withthem?”

Looking at her, he realized that it was impossible to deceive herlonger. He pushed a chair toward her, but she impatiently declined it.

“I am sorry to say,” he answered then, in those hard, level tones ofhis, “that your father and your brother plotted with you to disobey myorders. It is you who are to blame for the consequences.”

“Where are they?” she cried, wildly.

“Your father was mistaken for a poacher, and was accidentally shot ina scuffle——”

“Murdered! Murdered by you!” she shrieked, wringing her hands as onedistraught. “My father—my poor father!”

Sir Philip laid his hand on the bell-rope.

“For three years,” he said, coldly, “I have been trying to prove toyou that it is worse than useless to try to disobey my orders. Thisunfortunate accident will, I hope, convince you of your folly. As tothe other poaching gypsy, James Carewe, I did what I could to get himoff, but he had savagely assaulted one of my keepers, and has got fiveyears for it. In future you will know better than to attempt to holdany communication with your disreputable family.”

She stared at him with distended eyes.

“In future!” she repeated, in a low, altered voice. “What have you todo with my future?”

Her tone was so singular that he looked into her face for the firsttime during this interview, and read there a burning hate, strongerand deeper than ever he was capable of cherishing. Without a word sheturned from him, and left the room as the servant entered it inresponse to his master’s ring.

That night, in a storm of wind and rain, an old woman and a lad ofsixteen waited in the woods outside the Chase, with a horse stolenfrom Sir Philip’s stables, the bridle of which was held by BrianCarewe. And at one o’clock a figure, in the black cloak, bonnet, andlong veil of a nurse, stole from the great oak doors, and over theslippery dead leaves that cumbered the steps, to join them. The oldwoman helped her on the horse and mounted it behind her, the lad heldthe bridle; and so by devious ways through the forest, known only togypsies, Lady Cranstoun, of the Chase, left her husband’s home neverto return.

Rather more than a month later, while still the hue and cry over LadyCranstoun’s disappearance, as it was rumored during an attack ofdelirium and fever, rang through the countryside, Dr. ErnestNetherbridge, reading a medical work before his study fire atmidnight, was disturbed by a late caller.

His housekeeper was in bed, and he himself opened the door upon atall, handsome, black-browed lad, and a covered cart, drawn by apowerfully-built horse, with flanks steaming in the frosty air.

It was a case of life and death, the lad said, and the patient was hissister. Dr. Netherbridge was an absolutely unselfish man in followinghis profession, and slipping on his overcoat, he entered the cart, andwas driven for over an hour and a half through the dark country roadsuntil the driver, who had been monosyllabic or silent on the way, drewup near a thatched cottage a little back from the road.

“You’ll find my sister and her grandmother within. I’ll wait here todrive you home,” he said.

Dr. Netherbridge tapped at the cottage door, which was opened by anevil-looking old woman, with unkempt hair bound with a bright-coloredkerchief. After hearing his name, she conducted him to the invalid’sroom, where two women, apparently nurses, were busy, the one in tryingto quiet a baby ten days old, the other bending over the still figureof its mother stretched upon the bed.

One glance at the waxen face, the blue-black hair, delicate featuresand great dark eyes told Dr. Netherbridge that this mysterious patientwas none other than the missing Lady Cranstoun, and that the baby girlwhose fretful cries filled the room was the child concerning whom theBaronet was so anxious.

The mother was intensely weak, hardly, indeed, alive at all. Dr.Netherbridge administered and prescribed what remedies he could. Butbefore leaving he thought well to inform old Mrs. Carewe, the sickwoman’s grandmother, that he had recognized the patient, and should atonce communicate the fact to her husband.

“That is just why I sent for you,” said the old woman, while a smileof malevolent cunning lit up her face. “As soon as my Clare is dead,and she won’t live above a few hours now, doctor or no doctor, thatchild will be sent to her father, Sir Philip Cranstoun. Poor folkslike us, with no men to work for us, can’t afford to bring up aBaronet’s daughter properly. And your word will be needed in proof ofher identity.”

On the following day, when he called at the Chase with his statement,Dr. Netherbridge learned that a neighboring farmer had beencommissioned to bring a basket to the house, within which reposed aninfant eleven days old, upon whose gown was pinned a paper with thefollowing words:

“This is Stella Cranstoun, daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun and Clarehis wife, formerly Clare Carewe. She was born on the twelfth ofNovember. Her mother, Lady Cranstoun, died at four o’clock thismorning.—Signed, Sarah Carewe; Mary Wrexham, nurse; Julia Tait,nurse;” and dated carefully.

Thus was Sir Philip freed from his matrimonial perplexities, and leftwith an altogether undesired infant daughter on his hands.

CHAPTER I.
KNIGHTS ERRANT.

Eighteen years had passed since the flight of Clare Lady Cranstounand the birth of her daughter Stella.

The touch of spring was upon the Surrey meads and Surrey hills, and atender gray-green veil adorned the boughs laid bare by winter winds.

Before an ideal country-house, low and rambling, with plentiful greenlattice-work for the creepers beginning now to bud, and broad terracessheltered by verandas overlooking a trim tennis-lawn and aflower-garden gay with hyacinths and daffodils, in joyous flower, acomely group was gathered. Two young men, who had been for three daysguests, were taking leave of Mr. and Mrs. Braithwaite, the threepretty Misses Braithwaite, their still prettier cousin, and the twoyoung brothers of the family.

A more attractive and typically English group could hardly beimagined. Father and mother, plump, handsome, and well-fed, surveying,with excusable pride, their three fair-haired girls, all of whompossessed wide shoulders, slender waists, fresh complexions, and cleargray eyes. The Misses Braithwaite and their cousin could all ride,drive, play lawn tennis and the newest dance music, and they one andall looked forward to the time when they should marry “well,” andspend every season in London. Between these four young ladies thereexisted a marked and charming likeness; but the two young men, fromone of whom at least they were so regretfully parting, were extremelydissimilar in appearance, voice, and manner.

The elder was a man of seven-and-twenty, fully six feet four inches inheight, and of massive build and proud, erect carriage, which made himappear even taller than he really was. His hair, of a golden-browncolor, curled closely over his handsome head, which was set upon hisbroad shoulders like that of a young Hercules. His features were wellcut, his brown eyes as clear and beautiful in color as those of acollie-dog, and a drooping yellow mustache shaded the outlines of amouth which at times, when closely shut, gave a look of hardness tohis expression. In a word, he was a superb specimen of young Englishmanhood, and as if nature had never wearied in her gifts, she unitedto a superb frame and handsome face a particularly rich and mellowvoice.

And yet there was but little doubt that if the eyes of the four youngladies occasionally rested upon him with admiration, their seriousattentions were all reserved for his companion, who could not, by thegrossest flattery, have been termed even ordinarily good-looking.

A short, slight man of five-and-twenty, pale and sallow of skin, withclose-cropped black hair, penetrating light gray eyes, set too neartogether in his head, a long, clean-shaved upper lip, short nose andwide mouth, of which the lower jaw slightly protruded; he was not asdirectly ugly as this description would suggest, but was fatallyplain, insignificant, and uninteresting. His manners, too, in contrastwith the easy geniality of his friend, were abrupt and sarcastic, andhis voice was far from pleasant. To some men he was attractive byreason of his unusual intelligence and originality; but to theordinary lawn-tennis-playing young lady there was nothing to recommendhis appearance or his manners.

The attention shown to him by the entire Braithwaite family was themore remarkable in that he took very little notice of the girls,scarcely even troubling himself to look at them, and showing clearlyhis wish to escape from their friendly blandishments. Mrs. Braithwaitewas his mother’s second cousin, which accounted somewhat for the favorshown him over and above what was displayed toward his companion; butto his own cynical mind the true reason of the family attentions wasthat here were four marriageable girls, all in want of a wealthyhusband, and that he, Viscount Carthew, only son of the Earl ofNorthborough, and heir to a splendid rent-roll as well as to thefortune of his mother, who had been an American heiress, was anadmirable parti, whereas the handsome young giant beside himpossessed little in the world but his muscles and sinews and the bigblack mare, who stood now pawing the ground, impatient to set offa*gain upon their travels.

When at last the two friends had ridden down the gravel drive, passedout of the gates, and waved a last good-by to Mr. Braithwaite’s prettyniece and daughters, Lord Carthew was not slow in expressing hisopinion concerning them.

“Isn’t it truly disgusting, Hilary,” he began, “to see four healthyyoung women with good looks, for such as admire well-groomed animalswithout expression, each and every one of them trained to set her capat an ugly and ill-tempered young man, solely because he will havemoney and a title? If I were passably good-looking or attractive inmanner, I could find it in my heart to make excuses for them. But asit is, they make me long to ‘take some savage woman,’ as the fellow in‘Locksley Hall’ suggested, and go and live with her in some islandwhere the currency is cowrie shells, and the title of lord means nomore than that of chimney sweep.”

Hilary Pritchard laughed with the easy-going good naturecharacteristic of big young men.

“You talk as if savages were all radicals,” he said. “I’d bet youanything you like that rank and money are quite as much esteemed amongthem as here with us, and a lady whose husband can hang up fourteenscalps over her front door would think twice before she called onanother woman with only six or seven of such trophies. Look at the wayin which Africans kow-tow to their chiefs. Rank and titles are visiblesigns of power, and power will always be reverenced.”

“Yes; but not fallen in love with. Conceive the notion that thosenasty girls played at me, sang at me, rode and drove at me for twomortal days, and all in the hope of what? Securing my affection? Not abit of it. Just with the idea of persuading me that they were in lovewith me, so that one of them might run a chance of becoming some dayCountess of Northborough.”

“How bitter you are against women!” exclaimed his friend, lighting acigar. “Now I thought them very nice and very pretty girls.”

“You can appreciate them, because you stand on your own merits,”grumbled Lord Carthew. “When you fall in love with a girl, you willknow her affection is disinterested. I don’t see how girls can helpfalling in love with a fellow like you,” he added, glancing withenvious admiration at Pritchard’s fine figure.

“My dear Claud, that speech shows how little you understand women’stastes. Last season I went about a good bit with an aunt who is fondof society, and I never had the ghost of a chance of talking to anyspecially agreeable women. The little men, writer-chaps, orlong-haired, foreign musicians, or else your dapper little, well-oiledand varnished tea-and-scandal-loving exquisites—those are the men whowin women’s hearts. I assure you that after remarking with surprisehow large I am, they take no more interest in me than if I were somuch beef.”

“That’s all your confounded modesty. A man of six feet four can affordto be modest. All this discontent of mine arises from intenseself-appreciation. The fact is, I have something of the ridiculoussentimental schoolgirl notion of being ‘loved for myself alone,’ isn’tthat the expression? And it chafes me to think, now that my people areforever worrying me to get married, that there is nothing about me butmy money and my position to make a girl care for me. Absurd, isn’tit?—and rather bourgeois to cherish these conventional notionsabout marriage. But I have no doubt I shall live them down, and withinthe next year or so shall lead to the altar, at St. Paul’s,Knightsbridge, or St. Margaret’s, Westminster, quite the conventionalyoung English lady, fair-haired, gray-eyed, pink-skinned, with a waistsqueezed into the smallest possible breathing compass, and a train ofbrocade carried by two dressed-up little boys, and from six to tenbridesmaids, all equally well-born and well-looking, who would allhave been equally ready to marry my name and position if I had askedthem, unless any other man with more to offer had made a higher bidfor their valuable affections.”

He spoke in hard, level tones, but Hilary, who had been Lord Carthew’schum at Oxford, and both knew and understood him, realized by theslight nervous twitching of the speaker’s eyes and eyebrows how muchof truth and of genuine feeling lay under this pretence of cynicalindifference.

Very few people thoroughly understood Claud Viscount Carthew. Greatthings had been expected of him during his University career, where hehad distinguished himself by his brilliant acquirements as much as byhis notable eccentricities. In politics he was theoretically a radicalof radicals, but Hilary, one of the very few men of his time with whomhe was really intimate, understood quite well the intensity of thepride which was masked under an affectation of socialistic doctrines.The Earl of Northborough, a powerful and prominent Conservative peer,trusted to time to cure his only son of his levelling tendencies, andwas strongly desirous of seeing him married to some lady in his ownrank of life, who might be trusted to tone down Lord Carthew’sidiosyncracies.

Whether owing or not to the sturdy and independent spirit brought intothe family on the side of his mother, a Pennsylvania heiress of oldPuritan stock, certain it was that Claud Bromley Viscount Carthew wasutterly unlike any other heir to an earldom in England. He wassingularly free from vices, and unfashionable enough to be strictlyhonorable in paying his debts. He held the unusual opinion that it wasas necessary and important to pay a tailor for a coat as a friend fora gambling debt. He also worked as hard for his exams as though heintended to be a parson or a schoolmaster, or as though a couple ofletters after his name could be of any material value to a man whowould some day be worth fifty thousand a year. His theories onmarriage were also archaic in the extreme, in the opinion of hisequals. He was anxious not only to marry a woman he loved, but a womanwho loved him, and until she appeared on the scene he had not theslightest desire to amuse himself in the society of less estimablesirens. Music-halls bored him, and he had too much respect for his ownintelligence to cloud it by drink. In field sports and out-doorexercises he did not shine, but he liked them, and he heartily admiredphysical courage, strength, and endurance. Hilary Pritchard, the sonof a Yorkshire “gentleman farmer” of very moderate means, had firstattracted Lord Carthew’s attention by the ease with which he excelledin running, jumping, leaping, and “putting the stone.” Young Pritchardwas as bad at study as he was admirable in athletics, and Lord Carthewwas filled with enthusiasm by the evidences in him of just thosequalities which he himself lacked. The farmer’s son’s disposition wasalso a happy foil to that of the Earl of Northborough’s heir. Hilary’swas in no sense an introspective, analytical, or self-torturing mind.He enjoyed life thoroughly in a simple and manly fashion, took peoplein general as he found them, was cautious in his friendships, shrewdin his judgments, strong and rooted in his rare loves and hates, andfor the rest, a most cheery and optimistic companion, of untiringphysical strength and unfailing good humor.

For five years the two young men had been great friends; but a breakwas soon to come between them. It had been arranged in the Pritchardfamily that in the autumn of the year Hilary was to proceed to Canada,there to start farming on his own account on some land left to him bya relative. Almost at the same time the question of Lord Carthew’smarriage had been prominently discussed in the Earl of Northborough’sfamily circle, and Claud was well aware that his parents hoped to seeit take place within the year, if only a suitable bride could befound.

In view of these coming changes, the two college chums had resolved inthis springtime of the year to carry out an oft-proposed plan for ajourney in Kent, Surrey, and Hampshire, of about three weeks’duration, on horseback, and unattended, carrying what luggage theyrequired in their knapsacks on their saddles.

Hilary Pritchard on “Black Bess,” and Lord Carthew on a chestnut cob,had therefore started some ten days previously from a country seat inthe Isle of Wight, belonging to the latter’s father. They had hadlovely weather, and a very enjoyable tour, but so far no adventuresworth mentioning, and the only point which had particularly struckLord Carthew was what he considered as the unnecessary deference andsnobbish attentions paid to him by hotel servants and chancestrangers, solely because he was a son to Lord Northborough.

After riding on without speaking a short time, Claud suddenly turnedin his saddle, and addressed his friend with twinkling eyes, and alook of great satisfaction.

“Look here, Hilary!” he exclaimed, “you won’t believe me on thissubject of the disgusting sycophancy shown toward a title? You won’tadmit that everybody treats me much better than they do you? Verywell. I have a proposal to make. We have planned out about a fortnightlonger of wandering. For the remainder of the time we will changerôles. You shall be Lord Carthew, and I will be Hilary Pritchard.”

“Nonsense!”

“No; but I mean it seriously. In the first place, to convince you thatI am right; then again for the humor of the thing. My third reasonwill sound so ridiculous that I can hardly put it into words. One ofmy favorite theories is that events happen to us, and opportunitiescome in our way, just when we are ripe for them. Sometimes apremonition warns us beforehand. Often enough we disregard it, andmiss the opportunity. There’s more than you think in the old Jewishnotion of being ‘warned in a dream.’ My grandmother was a Scotchwoman,you know, Lady Kate Douglas, and great at second sight. Before I couldspeak plainly, she had communicated some of her beliefs to me.”

“You’re just like the rest of these very clever fellows,” said hisfriend, indulgently. “When you’ve left off believing in everythingelse, you’re bound to have faith in some superstitious fad. Well, andwhat have you been dreaming about now?”

No one had ever yet succeeded in laughing Lord Carthew out of anyidea, however erratic.

“I started this tour,” he said, quietly, “in search of adventures, youknow, and so far we haven’t had any. But you must remember I am alsoin search of a wife, and I have a rooted conviction that if I find oneto my liking it won’t be in the beaten track, but that I shall have togo out of my way to seek her out.”

“My dear Claud,” Hilary began, in a tone of some alarm, “does thismean that your radicalism is going to land you in the arms of amilkmaid? A rustic countess, with red elbows and a strong dialect?”

“I should never dream of marrying any woman without good breeding andrefinement,” the other returned in quiet, decided tones. “But if shebe a lady, it will be immaterial to me whether her parents arereceived at Court or not. Only she must be something unlike the girlsI am used to meeting. My sisters, and my sisters’ friends, and girlslike the Braithwaites, I cannot tell you how they bore me. I don’tquite know what I do want, but most certainly I don’t want them.”

“Granted. But what has all this to do with your mad proposal toexchange names with me? Of course, I shouldn’t consent. But whatpossible connection is there between your ideal ladylove, and yourlast crazy notion?”

“More than you think. If we should meet her—don’t laugh, anything ispossible—if we should, as I say, during the next fortnight, happen tolight upon just the woman I am waiting for, I am eccentric enough towish to stand before her on my own poor merits, with my plain face,and insignificant appearance, my bad temper, and all the rest ofit—just Mr. Pritchard, going out to Canada to make his fortune in theautumn. Then I should endeavor to gain her interest, and in time heraffection.”

“What an extraordinary chap you are for talking nonsense seriously!One would think you expected your ideal young woman to drop from theclouds at the present moment.”

“Perhaps I do. Did I ever tell you of my visit to Kyro, thefashionable fate-reader, in Bond Street, last Christmas?”

“You don’t mean to say, Carthew, that you are going to take onpalmistry?”

“I had an hour to fill in before meeting my father,” Lord Carthewcontinued, quite unmoved by his companion’s raillery, “and as it wastoo cold to study the shops, and there were no picture-galleries worthseeing open, I dropped into Mlle. Kyro’s. You know what a success shemade of it until the police, tired of running in old women for gettingsixpences out of servant girls, shut up her entertainment. Well, shewas a very charming woman, and didn’t go in for any ‘fee, faw, fum,’at all. She studied my face and my hands, and after some very happyguessing at what had already happened to me, she proceeded to foretellthat in the spring of this year I should meet unexpectedly, while on ajourney, a lady with whom I should fall madly in love. Meeting herwould, so she declared, alter the whole course of my life.Furthermore, I should marry, and go through a whole sea of trouble,and as far as she would tell me, even worse misfortunes were in store.Kyro, however, with tears in her eyes—very pretty eyes, by theway—begged me to be the arbiter of my own fate. All these troublescould be avoided, so she assured me, if I would be guided by reasonand not by passion. I thanked her for her good advice; she gave me acup of tea and I left the fee on the table, and there is the end ofit—or perhaps, the beginning.”

“You are not going to tell me,” exclaimed Hilary, “that a man of yourintellectual attainments attaches the slightest importance to suchutter nonsense as professional fortune-telling? I shall begin tobelieve study has turned your brain.”

“Just as you like,” said Lord Carthew, shrugging his shoulders withsudden indifference. “But to return to our former subject, grant methis favor, Hilary. It will certainly be our last outing together fora long time, possibly forever. You are going to settle out there, youwill marry——”

“Not exactly,” broke in Hilary, with hearty emphasis. “Marriage isn’tpart of my programme, by any means. I’ve got to make my way and tomake money, and I don’t want a burden around my neck to start with.”

“Anyhow, our ways will widen apart. It will do you no harm to lend meyour name for a few days. I will solemnly vow not to bring it intodiscredit, and if the trick be found out, it will only be consideredas another freak of ‘mad Carthew,’ as they call me at Oxford.”

“I don’t care to go masquerading about the country in borrowedplumes——”

“Still, you must, just for a day or two, until I have made you own Iwas in the right, about the snobbishness and all that. How can itaffect you? We shall probably only meet innkeepers, chance visitors,waiters, and hostlers, and you are just leaving England and not in theleast likely to see any of them again.”

He was so persistent in his arguments that Hilary at length agreed,for peace and quiet, to fall in with his views, at least tacitly.

“But you must do all the lying,” he stipulated. “I lie with the mostconfounded clumsiness. Besides, I don’t like it. I’ll humor your whimso far as to call you Claud only and not Carthew, and to answer to myown name. And on your head be all the complications which may arisefrom your silly freak.”

The time had passed swiftly by in talk, and the shadows had grownlonger in the lanes, where the air was sweet with budding hawthorn,and birds twittered in the hedges. For the past hour their way had ledthem alongside of a very spacious and thickly-wooded park, and at thispoint Lord Carthew, curious as to its ownership, questioned a passingfield laborer, who looked at him in surprise.

“That’s the Chase, sir, Sir Philip Cranstoun’s place,” he said, withevident compassion for the inquirer’s ignorance as he passed on.

“Cranstoun?” Lord Carthew repeated the name meditatively. “He’s aBaronet, to be sure, and has a capital place, Cranstoun Hall, nearBalmoral. Splendid shooting. He’s a distant connection of ours throughhis wife, who was Lady Gwendolen Douglas, daughter of the Duke ofLanark. She was my grandmother’s niece; consequently, she is somerelation to me, but what I can scarcely define.”

“Are you going to look her up, too, on the strength of it?”

“Not exactly. I know other members of the family. The type isunmistakable. Long, lean, fair, with watery blue eyes, sandy hair,high noses, and the most extraordinary amount of pride and narrowness.I wish Sir Philip Cranstoun joy of his bargain.”

“Do you know him?”

“No. But I’ve heard about him from men who have shot at his Scotchplace. Hard as nails and proud as Lucifer, that is the character hisguests give him. He has some children, I believe, but I don’t know howmany. They must be a most unpleasant lot, if there’s anything inheredity. For myself, I can’t imagine a more disagreeable blend than aCranstoun and a Douglas.”

They had ridden many miles since lunch, and by six o’clock, when theyarrived at a little wayside inn, the Cranstoun Arms, they were bothhungry enough to be glad of the simple fare provided. The landlord hadnot been settled there for more than three years. He was a cheerfuland garrulous person, and quite ready to chat about Sir Philip, whom,however, he had only seen on two occasions. As to Lady Cranstoun andthe young lady, the former was an invalid, and never drove aboutexcept in a closed carriage accompanied by her daughter, and thelandlord could not personally express an opinion concerning them.

Concerning Sir Philip’s hard, stern character he had much to impart.The Baronet was especially renowned for his rancor against gypsies. Ifany one of that nomadic tribe was found trespassing upon his land, hewould invariably contrive to have them accused of poaching orthieving.

“Sir Philip, he’d go five miles to hang a gypsy, they say about here.It’s wonderful how he do hate them. There’s a story that some twentyodd years ago one of ’em cursed him in the market-place, nigh thecourt-house. Folks say a gypsy’s curse sticks. But lor’! what won’tpeople say?”

CHAPTER II.
STELLA.

By half-past six Lord Carthew and Hilary, having finished theirimprovised meal, strolled down the country road together, smoking,glad to stretch their legs after being so long in the saddle.

The former especially was in high glee because of mine host’sdeferential manner toward Hilary when he was told by Claud that hisname was Lord Carthew.

“Until that moment, as you saw,” he exclaimed, “the eggs and bacon andcold beef were supposed to be quite good enough for us. But as soon asthe good man found that you had what co*ckneys call ‘a handle to yourname,’ he promptly started profuse and tiresome apologies. It’s such arelief to have that sort of rubbish lavished on you instead of on me.”

“I think you make an absurd fuss about trifles,” observed Hilary,calmly.

One great reason for the warm affection cherished by “mad LordCarthew” for his friend was Hilary’s utter absence of either arroganceor toadyism. The sturdy Yorkshire independence of young Pritchardnever degenerated into the roughness which sometimes characterizesNortherners. He was proud of his family in his way. The Pritchards hadfarmed their own land for over two hundred and fifty years, and theirpresent homestead had been built in the days of Elizabeth. LordCarthew had had to make the first advances toward friendship, but oncehe had succeeded in winning Hilary’s respect and liking, the latterwas too sensible to withdraw proudly from his companionship because hewas not his equal in social position.

“You worry about things, trifles as it seems to me, in such anextraordinary way,” he said. “Now this evening, what can be pleasanterthan this scene, the little wood by the roadside, where every tree isbudding into leaf, the primroses in yellow patches among the groundivy, and that fresh, delicious smell of spring in the air? I’mthankful I was sent away from home to Harrow and Oxford, and anaccountant’s office in London. I suppose if I’d never left the countryI should never have seen any beauty in it.”

“You would have felt it, but would have been unable to put it intowords,” returned his friend. “Let’s explore this wood a bit, and seewhere it leads to.”

They struck in over the moss under the young trees. Straight ahead ofthem, as they pushed their way through the branches, they saw a high,precipitous bank, crowned by a low stone wall, and beyond more trees.

“That will be Sir Philip Cranstoun’s place again, I suppose,” observedthe Viscount. “He’s got a good bit of land enclosed about here.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when both men heard the soundof a horse’s hoofs trampling over the dry leaves and young twigsbehind them. Pressing a little forward, they came to a point where apassage seemed to have been made through the trees, not much more thanfour feet wide. Standing within the shadow of the woods so that theirfigures were hidden, both young men turned their gaze in the directionof the horse’s galloping feet, and through an opening in the treesboth saw at the same moment a young girl, mounted on a beautifullittle black thoroughbred, flying towards them.

She was making straight for the bank. Her small, half-childish facewas pale, her mouth fast shut, while her great dark eyes shone withexcitement. Under her soft felt hat her dark hair, tossed by the wind,fluttered in soft ringlets round her face, rebellious of the hairpinswhich held it in check in a coil at the back of her head. In figureshe was very slender and youthful looking, and her plain dark greenhabit emphasized her lack of superfluous curves. Even though shepassed so quickly, both the two friends received the same powerfulimpression of excitement, intensity, and enjoyment stamped upon herfeatures.

“She can’t be going to jump that wall!”

The same exclamation was on the lips of both. At the foot of the bankrider and steed paused. The girl stooped over her horse’s neck, andmurmured something in caressing tones. Then she lifted the reins, thelittle thoroughbred ran up the bank like a cat, lifted his forefeet,and disappeared with his rider over the wall.

“By Jove!”

“I never saw anything neater!”

Just an interchange of these remarks, and then Claud and Hilaryinstinctively made their way to the bank, and slowly and laboriouslyascended its steep sides. The stone wall was about five feet high, andover the other side the ground shelved again in an awkward dip beforewhat seemed the fringe of a dense wood.

Hilary paused by the wall, but found that Claud had already begun toclimb it by means of the uneven stones.

“We can’t go any farther,” said the Yorkshireman, quietly; “this isprivate property.”

“What does that matter? We are out for adventures. I never saw any onewith a seat like that child’s, did you?”

“She rides well, certainly,” Hilary returned, deliberately; “but sheisn’t a child.”

“Fifteen, I should say.”

“Or a little more.”

“Anyhow, I am interested, and am going over.”

“I shall have to stand by you, and keep you out of mischief, Isuppose.”

A few scrambling steps, a slide, and a roll, brought them to the baseof the declivity, and within the precincts of Cranstoun Chaseenclosure. The identity of the girl had not suggested itself to eitherof them; but simultaneously within their hearts the sight of her hadaroused a strange feeling of interest and excitement. About thatsmall, pale face, shining dark eyes and lithe, girlish form, thereclung a fascination which both men felt powerless to resist. Andalthough he had not yet had time to realize it, Lord Carthew, for hispart, had fallen in love at first sight with the beauty and the daringof the thoroughbred’s rider.

Dusk was gathering about them; yet they pressed on, both filled withthe overmastering desire to catch another glimpse of that charmingvision. After forcing their way in silence through the thickundergrowth, they came upon a wide, grassy avenue ploughed by therecent tramp of horses’ feet. As they emerged from among the treesagain, upon their ears came the sound of a horse’s flying feet tearingup the turf. A good way off yet they could see her, and see, too, theantics of the small, black horse, beside himself with excitement,rearing, plunging, and throwing up his heels in a way which would haveunseated any but a clever and experienced rider.

Suddenly the thoroughbred paused, raised his head, sniffing the air,and then started off at a mad pace along the turf avenue. It seemedpatent to the two spectators that he was running away with his daringrider, the more so as a little feminine shriek reached their ears.

Clearly it was their duty to stop him. The girl would most certainlybreak her neck if thrown at that rate of progress. Their plans wereformed after a second’s deliberation. As the horse neared them, cominglike the wind, with clods of earth torn up by his heels flying in therear, Lord Carthew sprang into the open, waving the animal back, andin the moment’s pause of alarm, Hilary dashed forward and seized thereins, hanging on to them with all his weight.

Snorting, and quivering in every limb, the horse at length came to astandstill, and looked with wide-open, bloodshot eyes at his captor.He for his part had his gaze fixed upon the rider.

For a moment she stared down at his face, which was not so very farbelow her own, without speaking. Her great clear eyes were distended,like those of her horse, and in the twilight her face seemed to wearan unearthly pallor. His hand was still upon her bridle. She withdrewher eyes from his, and asked, petulantly:

“Why did you stop my horse?”

“He was running away with you.”

She laughed disdainfully as she repeated!

“Running away—with me!”

“I heard you scream.”

“Yes. Because I was enjoying myself.”

“No one ought to ride at such a pace as that,” he said, coolly, stillwith his brown eyes fixed upon hers. “It is dangerous.”

“Not to me. And who are you, and what right have you to lecture me?Take your hand off my bridle, and let me go.”

As she spoke she gave a sharp cut with her whip on her horse’sshoulder. The animal reared and plunged, and simultaneously the clear,sharp “ping” of a shot rang through the silent woods.

Hilary’s hand dropped from the bridle, and a short exclamation of painescaped his lips as his arm dropped by his side. Through the sleeve ofhis shooting-coat near the shoulder the blood oozed out, and beganrapidly pouring down his arm. Lord Carthew sprang to his assistance.

“I am shot,” Hilary said. “It serves me right for interfering with awoman. Carthew, let’s get out of this.”

The girl, whose horse had dashed on ahead as soon as Hilary’srestraining hand was withdrawn, returned now, and uttered a little cryof horror as she saw that Hilary was wounded.

“How did it happen?” she asked breathlessly.

“Some one in the woods over there shot him in the shoulder as he washolding your horse,” returned Lord Carthew. “I must get him to thenearest inn as soon as possible.”

“No,” she exclaimed, impulsively. “Look how the blood is pouring fromhis shoulder! It is all my fault. We have a doctor staying in thehouse. Your friend must be taken home.”

“Home! Where?”

“To the Chase. I am Miss Cranstoun.”

Even in the hurry of the moment and the anxiety he felt on hisfriend’s account, for Hilary was very pale and evidently in pain, LordCarthew could hardly refrain from a look of surprise at the girl’sstatement. She was so utterly unlike his ideal of what “the product ofa union between a Douglas and a Cranstoun” would be. No “long, limp,watery-eyed fairness” was here, but a small face, eloquent in itsevery line, a sensitive white skin, mobile red lips whose expressionchanged constantly, and eyes more wonderful even by this imperfectlight than any he had ever seen, eyes strangely luminous, dilatedpupils, and a border to the iris of so dark a blue that it seemedalmost black. He could not have said at that moment whether she wasadorably beautiful or only supremely interesting. She had captured andchained his imagination, and her every movement seemed to him theperfection of grace. Without any assistance she sprang off her horse,and taking his bridle, approached Hilary timidly.

“If you feel faint,” she said, “will you not mount my horse, and letme lead him to the house? Indeed, I don’t think you can walk. And mayI try to bind your shoulder?”

Her voice was very sweet, and her gentle, even humble manner ofspeaking delighted Claud. He was astonished to hear his friend answerso coldly:

“I require no assistance, thank you, Miss Cranstoun. I am only sorry Ispoiled your ride. Claud, we must get back to the inn as soon aspossible.”

With that he raised his hat with his left hand, and turning his backon the lady, began to make his way through the trees in the directionwhence they had come.

“Go after him! Go after him!” the girl whispered to Lord Carthew,clasping her small hands impulsively, while tears sprang to her eyes.“He is not fit to be alone. I can see he is badly hurt.”

Her words were only too true. A few seconds later Claud, hurryingafter his friend, found him leaning against a tree, with set, whiteface, and half-closed eyes.

“I’m all right,” Hilary muttered in response to Carthew’s anxiousinquiry. “Let’s—get—on.”

His voice sounded faint and muffled. Under the trees, in the waninglight, it was impossible to see his face, but Claud realized that hewas in great pain.

Here was a predicament indeed! Hilary weighed nearly fourteen stone. Aspace of tangled underwood, a bank, a wall, a steep declivity, anotherwood, and a walk of half a mile, separated the young men from thenearest inn. Even could they contrive to reach it, one wounded andhalf-insensible man and his slenderly-built companion, theaccommodation would be of the poorest, and they were several milesfrom the nearest town, that of Grayling. Miss Cranstoun had offeredthe hospitality of her home, but Hilary had refused it, and Claud knewhim to be extremely obstinate. Clearly he could not remain where hewas, trespassing in the grounds of the Chase, with the night fastapproaching, and Lord Carthew tried to rouse him.

“Hilary, old boy,” he said, “remember where we are, and what adistance we have to go. Won’t it be better to accept Miss Cranstoun’soffer and go to her house, to get your wound dressed by the doctorthere?”

Hilary suddenly raised his head, and spoke in tones of unexpectedemphasis.

“I wish I’d let the little vixen break her neck!” he remarked,viciously. “And I certainly am not going to accept the hospitality ofa man who takes snapshots at any stranger who is fool enough to try tooblige his daughter.”

There was a sound of quick footsteps over the dead leaves and twigs.Miss Cranstoun had joined them in time to overhear Hilary’s lastwords. It was too dark to see her face, but her tone was courteous, ifcold.

“It was not my father who fired that shot,” she said, quietly, “butone of the keepers. Stephen!” she called, authoritatively, to some onebehind her. “This is the gentleman whom you wounded by your stupidmistake.”

The squarely built figure of a young, black-bearded man, in the dressof a gamekeeper and carrying a gun, appeared in attendance on her.

“I am very sorry, gentlemen,” he said, in a dogged manner, withoutlooking at them, “but in the half light I thought it was a trampworrying the young mistress, and so I fired my gun off to frightenhim. I hadn’t any thought to hit any one.”

“Your confounded carelessness may have very serious results,” saidLord Carthew. “My friend is half-unconscious now from loss of blood.You must help me to get him out of this wood, and to bind up hisshoulder roughly until we can get a doctor for him.”

Hilary muttered an impatient protest as the gamekeeper, in obedienceto a few hurried words of command from Miss Cranstoun, assisted Hilaryback to the spot where they had left the horse, with his bridlefastened to a tree. The young Yorkshireman’s coat was alreadysaturated with blood, and Miss Cranstoun stood by, silent and verywhite, while Lord Carthew and her father’s servant drew off thewounded man’s coat, and made with their handkerchiefs a temporarybandage for the injured shoulder.

“He must come to the house at once,” burst from her lips at last. “Youcan see quite well he can hardly walk. Stephen, alter the saddle, andhelp him on to Zephyr.”

“I can very well walk, Miss Cranstoun. There is not the slightest needfor all this fuss and trouble,” said Hilary, still with the samecoldness he had before shown in his manner towards her.

“Nonsense, man! Miss Cranstoun is perfectly right, and we are verymuch obliged to her. Now, help us all you can in getting on thishorse, for lifting you is no light matter, I can tell you.”

A feeling of growing faintness did more than his friend’s injunctionsin inducing Hilary to comply. Zephyr snorted and fidgeted. Thedifference between seven stone twelve and thirteen stone twelve was anappreciable one; but Stephen’s strong hand was on the bridle, andZephyr’s mistress walked alongside, patting and caressing the animal,and reducing his nervous excitement into comparative quiet by themagic of her touch.

Lord Carthew followed in silence until, the short cut between thetrees becoming narrow, Miss Cranstoun stepped back, and he foundhimself beside her.

It had grown too dark for him to see more than the outline of herslight figure and delicate profile as she walked behind the horse,lifting her riding-habit from the ground with the hand in which shecarried her workmanlike-looking hunting-crop.

“I cannot tell you how sorry I am about this accident,” she said,addressing Lord Carthew suddenly. “I am sure your friend meant to bekind. But I thought there was no one about, and I screamed in thatsilly way from sheer enjoyment. It isn’t riding that I care for, butflying. And I did not guess that any one would be in the woods solate, so I was just having a gallop before dinner. I have never beenthrown in my life. I am never so happy or so comfortable as when I amon horseback, and unless Zephyr is going as fast as he can, neither henor I enjoy ourselves. But I can understand that to strangers it mightlook dangerous. And I am dreadfully sorry about the accident to yourfriend. Will you tell me his name?”

In this young girl’s whole manner there was something so simple,innocent, and frank that Claud was more than ever enchanted with her.That feeling of fate which had haunted him all through his recent tourwas upon him now. Here were all the conditions of Kyro’s prophecyfulfilled. The lady whom he was to meet on a journey, and with whom hewas to fall madly in love, was walking by his side, and speaking tohim in a voice which went straight to his heart, awakening hithertounknown chords of sweetness there. All the romance, the sentiment, andthe poetry, dormant in the nature of this singular young man, startedinto life at the proximity of this charming creature, at once sodaring as a rider, so maidenly and gentle as a woman. Here was anopportunity of applying his test. He remembered it, and saidunhesitatingly, in answer to Miss Cranstoun’s question:

“My friend is Lord Carthew.”

“Oh!”

It must have been fancy, he told himself, but her ejacul*tion seemedto express disappointment; and he noticed that she did not, when theystruck into a wider path, walk as before by the side of the horse, butremained in the rear, much to his own secret satisfaction.

“I am afraid we shall be disturbing your parents,” he said, after afew moments’ silence.

“My father is in London,” she answered; “and mamma is an invalid.Lately she has been more delicate than usual, and an old friend anddoctor of hers is happily staying with us, Dr. Morland Graham. I hopehe will be able to set your friend right again. I shall never forgivemyself if the wound proves to be a serious one.”

“I can’t see where you are to blame. It was my stupid blundering intoprivate property in the course of an evening stroll with my friendthat was the origin of the mischief, and our officious interferenceduring your ride. But your man was certainly too free with his powderand shot. Have you had him in your service long?”

“Four or five years. He is very clever with dogs and horses. My fatherhas a special dislike against tramps, and Stephen, in his over-zealjust now, was only obeying orders. The men are all told to frightenaway intruders from the grounds by any means in their power.”

“Still it’s rather drastic to shoot any chance stranger,” hesuggested; “especially as I have heard that the Chase is a veryinteresting old historical mansion, and likely to attractantiquarians.”

“People say that,” she answered, thoughtfully. “But I can never seeanything to admire in it myself. It is called mediæval, which makesme feel sorry for the Middle Ages.”

“You have the most wonderful legends in your family—have younot?—connected with your motto, ‘Cranstoun, Remember!’ I am greatlyinterested in antiquarian researches, and my family—I mean LordCarthew’s family—being connected by marriage with your mother’s, hasmade the hunting out of these tales of interest to me.”

“Is Lord Carthew related to my mother?” she asked, with interest. “Shewill be very glad to welcome him and you also. You have not told meyour name?”

“Oh! it is so entirely undistinguished as to be hardly worthmentioning. Claud Pritchard, farmer, from Yorkshire, on a short andlast tour with my old college friend before leaving England to try andmake my fortune in Canada.”

“Indeed!” she said. “You don’t look in the least like a farmer. Buthere is the Chase.”

The great, gloomy pile stood before them, occupying a considerablespace of land, but hemmed in so closely with trees that its fulldimensions were somewhat lost on the spectator. Lights burned here andthere in the windows, but the whole impression given by the ivy-hung,gray stone building was one of prison-like silence and solitude.

Stephen Lee’s sturdy ringing of the deep-toned bell brought a manservant in sombre livery to the door, who, after exchanging a fewwords with the young gamekeeper, descended the broad, shallow stepsbetween the grim-visaged stone wolves that guarded the entrance, andoffered to assist Hilary into the house. Miss Cranstoun meanwhile haddisappeared into the house. As Lord Carthew and his friend entered it,she returned to greet them on the threshold, accompanied by a portly,gray-haired man of between fifty and sixty, to whom she was rapidlyexplaining the situation.

The great bare hall, with its timbered roof, and four motionlessfigures in full armor ranged between the worn and faded tapestry onthe walls, surmounted by trophies of arms and implements of the chase,which glittered as the firelight played on them, struck Lord Carthewas a perfectly fitting background for Miss Cranstoun’s slender figureand the strange ethereal beauty of her face. Amid petty orconspicuously modern surroundings she would have seemed, so he toldhimself, wholly out of place.

Other impressions crowded upon him. For one thing, the servants alllooked bewildered and alarmed, and even in the fashionable Londondoctor’s manner there was a touch of constraint, as though he was notquite certain of his ground. As for Hilary the hall and every one init seemed rocking round him. The pain in his shoulder was acute, andthe action of riding had caused the blood to burst through thetemporary bandages over the severe gunshot wound which Stephen Lee’sweapon had inflicted. He had hardly heard what was being said abouthim as they led him to a room, the library, as he afterwards learned,and laid him on a sofa, at which point he very quietly fainted.

When he came to, he was lying on an old-fashioned four-poster bedsteadin a great, ghost-like apartment, hung with tapestry—as he afterwardslearned, a guest-chamber of the Chase. A woman was on her knees tryingto persuade a fire to burn in a seldom-used chimney, and anotherservant, elderly and dark-complexioned, stood near his bedside,attending to the instructions of Dr. Morland Graham, while LordCarthew watched him from the foot of the bed.

“You place the bandage so,” the doctor was saying, “and as soon as herecovers consciousness, give him a dose of this. Your friend has had anasty accident, Mr. Pritchard, but a man of his superb physique willsoon get over a trifle of this kind, provided that fever does notintervene. What a magnificently made young man Lord Carthew is, to besure! Quite unlike his father the Earl. I was dining with LordNorthborough a few weeks ago. I suppose you will let him know of hisson’s accident?”

“Leave that to me,” returned Claud, promptly.

A voice from the bed attracted their attention at this point:

“What on earth are you two talking about? And where am I?”

“Hush, hush! my dear Lord Carthew! You really must not exciteyourself. You are in very good hands indeed. I informed Lady Cranstounthat you must not be moved to-night, and she instantly insisted thatyou and Mr. Pritchard should be her guests until you have completelyrecovered. She is greatly distressed at your accident, I assure you.I must leave you now and join the ladies at dinner, which has beenpostponed for over an hour. You will soon be about again, believe me.”

“But why do you call me Lord Carthew?” Hilary inquired, trying to situp.

The doctor exchanged a sympathetic glance with Claud.

“Poor fellow!” he murmured. “Loss of blood—consequent weakness. He iswandering in his mind.”

CHAPTER III.
A SIREN.

As soon as the doctor had left the room, Hilary endeavored tostruggle into a sitting position, from which he was restrained byMargaret, who had been told off to nurse him.

“Do, pray, keep quiet, my lord; you will undo all the doctor’s work.Now, take your medicine and lie still, please.”

“I’ll take the medicine if you like, but on condition that you go awaythen, nurse, if you please, and leave me to talk to my friend here.”

“Don’t let him talk too much and excite himself,” was Margaret’sparting admonition to Lord Carthew as she left the room.

As soon as they were alone, Hilary plunged into his subject,regardless of his friend’s warning gesture. From where he lay on thebed, the wounded man could not see the kneeling figure of the servantover the fire on the farther side of the great, bare room.

“What is all this foolery about changing names with me?” he began. “Itmust be stopped at once. I won’t stay for five minutes in the houseunder false pretences.”

“I am afraid you won’t be able to do much more with that fire,” LordCarthew observed, raising his voice as he addressed the servant, whilehe glanced meaningly at his friend.

“I am afraid not, sir,” returned the woman, civilly. A few momentslater she left the room, and carefully applied her ear to the keyholeoutside, from which position she was enabled now and then to overhearscraps of the conversation within.

“Now let us talk this matter out quietly and in as few words aspossible,” Lord Carthew began, drawing a chair to his friend’sbedside. “What does it matter to you for twenty-four hours what theycall you? You will probably never see any of these people again. Ihave introduced us both in one set of names to Miss Cranstoun, and shehas passed us on under those names to the doctor and to her mother.It’s impossible to go back now. You had agreed to the arrangementwhich we started earlier in the day. There is no reason why we shouldnot play our little comedy out just because an unlucky accident hasintervened.”

“I utterly decline to be a party to such nonsense,” exclaimed Hilary,angrily, the blood rushing to his face. “It’s all very well for you. Aman who assumes a rank lower than his own is at worst a romantic fool;but a commoner who tries to pass himself off as a lord is a paltrycad, and it’s a situation I won’t fill for a single moment.”

“You can’t alter things now, as I said before,” Lord Carthew urged.“When it comes out—I should say, if it comes out at any time that wehave changed places—I shall own up that it was a foolish freak ofmine, carried out in spite of your opposition. Now lie still and tryto go to sleep, there’s a good fellow. I can’t eat a second dinner,and I’m certainly not in drawing-room trim. Still I want to see asmuch of my—or rather of your—relatives as I can while we’re here, sothat unless there’s anything I can do for you——”

“There’s certainly something you can do,” roared the wounded man, “andthat at once. You must contradict your former ridiculous statement,and explain our true positions instantly to Miss Cranstoun and hermother. Otherwise, I shall get out of bed and go downstairs and do itmyself, in spite of all the doctors in England.”

Almost before he had finished speaking, Lord Carthew had left theroom, so quickly indeed that he barely escaped stumbling over thekneeling form of the servant outside the door, who immediatelyaffected to be occupied in straightening the mat. He was extremelysorry for Hilary’s accident, and most anxious to see him well out ofit. But he was also already fathoms deep in love, and longing to feasthis eyes upon Miss Cranstoun again; besides had not the doctordeclared that Hilary would be all right provided that fever did notfollow, and that he must not be allowed to excite himself by talking?

In the oak-panelled dining-room, Lord Carthew found three personsseated at dinner, and he was instantly struck by the utter absence ofresemblance between Lady Cranstoun and the young girl whom he supposedto be her daughter. The former was just such a Douglas as he haddescribed to Hilary; tall, sandy-haired, and limp, with a thin face, ahigh nose and colorless blue-gray eyes under white lashes, a perfectlywell-bred and entirely uninteresting personage of abouteight-and-forty years of age, in gray silk, shrouded by a voluminouswhite knitted shawl of Shetland wool.

She gave Lord Carthew a long, nerveless, white hand in greeting, andinquired after his friend, expressing her regret at the accident. Evenwhile answering her polite inquiries, Claud’s eyes involuntarilytravelled to the face of Miss Cranstoun, who, dressed in a girlishdinner costume of ivory silk, sat beside Dr. Morland Graham. In thelamplight she looked even more attractive than in the half-obscurityin which he had before seen her. Her cheeks had but little color ascontrasted with the vivid scarlet of her lips, but to Lord Carthew’skeenly observant eyes, this pallor, and the extraordinary brightnessof her eyes, suggested in no way ill health, but rather a vivid andardent nature under strong repression. Her gown was cut low about thethroat, and the sleeves were little more than elbow length, showingoff the fairness and purity of her skin and the delicacy of her slimwrists. A turquoise brooch was her only ornament, and seemed to carryout in color the intense blue of her eyes between the black pupils andthe nearly purple borders to the iris. Her whole appearance was poeticand interesting in a high degree, but the young viscount remarked thather manner had lost something of its naïve frankness, and had becomemore sedate and restrained than before.

“I am the more interested in Lord Carthew,” Lady Cranstoun was saying,“because we are connections. Lord Northborough’s mother was a Douglas,and my aunt.”

She spoke in slow, unmusical tones, with a slight Scotch accent. LordCarthew rightly judged that, being a Douglas, she would have anexaggerated pride of birth, which was indeed the poor lady’s chiefweakness. A single question from him sufficed to start her on herfavorite subject of the numerous marriages and relationships of herfather, the Duke of Lanark’s, family. As her appetite was poor, and noone could be rude enough to interrupt her at her own table, she wassoon deep in the intricacies of the Douglas ancestry and Douglasmarriages, while Dr. Graham set himself steadily to enjoy the goodfare before him, and Miss Cranstoun kept her eyes steadily fixed onher plate, her cheeks flushed, and her dark eyebrows contracted withannoyance.

The dinner was good, the wines were few but excellent, and the greaterpart of the table service was in solid old silver, adorned with themotto “Cranstoun, Remember,” and the mailed hand grasping a wolf’shead, which was the family device. Opposite Lord Carthew, as he sat attable, there hung a portrait of a man in armor, whose sinister lighteyes seemed to follow his every movement. Look which way he would,from Stella Cranstoun’s beautiful face to the doctor’s plump, blandvisage, or Lady Cranstoun’s washed-out countenance, Lord Carthew foundhis gaze fascinated and held by the pale, square, inscrutable face ofthe man in armor, about whose narrow, close-shut lips a bitter smileseemed to be playing.

“That is a wonderful picture opposite, Lady Cranstoun,” he feltcompelled to say at last. “By this light and at this distance I canhardly distinguish whether it is really old, or only painted in theold manner.”

His hostess did not at once answer him, and he noted that she grew ashade or two paler, and that a frightened, furtive look came into hereyes. Miss Cranstoun ceased speaking to the doctor, and lookedinquiringly toward her.

“The picture is modern,” Lady Cranstoun said at last, and pausedagain.

“It is a portrait of my father,” Stella added, with marked, even, asit seemed, defiant distinctness.

“An excellent piece of work, is it not?” Dr. Graham remarked, breakingin upon the silence which followed Miss Cranstoun’s statement. “Thetone really reminds me of a Murillo—so dignified, and sombre, andmellow. Quite a harmony in gray, as we should call it in ourlatter-day studio slang. The work attracted considerable attentionwhen it was hung in the Royal Academy five years ago. You see SirPhilip is represented in a suit of armor worn by a member of his ownfamily at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. In his hand he holds a swordwith lowered point, and he stands as though waiting for an enemy toattack him. The manipulation of the armor is most dexterouslyrendered, the effect of a low light upon it from the sky beingreproduced admirably, really admirably. Herkomer has never doneanything better.”

Involuntarily, as the doctor rambled on in his deep mellifluous tones,Lord Carthew’s eyes left Sir Philip’s portrait, and fixed themselvesupon the face of his daughter. For one brief moment he caught upon herlovely features a cold, mocking expression almost identical with thatwhich distinguished her father’s; but almost before he had had time tofeel shocked and astonished thereby, Stella had turned to the doctor,and was asking him if he knew anything of the pictures which wouldattract the most attention at the forthcoming Academy exhibition, andlistening with apparent interest to his replies.

In answer to Claud’s inquiry whether she went often to London to seethe pictures, Miss Cranstoun answered that she had only been in Londonthree or four times in her life.

“I read all about pictures and music in the ladies’ papers,” she said.“Mamma is so delicate, the journey to London tires her. But next monthI am to be presented by my grandmamma, the duch*ess of Lanark, andthen, I suppose, I shall be taken to see everything.”

“You must be looking forward to your début, I imagine?” said LordCarthew.

She looked across at him steadily, and then answered quietly:

“I suppose I ought to. But mamma will be dull without me.”

“Indeed I shall, my dear child,” Lady Cranstoun returned, with a looktoward the young girl of so much kindness and affection that inClaud’s eyes it redeemed her plainness.

After the dessert had been served on heavy silver salvers, LadyCranstoun rose, and followed by her daughter, glided quietly from theroom. A pause attended their exit. Then Lord Carthew observedsuddenly:

“If that portrait really resembles my absent host, he must be a man ofvery singular and striking appearance.”

“He is indeed,” returned Dr. Graham, with emphasis. “Shall we adjournto the smoking-room? The tapestry in this room is liable to be injuredby smoke.”

The smoking-room was the most genuinely comfortable room in the housewhich Claud had yet seen. Presumably Sir Philip, realizing thatmediæval furniture did not blend with a proper enjoyment of SirWalter Raleigh’s weed, had in this one instance adopted wholly modernand fashionable methods of decoration. The books which filled a caseagainst the wall were nearly all French novels, the lounges were theperfection of comfort, and everything, from the shaded lamp to theliqueur stand, was from a London West-end firm.

As Dr. Graham closed the door upon them Lord Carthew unconsciouslyheaved a sigh of relief. He himself had been reared in a spaciousancestral home, and had spent his boyhood between Northborough Castlein the Isle of Wight, Belgrave Square in London, and the comfortablecountry seat which his father had built himself in Norfolk. But LordNorthborough was both a man of the world and a patron of the arts,while Claud’s American mother seized with avidity upon every newdevice for beautifying her homes. The solemn bareness of the Chase waswholly new to him, and being keenly sensitive, Lord Carthew was,moreover, oppressed by an indefinable sentiment in the air of chillygloom and repression, which Lady Cranstoun’s dejected, nervousmanners, and the compressed lips of her beautiful daughter, helped toaccentuate.

“Now tell me, Dr. Graham,” he began, stretching his feet toward thepleasant warmth of the wood fire, “what manner of man is this SirPhilip Cranstoun? I have heard a good deal about him, and I am ratheranxious to meet him.”

Dr. Graham stirred the fire, cleared his throat, and glanced somewhatapprehensively round the room.

“Sir Philip Cranstoun,” he began, “is a man of five or six and forty,in the prime of life, in fact, a stanch Conservative and belonging toone of the oldest families in England.”

“Yes, I know all about that. But what I mean is—what is he like inhis own home, toward his family, for instance, and his servants?”

“Sir Philip,” returned the wary doctor, “is a good deal away, and LadyCranstoun’s health does not permit her to accompany him to Scotland,or even to London. Miss Cranstoun, who is a most devoted daughter,invariably remains by her mother’s side, and has, I believe, neverbeen out of England. But she has had every advantage of education;masters and mistresses have attended at the Chase ever since she wasfive years old, when I first made her acquaintance, to instruct her inEnglish, French, German, Italian and Latin, music, singing, painting,dancing, and calisthenics; she is also an admirable horsewoman.”

“The last I know from personal observation,” returned Lord Carthew.“But we were speaking of her father. Is he not proud of such a lovelyand accomplished daughter?”

The doctor glanced at him slyly out of the corners of his worldly,good-natured eyes.

“I presume, Mr. Pritchard,” he said, “that you are acquainted withsome details of the daily life here and do not need any enlightenmentfrom me?”

“Not at all,” Lord Carthew answered, frankly. “But I am of anobserving disposition, and I have already formed an impression thatevery one in this house is cowed and dominated by its master, hisdaughter included.”

“You are perfectly right,” the doctor assented, after a short pause.“Miss Cranstoun is a charming girl; I like and admire her greatly. Butit is useless to deny the friction which occasionally results from herfather’s admonitions. Sir Philip is—er—well—he is not a popularman, and Miss Cranstoun, well-bred and affectionate as she mostcertainly is by nature, is not the kind of girl to endure beingdriven. She has a good deal of her father’s spirit, in short. Mostcertainly she does not get it from her mother, although when I knewLady Gwendolen Douglas before her marriage, she was the handsomest andliveliest of the Duke of Lanark’s daughters. She has altered verygreatly, very greatly indeed.”

Reading between the doctor’s words, Lord Carthew realized severalthings which the former left unsaid. For one, that Sir Philip was anintolerable tyrant and despot, who tried to grind the hearts of hisamiable wife and lovely daughter under the iron heel of his will; foranother, that between him and Stella Cranstoun an incessant strugglewas waging; and for still another, that Dr. Morland Graham cordiallydisliked the baronet, although he was too politic to put his feelingsinto actual words.

“I very much hope,” Dr. Graham went on musingly, as he contemplatedthe glowing tip of his cigar, “that Miss Cranstoun will soon behappily married.”

A keen pang of jealousy shot through Lord Carthew’s heart.

“Has she any avowed admirer then?” he inquired, in would-be carelesstones.

“Dear me, no! Beyond her French and German masters, and the old vicarof Grayling, and myself, she has hardly had any acquaintance with theother sex. A more absolutely fancy-free young lady, I should say,never existed. But she has so much charm and individuality, as well asbeauty, that when once she enters into social life in London, underthe judicious guardianship of her grandmother, the duch*ess of Lanark,there is not much doubt that suitors will not long be lacking.Although I understand that the Chase is in strict entail to the heirsmale of the Cranstoun family, as well as the Scotch property, SirPhilip’s daughter will no doubt be some day possessed of a verycomfortable little income, which in these extravagant, money-lovingdays,” added the doctor, smiling, as he took a cup of coffee which aservant brought into the room at that moment on a silver salver, “is athing which is supposed to enhance any young lady’s attraction.”

Lord Carthew said nothing, and remained for a short time plunged inthought. Not only had he fallen in love at first sight, but hisinstinct had happily guided his affections to exactly the rightobject. In spite of his thin veneer of almost revolutionary theories,Lord Northborough’s heir was at heart a Tory and an aristocrat, andSir Philip’s daughter was a thousand times the more desirable in hiseyes because she was a Cranstoun on her father’s side, andgranddaughter to the Duke of Lanark. Had he experienced the sameovermastering feeling of instantaneous love for a lowly-born girl, hewould certainly have regretted it, and would possibly have done hisbest to conquer it. But in this case no such self-restraint wasnecessary. If only he could gain her affection, above all in thehomely guise of Mr. Pritchard, son to a Yorkshire yeoman, perfectmarried happiness awaited him.

Dr. Morland Graham, leaning back in his chair, smoking, and enjoyingan after-dinner mood of benevolent calm, watched his companion withsome amusem*nt, and wondered for what freak Lord Northborough’s sonand heir, bearing a strong resemblance to his father and sporting onhis finger a signet-ring upon which his family crest was plainlydiscernible as he held his cigar to his lips, was wandering about thecounty under the alias of Pritchard. Dr. Morland Graham liked to be ongood terms with his aristocratic patients; he liked to know theirlittle secrets, and they, being only mortal, were usually ready enoughto confide them to “that dear kind, sympathetic Dr. Graham.” He knewquite well that the Earl and his wife were extremely anxious to seetheir only son, the “mad viscount,” married and settled, and itoccurred to the worthy doctor that this might be an excellentopportunity for ameliorating the lot of Stella Cranstoun, who, onceunder the protecting care of a husband of wealth and position, wouldbe free forever from the petty tyranny of her absolutely detestablefather.

Lord Carthew knew nothing of the doctor’s musings. One thought alonepossessed him. To see Stella as soon as possible, to talk to her, todraw her out of her reserve and gradually get her to confide in him.As if divining his wishes, Dr. Graham suggested an adjournment to thedrawing-room, and proposed to Lady Cranstoun, who was reclining on asofa, a game of chess.

The drawing-room was extremely large, and furnished in a chilly,old-fashioned style. The faded carpet belonged to the first years ofQueen Victoria’s reign and was covered by day with a drugget, for SirPhilip Cranstoun was economical to stinginess in the appointment ofhis household. The walls were painted in white and gold, the furniturewas of old-fashioned shape, covered by day with chintz, andresplendent at night in amber satin. A grand piano and a harp seemedlost in the distant and ill-lighted recesses of the room, whichcurtained four long windows opening on to a stone terrace at the backof the house. Near a tall standard lamp Lady Cranstoun’s sofa wasstanding, and close by, on a cushion on the hearthrug, her slenderarms clasping her knees, and her eyes fixed on the fire, StellaCranstoun was seated, with the head of a handsome collie dog restingon her knee.

As the two gentlemen entered the room, she looked up quickly, but didnot speak, and it was only after the doctor had suggested the game ofchess that Miss Cranstoun inquired eagerly:

“How is he now? Is he better?”

Lord Carthew flushed guiltily. In his desire to see Stella again hehad forgotten his friend completely. But the doctor’s conscience wasnot so sensitive, and he answered, in his blandest professional tones,that Lord Carthew had been given a sedative before dinner, and that itwas not advisable to disturb him at present.

“You haven’t been up then?” Stella murmured reproachfully to Claud,while Lady Cranstoun rang for the footman to remove her coffee-cup andto draw the chess-table up to her sofa.

“No. The nurse said he must not excite himself by talking.”

He felt it was rather a lame excuse, the more so as he felt her darkeyes fixed almost indignantly upon his face.

“You see,” she said, lowering her gaze, and slightly blushing, “I feelthat the accident was all my fault, and that is what makes me soanxious.”

“I will go at once, and let you know how he is,” he returned, and leftthe room for that purpose after she had rewarded him with a smile ofgratitude.

Hilary was not asleep. He was tossing in bed, with flushed cheeks andbright eyes. Margaret, the nurse, was in the room, so he addressed hisfriend in an indignant torrent of broken French.

“What possesses you to let the servants suppose you and I have changedplaces?” he burst out, angrily. “I simply won’t stand their ‘mylording’ me much longer. I didn’t come here to be made a fool of.”

His noisy, excited manner was so unlike his usual easy-going andpleasant disposition that Lord Carthew, watching him, could not butconclude that he was feverish, especially as Hilary seemed desperatelythirsty. After handing him some ice, which by the doctor’s orders hadbeen placed by the bedside, Lord Carthew took a seat near, and triedto calm him, while Margaret discreetly left the room.

“Look here, Hilary,” he said, “I will confess the truth. I have fallenin love at last, and Kyro’s prediction is fulfilled. That is why I soparticularly wish to remain Mr. Pritchard for a few hours longer.”

Hilary became suddenly quiet.

“It’s that crazy girl who took the jump, and whose obstinacy andfoolhardiness brought me this nice little charge of gunshot in myshoulder, I suppose?” he said.

“It is Miss Cranstoun certainly, but—”

“Oh! spare me a lover’s rhapsodies, old chap. Under the circ*mstances,you can scarcely expect me to regard her as you do.”

“She is more sorry about the accident than I can possibly tell you,and blames herself entirely——”

“Oh, I dare say. Well, go back and make love to her by all means. Whatis that?”

The sweet notes of a pure soprano voice were wafted up to them fromthe drawing-room immediately below. Some one was singing the Loreleito the accompaniment of harp.

CHAPTER IV.
ENEMIES.

As Lord Carthew approached, the girl ceased playing.

“Is he better?” she asked. “Will my singing disturb him?”

“It will soothe him, I should say. Only a faint sound of it can beheard in his room. He seemed to fall asleep just as I left.”

“Did you tell him,” she asked, with flushed cheeks and lowered lashes,while her fingers strayed over the strings without striking them, “howvery, very sorry I am for my thoughtless folly?”

“You are too hard upon yourself,” he said, taking a seat near her, anddrinking in every detail of the charming picture before him, “and toease your mind I will make a confession. My friend and I—or, atleast, I can answer for myself—were prompted by impertinent curiositywhen we entered your grounds. It was not by accident that we strayedinto them, but of malice prepense. The fact is, we are both devoted tohorseflesh, and as we rambled about, smoking, in a wood by thewayside, you flashed past us on your black horse, and took a jumpwhich seemed almost impossible. In our admiration and delight, weforgot the rules which hold good with regard to our neighbor’slandmark, and scrambling up the bank and over the wall, and down thebank again, we forced our way through the trees and sighted you again.Your horse was rearing and plunging; by the half light at thatdistance it seemed as though he had got the bit well between histeeth, and was running away with you, and your scream strengthenedthat impression. Then came our unlucky interference, and itsdeplorable result.”

“Did you think that jump impossible?” she asked, turning wide-openeyes upon him. “Zephyr and I often take it. Zephyr can jump almostanything. He goes out of his way to find jumps, and he is neverhappier than when he finds something that looks difficult.”

“Aren’t your people afraid lest some accident should befall you whenyou ride about the park unattended?”

“My people?”

She looked at him in surprise as she spoke, and then in some confusionstruck several chords lightly on the harp.

“My father is a great deal away,” she said, in a somewhat constrainedtone; “and of course, I do not make mamma nervous by telling her thepranks Zephyr and I enjoy together.”

“You are fond of riding?”

“Fond of it!” she repeated, slowly, while her face lit up with suddenenthusiasm; “I could not live without it. After a certain number ofhours have passed in the house, my foot seems to tingle to be in thestirrup again, and my fingers burn to take hold of the reins. Whateverthe weather it is the same; I want to be away and outside and in it!If I hear the wind wailing and sighing in the trees round the house, Ilong to feel it whirling round me, blowing sad thoughts away; and evenwhen a thunderstorm is at its height, it seems to draw me like amagnet. I want to be part of the storm, drenched with the rain,wrapped round with the lightning, horse and I both stirred to the lasttouch of quivering excitement, driven along, with the thunder rumblingand crashing behind us! Then I feel alive and happy—so happy that Ican rise in my saddle and scream like a child from sheer delight!”

In the low light where they sat, he could see the faint color come andgo in her face as the eager words came softly from her parted lips.Her eyes shone out like sapphire stars and seemed to glow with someinner light. To him she was not a nineteenth century young Englishlady, but a princess from a fairy tale.

“What would you do,” he asked, half laughing and half tenderly, “if bysome accident or illness you were kept a prisoner in the house?”

“I should die—if it were in this house,” she answered quietly,looking straight into his face for the first time. “I suppose to you,who are a stranger here, the Chase appears simply an interesting oldhistorical mansion. To me it seems a prison, haunted by the spirits ofall the women who have been unhappy here.”

“You have studied the records and legends of your family, no doubt?”

“They were given to me as soon as I could read. Before I heard ofCinderella and the Sleeping Beauty, I had gone through those horribletales of treachery and murder, and tyranny. Cranstouns of mediævaltimes hardly ever died in their beds, and the lives of their ladieswere records of martyrdom, except in those cases when they also hadsome spirit, and turned against their brutal lords. Pride of race,cruelty, cunning, and revengefulness—there you have the dominantnotes in the characters and lives of my ancestors, qualities which tome are all equally hateful.”

“Yet if there is anything in heredity, you should be intensely proudof your family on both sides,” he said. “The Douglases are to the fullas proud as any Cranstoun can be.”

“But mamma wears her pride with a difference,” she said, quickly. “Itis more like the interest any one might take in some heirloom, notbecause it is something peculiar to herself, and raising her above allother people. It is impossible to imagine any one more gentle and kindthan mamma. She suffers a deal, and bears it beautifully. Her heartconstantly troubles her, yet she must be in terrible pain before sheutters a complaint. I am not a bit like her, I am sorry to say,” sheadded, humbly. “I shall never have her gentleness, her patience andresignation. When I am angry, I hate—mamma is incapable of hatred. Idon’t know how I should have lived at all but for her constantkindness.”

Tears suddenly gathered in Miss Cranstoun’s eyes. Hastily brushingthem away, she turned to Lord Carthew with a sweet smile.

“I ought to apologize,” she said, “for my very bad manners in talkingof myself and my private affairs to you when I have never met youbefore to-day. But somehow I hardly feel that you are a stranger.”

She spoke in all simplicity, but the most practised coquette couldhardly have chosen words better calculated to heighten the feelings oflove and admiration which filled the young man’s heart.

She should be painted just so for the Academy, he was telling himself,seated at her harp, with one little hand showing off the supple wrist,slim fingers, and rosy nails, as it strayed over the strings. But whatpainter could reproduce her charm, the purity of her eyes and lips,the girlish grace of her form, and especially that light shining roundher dilated pupils? Would Millais understand her temperament, and doher justice? Hardly. Sargent might. Yes, it must be painted bySargent, this picture of a young girl in simple white silkdinner-dress, playing a harp before a hazy background; and the name ofthe picture should be “Portrait of Viscountess Carthew.”

Meanwhile, he was telling her that so far from boring, her talk hadinterested him greatly.

“I am honored by what you say,” he said, “when you tell me I do notseem wholly a stranger to you. It is the more amiable of you to treatme with such gracious cordiality as I am not at all in your own sphereof life, but just what is now called a ‘gentleman farmer,’ and in theold days before the term gentleman was invented, was simply yeoman, aname quite good enough for me. Altogether, a poor, struggling, andundistinguished person, whose parents denied themselves every luxuryto give him a college education, by which he had not the wits toprofit; just capable of those simple and ineffective qualities ofgratitude, affection, and loyalty, and capable of very little else,believe me.”

She turned her sweetest smile upon him.

“Do you know,” she said, nodding confidentially towards him, “that Ibelieve that is just the reason why I feel as if we were alreadyfriends? All my life I have had the value of birth and rankexaggerated to me. I have been taught to consider myself made of toofine a stuff to associate with any one in the neighborhood. I havenever been allowed to play with other children, and when I was a babychild my nurses were constantly changed lest I should get too fond ofany one so low and common as a nurse. I have been given the ‘Peerage,’and the ‘County Families of England,’ and ‘Tales of AristocraticFamilies,’ and ‘Legends of Ancestral Houses,’ and similar books, toamuse myself with ever since I could read; my German master was adecayed baron, and my French tutor the son of a marquis. I have alwaysbeen forbidden to speak to the servants, except to give orders, andthey also are very frequently changed. This is particularly so in thecase of the lady’s maid who waits upon mamma and me; she never remainslonger than a year, usually only a few months, just long enough tolearn our ways and suit us. And do you know what the consequence ofall this has been? As soon as I could be free from the presence of mynursery-governess—a very stiff person of over fifty, who could notforget she had once been in a duke’s family—I used to run away to mygreat, bare nursery, and dressing my dolls in rags, would pretend theywere peasants, and hop-pickers, and beggars. And especially,” sheadded, her face lighting up with a mischievous gleam, “I loved makingmy dolls into poachers and tramps, and, best of all, gypsies. This wassheer naughtiness, I know, because Margaret had once told me that SirPhilip particularly detested gypsies, and that I was never on anyaccount to mention them before him. I used to get up a little play inwhich a gypsy was unjustly accused of stealing and tried for it beforemy father, who was represented by a black-faced doll in a red coat. Myfather would try the gypsy and condemn him to be hanged, and then,just as the sentence was being carried out, a gallant young gentlemandoll would come riding up on the shaft of an old wheelbarrow and cuthim down. There was no game I enjoyed playing so much as that.”

Lord Carthew laughed with her, but was a good deal touched at the sametime. The picture of the lonely child, snubbed and repressed anddeprived of all healthy young companionship, secretly planningrevolutionary dramas with her dolls, struck him as being equallyoriginal and pathetic. Stella Cranstoun’s utter dissimilarity from theyoung ladies of his acquaintance was a source of great delight to him.Her perfectly clear and distinct enunciation and sweet-toned voicecame as a blessed relief after the fashionable high key and slipshodspeech in vogue in London at that time, which had been aptly aped bythe pretty Braithwaite girls. Stella’s somewhat old-fashioned methodof speech, which was that of a well-educated girl who had heard littlebut read much, and her entire ignorance of slang and absence ofself-consciousness, were equally charming to him, The one desire offashionable women, as he knew well, is to speak, move, dress, andbehave in precisely the same style as the known leaders of society.But Stella had no idea that it behooved her to mould herself on someone else’s model; she was consequently altogether modest, natural, andunaffected, and unlike any woman he had ever met before.

As to her strong natural sympathy with the poorer classes, the result,as he imagined, of the repressive system on which she had been reared,he himself affected and believed that he possessed the same quality.Theoretically, he looked upon a costermonger as a man and a brother,and failed to see the use of the House of Lords; practically, heregarded the lower orders as interesting curiosities, and stronglyresented the admission of brewers into the peerage. Stella’srepublican sympathies would impel her, no doubt, in the direction ofsoup-kitchens and schools when she became Lady Carthew, andsoup-kitchens and schools were very desirable outlets for the generousinstincts of a future countess. For under her gentle, graceful manner,it was impossible for any one unacquainted with her earliest historyto detect an absolute hatred of aristocratic proclivities; in thegranddaughter of a Duke her unconventional sentiments were piquant andinteresting, and in no way suggestive of the fierce blood dormant inthe veins of the daughter of a gypsy.

Stella herself had not the least suspicion of her Romany descent. Nota servant remaining at the Chase had seen the first Lady Cranstoun, orknew aught of her beyond a brief record in the local papers of herdeath, eighteen years ago, with the one exception of Margaret. Andeven Margaret knew very little. Only that on the thirteenth day ofDecember, eighteen years ago, Dr. Ernest Netherbridge and two womenhad arrived at the Chase, immediately after a farmer’s cart hadcarried thither a certain bundle, from which feeble cries proceeded.For fully an hour the visitors were closeted with Sir Philip in hisstudy, after which time they left in the carriage and were driven toGrayling railway station, where the two women entered a train forLondon. Three months later, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, SirPhilip Cranstoun was married to the Lady Gwendolen Douglas, daughterof the Duke of Lanark, a woman of no particular beauty and rather overthirty years of age. The following Christmas the second Lady Cranstoungave birth to a girl, a weakly creature who, after a few days ofwailing remonstrance, faded out of this life altogether. The mind ofLady Cranstoun, never of the strongest order, gave way under thestrain; in the care of nurses she was taken by her husband to London,whence she returned in a few months’ time with a lovely dark-hairedand blue-eyed baby girl whom she persisted in regarding as her own, inwhich belief was upheld by her husband, and by all those about her.

Thus the infant child of Clare Carewe the gypsy made her second entryinto the house of her ancestors, having been adopted in order to saveher stepmother’s wandering wits. For years Sir Philip, after hiswife’s complete recovery, hoped against hope that she might yet bringhim an heir; but fate was against him, and the gypsy’s child was theonly descendant he might now hope to possess.

Against this daughter, lovely and intelligent as she proved herself tobe, the Lord of Cranstoun Chase cherished a deep-rooted and immovabledislike, which showed itself in every glance that he directed towardher. The resemblance which she undoubtedly bore to the woman who haddefied him and fled from him intensified this feeling a hundredfold,and the girl’s proud if silent rebellion against his harshness andunkindness was a perpetual reminder of the untamable spirit which shehad inherited from her Romany ancestors.

He was morbidly fearful, too, lest that bad strain, as he consideredit, should some day break out in her, and prompt her to a course ofconduct which might bring discredit upon his name. All that could bedone in the way of conventional training, carefully supervisedreading, and a closely watched and guarded existence, he had resortedto in her training. So far he could complain of nothing in Stella’sconduct, except indeed, the scornful curl of her lip and flashing ofher dark eyes when he indulged in any fresh act of petty domestictyranny. All that man could do to wipe out the disgraceful mistake ofhis first marriage he had already done. Not only had he chosen forsecond wife a duke’s daughter and a Douglas, but he had brought up hisdaughter Stella, the descendant of a long line of wild gypsy Carewes,in the belief that she also was a Douglas by descent, and that theDuke of Lanark’s daughter was her mother.

The excellent understanding which prevailed between Lady Cranstoun andher supposed daughter, so far from pleasing, annoyed and irritatedhim. The feeling he inspired in his wife was one of absolute terror.To a woman of Lady Cranstoun’s weak and delicate health, the verysound of her husband’s voice was painful. In his presence she wasconscious of a guilty and apologetic feeling. He had wished for anheir to keep the estates among his children, and she had failed togive him one; he had never loved her, and now he wished her dead.Stella’s high spirit and determined will seemed a shield between herand her husband’s displeasure, and the two ladies formed a party inthe house tacitly opposed to him, although forced to a show ofobedience and resignation.

As to the servants at the Chase, there were three women besidesMargaret and the lady’s maid, a butler and two footmen. Not one,except Margaret, had been in the house more than two years, andMargaret, the most discreet and silent of women, was retained chieflybecause she was able to explain their business to the newcomers, andbecause of her notable expertness with her needle and as a sick-nurse.But in a household staff of eight, Sir Philip had seldom muchdifficulty in filling one post, that of spy. A quiet-manneredhousemaid named Dakin, noiseless and freckled, and white about theeyelashes, was at present entrusted with the task of acquainting hermaster, by letter, telegram, or word of mouth, concerning all thedetails of home life at the Chase, and it was this person who had litthe fire in the bedroom apportioned to Hilary, and who hadsubsequently listened at the keyhole to scraps of the conversationbetween the patient and his friend.

The result of her observation she decided to transmit at once to hermaster, and during dinner she asked and obtained leave of absence fromhousekeeper Margaret and hurried down toward the lodge gates, close towhich an inn and a few cottages were clustered about the small postand telegraph office of the nearest village.

In her pocket Dakin carried a piece of paper upon which a cipher waswritten, and by the aid of this she dispatched the following messageto Sir Philip Cranstoun’s telegraphic address in London:

“This evening Stephen Lee shot a trespasser. Wounded man brought tohouse, also friend. Wounded man called Lord Carthew; friend called Mr.Pritchard. Staying here to be nursed. Have made discovery. Two menhave exchanged names. Wounded man is Pritchard, friend Lord Carthew.
“Dakin.”

While this message was being dispatched to her lord and master inLondon, Lady Cranstoun was peacefully enjoying her favorite diversionof a game of chess with the doctor. Just after the successfulaccomplishment of a somewhat difficult move, she remembered that herdaughter and Mr. Pritchard were being left altogether intête-à-tête at the other end of the vast drawing-room. With herfingers nervously touching a bishop, she appealed to her old friendDr. Graham.

“Ought I to leave Stella with a stranger?” she asked doubtfully. “Shehas hardly ever talked so much to any one before, and Sir Philip wouldbe furious if there was any idea of a sentimental feeling betweenStella and this gentleman. You see, from what he says, he has nomoney, or family, or anything. Sir Philip is so utterly bent uponStella making a brilliant marriage. Now if it had been his friend,Lord Carthew—”

“Make your mind easy, my dear lady,” said the doctor, soothingly. “Idon’t think there is much fear of any tendresse between Stella andMr. Pritchard. A little cheerful society will do her good.”

Thus reassured, Lady Cranstoun went on with her game, while Stellanaïvely questioned Lord Carthew about his life at Oxford, and he,dropping for the moment his rôle of undistinguished andunintellectual farmer, talked his best to her concerning his way oflife and of study at the University.

“And Lord Carthew,” she asked softly; “was he a good scholar?”

“Not particularly. But there was no man like him for the long jump, orfor running either, in spite of his size. At cricket, football,rowing, and swimming, it was the same. He was facile princeps. Asplendid fellow, isn’t he?”

“He is certainly very big. He is not clever, then?”

“Well, there are different sorts of cleverness. He doesn’t care verymuch for reading if there’s a good horse to be had. And by the way, hehimself has a beauty—‘Black Bess,’ a long-neck, powerful creature,who carries him as though he were no heavier than a cat.”

“Is Lord Carthew revengeful?” she asked presently. “I mean, do youthink he will ever forgive me?”

“Of course he would, if he had anything to forgive. What makes youdwell upon that idea that he would blame you?”

“I heard what he said to you in the wood,” she answered, blushingdeeply.

Lord Carthew hardly knew how to explain away his friend’s harsh words.Already he had been greatly surprised by Hilary’s antagonisticattitude toward. Sir Philip’s lovely daughter, although, perhaps, inhis secret heart he was not ill-pleased thereby. Hilary had neitherthe intention nor the desire to get married, and he was far toohandsome to be regarded without alarm as a rival. It was, therefore,by no means a misfortune that he should have taken so strong a dislikeagainst Stella, although Lord Carthew was too loyal not to praise hisfriend to her in his absence.

That evening was one of the most delightful he had ever experienced.Every moment he fell deeper in love with this beautiful girl, whoseemed to realize the ideal of perfect womanhood which he had dreamedof since he had arrived at man’s estate. Her manner to him was frankand friendly, and she so evidently liked his society that he went tobed feeling both hopeful and elated. Yet when the subject of histhoughts retired to her own room, it is to be feared that LordCarthew’s image by no means occupied her mind.

The windows of her bedroom, large, gloomy, and scantily furnished likethe rest of the house, were open, and a flood of moonlight poured intothe room. Stella walked toward it, and stood within its silverradiance, with delicate face upturned toward the stars.

“He must have disliked me very much to speak like that,” she murmured,as she slowly began to unfasten her gown, without lighting the candleson her dressing-table. “Will he ever forgive me, I wonder? I could askhis pardon better if he were not what he is; if he and that kind Mr.Pritchard could only change places!”

A sudden thought struck her, and caused her to quickly fasten herdress again. Crossing the room she opened her bedroom door andlistened. There was no sound in the wide corridor, in which LadyCranstoun’s rooms as well as her daughter’s were situated. At theother end was the guest-chamber assigned to the wounded man, while Dr.Graham and Lord Carthew occupied rooms in another part of the house.

After a moment’s hesitation Stella ran lightly to the room occupied byHilary and tapped at the door, which was at once opened, as sheexpected, by Margaret.

“How is he?” Stella whispered.

“He’s wandering, miss. Dr. Graham and the other young gentleman cameto see him, and he seemed asleep then, though the doctor didn’t quitelike the looks of him. But now he seems delirious, and if he getsworse I must rouse the doctor. You needn’t fear to look in; he won’trecognize you.”

Hilary’s face was flushed, and his brown eyes glittered unnaturally ashe muttered under his breath an unintelligible string of words andtossed his head from side to side on the pillow.

Tears started to Stella’s eyes as she watched him.

“Margaret,” she said suddenly, “shall I try to soothe him with mytouch on his forehead? I always charm away mamma’s headaches.”

Margaret shook her head doubtfully.

“I don’t suppose you’ll have much effect,” she said, “but there’s noharm in your trying.”

CHAPTER V.
COMING CONFLICTS.

Margaret stood on one side of Hilary’s pillow, and her youngmistress on the other, while the latter passed her slim fingers slowlyand lightly about the wounded man’s fevered forehead.

As the old servant watched her standing there in her white gown, herpale sensitive face framed in blue-black hair, her black lasheslowered over her luminous eyes, and her mouth hard set in the supremeeffort of will-power exercised over the troubled nerves of thepatient, the thought came to Margaret that it was truly astonishingthat any one could suppose Stella Cranstoun to be the daughter of LadyGwendolen.

Old Margaret was a silent woman, gifted with but little imagination,and her knowledge of physiognomy was not sufficiently developed toenable her to realize in what special features of the girl before herthe Cranstoun characteristics were grafted on the wild Carewe growth.To Margaret’s way of thinking, Stella was not so handsome as hermother, but “a deal more ladylike and amiable.” The first LadyCranstoun’s eyes were of a brown so dark that it appeared almostblack; until her last illness her figure and her handsome red mouthwas a trifle coarse in outline. There was no coarseness in Stella’sface, but behind the eyes a light seemed to shine, telling of somestrange force and fire within, kept in check by a determined will. Hertouch was instinct with magnetism, and soon Hilary ceased his uneasytossing of his head on the pillows and seemed to pass from a feverednightmare into sweet and pleasant dreams.

Some one, he thought, some one very lovely, very tender, with darkblue eyes and dusky hair, was soothing and caressing him. He could notclearly see her face in his dream-fancies, but the feeling of herpresence was delightful, and presently, half-waking from what seemed afeverish sleep, he heard her voice, sweet and rippling and sounding asthough it came from a long way off, speaking to some one.

“You see, Margaret, my touch has soothed him to sleep. I wish he werenot a lord.”

“That is just what would make your father like him, miss.”

“And just what would make me hate him as much as he hates me.”

“Why should he hate you?”

“Because I was the cause of his accident. I heard him speak sobitterly about me to his friend. Margaret, do you think he will soonget well?”

“Oh, yes. He’s only a bit weak and light-headed from loss of blood.This time three days he will be miles away.”

“And I shall never see him again. Well, I am sorry. I must go now; heseems to be sleeping quietly. Good-night, Margaret.”

For one moment more, Hilary felt her soft, cool finger-tips upon hiseyelids; then he realized that she was gone, and nothing left to himbut dreams of her.

“What is your name?” he asked of Margaret in the morning, while he wasstill pondering how much of his over-night dreams had been true.

“Margaret, my lord.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said, irritably and relapsedinto silence.

Meantime, Lord Carthew had also spent the night in dreaming of StellaCranstoun, and was looking eagerly forward to meeting her the nextmorning.

When the breakfast-gong summoned him, he was shown into a room ofmoderate size where the table was laid for two, and behind the tea-urnhe found the fair Stella awaiting him, with Lady Cranstoun’s apologiesfor her absence.

“Mamma breakfasts in bed, if a cup of tea can be called breakfast, andDr. Graham had to leave for London half an hour ago,” Stellaexplained, while Lord Carthew decided that by daylight, in blue sergewith a collar and cuffs of point lace as her only ornaments, sheseemed, if possible, even more desirable than in her riding-habit orher white silk evening-gown on the preceding day.

Questioned about his friend, Lord Carthew declared that Hilary had agood night and was certainly no worse.

“Very soon, indeed, he will be able to be moved, I believe,” he said.

“There need be no hurry about that,” she said hastily; and then, tohis great joy, she blushed.

“I hope we may have the pleasure of meeting Sir Philip Cranstounbefore we leave,” he observed presently, and at once noted how herface clouded at the mention of her father’s name.

“I don’t know when he will return,” she said, and at once dropped thesubject.

A little questioning as to the way in which she spent her timeelicited the fact that already that morning, so early as half-pastsix, Zephyr had been saddled, and had carried his mistress for half anhour’s canter in the park.

“And tell me what you would like to do after breakfast,” she said.“Would you care to see the curiosities of the Chase—old pictures, andold armor, and old tapestries? Or would you like to quietly study thebooks in the library or smoking-room, with a cigar? Or would you likea ride or drive in the neighborhood?”

“If you haven’t had enough of riding, I should be very glad of amount, if you and Zephyr will be so kind as to accompany me. The factis, my friend and I have left our horses at an inn in a village closeby, and I am fearful as to how they may be treated if left longer tothe landlord’s tender mercies.”

“I shall not be more than a few minutes putting my habit on, and itwill be so nice to have some one to ride with,” she said with acharming smile, as she left the room.

Mental pictures arose again in his mind. He imagined her riding in theRow beside him, the “mad viscount” and his lovely bride, every manthere envying him his newly found treasure. Not only would sheoutshine every woman there in beauty, but also in the management ofher horse. He pictured his friends and acquaintances clamoring for anintroduction, and Stella talking to them with her sweet seriousnessand total absence of coquetry and affectation. He longed, like anyromantic schoolboy, for her love, which he set himself with all hisheart and all his intellect to win.

She, for her part, liked him immensely. She had seen very few men, andshe did not think him ugly by any means, but most interesting looking.She could not divine that as she accepted his aid to spring into hersaddle, the mere contact of her slim foot, resting birdlike, in hishand, sent a quiver of delight through the young man’s frame. Hismanner appeared so unemotional, his face so unmoved, that she neveronce suspected the passion for her which was taking hold of his entiremind and soul. Nor while she talked freely and gayly to him about thetenantry and the country round, could he guess that before her eyesall the while there seemed to flit the remembrance of a bronzed andhandsome face, the brows contracted in pain, the strong white teethgnawing the lip under the drooping golden mustache, and the shortbrown curls disordered on a shapely head against the white pillow.

So they rode and talked, under the pale green leaves that werebursting into a delicate lace-work on the branches overhead, happytogether to all outward seeming, but at cross purposes in reality; hethinking that she listened and understood, she believing him merelyfriendly, and wishing she could change his sympathetic kindness forthe cold disapprobation of that other one who had been wounded throughher folly.

From the darker shadows of the undergrowth a pair of malevolent eyesfollowed them.

“What is she talking so free and smiling with that ugly swell for?”Stephen Lee asked himself. “Bad luck to the day when he and thathulking giant trespassed into these grounds. I wish I’d ’a’ killed himand this chap, too.”

Down in his fierce heart, Stephen Lee cherished a secret passion forhis beautiful young mistress, the existence of which she never oncesuspected. Unknown to her, his destiny was influenced by hers, and hewas the means of communicating news concerning her at stated times tosome birds of evil omen who were sometimes to be found at nightfallhovering within the confines of Cranstoun woods. Sir Philip would havebeen furious indeed could he have guessed that a member of the hatedgypsy tribe had been for five years earning his living in his service;yet such was the case. The handsome, black-bearded young keeper, knownas Stephen Lee, and one of the best men on the Cranstoun estates, wasa true Romany, and hated his master with a hatred to the full asbitter as Sir Philip cherished against the entire gypsy tribe.

Yet at this moment, as he watched Stella and Lord Carthew ride bylaughing and talking gayly, Stephen found himself wishing Sir Philiphome again.

“The gray wolf would soon put a stop to this,” he said. “If it was theother chap, the lord, he might forgive it. I know right enough hemeans to try and marry her to some tip-top swell. But old Sarah willsee her way to prevent that, I reckon.”

He was muttering to himself, when a hard, rasping voice, speaking inlow tones immediately behind him, made him start in surprise.

“Is that the friend of the man you shot?”

Sir Philip himself stood among the brushwood, attired in a light tweedsuit, as cool and unmoved as though he had not been absent from homefor more than a month. The accident had only taken place on thepreceding evening, and Stephen judged by the small handbag that SirPhilip was carrying, and by the direction from which he was coming,that he had not been home. Yet already he was quite well acquaintedwith what had taken place in the woods on the preceding evening. ButStephen Lee had long before this suspected some system of spying bywhich the master of the Chase contrived to inform himself of thedoings of his household in his absence, and he was not therefore muchsurprised by Sir Philip’s question, to which he responded, after hiswont, in a civil monosyllable:

“Yes, sir.”

“This is the man called Pritchard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is Lord Carthew?”

“Better.”

“Did you shoot him accidentally?”

“Partly.”

“Explain yourself.”

“You have often told me to keep off tramps and trespassers and suchlike,” the man answered, with a forced and rather sullen civility.“Lord Carthew stopped Miss Cranstoun’s horse and seemed to be annoyingher. I fired to frighten him and he got hurt.”

“Ah!”

Sir Philip paused for a moment. His eyes followed the retreatingfigures of Lord Carthew and Stella as, with their heads inclinedtogether in converse, they rode on together to a bend in the avenuebetween the trees. Then he turned to Stephen, his face set andmask-like as usual.

“You were only obeying orders,” he said, and threw the man half acrown.

The gypsy picked it up and glowered after his employer as the latterbent his steps towards the house.

“I’ll drink to your destruction in this world and the next,” he said;“but I’m hanged if I can make out what you are up to. Old Sarah willunderstand, perhaps. She’s a match in cunning even for you.”

All this time Lord Carthew was learning from Stella’s lips all thatthere was to tell of her life as it was lived on the surface. She wasseventeen last Christmas, she told him, and she believed it to betrue, ignoring that first year of life which she had passed in Londonas the unloved child of a gypsy mother. For months past she had beentrained in the correct way of bowing, kissing the Queen’s hand, andbacking out of the royal presence over her train by a duly qualifiedlady, who had attended at the Chase in order to impart to her thishighly necessary instruction, and she made Lord Carthew laugh by herlively description of these lessons.

“Don’t you feel horribly nervous about it?” he asked.

She turned her large black eyes upon him in surprise.

“Oh, no, not in the least,” she answered. “All this London trip Ishould look forward to eagerly, I think, but for leaving poor mamma,and—and for something else.”

He saw by the sadness in her look and the way in which she shut hermouth fast that some especially anxious thought connected with thisstay in London troubled her.

“Won’t you tell me what is the other thing?” he asked, gently. “Youhave already said you regard me as a friend, and it will be a reliefto you to tell me your worries, since you say you have never any oneto speak to.”

“I don’t know quite how to put it,” she said, as she meditativelystroked her horse’s neck and ears with her whip. “It seems soegotistical to be boring you with so much about myself. But thisseason, this presentation to the Queen, and the balls and parties thatwill follow, for which I have been trained so long, what will it allmean in the end, but that I am to show off my graces andaccomplishments and wear smart clothes, so that I may attract an offerof marriage? And if any come, there will be no question of love orliking on my part; my father’s intention is just to hand me over tothe best bidder. The Chase is gloomy and dreary and prison-like, and Iam often very lonely; but it is a thousand times better than to bemarried to the man who has the highest title and the largest fortuneamong those who may condescend to take notice of me,” she went on,bitterly. “Why, if I could stoop to such a marriage, there would notbe a scullery-maid at the Chase, or a cottager on my father’sproperty, who would not have the right to despise me!”

“But you might meet some one among these men of rank and wealth whomyou might like,” suggested Lord Carthew. “Having a title and moneydoesn’t absolutely debar any one from being capable of inspiringlove.”

“I suppose it is my training and my contradictory nature,” she said,“but I must own that the fact of a man wearing a title would be areason with me for having a strong prejudice against him to startwith.”

“Isn’t that rather unfair?”

“I suppose it is; but I have had that formula that I was beingeducated solely with a view to marrying ‘well,’ and adding extralustre to the name of Cranstoun dinned into me until I have revoltedagainst it. And I know that after this season, when I am to be takenout and dressed, and inspected by eligible London bachelors, therewill be terrible quarrels between my father and me, which will worryand terrify poor mamma beyond measure. You see, Mr. Pritchard,” shesaid, turning to him with that sweet, frank smile he had alreadylearned to love, “I am indeed talking to you as though I had known youall my life. I dare say it is a good deal what you told me about yourleaving England so very shortly which makes me so ready to confide inyou. It seems much easier to be frank with a friend whom one may notsee again for many years; and then when I heard you tell mamma yourpeople were just yeoman farmers, and that you had nothing in wealth orposition to be proud of, I warmed to you at once, and quite longed fora talk with you. The very name of Cranstoun and the expressions ‘oldfamily,’ ‘county family,’ ‘blue blood,’ ‘rank, title, wealth,position, and ancestry,’ somehow produce a feeling of intenseannoyance in me. I have been so much trained and preached to, infact,” she concluded, laughing, “that at heart I have reverted to thesavage, and that ideal of my father’s of which he constantly speaks asmy vocation in life, to marry some man of brilliant position andfortune, is so detestably repugnant to me that I would far rather killmyself than submit to it.”

He listened, deeply interested, but a little puzzled. The romanticnovelty of her sentiments amused and attracted him by theirdissimilarity from the point of view taken of such subjects by theordinary young Englishwoman of good education and good family, who isusually quite as anxious as her parents and guardians to make what iscalled “a good match,” and who only hopes that her future husband maybe presentable enough for her to like him.

The clew to the mystery of Stella’s character Lord Carthew did notpossess. As much as an emotional woman can dread and hate a man and asystem, so strongly had Stella’s mother hated and feared Sir PhilipCranstoun and the aristocratic lords of the soil of whom he was arepresentative, and a very strong measure of the same rebellion, thesame hatred, she had transmitted to her daughter. So that itnecessarily came about that Stella tried not to think about HilaryPritchard because she believed him to be Lord Carthew, while her heartand sympathies went readily out to Lord Carthew, whom she believed tobe an altogether poor and undistinguished person.

This was exactly the state of mind in which her father, Sir Philip,desired to find her. The far-seeing Baronet had some time ago sethimself to the task of investigating the means and position of certaineligible bachelors among the aristocracy whom Stella was likely tomeet in London. And among these, few had a fairer record in the matterof eligibility than Claud Edward Clayton Bromley, Viscount Carthew,heir to the Earl of Northborough.

That horrible blot, the introduction of the gypsy Carewe element intothe annals of the Cranstouns, might well be wiped out by such analliance. Sir Philip’s keen eyes had noted what his daughter’s hadtotally failed to observe, the intensity of Lord Carthew’s regard ashe turned toward Stella on his horse and drank in her words. As towhat the girl’s sentiments in the matter were, that did not troubleSir Philip for one moment. She had only been admitted into hishousehold on suffrage, he told himself, a wretched infant, born in ahovel, and brought to his house by beggars. He did not know, so heargued, that she was even his wife’s child at all. When he said this,however, he lied, for the girl’s resemblance to her mother was verystriking. In any case, it was not for her own sake, but to save hernoble stepmother’s reason, that baby Stella was taken from herhiding-place in London and brought up in her father’s house. And ahundred times a day Sir Philip punished her for her lost mother’spride and passionate temper.

If she liked flowers and she planted them, orders were given for themto be uprooted and destroyed. A Miss Cranstoun must not soil her handsby gardening. No servant that she liked was allowed to be about her,and in her growing girlhood books that she seemed to enjoy wereinvariably taken away. These petty tyrannies Stella had endured foryears in proud silence. It was as though she had been reserving herstrength for some great struggle which was one day to take place, andto alter for all time the relations between herself and her father.For a long time she had felt it, as it were, hovering in the air, andthat it would be upon the subject of her marriage she had no doubt.Only, she supposed that the trip to London would be the starting pointfor their quarrel, nor could she guess that this kindly new friend,who rode beside her and listened with such sympathetic interest to herlittle troubles, would be closely associated with the crucial conflictwhich was shortly to wage between herself and her father.

CHAPTER VI.
LORD CARTHEW’S WOOING.

Mine host at the wayside inn, where the two young men had left theirhorses on the preceding day, was duly surprised and impressed by theappearance of one of his guests in company with no less a personagethan Miss Cranstoun of the Chase.

Sir Philip Cranstoun was the innkeeper’s landlord, and although he hadhardly ever caught more than a fleeting glimpse of the young lady, heknew who she must be by the livery of the groom, who rode at somedistance behind the young lady, and her cavalier, on a sturdy cob notgiven to exerting himself.

“I assure you, sir, that I never had the least idea that you and LordCarthew wouldn’t come back to pay your little trifle here, as yousuggest,” the man said, all deference and smiles. “Seeing as you’dleft a hundred guineas or more of horseflesh in my stables, it wasn’tlikely, sir, was it?”

Stella at once begged to see the horses, and Lord Carthew hastened tohelp her down from her saddle, a proceeding which took far too littletime in his opinion, for Stella was lithe and active as a sailor lad.Gathering her neat, dark green habit into her small hand in itsdogskin glove, she followed the landlord and her guest to the innstables, while the groom held the horses upon which they had come.

Black Bess and the chestnut cob duly made their appearance, and werestroked and made much of by Stella, who, somewhat to Lord Carthew’schagrin, manifested a decided preference for the big black mare.

“She isn’t what I call a ’andsome ’oss, either, if I may make so boldas to say so,” observed the old hostler of the inn, critically. “Atleast, not for such a young gentleman as his lordship. But she lookslike a good ’un to go and to stay. This ’ere chestnut of yours, sir,’as a lot more blood in ’im now, ’asn’t ’e?”

“He has a long pedigree, certainly,” returned Lord Carthew. “But myfriend weighs fourteen stone against my ten, and wants more bone andmuscle than I do in his mount.”

“That ’e do, sure enough, sir. And this ’ere animal,” signifying BlackBess, “she’d carry the Mayor and Corporation o’ London by turns allday long and be as frisky as a colt at bedtime. She’s as strong as adray ’oss, she is.”

Stella’s fair cheek was pressed against Black Bess’ long, black satinneck, and her soft, cooing voice, beloved of all dumb things, wasmurmuring friendly speeches into the ears of the mare, which werepricked up, and moving quickly backward and forward in appreciation ofthe attention paid her.

Lord Carthew meanwhile was increasing Stella’s liking for him bygiving minute directions as to the food for the animals until theywould be wanted again by their masters. Stella would have suggestedthat they should be sent to the Chase stables, but Lady Cranstoun hadgiven her no instruction on that point and fear of her fatherrestrained her.

“I should like to take you for some pretty ride in the neighborhood,”she explained to Claud after they had again mounted their horses, “butin that case I must ask the way of the groom. Except for a few madspins late at night, I have been very little outside the park, exceptin a closed carriage with mamma. You see, there are a good many squaremiles enclosed round the Chase, so that I get plenty of riding andsome capital hurdles and ditches, too. But Sir Philip has forbidden meto go outside at all.”

“Don’t you want to sometimes?”

“Why, of course I do,” she answered simply. “Just because I am orderednot to, for no other reason. In the evenings, when Sir Philip is away,I ride as near the boundaries of the Chase enclosure as possible, andsometimes I can’t resist taking a jump over and cantering along theroads in the early moonlight. Sometimes, as if he knew we were doingwrong, Zephyr flies so fast his hoofs seem hardly to touch the ground,and I am sure, as we flash by the few country folk trudging along thelonely roads, they think we are wraiths, and go home and make storiesabout us.”

“Why you are a modern version of Tennyson’s ‘Lady of Shalott,’&hairsp;” heexclaimed, and then quoted in clear, rhythmical fashion:

“&hairsp;‘Four gray walls and four gray towers.’

That’s a good description of the Chase, isn’t it? even if in your casethey do not ‘overlook a space of flowers.’ And the continuationapplies:

“&hairsp;‘But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casem*nt seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly,
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot.
And by the moon the reaper, weary,
Piling sheaves in upland airy,
Listening, whispers, “&hairsp;’Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”&hairsp;’&hairsp;”

She had reined in her horse and was listening in eager delight.

“I have never read a word of Tennyson,” she said. “The onlypoetry-books allowed me have been Milton and Wordsworth and someselected readings from Pope and Shakespeare. Sir Philip says thatreading poetry fosters romantic and ridiculous notions, and that Ishould only read the poets his mother read, and know the others byname. But I like what you have quoted better than anything I have everread yet. What became of the Lady of Shalott?”

“Oh, you must not take her for your prototype,” he said quickly. “Sheused to ‘weave by night and day, a magic web with colors gay,’ and shewas never allowed to look out of the window to see the surly villagechurls, and red cloaks of the market girls, pass onward to Shalott.She had to content herself with seeing their reflections in a magicmirror which hung on a wall in her room. A curse was to fall upon hershould she turn from its reflections and gaze on the realities oflife, until one day, when there passed by ‘two young lovers latelywed; “I am half sick of shadows,” said the Lady of Shalott.’&hairsp;”

“But that was not the end, surely?” asked Stella, with childlikeeagerness. “The day came, of course, when she looked out on lifeitself, braving any curse which might befall her.”

“Oh, yes; trust her for that. She was a woman as well as a fairy, yousee:

“&hairsp;‘A bow-shot from her bower-eaves
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.’

He was her fate, I suppose. Anyhow, as a modern writer would say, the‘exact psychological moment of her life had arrived,’ and:

“&hairsp;‘She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro’ the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.’&hairsp;”

“And what was the end?” asked Stella. She had followed each line,conjuring up mental pictures of the scenes. But bold Sir Lancelot shesaw in a brown-eyed giant, with a golden mustache drooping over amouth that was a little hard in outline. And for the lady it waspardonable girlish egotism if she saw herself, living as she did insemi-imprisonment, confined within those “four gray walls” and thedemesnes adjacent. What did she herself know more of life than waspictured in the old-fashioned books to which she had access, or hintedat in the prim and guarded talk of her instructors? Of life as itreally was, its passion, its pain, its hopes, and fears, and sorrows,its mad delights and long regrets, its brilliant colors and heavyshadows, she knew no more than the Lady of Shalott learned from hermirror as she caught sight of the village maidens and gay youngknights reflected there. Until he came! And how would it end afterthat, she wanted to know.

“Oh, poor Lady of Shalott, she had better have been content with herlooking-glass and her needlework,” said Lord Carthew. “Apparently, shewent straight to her death resignedly, after falling in love at firstsight with Lancelot. She ‘found a boat, beneath a willow left afloat,and round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.’ In this shewas wafted up along the river to ‘many-towered Camelot,’ where all thegay knights and ladies were enjoying themselves, foremost among thembeing Sir Lancelot of the Lake, lover of Queen Guinevere:

“&hairsp;‘Under tower and balcony,
By garden wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.’

Then they all came out and looked at her, and read her name on theprow.

“&hairsp;‘Who is this? and what is here?’
And in the lighted palace near,
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights of Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, ‘She has a lovely face,
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.’&hairsp;”

Tears had started to Stella’s eyes as Lord Carthew finished recitingthe verses.

“Sir Lancelot never guessed that she loved him, then?” she asked.

“Not in that poem. But you are taking it quite seriously, MissCranstoun. I shall be angry with myself if I have saddened you.”

“You will think me very silly,” she said, “but I never get a chance ofreading poetry, or of listening to stories told. And you repeat poetryso well, and tell tales in such an interesting manner, I could listenfor weeks at a stretch.”

His heart leaped up with delight at her words; but when he spokeagain, after a slight pause, he had perfect control of his voice.

“Do you know,” he said, “that during the last half hour I have beenthinking a great deal of what you were telling me a little while agoabout your dread of the consequences of going to London. You have beenamiable enough to treat me as your friend, and in that character Ihave been trying to discover some way out of your difficulties. Youare tired of living here, and find the life intolerably dull, do younot? You long to see the world with your own eyes, to travel, to goout and come in as you like, to be no longer repressed and restrained,and blamed when you do not deserve it? You would like to visit strangecountries, to sail in ships to foreign places, to see something ofgayety and brightness in the great cities of the world?”

“Yes; oh, yes!”

Her gypsy blood had mantled in her cheeks, her breath came quickly,and her eyes sparkled with excitement at the pictures his wordsconjured up before her.

“And you also long, I am sure, sometimes, when you are alone in thatgreat dreary house,” he went on, softly, “for love and affection, fora tenderness that shall wrap you round, and guard you from all worryand trouble, for the arms of some one who would love you aboveeverything else in the world clasped round you; for the lovingcompanionship of some one who would think of you always, understandyou in everything, and answer your mind with his, for love that isfriendship, and friendship that is love; the love that will grow graybeside you, and find you dearer and more beautiful when your youth ispast than even you are now.”

She faltered, blushed, and looked at him quickly.

“I have mamma——” she was beginning, when he stopped her by layinghis hand lightly upon her own, which held the reins on her horse’sneck.

“Wait a moment, please, Miss Cranstoun. I don’t want you to speakuntil you have heard me out. I love you, and I want you to be my wife.Don’t start and draw back. There is nothing after all so verywonderful in such a statement. I knew when I first saw you last nightthat I should ask you to marry me, and since that moment I have onlybeen waiting for the terms to come to me. I am not in the leastattractive, I know. But there’s this to be in my favor, that I am tooplain to be conceited, or to have my head turned by women’sflatteries. You are not happy here, and you lead a caged-bird sort oflife. As my wife, you would be free as air, and your will would belaw. Of course I don’t expect you to love me—not for a long time yet.But in time,” he added, wistfully, “in time, as you realize that youare everything in the world to me, I think you will grow to like me alittle. You see, we are such good friends, and I should understandyou, and that is something to begin with, is it not? And we wouldtravel all over Europe—all over the world, if you like. Of course,”he went on in some confusion, noting her look of surprise, “it is notas though I were very rich. But I have some money saved, quite enoughto enable me to give my bride a long and delightful wedding tour bysea and land before starting for my Canadian farm. Don’t answer medirectly—don’t say anything at all just now. Think it over, and letme know. I will speak to Lady Cranstoun when we get back, and you canconsult with her.”

“But, Mr. Pritchard,” she said, turning her great, startled eyes uponhim, “do you think for a moment my father would consent? He would befuriously angry, and horribly insulting at the mere idea. Don’t, praydon’t speak of this any more. Let us forget all about it, and go onbeing merely friends.”

“That is impossible,” he answered, gently. “Tell me truthfully, MissCranstoun, is your objection to a marriage with me based solely uponthe fear of your father’s disapproval?”

“Yes—no—that is—I don’t want to marry you, Mr. Pritchard! I havenever thought of such a thing!”

The words burst from her lips, and a bewildered, troubled look cloudedher fair face.

“Well, I will give you time to think of it,” he said, quietly. “As toSir Philip’s objections, I have little doubt that I can overcomethem.”

“You don’t know my father,” she said, with meaning. “Sometimes Iwonder why he hates me us he does. But I am certain of one thing: hewould far rather see me dead than married to any one who is not mysuperior in rank and fortune.”

“Still I don’t fear his opposition,” returned Lord Carthew, with asmile. “I am better off than you know, and may possibly even succeedto a title some day.”

“Had you told me that at first,” she said reproachfully, “we shouldnot have been such friends.”

“You would soon forget it,” he said, smiling again. “A title, afterall, is not a thing a man wears on his coat. May I take it that ifyour parents consent you will at least not decide against me?”

“Don’t!” she exclaimed. “You have surprised and startled me so much Ican hardly think coherently. You see, I am not used to receivingoffers of marriage. This is my first. I suppose it is a great honor,but—let’s have a gallop, shall we? The horses must be quite tired ofwalking.”

Away she flew, at break-neck speed, after a shake of the reins and aword to Zephyr, who needed no whip to urge his pace, and gave LordCarthew work indeed to follow him.

Flushed and out of breath, they at length drew up their steeds beforethe steps of the Chase, having re-entered the lodge gates after aspirited canter through the lanes, the horses neck to neck part of thetime, but eventually with Zephyr a long way ahead. Stella was radiantand laughing as Lord Carthew sprang from his horse to assist her todismount, the groom having been left jolting steadily far behind. LordCarthew felt at that moment happier and more hopeful than he had everbeen before, and both were talking and laughing in merry boy and girlfashion upon the result of their extempore race as they ascended thebroad, shallow steps to the entrance of the house.

Before they had had time to touch the bell, the massive doors wereopened to them, and just within the hall immediately before them stoodthe master of the house, pale, gray-haired, gray-eyed, his squareface, with its handsome clear-cut features and unpleasantly sinisterexpression, shown up by the clear sunshine of an April day.

Lord Carthew glanced at Stella. All gayety and brightness had diedfrom her face at sight of her father, and instead came that look offixed self-repression and endurance which he had once before notedthere.

“So you have been enjoying an early ride,” Sir Philip remarked to hisdaughter, in grating tones. “Have you and this gentleman beenunattended, may I ask? If not, where is the groom?”

“His horse could not keep up with the others,” Stella answered,briefly.

“And who is this gentleman? May I have the honor of being presented tohim?”

“Mr. Pritchard, my father, Sir Philip Cranstoun,” said the girl, inlevel tones, from which all the glad youthful ring had departed. “Ifyou will excuse me,” she added, “I will go and change my habit.”

With a little formal bend of the head, she left them, and walked instately fashion up the staircase until she passed out of their sight,when she suddenly quickened her steps, and flew like a bird down thecorridor to Lady Cranstoun’s room.

She found that lady lying on a couch, very white and feeble, wrappedin a cashmere morning-gown, and trembling in every limb.

“Oh! my dear, my dear!” Lady Cranstoun murmured, wringing her limp,white hands, “I am so thankful that you have come back. Your fatherhas returned, and has been asking me questions. He compelled me totell him where you were. I expected a storm, but he said nothing,which seems so much more dangerous. I am in such terror of what he maysay to you.”

Stella drew a footstool to the side of Lady Cranstoun’s sofa, andtaking one of her hands in both her own, gently kissed it, and rubbedher cheek against it.

“Mamma,” she said, “how would you like to leave the Chase, and comeand stay with me in a nice house, where every one would love you, andno one would bully and frighten you, and where you would have niceservants instead of spies, and where your relations would be honoredand welcomed, instead of being insulted whenever they came to visityou?”

“It sounds delightful,” returned the poor lady, sighing, “but, ofcourse, it is impossible. What put such ideas into your head?”

“Mr. Pritchard has just asked me to marry him.”

Lady Cranstoun sat up on her sofa.

“My dear, you astonish me!” she exclaimed. “It is so extremelysudden.”

“He says he decided to propose to me as soon as he saw me yesterday,”returned Stella, demurely.

“But it is utterly out of the question. Of course he is a gentleman,and well educated, and has very agreeable manners; but, my dear, hetold me himself that he is a farmer’s son, and has neither money norfamily. Oh, dear—oh dear! it is all my fault for allowing you to beso much with him. But he seemed so little like a love-making sort ofman, so plain and intellectual, I never dreamed any harm would come ofit. I did certainly suggest to Dr. Graham that I ought not to leaveyou together while we were playing chess; but he reassured me sostrongly that I thought no more about it. Sir Philip will be furious.He will never forgive me. And you—my poor dear child—I hope, oh, Ido hope, that you have not grown fond of him.”

“Don’t worry, dear mamma. I don’t care a bit about him, at least notin that way. He is very clever, and very kind, and, I believe, verygood, too, and I am sure he is fond of me, and would be very good toboth of us; and it would be lovely, wouldn’t it, to be free of theChase forever? As to his farm in Canada, he says it doesn’t matterabout going to that yet, and that he has a lot more money saved thanany one knows of, and that he will take me all over the world. Youknow Dr. Graham has always said a voyage to the Cape would do yougood, and I thought of that directly; we would all go to the Capetogether in a sailing ship. Think,” she exclaimed, springing up fromher kneeling position, and beginning to pace restlessly up and downthe room, “how beautiful it would be to be upon the great, wide sea,which I have only once seen in my life, with the bright sun sparklingon the waves, and you and I on deck under an awning, such as I haveread about in books of travel; you on a deck-chair, and I mixing youyour iced lemonade, and reading aloud while beautiful warm breezesblew over you and made you well; and above all,” here she came andknelt by Lady Cranstoun’s side, and lowered her voice to an impressivewhisper, “with no Sir Philip!”

“Hush, hush, dear!” the elder lady exclaimed, nervously glancing atthe door. “In your picture you leave out the man, I see. But what doesit matter? Even if you loved him, and wanted to marry him for otherreasons than to escape from this house, your father would not hear ofit. He has said thousands of times that you must marry a title. Now,if it had only been Lord Carthew——”

“Don’t, mamma!” exclaimed the girl, for the first time blushingscarlet. “Lord Carthew detests me. Anyhow, we were not talking of him.Mr. Pritchard isn’t a bit afraid of Sir Philip. He says if he is theonly obstruction, he can soon remove that. It appears he is cominginto a title and fortune, and can prove it to Sir Philip. But eventhen,” she added, “I couldn’t marry him, could I, without loving him?”

“I should like to see you happy with a good husband, my darling,” saidLady Cranstoun, tears coming into her faded eyes as she stroked thegirl’s cheek. “Of course, I would much prefer you to marry a man ofgood birth and of some fortune; but your happiness is the chiefthing.”

A little later, Stella, going down to the drawing room for a novelwhich Lady Cranstoun was reading, was joined there by Lord Carthew.

“I have spoken to your father,” he said.

“What did he say?” inquired Stella, curiously.

“He offers no objection against me, provided I can succeed in winningyour affections.”

“I am quite sure Sir Philip didn’t say that,” she exclaimed,laughing. “He wouldn’t think my affections had anything to do with thematter.”

“But they have everything to do with it, from my point of view,” hesaid, standing before her, and looking steadfastly into her face. “Idon’t expect or hope that you will love me yet. But if you will marryme, I will engage that you shall be a great deal happier than you arenow.”

“That might easily be, now that Sir Philip has returned.”

She spoke half under her breath, and as it were involuntarily, andthen stood a few moments, reflecting. Lord Carthew was a little, avery little, shorter than she, and even such a fancy-free maiden asStella had her ideals of the man she might some day grow to love. Likemost very young girls’ ideals, he was of exaggerated height and lengthof limb. Lord Carthew was of pale and sallow complexion, in spite ofthe fact that he usually enjoyed excellent health. Gazing at him thusin the sunlight, and regarding him for the first time in the light ofa possible husband, Stella noted that his deep-set, intelligent eyeswere of a greenish-gray, and set too near together in his head forbeauty or symmetry. Herself a brunette, she admired fair, florid skinsand light hair in others. Lord Carthew was clean-shaved, and Stella’sconventional ideal invariably wore a golden mustache, similar to theone on the face of the wounded man upstairs. Lord Carthew’s upper lipwas long, and his lower jaw slightly protruded. To a student ofphysiognomy, his mouth and chin clearly indicated an intense loyaltyand fidelity in love and friendship, combined with a bull-dogobstinacy and tenacity of purpose, and his whole face denoted unusualintelligence, will, and power of loving.

But Stella was a young girl of eighteen, and saw none of these things.Her feminine instinct taught her that this man was an honorablegentleman, but what she particularly noted with dissatisfaction wasthat, in moments of repressed excitement, as in the present instance,Lord Carthew’s eyes and eyebrows twitched in a nervous fashionpeculiar to some oversensitive temperaments.

Her survey over, she turned away with a half-sigh. Why was not thisman, who loved her, more like that other man, who disliked her? Butthe next moment she tried to put that thought away as humiliating. Shewas certain Lord Carthew would be very good to her, and to her mammaalso. And oh! to be free from Sir Philip’s sneering, and bullying, andhectoring!

“Only tell me one thing,” Lord Carthew said at last. “Have I a rival?”

Stella flushed deeply, but answered on the instant.

“No, no! How could you possibly have? I have hardly spoken to a manbefore, except Sir Philip, and the doctor, and my teachers. No, itisn’t that I love any one else, but—but——”

“But you don’t love me? Well, that would be impossible. There isnothing about me to make a beautiful young girl fall in love at firstsight. But, my dear Miss Cranstoun, you have certainly beauty enoughfor two!”

She laughed and blushed with pleasure. She had so far in her life hadhardly any compliments.

“Would you take mamma away from here as well?” she asked. “I mean,if—if I ever said yes.”

“Of course I would, if she would come. She is my kinswoman, youknow—at least, my friend’s kinswoman.”

“I’ll think about it, and tell you later,” she said, springing awaywith one of her swift, bird-like movements, and was gone before hecould speak again.

On the way to her own room, she passed the apartments which had firstbeen occupied by the first Lady Cranstoun, and which were now given tothe supposed Lord Carthew. The doors both of the bedroom andsitting-room were wide open. Stella glanced into the latter, andperceived the wounded man lying fully dressed on a sofa near the fire,apparently asleep, for his eyes were closed and his dark eyelashesrested on his cheek. He looked paler than usual, but handsomer thanever, with the extra touch of delicacy imparted by loss of blood andunaccustomed weakness.

Stella looked again, and creeping in, stood gazing down upon him untilher breath came quickly, and tears gathered in her eyes. Under hishalf-closed lids, Hilary was watching her, and when he saw her red lipquiver and her arms involuntarily moving toward him, his self-controlbroke down. Suddenly stretching up his right arm, he drew her headdown to his, and pressed his lips passionately to hers.

CHAPTER VII.
A KISS TOO LONG.

“Alas, how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too much or a kiss too long;
There comes a mist and a blinding rain,
And things are never the same again!”

Stella had never heard the verses, but something of the same thoughtentered into her mind as she drew back, pale and quivering, after thatone passionate kiss interchanged between her and Hilary.

In one magical moment she had learned so much—had learned that sheloved Hilary, that he loved her, and, moreover, that the thought ofmarrying her suitor of the morning, which up to now she had been ableto cherish at least without aversion, had suddenly grown intolerableto her. All this had been taught her by a kiss, the first which ever aman had laid upon her lips.

With downcast eyes and rapidly beating heart, she stood now beforeHilary, as he rose from the sofa and bent down toward her, holdingboth her little trembling hands in one of his.

“It was my fault,” he whispered, humbly. “Forgive me.”

“I—I have nothing to forgive,” the girl said, unsteadily, stillwithout looking up. “I must go, Lord Carthew.”

“If I were really Lord Carthew,” he said, “there might be some excuse.But I am not. By a freak of my friend’s, we had changed names for awhile when that accident happened to me. But I never intended thetrick to continue. It is true that he begged me, as a favor, to keepsilence on the subject, especially before you. But, after my folly andimprudence, I must confess the truth. I cannot masquerade any longer.Miss Cranstoun, try to forgive me.”

“I have nothing to forgive.”

“You see,” he went on, unheeding, letting her hands go, and standingat some distance from her, “I was half-dreaming—weakness, I dare say,proceeding from the ridiculous semi-invalid position I’ve been induring the last eighteen hours. Suddenly, on opening my eyes, I saw aface, a very lovely woman’s face, close to me. It seemed a part of mydreams; I did not stop to consider who she was, and I kissed her.”

“You thought it was some one else, then?”

“I did not say so. But will you forgive me?”

“I forgive you. I understand; I was only a part of your dream. Pleasetell me again what you were saying just now. I could not quite graspit. What is your real name?”

“Hilary Pritchard. Here,” he continued, fumbling with one hand in hispocket, “here are cards, letters, and papers, to prove it. No one whoknows the Northborough family could suppose that I belong to it. ButLord Carthew was my college chum, and I like him as well almost as oneman can like another. I am all the more sorry because I have annoyeda lady whom I know he very greatly admires.”

“So it is Lord Carthew I have been talking to all last evening andthis morning,” Stella observed, reflectively. “That explains a greatdeal.”

She broke off abruptly. What she really meant was that it explainedthe fact of her father’s acquiescence to the proposed marriage betweenherself and his younger guest; and also to the latter’s way of talkingas though he were wealthy and heir to a title, as well as other pointswhich had puzzled her.

The door of the sitting-room in which they stood was wide open, andDakin, the housemaid, passed along the corridor, apparently withoutpaying any particular attention to Stella and Hilary; but Stelladisliked and distrusted the woman, and moved toward the door as Dakinmade a great pretence of going down the staircase to the ground-floor.

“I will say good-by now, Miss Cranstoun,” said Hilary, in aconstrained voice. “I shall be leaving the house almost immediately.May I leave it to you to make my apologies to Lady Cranstoun?”

“But you will stay to luncheon, surely?” Stella suggested. “It willseem so strange if you go like this. And besides, you are not nearlystrong enough to be moved yet. You can hardly walk, and last night youwere delirious, I know.”

“How do you know?”

She blushed deeply.

“I charm away mamma’s headaches,” she answered, in confusion. “Ibelieve I have some kind of magnetism in my touch. So I asked Margaretto let me soothe you.”

“It was you, then. I woke out of a horrid nightmare, and felt yourtouch, and heard your voice.”

His tones vibrated with deep feeling, which he was trying vainly tosuppress. Stella, on her part, was torn between a desire to escape anda longing to remain near him.

The first luncheon-gong rang out in the interval of silence. Stellaheld out her hand to him.

“Won’t you stay?” she asked.

“I cannot.”

He was holding her hand close, and through both their frames electriccurrents seemed to tingle. The very air about them was charged withelectricity to them, so that both were quivering and excited.

They were standing near the open door, when suddenly Stella turned,laid her two small hands lightly upon Hilary’s sleeve, and looked upin his face, her own pale, but transfigured into more than its usualloveliness by passionate feeling.

“Was it only a dream?” she breathed rather than said. “Or do you loveme?”

Mortal man could hold out in pride no longer. In an instant he hadgathered her up in his arms, and was covering her cheeks, her eyes,and her lips with close, hot kisses, while he murmured incoherentwords of love into her ear.

Only for one mad, never-to-be-forgotten moment did he hold her thus,she unresisting, clinging timidly to him, letting her soft lips meethis in answering passion.

Then he remembered all the difference between them, all the barriers,all the impossibilities. As in a flash he realized her father’s wrath,her mother’s astonishment, and the indignation of his loyal friend,Lord Carthew, and leading Stella gently to the door, he kissed herhands in token of farewell.

“Good-by,” he whispered. “I will write.”

Then he shut the door, and finding herself alone in the corridor,dazed and agitated, Stella fled to her own room, and kneeling downbefore an arm-chair by the fire, buried her face in her hands, toenact in imagination the scene again which she had just gone through,to thrill with ecstasy as she recalled Hilary’s kisses, to blush untilher delicate skin seemed scorched as she remembered her own timidresponse, and to long with every fibre of her being for the momentwhen she would see him again.

She knew full well now what even to herself she would not own, shehardly understood before, that from the moment when that man of superbfigure and perfect face had laid his hand upon Zephyr’s bridle on thepreceding evening, and looked into her eyes, she had loved him, andthat but for that she would hardly have braved her father’s anger byinsisting upon Hilary’s removal to the Chase.

She had believed that he positively disliked her, and had secretlyreproached herself for letting her thoughts dwell so persistently upona man who scorned her. Only during the past ten minutes had shelearned the truth, that against his will he loved her as passionatelyas she loved him. That one glorious fact outweighed all otherconsiderations in her mind. As to Lord Carthew, he was as completelyforgotten as though he had never existed. His intelligence, his kindlysympathy, his interesting talk, were of no more account in her eyesthan his wealth and title. The strain of wild gypsy blood in her veinswas showing itself fully now. She loved as gypsy natures can, with apassionate self-abandonment, counting the world and all that itcontains of no value when compared with the love of the one personexisting who could make life worth living.

Yet she was a Cranstoun, too—trained in habits of strict self-controlfrom her infancy; and when the second summons to luncheon came, shesprang up instinctively, smoothed her hair, looked at herself fixedlyin the glass, and hoped that others would not notice the strange glowin her cheeks and light in her eyes, and went down to lunch in herplain serge gown, her eyes like two dancing stars, and her mouth alltremulous with smiles.

It was almost with a start that she came face to face with LordCarthew, and realized that he was staying in the house. Lady Cranstounglanced at her nervously. She was a few minutes late, and Sir Philipnever overlooked the least unpunctuality. To-day, however, to hergreat astonishment, he made no comment upon it. He and Lord Carthewseemed to get on unusually well together; both had travelled a gooddeal in Europe, the former unaccompanied by his wife and daughter, andthey naturally fell to discussing the various hotels at which they hadstayed.

Stella was heartily glad that no part of the conversation devolvedupon her. She sat in her usual place at the head of the table, LadyCranstoun not being equal to any of the duties of hostess,mechanically doing all that was required of her, and all the timewondering whether Hilary had left the house yet, how he would standthe journey in his weak condition, whether by any chance she shouldsee him again before his departure, and if not, how soon he wouldwrite to her. Lord Carthew noticed the brightness of her eyes and herabsent-minded expression, and with a thrill of joy hoped it mightarise from her half-given promise to himself. His interview with herfather had been short, but characteristic of both men.

He had followed the dreaded gray wolf into his vast library,surrounded by well-filled oaken bookcases, and had watched him takehis accustomed place with his back to the fire, sarcastic, andcritical.

“Sir Philip,” Lord Carthew had begun, plunging at once into hissubject, as he seated himself deliberately in a deep arm-chair,“first, I must thank you for the hospitality extended to my friend andmyself since yesterday evening. You have no doubt heard of my friend’sunlucky accident, entirely the result of our trespassing in yourgrounds. Next, I must inform you that while out riding this morning, Imade your daughter an offer of marriage.”

“Indeed, Mr.—Pritchard, I think the name is?”

“No, that is not my name, but that of my friend upstairs. To please awhimsical fancy of my own, we had changed names for the nonce duringour travels. My name is Lord Carthew, and my father, LordNorthborough, is connected with Lady Cranstoun’s family.”

“May I ask if you are in the habit of going about under an alias?”

“I don’t think I have ever had occasion to use any name but my ownuntil yesterday. The point is, that as Miss Cranstoun expressed anindifference to titles which almost amounted to hostility, I tookadvantage of the fact to continue the jest, and to do my wooing in thename of my old college friend, whose people are gentlemen farmers inYorkshire.”

“Very romantic,” sneered Sir Philip. “May I ask whether this ‘Lord ofBurleigh’ style of courtship won my daughter’s heart?”

“I could not say that. Miss Cranstoun has known me a few hours only,and I am not possessed of those graces and attractions which charm atfirst sight. But at least she did not repel me, and even promised tothink about the matter, subject, of course, to your approval.”

It was difficult for Sir Philip to keep all signs of his satisfactionfrom his hard and impassive face.

“I will tell you plainly, Lord Carthew,” he said, after a moment’spause, “that after what you have told me, I shall require betterproofs of your identity than your bare word if you wish me to consideryou in the light of a suitor to my daughter’s hand. We Cranstouns are,as you may know, among the oldest, absolutely the oldest families inEngland, and on her mother’s side my daughter is granddaughter to theDuke of Lanark. I do not think my daughter is especially attached tome, although she is most devoted to my wife. But she has been broughtup in habits of the strictest obedience, and would not think ofencouraging any admirer without my full sanction. Had you been thisMr. Pritchard you were pleased to personate, I should most certainlyhave never given it.”

“My friend is a gentleman, sir,” returned Lord Carthew, coldly; “and aman of such high character and superb appearance that any girl mightwell fall in love with him, and any father be proud to be connectedwith him.”

“In that case, you must pardon me for saying so, but are you notcommitting an error of judgment in taking him with you when you gowife-hunting?”

The bitterness of the sarcasm, reflecting as it did upon hisundistinguished appearance, stung Lord Carthew for one moment only,and he winced. Then, recovering himself, with an easy smile, heanswered that fortunately for him Mr. Pritchard was not a marryingman, and proposed, indeed, shortly to leave England and seek hisfortune out West. In the mean time he should be glad to know whetherSir Philip had any objection to offer against him, Lord Carthew, inthe character of candidate for his daughter’s hand.

“My parents are extremely desirous that I should at once marry somelady of birth and beauty,” he continued. “My father intends settlingfifteen thousand a year and a house in town upon me as soon as mychoice is made. But I have hardly ever hoped to see my ideals allrealized so perfectly as they are in your lovely and charmingdaughter.”

The two men having come to a thorough understanding, it was hard tosay which was the more eager to hurry on the marriage. Even thestrongest and hardest of men, to all appearance, usually have one weakspot, one touch of human foolishness about them, and in Sir PhilipCranstoun’s mind there lingered always a haunting fear lest the oldgypsy woman’s prophecy of disgrace and shame to be brought upon him byhis descendants might some day be verified. Over his wife he exercisedthe same unquestioned, domineering authority as over the servants ofhis household; but he had long ago recognized the proud, dumb protestin his daughter’s obedience, and had realized that she inheritedsomething of his own will-power, together with a capability forpassionate resentment and other qualities at the existence of which hecould but guess.

He was all the more relieved at the thought that she would, by herbrilliant marriage with the future Earl of Northborough, at onceretrieve the mistake he himself had made twenty years ago in weddingClare Carewe, and relieve his mind from all lurking anxiety on heraccount. Lord Carthew was evidently a man of originality and strengthof purpose; even Sir Philip, who cherished a chronic contempt fornearly all his kind, was compelled to recognize this, and hecongratulated himself heartily on his own sagacity in keeping assecret, even from herself, his daughter’s half humble origin.

After luncheon Lord Carthew, instead of joining his host in thesmoking-room, repaired to the drawing-room, which Stella quittedalmost as soon as he entered.

He noted her action, and erroneously attributed it to her naturalmodesty and shyness in not wishing his offer of marriage to bediscussed before her mother. But in truth, Stella was not thinking ofhim at all. She merely wished to be alone that she might think overthe emotions of the morning, and she had hardly given a moment’sthought to Lord Carthew and his proposal after that brief butmomentous interview with Hilary Pritchard.

It was easy enough, so Lord Carthew found, to win Lady Cranstoun’sapproval of the match. Seating himself near her sofa, he told her in afew well-chosen words of his love for her daughter, and the ruse hehad practised in pleading his cause in his friend’s name.

“I can never understand my dear Stella’s extraordinary objectionsagainst wealth and position!” exclaimed Lady Cranstoun. “For my part Iam delighted about the whole affair. I thought from the moment when Ifirst saw you that you had the Douglas eyes. Do you know, with herstrange opinions, I have always been nervous as to whom Stella wouldmarry? She is so utterly unlike ordinary girls, you see, and I am themore relieved that it has all turned out so well.”

“You really think she will have me, then?”

“Certainly I do,” returned Lady Cranstoun, opening her pale blue eyesin surprise. “Of course, as she says, she has not known you longenough to love you; but she has a very high regard for you, and youseem to have similar tastes. She even—I hope I am not betraying herconfidence—but she even asked me if I should like to go for a voyagewith you after you were married, and drew a most charming picture ofthe deck of a ship with all of us assembled there.”

A faint color came into the poor lady’s face as she spoke. Theprospect of leaving the Chase, and her husband’s cold, tyrannicaldislike, seemed to momentarily restore her lost youth and health. LordCarthew was delighted at her encouraging words.

“There is no breach of confidence,” he said. “Your daughter said asmuch to me. I think I may consider myself as the happiest man inEngland at this moment.”

Meanwhile, under the trees of the same shrubbery where hergrandfather, Hiram Carewe, was shot down and murdered nineteen yearsbefore, Stella Cranstoun walked, with feet that seemed hardly to touchthe ground, her thoughts absorbed by Hilary. She would not think ofthe future. The fact that he loved her should be enough for her forone happy day at least, until she could hear from him.

Turning into a fresh glade, where the branches overarched above her,she came unexpectedly face to face with her father. The flush diedfrom her cheeks, the light from her eyes. She bowed coldly and wouldhave passed on, when he barred her progress with his arm.

“Wait!” he said. “I have something to ask you. What is this about aproposal of marriage made to you this morning by a Mr. HilaryPritchard?”

She looked at him scornfully. She knew quite well that he was tryingto deceive her.

“You have been misinformed,” she said. “The gentleman who asked me tomarry him was Viscount Carthew.”

“And what was your answer?”

“I have not yet given it. But it will most certainly be ‘No!’&hairsp;”

CHAPTER VIII.
AN OLD FRIEND.

Father and daughter faced each other under the delicate springfoliage, both pale, set, and determined.

Sir Philip spoke first.

“If Lord Carthew has done you the honor to ask you to marry him,” hesaid, “you will most certainly accept him.”

“That I shall never do,” she answered, her heart beating high withexcitement at her own temerity.

“What imbecile school-girl freak is this?” he asked, harshly. “Thismorning you were encouraging him.”

“I did not know my own mind this morning,” she said, blushing deeply;“and I did not know Lord Carthew’s real position. He belongs to aclass I greatly dislike.”

“He belongs to the class from which your husband will come, or youwill die an old maid. You have been reared, trained, educated, solelyfor this end, and you will be presented at Court next month asViscountess Carthew on her marriage.”

“I will never marry Lord Carthew.”

He took her roughly by the shoulder. He hated her proud, pale face, solike her dead mother’s at that moment that he could almost hearClare’s voice speaking to him from the dead. He longed to strike thosefirmly shut lips, to bring a look of fear into those dauntless eyes.But he contented himself by gripping her shoulder with all hisstrength, so that for days afterward five dark bruise-marks showed theclutch of his cruel fingers.

“You have never yet set your will up in opposition to mine,” he said,in a low voice. “And I warn you not to try. In dealing with me it isbetter to bend, to avoid being broken. Go back to the house now, toyour own room, and think over what I have said. Before this month isover you will marry Lord Carthew.”

“That I shall never do!”

Her voice rang out in clear defiance, accentuated a little by thesharp pain of his grasp upon her arm. He threw her roughly off, andproceeded on his walk through the grounds, while she retraced hersteps, trembling with indignation and anger, toward the house. As sheemerged from among the trees, she came upon Stephen Lee, the keeper.His face was flushed, and his eyes shone so strangely that the ideaoccurred to her that he must have been drinking, and she was walkingquickly past him when he stopped her.

“I beg your pardon, miss. But may I make so bold as to ask whetherhe—Sir Philip, I mean—was hurting you in any way just now? It seemedto me he gripped your arm that tight he must have hurt you.”

“My father, do you mean?” Stella asked in cold surprise. “Certainlynot, Stephen. Why did you ask such a thing?”

“Because,” answered Stephen, with a sudden half-suppressed savagery ofmanner, “if he laid a finger upon you to really hurt you like, I’dshoot him down like a dog!”

“You must be mad!” the girl exclaimed, with a fine mixture of pity anddisdain. “Quite mad!”

“Maybe, miss. But not so mad as you think, and not so much beneath youas you think, neither. Anyway, I’m not too mad to have heard andunderstood every word as you and Sir Philip were saying just now underthe trees. And if you are going to be tormented by this Lord Carthewas I shot in the shoulder—lord or no lord, I’d put another lot ofshot through him as soon as look at him.”

Stella was intensely surprised by the man’s method of address, andstill inclined to the belief that he had probably been drinking. Butit occurred to her on the instant that there might be danger to theman she loved in allowing Stephen to continue in the dark as to hisidentity.

“The gentleman who was wounded by your clumsiness last night was notLord Carthew, but a friend of his, named Mr. Pritchard,” she said.“And please understand, Stephen, that the interest you appear to takein my affairs is neither pleasant nor desirable to me. I must ask youto say no more on the subject, and not to offend in this way again.”

The young man ground his teeth with anger as she passed him on her wayto the house, with heightened color, and her proud little head moreerect than usual.

“I oughtn’t to ha’ said so much,” he muttered to himself, as hewatched her. “But when I see the gray wolf grip her shoulder, I couldha’ murdered him. It would take her haughtiness down a bit to learn asshe and me are second cousins, come of the same old gypsy stock. ButGranny Sarah will tell her the truth some day, she swears, and bringher pride a peg lower. Sarah’s got some deep game in her wicked oldhead lately; I can see that by her nods and grins, and mutterings toherself. She and Uncle James are hatching a plot together, I’ll bebound; and between them they’ll serve the gray wolf out, if they swingfor it!”

Lord Carthew was still chatting comfortably with Lady Cranstoun in thelibrary when Stella returned to the house. On the floor above, shenoticed in passing that the two rooms which had been used by Hilarywere wide open and empty. Her heart sank at the sight, and she turnedeagerly toward Margaret, whom she saw approaching down the corridor.

“Has he gone?” the girl asked, anxiously. “And when did he go? And oh,Margaret, do you think it was safe for him to be moved yet?”

“Of course it wasn’t safe,” the woman answered, rather crossly. “But,dear me, when young gentlemen get notions in their heads there’s nostopping them. If you’ll come into your room, miss, I notice the hemof your dress is frayed, and I’ll see to it for you.”

Stella passed into her bedroom, and Margaret, following her, carefullyclosed the door. Then she came over to where her young mistress stood,and whispered in her ear:

“There’s spies about. One can’t be too careful. Here’s a bit of a notewas left for you. Read it, while I pretend to see to your dress.”

With trembling fingers, Stella tore open the envelope, and read thefollowing words, written in pencil on a half-sheet of paper:

“Good-by, my dear and only love. Try to forgive me. And forget me asfast as possible. I shall think of you always, but as of one far aboveme, meant to make some better fellow happy. I must not see you again,and I must not write to you. It would not be fair or honest. Good-by,dear, again.
“Hilary.”

Stella gave a little cry of pain.

“Where has he gone, Margaret?” she whispered, while the tears startedto her eyes. “To London, or to Yorkshire? Can you tell me?”

“He didn’t say a word, miss; but he seemed in a great hurry to getoff. If I was you I wouldn’t trouble my head about him. Handsome is ashandsome does, I say.”

“Surely he ought not to be alone. Lord Carthew should go after him!”Stella exclaimed. “I must speak to him!”

She made a quick movement toward the door, and then checked herself.It was impossible, she felt, to face Lord Carthew at this moment. Shehad forgotten until now her half-promise of the morning, but itrecurred to her as she realized the difficulty of explaining to theViscount the knowledge she possessed of Hilary’s movements. She musttrust to chance for Lord Carthew to find out that his friend had leftthe house. Meantime, resentment against her father kept her from goingdownstairs lest she should meet him. Anxiety on Hilary’s account madeher restless. Putting on her hat and cloak, she ran lightly downstairsat about five o’clock, and stealthily out by the front entrance. Thewind had freshened, and a little rain was blown into her face. Shehurried on beneath the thickly planted trees in the park, urged by sheknew not what impulse, until, as she neared the lodge gates, she metcoming in her direction a horsey-looking man, whom she at oncerecognized as the hostler of the inn where Hilary’s Black Bess andLord Carthew’s chestnut cob were put up.

The man recognized her and touched his cap. She stopped him at once.

“Are you going to the house?” she asked. “Have you a message for someone? And has anything happened?”

“Well, miss, the fact is that Lord Carthew, one of the young gentlemanas was staying up at the Chase, we think as he’d got a bit of feverover his wound, for about two o’clock this afternoon in he staggers tothe inn-yard all alone, and pale as a co’pse. ‘Hullo, my lord, is ityou?’ I begins, being the first to see him, when he cuts me shortlike, telling me it ain’t his name, and that he’s called plain Mr.Pritchard. Then he orders me to saddle Black Bess at once, and bequick about it. I thought he looked a bit queer and feverish, so Imakes a long job of it, but I had to get it through at last. Whenmounted, he was that weak he could hardly hold the reins, but hechucks me a sovereign and rides out of the yard, sitting as upright asyou or me could do—begging your pardon, miss. I felt sort of anxiousabout him, but I’d a deal of work on hand, being market-day inGrayling, when about an hour later who should come clattering backinto the yard but bonny Black Bess, with her master hanging halfunconscious over her neck, and his shoulder all covered with blood,owing to his wound having broken out again. I never did see asensibler animal nor that mare. It’s my belief that Lord Carthew hadnothing to do with it, but that that there animal’s own instinct toldhim to make the best of his way back to us. My master, he wanted todrive his lordship back here to the Chase, miss; but Lord Carthew, hewas conscious by that time, and he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Send for adoctor,’ he said; ‘any one about here will do. Let him patch up thiswretched scratch so that I can get on with my journey to London.’ So,as they couldn’t spare me, our boy was sent to Grayling in the cart tofetch Dr. Netherbridge, as has been settled in the town twenty yearsor more, and is a very good doctor as doctors go, though I don’t muchbelieve in ’em myself. The boy he couldn’t find the doctor at first,and when at last he brings him, his lordship was pretty bad,particular when he was called by his own name. Dr. Netherbridge hetakes the boss aside and asks him a few questions. Then he says, ‘Sendsome sensible person to the Chase to inform Lord Carthew’s friend ofhis condition.’ Says the boss, hemming and ha’ing, ‘Sir Philip’s mylandlord,’ he says, ‘and I don’t want to be party to nothing that’llput his back up. He’s a very difficult gentleman to deal with.’ SaysDr. Netherbridge, with a queer sort o’ smile to himself like, ‘I don’tneed to be told,’ says he, ‘of what Sir Philip Cranstoun is like. I’vehad some dealings with him a good many years ago. Don’t send a messageby a boy,’ he says, ‘but by some one you can trust.’ With that theboss asks me to do the office, as I ain’t specially afraid ofanything, living or dead, miss, saving your presence, and away Icomes.”

They were nearing the lodge gates now, Stella having turned in thatdirection as soon as the man had arrived at his recital of what hadbefallen Hilary.

“I will come with you,” she said, in tones that allowed of noopposition. “I must see how he is. He is my mother’s guest, and it waspartly my fault that the accident happened to him. He stopped my horselast night, thinking it was running away with me, and one of thekeepers fired to frighten him and accidentally hit him. And what hesays about his name is not a proof of fever, but perfectly true. LordCarthew, his friend, had changed names with him in jest; his name isMr. Hilary Pritchard.”

“Well, young gentlemen are up to queer larks certainly,” the manobserved, but Stella’s manner did not encourage him to talk, and shewalked so fast that it was all he could do to hasten his slow,bow-legged, stableman’s gait sufficiently to keep up with her.

Dusk was falling fast as they reached the inn. Before the door stoodthe light cart in which the doctor had arrived, ready for his returnjourney. Already Stella was beginning to feel nervous andself-conscious, as she noted the curious glances of the farming folkgathered under the old-fashioned arched entrance to the yard. The barstood on one side of the building, the coffee-room on the other; thelatter room was empty as Miss Cranstoun was shown into it, and sheglanced around in some curiosity. It was a low-ceilinged apartment ofconsiderable antiquity, but marred and vulgarized by a cheap varnishedpaper above the dark wood wainscoting round the walls, by flaminggas-jets, the light from which flickered on colored prints of racingscenes and tradesmen’s calendars, and by a small, mean fireplace,totally inadequate to the size of the room.

A man’s gloves and walking-stick lay on the long wooden table, stainedwith the rings left by glasses and pots, and almost as soon as Stellaentered the room a gentleman came in hastily to claim them.

The newcomer was short and pale, with brown hair and beard plentifullystreaked with gray, and a face redeemed from plainness by thoughtfuland penetrating blue eyes.

He came in with his hat on, but at sight of Stella he removed it,exclaiming as he did so, in evident surprise:

“Miss Cranstoun!”

“That is my name. Do you know me?”

“I knew you directly, by your remarkable likeness to your mother,” heanswered, and then suddenly stopped and blushed very red.

For he had seen the look of astonishment in her face, and rememberedthat every one in Grayling supposed Miss Cranstoun to be the daughterof Lady Gwendolen, a rumor which, as he had never seen the young lady,he was not in a position to discredit, though he often wondered whathad been the fate of the infant girl whom he himself had seen conveyedto her father’s house and sent away from thence in the nurse’s care,one winter’s morning eighteen years ago.

The mystery was solved now. She stood there before him, a slimmer,more fairy-like, and more refined version of her mother; even hervoice, in its rich, soft intonation, recalled to his mind the unhappyClare Lady Cranstoun.

“No one has ever called me like my mother before,” she was saying. “Idid not know you had ever met her. She is a great invalid.”

“What can I do for you now?” he asked, to change the dangeroussubject.

“A man from the stables here met me in the park,” she answered, hercolor rising high, “and told me of an accident to a gentleman who wasstaying at our house last night. I suppose you know all aboutit—about how it happened, I mean, and how the wound broke out again.You have just come from seeing him, have you not? How is he? Pray tellme!”

Dr. Ernest Netherbridge was a man of extremely observant mind, and hedrew his own conclusions from the evident interest shown by the younglady before him for the handsome young giant upstairs.

“He is very feverish, and has a nasty wound in the shoulder, which hasnot been improved by the shaking and jolting he has gone throughto-day. I understand that he was your father’s guest last night?”

“My father has never seen him; he only returned home to-day, and Mr.Pritchard left before luncheon. He seemed very anxious to get back toLondon,” faltered Stella, conscious that she was blushing crimsonunder the steady gaze of Dr. Netherbridge’s blue eyes. “You have nottold me yet whether there is any danger, and whether—whether I cansee him.”

“I should not say there was any absolute danger except the risk thatfever might supervene after the very unwise exertions of to-day. Iintended going myself to Grayling to fetch a reliable nurse of myacquaintance. As to seeing him——” he paused, and looked at herdoubtfully. “May I ask,” he inquired, abruptly, “whether the sight ofyou is likely to disturb him?”

She blushed deeper still.

“It might perhaps excite him a little,” she stammered; “but I would bevery quiet, and would not speak more than you let me.”

“I am afraid it would be inadvisable,” said the little doctor, shakinghis head. “Quiet is so essential. With rest and care, and obedience toorders, he ought to be as right as possible within a week. But anyexcitement to-night might produce the worst possible effect.”

Tears started to Stella’s eyes.

“Dr. Netherbridge,” she said, humbly, “I have an idea that I shall nothave another opportunity of seeing Mr. Pritchard, perhaps, for a verylong time. If I write something on a slip of paper, will you let himhave it when he is better, and will you yourself tell him that I came,and that I may not be allowed to do so again? And may I see him justfor one moment, without his seeing me?”

The doctor reflected a moment.

“He was sitting in an arm-chair when I left him,” he said. “He hadrefused strenuously to go to bed, and persisted in declaring he mustget on to London to-night. If you will promise not to let yourpresence be known, you might come with me now, and see him at least.”

She stole up the stairs after the doctor, her heart beating wildly.Before a half-open door on the floor above he paused, and beckoned toher to join him. She was so much taller than he that she easily sawover his shoulder into the room. Hilary was leaning back in an oldchintz-covered arm-chair. His coat was half off, and his wounded armwas resting in a sling fastened round his neck. His eyes were closed,and his brows contracted as if in pain. Tears rolled down Stella’sface as she looked at him. The room was lit by a single candle, andwhere she stood she was in semi-darkness, and undistinguishable.Something seemed to tell her that it might be long, very long, beforeshe looked upon his face again, and that this love which had sosuddenly sprung up within her heart was destined to be “tried by pain”indeed. A sob rose in her throat, and turning quickly away, that itmight not be overheard by Hilary, she groped her way down to thecoffee-room through her tears, and taking pen and paper from a sidetable, she scribbled the following lines:

“Please write to me. I have just seen you, but dared not let youknow I was here. Please do not forget me, for I shall not forget you.And pray do not leave off loving me, for I cannot leave off lovingyou.
“Stella Cranstoun.”

She folded the note, placed it in an envelope addressed to “HilaryPritchard, Esq.,” and placed it in Dr. Netherbridge’s hands.

“You will give it to him, won’t you?” she asked, and he promised.

“Thank you, Dr. Netherbridge, and good-by!”

“You are surely not returning to the Chase alone? It must be half anhour’s walk, and it is so late.”

“Twenty minutes, as I walk it. And it isn’t half-past six yet. I willsend Lord Carthew to his friend. Good-night!”

Before he could say another word she had fled from the room, passedswiftly out from the arched entrance to the inner yard on to the road,and disappeared in a bend of the way, leaving Dr. Netherbridge toponder on the strange chance which had made him acquainted with thegirl whom he had first seen as a helpless infant of not more than twodays old, more than eighteen years before.

CHAPTER IX.
THE GYPSY’S PROPHECY.

“Let me cross your hand with a bit of silver, my pretty lady! Let metell your fortune, deary—all about the fair young gentleman you loveso true, and the dark one you won’t have, for all his gold and rank.”

The words, uttered in a hoarse, croaking voice close to Stella’s ear,as she sped through the trees of the park in the darkness, made herstart and utter a little cry of fright. The terms, too, were sostrangely appropriate to her own circ*mstances that it seemed asthough they were spoken in response to her thoughts. Turning inconsiderable alarm, she perceived a few steps behind her the small,bent form of a very old woman, in appearance almost a centenarian,wrapped in a hooded cloak of some dark woollen material. From underthe scattered white locks straying over her wrinkled brow anextraordinarily brilliant pair of eyes gleamed out, belying herapparent decrepitude, and carrying out still further the weird andwitch-like effect of her whole appearance as she stood before Stella,leaning heavily on a stick, with skinny, trembling fingers.

Stella Cranstoun possessed the instinctive reverence for age whichexists in all generous-minded young people. The uncanny appearance ofthe old woman considerably startled her in her overwrought state ofmind; but she easily forgot her temporary alarm in an unselfish fearas to what might befall the aged creature before her should Sir Philipchance to hear of her presence within his grounds.

“Are you a gypsy?” Stella asked, stopping short, and looking fixedlyat the old woman.

“Ay, my deary; I’m a gypsy, sure enough. Old Sarah is a true Romany.But the Romanys are your friends, my pretty. You’ve got no call to beafraid of them.”

“Do you know who I am, then?” the young girl asked, fascinated inspite of herself by those strangely bright eyes.

Sarah Carewe burst into a hoarse, mirthless laugh, which remindedStella more of a raven’s croak than of the ordinary way of expressingamusem*nt.

“Do I know my Clare’s girl when I see her?” she asked. “My Clare, thatdied in my arms when you was a little, helpless baby. You’ve got hereyes, my pretty, and her face; for all you’re not so round anddimber as she was in her prime.”

“You are making some mistake,” Stella said. “I am the daughter of SirPhilip Cranstoun, of the Chase. If you want money I will give you whatI have about me with pleasure; but you must get out of the park assoon as possible, for my father is dreadfully bitter against trampsand gypsies, especially gypsies.”

An evil scowl contracted the hag’s white eyebrows.

“Sallah!” she muttered, under her breath; and although Stella didnot understand her, she easily guessed that the expression conveyed amalediction. “He’s hard on us, is he? Let him wait a bit.” Then,changing suddenly to a wheedling tone, she begged again to be allowedto tell Stella’s fortune. In vain the girl pressed money upon her, andtried by warnings and entreaties to get rid of her, while she hurriedon toward the house. Old Sarah was not to be shaken off, and professedherself fearless as to the consequences which might befall her if seenby one of Sir Philip’s keepers. Stella began to be seriouslyfrightened at length lest the woman might come to some harm, knowingher father’s orders.

“Now, pray, take this half-sovereign,” she urged, “and go back out ofthe park at once. In a few seconds we shall be in sight of the house,and the dogs are trained to fly at any one who is not smartly dressed.And only yesterday Stephen Lee, one of the keepers, shot a gentleman,who was accidentally trespassing, in the shoulder, and wounded himvery seriously.”

“Don’t I know, my pretty? And isn’t Stephen Lee son to my owndaughter’s child, and am I not his old mami? He won’t hurt me, neverfear. Cross my hand with the bit of gold, and I’ll go.”

In order to rid herself of her, as it was now close on the dinner-hourat the Chase, Stella let her soft white hand be clutched withinSarah’s lean fingers, and stood watching, impatient, and yet a littleinterested in spite of herself, as the gypsy took a box of matches anda dirty end of candle from her pocket, and peered into her victim’spalm under the lightly falling rain.

“I see a prison, my deary, and a marriage forced upon you—marriagewith a dark gentleman, who loves you, dear, and who is a great lord;but your heart is given to the fair man. I see starvation and a death,and only one way of help for you.”

She droned the words monotonously, as though some inner force weredictating them to her, doubtless a trick of her trade, but none theless impressive to an imaginative young girl.

“Go on!” whispered Stella. “And pray make haste. I must get home.”

“You must ask your own people to save you,” said the old woman,raising the forefinger of her right hand impressively. “Only theRomanys can help you. Trust no one else, and when despair comes, sendthis token to me—to old Sarah Carewe, that held you in her arms whenyou first opened your eyes on this wicked world.”

Suddenly blowing out the candle, she fumbled in her pocket, and thenthrust into Stella’s hand what appeared to be a small silver coinstrung on a piece of dirty red silk cord.

“When you want my help,” she said, “give this to Stephen Lee, and Iwill save you. You shall marry the man you love, and live a life offreedom and happiness, as a Romany doxy should; and the black lordand the gray wolf may go hang together. Good-night, my pretty.Beenship rat. And remember old Sarah!”

She waved her shrivelled hand in token of parting benediction, andslunk away among the trees with a swiftness astonishing in a woman ofher years, leaving Stella, with her brain filled by bewilderingquestions and ideas, to make the best of her way to the house.

The first dinner-bell had already rung as she entered her room todress for dinner. The lady’s maid, who attended both upon her and LadyCranstoun, was full of comments upon her moist dress and boots.

“Dear me, miss! how wet your things are! And you seem all flushed asthough you had hurried. I do hope you won’t have taken a chill.”

Stella disliked the girl—a tall, shifty-eyed creature, with aretreating chin and a tendency to gossip, who had only been in SirPhilip’s service a short time.

“Don’t waste time in remarks, Ellen,” she said, quietly, “but help meinto my white silk dress.”

Fortunately, she was able to enter the dining-room at a quarter pastseven, on the last stroke of the gong, but by the peculiarly cold andevil gleam of Sir Philip’s eyes as they rested upon her she knew thathe was already greatly angered against her. This she attributed to thefact of their conversation in the shrubbery that morning; but what shedid not guess at was a certain short interview which had taken placebetween her father and the housemaid Dakin a few minutes beforedinner, while Lady Cranstoun and Lord Carthew were still dressing forthat meal.

Dakin knew that Sir Philip, who carried punctuality to an excessextremely uncomfortable for other people, would be in his study longbefore dinner; she therefore tapped at the door discreetly, and onbeing admitted, stated that she had “something to say which shethought Sir Philip might like to hear.”

She was a plain, sallow-faced woman of forty, with a slight cast inher dark eyes, and extremely quiet in dress and manner, and she stood,rolling a little corner of her snowy muslin apron over and over in herfingers while she spoke.

“It was before lunch, sir,” she said, in a low, apologetic voice. “Iwas passing along the corridor, when, as I was walking by the rooms ofthe young gentleman that was wounded, and that first of all calledhimself Lord Carthew, what did I see by accident, but——”

“Spare me all this circumlocution, Mrs. Dakin. You were spying, as Ipay you to do, and you saw—what?”

“Only Miss Stella, sir, hugging and kissing the young gentleman,”returned Dakin, with humble vindictiveness.

“The young gentleman! What young gentleman?”

“Mr. Pritchard, sir, that got his arm shot. You didn’t see him, Ithink. He was very big and very handsome, and he was calling MissStella his dear and his darling, which, begging your pardon, sir, sheseemed quite to like and encourage him.”

Sir Philip muttered an oath under his breath, and stamped his heel onthe carpet.

“When did this happen?” he asked sharply. “Before or after her ride?”

“After, sir; oh, some time after. Miss Cranstoun had had time tochange into her serge housedress. Indeed, it was just before luncheon,for it was the first luncheon-bell that gave them a fright. You see,sir, it was rather indiscreet, for they stood in the sitting-roomquite near the door, which was wide open, so as I couldn’t help seeingthem.”

“What happened then?”

“He said he would write, sir, and then he kissed her again, and shehim; and they said good-by. And during luncheon he went away, aftergiving me orders not to tell any one he had gone until an hour or twohad passed, and half a sovereign. And he gave a pound to Margaret, andtwo letters, one for Lady Cranstoun, and one for Lord Carthew.”

“Have they received those letters yet?”

“I placed them on the dressing-tables in Lady Cranstoun’s and in LordCarthew’s rooms, sir. But neither of them went upstairs after lunchuntil just now to dress for dinner.”

“No letter was left for Miss Cranstoun, then?”

“Not so far as I know, sir. Directly after lunch Miss Cranstoun wentout in the grounds for a short time. Then she came back to her ownroom, but she wasn’t there at six o’clock, as I found out from hermaid, who couldn’t tell me what had become of her.”

“Go upstairs and find out quietly if she’s in her room now.”

He almost trembled with apprehension during the few minutes of Dakin’sabsence. Her news had very seriously disturbed him, coming as it didafter Stella’s defiant declaration in the shrubbery that she wouldnever marry Lord Carthew. Her words, taken by themselves, had affectedhim but little; but in conjunction with the fact that she had had theaudacity and the folly to choose a lover for herself, they became veryserious indeed. Was it possible that she had already actually elopedwith this farmer’s son, whom she had only met for the first timeyesterday evening? Was all his cunning concealment of her mother’shumble origin to be wasted if once the wild gypsy blood in her had achance of asserting itself? Was his name to be disgraced, after thepains he had taken to clear it from all possible taint of hismiserable first marriage? That old gypsy hag, when she cursed himbefore the court-house eighteen years ago, had prophesied that hischildren should bring disgrace upon his name. Were her words comingtrue already?

The housemaid’s entrance set his fears at rest for the time.

“I listened outside the bedroom door, sir,” the woman said, “and Ellenwas dressing Miss Cranstoun, and remarking that her serge gown and herboots are wet. So she must have been out walking.”

Sir Philip was puzzled. Could the fellow be hanging about the groundsstill? he wondered. But if he wished to make love to Stella, why hadhe, hampered as he was by a wounded limb, already left the shelter ofthe Chase?

“Understand,” he said, to the woman, sternly, “I am extremely annoyedthat you should have let Miss Cranstoun give you the slip thisafternoon. Every movement of hers must be watched at this point andreported tome. Either you or the lady’s maid, Ellen, must dog herfootsteps everywhere. She must never be again allowed to leave thehouse alone.”

At dinner Lord Carthew informed his host that he was much disturbed bya letter he had just read which had been left for him by his friend.

“I dropped into his sitting-room a little before luncheon,” heexplained, “and found him lying, fully dressed, asleep on the sofa. Ididn’t like to disturb him, and half hoped to see him at lunch. Afterlunch, I was so pleasantly employed talking to Lady Cranstoun, chieflyabout you, Miss Stella, that the afternoon flew by I can’t tell how.Then when I went just now to see my friend, I found that he had flown,leaving only a note in which he asks me to make his excuses to LadyCranstoun, and to thank her for her kindness, but that as he is quitewell, he will not trespass upon it any longer, but will at once returnto London, where a doctor of his acquaintance will soon set him upagain.”

“Mr. Pritchard left a note for me also,” put in Lady Cranstoun, “inwhich he said much the same thing. It seems so curious that he shouldhave been our guest, and yet that I have never seen him. But I verymuch hope that he will come to no hurt through making a move sosuddenly. He is a very dear friend of yours, is he not?” She turned toLord Carthew with almost an affectionate touch in her manner. She wasslightly flushed this evening, and her pale blue eyes positivelyshone. It had always been a subject of dread with her lest her belovedStella should be forced into some marriage totally distasteful to herby her father’s tyranny. But her short interview with Stella thatmorning, and her long talk with Lord Carthew in the afternoon, hadconvinced her that here was the ideal husband for her daughter—rich,titled, a connection of her own, and at the same time intellectual,generous, affectionate, and of a singularly high character. His mannerto her was perfect. After so many wretched years of slighting andsnubbing and terrorizing which she had patiently endured from herhusband, the gentle deference and kindly sympathy of Lord Carthew cameto her as something altogether new and delightful. If only she herselfat Stella’s age had had the good fortune to secure the affection ofsuch a man, she felt that her lot would have been different indeed.Knowing something, too, of the volcanic depths of Stella’s nature, ofher determination, her impulsiveness, and her powers of loving andhating in what seemed to poor Lady Cranstoun an exaggerated andincomprehensible degree, her motherly heart was the more rejoiced thata man of originality and evident force of character had seen fit tothrow the handkerchief to her.

What Lady Cranstoun, unfortunately, altogether failed to take intoaccount was that strange magnetism which occasional members ofopposite sexes exercise over each other, not always with the happiestresults. Beautiful, luckless Clare Carewe had aroused such a passionin the breast of even the cold and calculating Sir Philip twenty yearsago, and at the present moment Sir Philip’s daughter was consumed byjust such an unreasoning and overwhelming love for Hilary Pritchard,who, after all, had done little more than look into her eyes, speaksomewhat disparagingly about her, catch her in his arms in that onemad embrace, and then leave the house, apparently without the wish orthe intention to see her again. Hilary had neither rank, nor fortune,nor family; he was not Lord Carthew’s equal in intelligence, nor washe a man of such original and large-minded views. He had sometimesflirted with nice and pretty girls of his acquaintance, but he hadseldom devoted much thought to any woman, a good run to hounds beingin his opinion far better than the most fascinating courtship, and nowoman in the world the equal of his mare, Black Bess.

As to marriage, Hilary had no wish for such a binding and fetteringarrangement for many years to come. There was the Canadian legacy tobe made into a profitable investment first. In time, no doubt, a wifeand children would be nice to come home to on winter evenings, but hehad scarcely ever regarded even their remote possibilities except asso much more or less ornamental and expensive furniture in his futurehomestead.

He had not meant to fall in love with Stella Cranstoun. Nothing was,in fact, further from his thoughts than to fall in love with anybody.Against his will, her personality affected him, and from the momentwhen he laid his hand upon her bridle-rein until he parted from her inthe corridor, through all the physical pain of his wound, the thoughtof her beauty haunted his mind, try as he would to cast it out. Shewas altogether unsuited to him, and marriage with her would beimpossible. What was there in common between the granddaughter of aDuke, the child of one of the proudest men in England, and himself,the son of a plain yeoman, of neither family nor fortune?

Stella, of course, could not guess that this was her lover’s state ofmind, but something of it she gathered from Lord Carthew’s talk when,in answer to Lady Cranstoun’s inquiry as to whether Hilary was aparticular friend of his, he said, warmly:

“I am extremely attached to him. I attribute his sudden departureto-day to his intense independence of character, which he sometimescarries even to an aggressive extent. He was very angry over what hechose to consider as the false position in which he was placed by mywhim in changing names with him, for which trick I have not yetsufficiently apologized to you or to Miss Cranstoun.”

He turned eagerly to Stella as he spoke, but she rewarded him only bya frigid bend of the head.

“I have already told you,” he went on, a little chilled by her manner,“of my disgust at the snobbishness of those people who, because of mysuperior rank, loaded me with attentions, and almost ignored theexistence of my handsome friend. At a house where we recently visited,four pretty girls, set on, I suppose, by their parents, hardly so muchas talked to him, and made a dead set at me. Now, this wasridiculously unnatural, for my friend is the most superbly handsomeman I have ever seen, a giant in height, and one of the finestathletes in the University, with a face, too, which cannot fail toattract women, to whom, however, I must own, he is extremelyindifferent.”

“Your friend, then,” interposed Sir Philip, who was keenly watchingthe effect of this talk upon his daughter, “has no intention ofmarrying at present, I presume?”

“So far from it,” Lord Carthew returned, “he has not the slightestwish to settle down in matrimony for many years to come. He has thebad taste, indeed, not to think about women at all; which is,perhaps,” he added, with a laugh, “considering Hilary’s remarkablenatural advantages, a very good thing for us plain little fellows.”

CHAPTER X.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

Lord Carthew spoke as he did of his friend’s prospects andintentions with perfect frankness and loyalty, never for one momentsuspecting the effect which his words might produce in the mind ofStella Cranstoun.

He really believed that Hilary had the bad taste to dislike that younglady, and he was certainly not ill-pleased by such a manifestation offeeling on the part of his handsome friend. Not for an instant did thesuspicion cross his mind that two persons present were listening withintense, even breathless, interest to his careless words.

“I must go up to town the first thing to-morrow morning,” he said,presently, “to find out how Hilary is. Of course he is enormouslystrong, but for that very reason he is the more likely to overestimatehis powers of recuperation. Early in the autumn he will be going outto settle in Canada on a farm which has been left to him, and Ibelieve he proposes to spend some years there, so that we shall notlong have a chance of being together. He is a capital business man, aslong-headed and keen-sighted over a bargain as most Yorkshiremen are,and I have no doubt that he will carry out his expresseddetermination, and make the property pay.”

“By which time, probably, he will modify his views on the marriagestate sufficiently to permit of his mating with some honest, robustperson in his own rank of life, who will rear for him a squarely builtand solid brood of Anglo-Canadian olive-branches,” remarked SirPhilip, still with his eyes furtively watching his daughter.

“Here is to your friend the farmer’s health and prosperity,” he added,sipping his brown sherry with the air of a connoisseur. “A man in thatposition is very wise in deferring marriage as long as possible. Inthe case of the lower middle-class, too often ‘a young man married isa man that’s marred.’&hairsp;”

“One must always take Anne Hathaway into consideration when onerecalls Shakespeare’s reflections on the marriage state,” observedLord Carthew. “A man who at eighteen marries a woman ofsix-and-twenty, beneath him in rank, and of questionable character, ishardly likely to entertain a high opinion of wedded life. Speaking formyself, I have always looked forward with out-of-date eagerness andinterest to the day when I should bring home my bride. And I am mostanxious to see my father and mother on the subject at the presenttime.”

His eyes rested lovingly upon Stella, but as he had not directly usedher name, she could hardly utter a disclaimer. The blood rushed to hercheeks as she realized that she was being placed in a wrong positionaltogether. Lord Carthew treated her, spoke to her, and alluded toher, as though there were some compact between them; and yet, as shehad promised nothing, there was nothing to retract. If she were toassure him again privately, after dinner, that she did not love him,that would but be repeating what she had said to him before; he hadsaid that he did not expect her love, and was glad to be content asyet with merely her liking. How could she say:

“This morning I hardly knew that I had fallen in love with your friendat first sight, and I believed he disliked me extremely; also, theprospect of an escape from the Chase, and from my father’s tyranny,for both my mother and myself, seemed too good to be missed. But afteryou had spoken to me, and I had more than half encouraged you, yourfriend kissed me, and instantly I knew that I loved him with all myheart, as he loved me, and that marriage with you was absolutelyimpossible.”

Clearly she could not make such a statement, especially in the face ofwhat Lord Carthew himself had said of Hilary’s rooted aversion againstmarriage, together with the significant fact of his hasty departurefrom the Chase, without so much as telling her in so many words thathe loved her.

Stella was intensely miserable that evening. Every now and then shetold herself, in passionate self-reproach, that hers was the fault,that Hilary had not loved her, had not meant to kiss her. It wasmerely, as he himself had said, like a part of his dream; it was thatlittle gesture of hers toward him which had hastened that one quickembrace of which he had already so plainly repented. She almost criedaloud in humiliation at the thought, and the blushes coursed over hercheeks under her lowered lashes so swiftly and unaccountably that poorLord Carthew was to be pardoned if he began to lay the dear delight tohis soul that she was thinking of him. Of what else, indeed, could shebe thinking? he asked himself, as he noted her evident abstraction,her strange reserve, and those sudden changes of color.

When Lady Cranstoun and Stella retired to the drawing-room, theformer, settling herself upon her sofa, motioned to the young girl todraw her low stool up beside her, and tenderly stroked her hair.

“I am so glad, my dear,” she murmured, while her gentle eyes filledwith tears, “so very, very glad. And I like him extremely. He is theideal son I always wished to have. I cannot tell you what a relief itall is to my mind. He is my own relation, too. I have not felt sohappy for many, many years.”

“What do you mean, mamma dear?” stammered Stella, feeling terriblyguilty.

“Ah, my child, you know well enough. And now I will tell yousomething, dear; if I have often seemed rather selfish in the way inwhich I have taken care of myself, and tried to avoid excitement andward off attacks of illness, it has been because of my awful dread ofleaving you with him—your father. Heaven knows, I have been alwaysa poor companion for a lovely, bright, young girl, and not muchprotection for you against his anger. But still, you have always felt,have you not, that your mother was with you, that she loved you, andsympathized with you, and suffered with you? You have never felt thebitter loneliness of being without a friend to love you among enemies?When I have been feeling tired, ill, and worn out, I have said tomyself, ‘I must not give way; I must not die until my Stella ishappily provided for.’ I could not die and leave you with him. Butnow if, as Lord Carthew suggests, the marriage takes place almostimmediately—and, indeed, what is there to hinder it?—I shall have mymind at peace, knowing that you will be safe under the protection of agood man’s love. I can die quietly, happily, and thankfully,remembering that.”

“Don’t, don’t talk about dying!” cried Stella, bursting into a floodof tears, and covering Lady Cranstoun’s wasted hands with kisses. “Icould not lose you—you must not die! And—and I don’t love LordCarthew. I never shall. I know he is good and clever, and all that yousay, but—but I cannot marry him!”

Lady Cranstoun sat upright on her sofa, looking very white and wan.

“Don’t, darling, for my sake, be capricious any more,” she whispered.“As to disliking him because he is a viscount instead of a farmer, asyou thought at first, that is foolish and beneath you. You are onlyjoking, my dear, are you not? You would not disappoint me so bitterly,after all our talk this morning, about that voyage to the Cape, andhow I was to come and stay with you, and—and——”

The words died upon her lips. An ashen gray tint spread over her face,and she fell back among her cushions in a fainting-fit. Her feebleframe was not equal to the strain of the day’s excitement, culminatingin the shock of Stella’s refusal to carry out the contract to whichshe seemed so willing a party in the morning, and on which LadyCranstoun had set her heart.

Stella overwhelmed herself with reproaches as she assisted Margaret torestore the invalid to consciousness. The gentlemen were still in thedining-room; they were, indeed, discussing the question of marriagesettlements in a highly amicable manner. But to Stella’s great relief,Dr. Morland Graham returned from town just at the moment when hispatient recovered consciousness, and by his advice she was taken offto bed, where she soon fell asleep, worn out by the fatigue andexcitement of the day.

“I want to talk to you about your dear mamma,” said Dr. Graham, in hismost benevolent professional manner, as he accompanied Miss Cranstounback to the drawing-room. “I don’t think even you quite realize herextreme weakness. Her heart is in such an enfeebled state that shemust on no account be exposed to the slightest shock. She may die in afainting-fit similar to the one she had to-night, and the finestmedical skill in the world would not save her. She must not bethwarted or disappointed, if her life is to be prolonged, say for ayear or two longer. May I ask whether there was any apparent reasonfor her last seizure?”

“Yes,” answered Stella, after a moment’s hesitation. “We—we weretalking about an offer of marriage which I have just received.”

“Indeed! That is most interesting. May I be allowed to congratulateyou? And who is the happy man?”

“Wait, please! The man is Lord Carthew, who for some silly freakchanged names with his friend when he came here last night.”

The doctor laughed, a long, low, comfortable, and self-satisfiedlaugh.

“The young gentleman did not deceive me,” he said, complacently. “Iknow Lord Northborough well, and the family likeness between him andhis son is remarkable.”

“Apparently,” said the young lady, angrily, “I was the only personwhom it was deemed necessary to deceive. In the name of Pritchard,Lord Carthew asked me to marry him, and I told him I would think aboutit. I did think about it, and I decided against him, but in the meantime he had had interviews with my father and mother in which heappears to have presented himself in the light of an accepted suitor.But I haven’t the slightest intention of marrying him. In fact,” sheadded, vigorously, “the very idea of it makes me hate him!”

“I really,” began the doctor, “can see nothing in the younggentleman’s manners or style to justify your dislike——”

“It isn’t that!” she interrupted, eagerly. “Dr. Graham, you are aclever man—you understand men and women. Don’t you know quite wellthat it is possible to like people very much as friends, but toloathe them in the suggested capacity of husbands or wives?”

“Certainly, certainly. But in this case the match appears soexceptionally happy—however, the subject in discussion is yourmamma’s health. You tell me you were talking over the proposedmarriage with her. I suppose that she is in favor of it?”

“She has set her heart upon it,” said Stella, with a sigh. “And assoon as I told her my objections she fainted.”

“One thing is quite certain,” said Dr. Graham, emphatically. “If youwish to preserve her life, you must at least affect to fall in withher views for the present.”

“But they want to marry me off at once,” she cried, desperately, “evenbefore I am presented at Court!”

“Well, well!” returned the doctor, soothingly, “I shouldn’t think yourfate such a very hard one, after all. The Earl of Northborough isone of the most distinguished statesmen in England, in high favor atCourt, with a wife who brought him about a million, and Lord Carthewis the only son. All the beautiful and well-bred girls in London havebeen setting their caps at him for the past two years.”

“You don’t understand!” she cried. “These things are nothing, lessthan nothing, to me. So far from coveting wealth and rank, I wouldavoid them. My ideal of marriage is quite—quite different.”

She stopped short and blushed deeply.

“I cannot make you understand,” she said again, and turned away.

“I can understand two things, Miss Stella,” he answered, gravely;“caprice on the one hand, and duty on the other.”

She turned sharply round and faced him.

“Duty!” she repeated, coldly. “I don’t understand you.”

“The daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun and granddaughter of the Duke ofLanark is not in a position to marry for mere caprice any person shemay happen to take a fancy to,” he said. “Noblesse oblige. You mustkeep up the traditions of your family and marry some one in your ownrank of life. It is a duty which you owe to your family, yourtraining, and your parents. In your case, the duty is all the moreclearly marked out for you, as Lady Cranstoun’s health dependsentirely upon your fulfilment of her clearly expressed wishes; if youdisappoint her in her very natural and loving wish to see you happilymarried to so intellectual and high-minded a nobleman as Lord Carthew,her death may lie at your door.”

Stella rose from her chair and walked away from him toward the window.She felt that a net was being drawn about her feet, and her formerliking for Lord Carthew turned to a resentful dislike. With her heartthrobbing in her bosom at the very thought of another man, with everyfibre of her being tingling with passionate love for him, how couldshe tamely endure the suggestions that, even for her mother’s sake,she must marry Lord Carthew? It was useless to reason with her. Thegypsy Carewe blood in her veins was burning with unreasoning passion.She loved Hilary Pritchard, loved him with such unquestioning ardorthat she would only too gladly have left her home that night to followhim, penniless and barefooted, throughout the world. Arguments werewasted upon such a nature. There was no trace of the cold and proudDouglas element in her temperament; eccentric, strong-willedCranstoun, and wild, lawless Carewe had united to produce thisstrange, half-tamed creature, with only a coating of education andrepressive training over the primeval passions, the wanderinginstincts, and the marked rebellion against all constituted authoritywhich characterize her race.

All the gypsy in her was dominant to-night as, with flushed cheeks andglittering eyes, she went up to her harp, and striking a few effectivechords, sat down before it, and broke into a Hungarian air, which hadgreatly taken her fancy among some new music which had arrived fromtown during her father’s absence. Perhaps her strange meeting with oldSarah Carewe had put the thought of the gypsy race into her head; orelse it was that in her present excitable, rebellious, and agitatedmood, the wild Zingari music appealed to her feelings; certain it isthat she threw all the repressed intensity of her nature into thesong. She was an excellent musician, and played from memory,suggesting the air, now wild, now plaintive, by a succession ofchords. The words, too, a lament supposed to be uttered by a dying“Egyptian,” chimed in with her own frame of mind sufficiently well toenable her to throw her whole soul into her voice.

Even that well-regulated person, Dr. Morland Graham, was astonishedand excited by her performance. How came the daughter of LadyGwendolen to possess such dramatic intensity and fire? he askedhimself, while the girl’s sweet soprano notes clove the air, and thestrange wailing pathos of her tones brought actual tears to his eyes.

Two other listeners had entered the room. Stella sang on, unheedingthem, while Lord Carthew watched her, entranced in admiration, and herfather regarded her with a heavy scowl of intense disapprobation.

The picture she made, sitting there in her slender, girlish beauty,her cheeks pale with excitement, her eyes aglow, her dusky hairframing her small, sensitive face, and that sweet, pathetic voiceringing out the wild love, the longing for liberty, and the lonelinessof the dying gypsy—all these things, which filled the other two menpresent with wondering admiration, irritated Sir Philip beyondmeasure. How dared she sing gypsy songs in his presence? Above all,how dared she reveal in her singing that warm southern nature which heso strongly mistrusted, and the possession of which in his daughter heregarded as something in the light of a disgrace?

The song ceased. The singer drooped her head, as though exhausted bythe effort, while her fingers still lingered about the strings. Aburst of applause, coming simultaneously from Lord Carthew and Dr.Graham, caused her to start violently. She had completely forgottenthat she was not quite alone.

“I have never heard singing like yours,” the young viscount said,coming to her side. “You made me cry, and I am not very easily moved.It is not only your voice which is lovely, but your expression. Do youknow what you made me think of as you sat there, telling of yourlonging for fresh air and freedom, and the joys of life?”

“No.”

“Of that line I told you of this morning, when Tennyson’s heroine sawthe lovers pass:

“&hairsp;‘&hairsp;“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.’&hairsp;”

She looked up at him, and smiled involuntarily. He certainlyunderstood at least a portion of what was in her mind.

“Your daughter is a most accomplished musician, and a beautifulsinger,” Dr. Graham was saying to Sir Philip.

“I do not approve of that class of song,” Sir Philip’s rasping voicemade answer. “It is theatrical and tawdry in sentiment, and in myopinion not a song for a gentlewoman to sing.”

Stella glanced at her father. Seeing that he appeared to be engaged inconversation by Dr. Graham, she resolved to tell Lord Carthew that hisfriend Hilary Pritchard was not in London, but lying at the inn nearthe lodge gates of the Chase.

“I have something I want to say to you,” she began, speaking verysoftly, lest her father might overhear her. But she was not quickenough for the gray wolf. In an instant he had left the doctor andjoined her.

“I understand,” he said, addressing Lord Carthew with an affectationof geniality, “that you are a good chess-player. Dr. Graham here is agreat authority on chess, and one of the best players in London. Willyou and he have a game while I go with my daughter to see how my wifeis now?”

His guests could do no less than follow his suggestion, while Stella,her heart beating fast with apprehension, followed her father out ofthe room.

As soon as the door was closed, he turned upon her harshly.

“Come to my study,” he said. “I have something to say to you.”

CHAPTER XI.
AN OLD STORY.

In the study, Sir Philip Cranstoun assumed his favorite position,with his back to the fire, and his feet planted firmly on thehearth-rug.

Stella stood at a little distance, her hands folded over the back of atall, carved oak chair. Looking at her under his heavy black eyebrows,her father was instantly reminded of another scene which had takenplace in that same house more than eighteen years ago, on the nightwhen Clare Lady Cranstoun first learned of her father’s murder.

“I called you in here,” the Baronet began, abruptly, “to speak of yourforthcoming marriage.”

Stella tightened her lips, and held fast to the back of the chair, butshe did not speak.

“Your forthcoming marriage,” reiterated Sir Philip, “with my friend,Lord Carthew.”

Still no word came from Stella. Her disdainful silence irritated herfather.

“Carthew is noted for his eccentricity,” he sneered. “Hence, no doubt,his lucky admiration for you. Very few men would have forgiven theexhibition you made of yourself just now over that silly and vulgarsong.”

The color came faintly into her cheeks, but she still kept silent.Silence was her best weapon against her father, as she knew well.

“The marriage will take place early in May,” he proceeded; “so youmust make your preparations, and name a date for the ceremony notlater than the sixteenth of the month. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” she answered, raising her eyes at length, and steadily meetinghis gaze, “I hear you; but I shall not marry Lord Carthew.”

“You will marry him,” he said, a dark flush spreading under his pallidskin. “So surely as you stand there you will marry him!”

“I shall not!”

Her voice rang out now clear and sharp, and into her fair face came alook of dogged resistance, at sight of which Sir Philip’s smoulderingwrath broke into a flame.

“You will do as I tell you!” he swore, the veins in his foreheadstarting into ugly prominence. “You, a beggar’s brat, born in a hovel,dare to set your will against mine! You should by rights be trampingfrom door to door at the heels of some filthy caravan, selling brooms,and stealing chickens, with a hedge to sleep under, and the police onyour track! Do you know what you are—you, with your white face, andyour defiant airs and graces, who do not consider an earl’s son goodenough for you, but must needs disgrace yourself by a servant-girlflirtation in the corridor with a man who will make your folly asmoking-room jest? You think yourself a duke’s grandchild, a Douglasby descent, and daughter to my wife, Lady Gwendolen. But you came intothis world some months before I ever saw that lady; you were born in amiserable cabin, and your mother was a wayside tramp, a common gypsy!”

He hurled the words at her with stinging emphasis. She stood beforehim, pale as ashes, her eyes distended, quivering in every limb. Butfor the support of the chair she would have fallen to the ground. Ahundred little incidents seemed to start simultaneously to prominencein her mind as she listened to him, chief among them being the oldfortune-teller’s assurance that she was a “Romany,” and that thegypsies would befriend her.

Stephen Lee, too, through whom she was to communicate if necessarywith old Sarah, had he not told her only that day that there was notso much difference between her rank and his as she supposed? And Dr.Netherbridge’s strange recognition of her by her “likeness to hermother,” was not that also a link in the chain?

The room seemed to rock round her, and the ground to give way underher feet. Something told her that her father was speaking the truth,and her heart contracted with pain as she realized that gentle,affectionate Lady Cranstoun, from whom she had received the onlytenderness and kindness which had as yet warmed her young life, mightnot really be her mother after all.

But whatever she felt, however great her astonishment, dismay, andeven horror at his words, it was chiefly necessary to retain herself-control, and no cry, no exclamation escaped her lips as shemutely waited for her father to say more.

“When my wife, Lady Gwendolen, lost her child,” Sir Philip went on,mercilessly, “you were sent for and admitted into this house onsufferance, lest she should lose her reason. The poor, weak-wittedthing chose to believe that you were hers, and partly to humor her,partly to conceal your disgraceful origin, I allowed the deception tobe kept up until now. You would never have known from what beggar’sstock you sprang but from your folly and pride, which to me, who knowthe truth about your origin, is equally offensive and ridiculous.”

“Will you tell me one thing?” she asked, in an unnaturally steadyvoice. “You say I am not Lady Cranstoun’s child; am I yours?”

She could not keep the eagerness she felt out of her tones. He glancedat her curiously, ignoring her reason for the question.

“You are a gypsy’s child,” he answered, hoping to humiliate her.

“Not yours?” she cried, a ray of unmistakable relief flashing into herface. “Not yours! Oh, thank Heaven!”

In an instant he saw his mistake. The thought that she owed himneither reverence nor respect had come as a joyful relief to her.

“You are my daughter,” he said, harshly, “and you have to obey me.Fortunately for you, no one suspects the truth, or you would certainlynot have been honored by an offer of marriage from the heir to LordNorthborough.”

He had purposely chosen such words in alluding to her mother thatStella might infer that she had no legal title to the name she bore.The object he had in view was to humble her pride, and whether or nothe broke her heart at the same time was a matter of perfectindifference to him.

As he finished speaking, she began to move toward the door. A mistseemed to hang before her eyes, and she was trembling so much that herfeet could hardly bear her weight; but she was as proud as he, andfully resolved that he should not see the full effect of his wordsupon her.

“Understand,” he called after her, “your marriage will take placeearly in May.”

She turned and faced him at the door.

“Lord Carthew shall hear to-night every word that you have said to me.Then, as you suggest, he will cease from troubling me.”

“I forbid you to exchange one word with him on the subject.”

Joining her by the door, he gripped her arm in his fingers as he haddone in the morning. The pain of his clutch was intense, but she neverwinced under it.

“It is my duty to tell him, Sir Philip,” she said, as though she wereaddressing a stranger.

“Go to your room at once, and do not presume to leave it until youhave my permission.”

“As you please. But as soon as I meet Lord Carthew, he shall hearevery word.”

Baffled and furious, he released his hold on her arm, and followingher upstairs, he watched her enter her own room, and drawing out thekey, turned it on the outside, and slipped it into his pocket. He hadtotally miscalculated the effect upon her of the announcement he hadmade. He imagined that it would lower her pride to the dust, and breakdown once and forever her opposition to his will. But she had gonefrom the study with head erect and flashing eyes; and so far fromdreading lest the secret of her humble birth should become known, shehad instantly decided upon sharing it with the last person in theworld who ought to be made aware of it.

More than ever it was necessary to hurry on this match with LordCarthew. In such a spirit as that in which Stella now found herself,it was impossible to say what reckless step she might take. Onreturning to the drawing-room, therefore, Sir Philip pretended to reada newspaper, while his two guests finished their game, and heafterward contrived, in the course of a short talk with Lord Carthew,to strongly encourage that young gentleman’s hopes, and indeed to turnthem to certainties.

“I have been having a little talk with my daughter,” he began, as thegentlemen sipped their grog and enjoyed a parting smoke beforeretiring for the night. “She is quite willing that the wedding shalltake place during the second week in May. I haven’t a doubt that thishouse is extremely lonely for Stella, and that in her secret heart sheis overjoyed at the thought of leaving it. The only difficulty is thatshe has never been separated from her mother, and I rather fancy thatthat is what she wanted to speak to you about just when I came up andinterrupted her.”

“I shall be delighted if Lady Cranstoun will come with us when we setup housekeeping in town,” Lord Carthew answered, his plain faceradiant with happiness. “I will talk over all arrangements with mymother when I go up to town to-morrow. I ought to go up early, becauseI am really anxious about my friend Hilary. Dr. Graham has beendeclaring how extremely rash it was for him to leave the shelter ofyour roof at present, and I am most anxious to find out whether he hassuffered any ill effects from the journey.”

Lord Carthew retired to his room that night with a light heart, whichnot even the recollection of the palmist Kyro’s prediction coulddepress. “A passionate love affair, a hasty marriage, followedspeedily by overwhelming misfortunes,” such were the terms of theprophecy made for his future a few weeks before. But now, in thebelief that he had secured at least the warm friendship and willingconsent of a lovely, high-born, fascinating, and gifted bride, Claudfelt that he could laugh such gloomy predictions to scorn. Stellaliked him, and would soon grow to love him, for Lord Carthew fullybelieved, as do so many men, that love is a plant which can be inducedto grow in any woman’s heart with proper care and trouble.

Not for one moment did he suspect that the beautiful girl whom hehoped so shortly to make his wife was at that moment pacing up anddown the boards of her bedchamber, completely dressed, with all ideaof slumber banished from her mind, and her head in a whirl ofpassionate and rebellious thoughts, of which not one was devoted tohim.

Her father’s statements had affected her to the full as much as heintended, but in a totally different direction from that which he hadexpected. So far from the knowledge of her mother’s humble origininclining her to gratefully accept Lord Carthew’s offer, it seemed toher to place an insuperable and not unwelcome barrier between them.

“Hilary thought I was his superior in position,” she said to herself;“and oh, how glad I am that that is altered now! He was so humble, hebegged my pardon so earnestly for having taken me into his arms; and Iam only a poor gypsy’s daughter after all—beneath him, not above him!He must know that. I must tell him, and as soon as possible, before hehas time to leave the neighborhood.

“And my mother—what became of her? Is she dead? Can any one tell meof her? Would Margaret know? She has been in the house many years, butshe would not tell, I think. But there was the little doctor, who knewI was Miss Cranstoun because I was so like my mother. He must haveknown her, then. Did not the hostler tell me that when Dr.Netherbridge sent him here last night he told him that he knew theChase, and knew Sir Philip, and had been here years ago? I must seethis doctor privately, and at once must find out who and what mymother was. If she ever loved my father—and could any one love him, Iwonder?—she must have been very, very miserable.”

Until the day broke, Stella remained lost in excited thought,wide-awake, and either walking restlessly up and down the room, orrocking herself backward and forward in a rocking-chair. Her desire tosee Hilary immediately grew stronger every moment. She fully believedthat when he knew her to be of humble birth, he would no longer avoidher, but would give his love as frankly as he would accept hers. Yetshe felt that she must first of all see Dr. Netherbridge, and learnfrom him the truth about her mother. Her cheeks grew hot with shame atthe thought that she had perhaps no right to bear the name ofCranstoun. The idea was so inexpressibly painful that she tried tobanish it from her mind; but it returned again and again with apersistency not to be denied. Could she once ascertain that to be afact, she decided, in an outburst of grief and humiliation, that shewould escape from the Chase, and hide herself as far away as possible,unknown to any one. If she was indeed without either legal father ormother, she would no longer live upon grudgingly doled-out charity,but would go into the world and earn a living for herself, as manyother poor and friendless girls were doing daily, banishing from hermind forever all thoughts of love and marriage.

She was fully resolved of one thing: that no man but Hilary Pritchardshould be her husband; but she would never come to him with a stainupon her name.

Then, again, her reflections were disturbed by the memory of thegentle lady who believed her to be her daughter. How could shepossibly desert her under any circ*mstances? Whatever the amount ofher obligation toward Sir Philip, Stella realized that the love andduty she owed to Lady Gwendolen were none the less, but rather themore, urgent, should there, indeed, be no blood relationship betweenthem. The more she pondered, the more troubled her mind became, andshe longed above all things for the daybreak in order that she mightput into action some of the plans which were formulating in her brain.

Meantime, she was locked in, and could only be let out at Sir Philip’spleasure. This reflection filled her with a deep annoyance, and sheset about evolving methods of escape.

There were two windows in her room, both tall and wide, divided bywoodwork into squares about a foot high. She was only on the firstfloor, and the ivy which clung about every part of the walls wouldappear to offer a tolerably easy means of descent to one as light andagile as she. By half-past five o’clock she could endure her attitudeof waiting and thinking no longer. Performing her toilet hastily, shechanged her white silk evening gown into her serge morning costume,donned her hat and jacket, and pushing up the heavy sash of one of thewindows, looked down on the terrace below and across at the trees tosee whether her movements were observed.

No one was astir yet. A faint morning haze lay upon the fresh springfoliage about the treetops, and the morning sun, as it tried to burstthrough the vapor which rose from the damp earth, turned the dewdropson the grass to shimmering diamonds. Catching her skirts close to her,she ventured one slender foot over the ledge of the window, testingthe strength of the support accorded by the ivy. Luckily for her, theroots of a great ivy tree started at a point exactly between thewindows of her room, and the branches were strong enough to support afar heavier burden than her light frame. A few scrambling steps, aprodigious rustling of ivy leaves, some tiny stones displaced, andthen, with a flushed face, a dusty dress, and the palms of her softhands a little cut and scratched, Stella found herself standing on theterrace, free.

A few moments later, she was running like a startled hare in thedirection of a weak point in the wall which surrounded the Chaseenclosure, as she particularly wished to avoid awaking thelodge-keepers from their slumbers. By a quarter past six she hadreached the inn where Hilary was staying. The window-blinds were alldrawn down, and no one was stirring but her friend the hostler, who,whistling an air popular in London some months before, was potteringabout the stable-yard.

Catching sight of the tall, slight, girlish figure in plain blue sergegown and close-fitting serge jacket, he dropped in surprise the greathorse-sponge and the bucket with which he was laden, and uttered aprolonged whistle of astonishment.

“Miss Cranstoun, as I’m alive!” he exclaimed. “Why, who’d ha’ thoughtof seeing you so early, miss?”

“I have to go into Grayling as soon as possible, and I want you tolend me a horse,” she explained. “I will bring it back to your stablesvery shortly, and will take great care of it. I could not get one athome, as every one was asleep when I left.”

The man’s eyes twinkled. Not being a householder, and coming as he didfrom London, the hostler had none of the local dread of Sir PhilipCranstoun’s displeasure.

“How would you like to borrow our young gentleman’s Black Bess, thatyou admired so much, for a little spin?” he suggested. “She takes abit of riding, but I lay you’ll manage her.”

The offer was one after Stella’s own heart, and after a short timespent in fitting upon Black Bess’ back the unaccustomed side-saddle,Stella sprang lightly into her seat, and stroking the mare’s glossyblack neck, turned her head toward Grayling and started her off in agallop.

At first the mare, who had never before been ridden by a lady, wassorely puzzled by the flapping of Stella’s gown, and curved her longneck every now and then in a vain attempt to bite at her rider’sskirts. Gradually, however, getting used to this phenomenon, andrealizing the difference between Stella’s weight and Hilary’s, she puther head down and made one determined effort to run away with herunusual burden. Baffled in this attempt, she settled down to theinevitable, and carried Stella as the girl had never been carriedbefore, skimming over the ground in a way which would have left evenfleet-footed Zephyr far behind.

Grayling, at seven o’clock, was still chiefly asleep, but ared-cheeked Grayling boy, who was spinning a top in the principalthoroughfare, desisted from his occupation in order to stare atStella, and to inform her, in a drawling Surrey dialect, of thewhereabouts of Dr. Ernest Netherbridge’s house.

The little doctor was no longer a bachelor. A knowledge of the factthat many steady-going provincial patients preferred their doctorsmarried, together with the extreme dulness of having “no one to comehome to,” had induced him some few years before to relinquish hisvague ideals of a beautiful and attractive helpmeet, and to satisfyhis wish for companionship and a more extensive income in the personof a spinster of uncertain age who was popularly supposed in Graylingto have been “setting her cap at the doctor” for over fifteen years.

And this person it was, in brown woollen and a large white apron, whoopened the door on lovely Stella Cranstoun and Black Bess, andwaspishly demanded to know her business with the doctor.

CHAPTER XII.
FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.

“I have to see Dr. Netherbridge on business,” said Stella, while thedoctor’s wife peered out with disapproval at her matutinal visitor’sfresh young face.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Netherbridge, dryly. “Are you ill?”

“No.”

“My husband, Dr. Netherbridge, is not accustomed to receive visitorswho do not come about illness at seven o’clock in the morning. Heisn’t down yet. If you want to see him, you had better call again.”

And with that, Dr. Netherbridge’s helpmeet was shutting the door inStella’s face, when a man’s voice from the floor above was heardinquiring who the visitor was.

“I am Miss Cranstoun, from the Chase, Dr. Netherbridge, and I shall begrateful if you can spare me a few minutes’ conversation.”

“Certainly—certainly. I will be down immediately. Letitia, show MissCranstoun into the drawing-room.”

The top-spinning boy, finding time hanging heavily on his hands, hadfollowed Stella to the doctor’s house, and remained near, staring,while the young lady, holding Black Bess’ bridle, stood parleying withMrs. Netherbridge by the open door. Stella caught sight of him now,and addressed him, with one of her charming smiles.

“Are you clever enough to hold this horse for me while I go inside thehouse for a few minutes?” she inquired. “You shall have sixpence foryour trouble.”

The boy nodded, and Stella followed Mrs. Netherbridge, who, withfrosty civility, showed her into a prim and old-maidish drawing-room,where she was soon joined by Dr. Netherbridge.

“Forgive me for disturbing you so early,” Stella began. The littledoctor’s face inspired in her exactly the same feeling of confidenceand friendliness which her mother had felt toward him years ago.

“I have come,” she continued, “because I think you are the only personwho can and will tell me the truth on a most important point.Yesterday, when you saw me for the first time, you said you recognizedme by my likeness to my mother. The present Lady Cranstoun and I aretotally dissimilar; you cannot, therefore, have meant her.”

Her brilliant dark-blue eyes were fixed searchingly, imploringly uponhis face. Dr. Netherbridge was too sincere not to change color andshow some slight sign of embarrassment.

“Family likenesses are unaccountable things,” he was beginning, whenshe cut him short.

“There is no longer any need for concealment,” she said, eagerly.“Last night Sir Philip Cranstoun told me I was born in a hovel, anddaughter of a gypsy. Are those things true?”

“You were certainly born in a small cottage on your father’s propertyin this neighborhood,” the doctor answered; “and your mother was ofgypsy extraction.”

“Tell me all you can about her.”

“She must have been extremely beautiful when in good health. At thetime when I first met her, she was very little older than you are now,but she was deliberately starving herself to death, and her beauty wasnecessarily impaired.”

“How did you come to know her?” she asked, hanging upon his words indeep anxiety. “Was she—was she allowed to come to the Chase?”

“Allowed to come? Surely. Lady Cranstoun lived there until a few weeksbefore your birth, when, presumably after a quarrel with your father,she fled from her home at night, and went back to her own people.”

Stella sank into a chair, her hands tightly clasped together. Dr.Netherbridge saw the unmistakable relief in her face, and hastened toremove any doubt which might still trouble her as to her position.

“Your mother’s maiden name was Clare Carewe. She herself told me herhistory. As a very little girl, she ran away from the caravan in whichshe was brought up, and her beauty having attracted the attention of avery rich lady, who was Sir Philip Cranstoun’s sister, she waseducated and adopted by her; and from her house at Torquay, Sir Philipsecretly married her. Their first child died, and, so far as I couldjudge, it was a most unhappy marriage. Finally, one night, when someof your mother’s relations made their way into the plantation to speakto her, they were savagely attacked by gamekeepers as poachers; one ofthe gypsies, who was unhappily Lady Cranstoun’s father, wasaccidentally shot, and her brother was sentenced to five years’imprisonment, in spite of Sir Philip’s efforts to save him.”

“How terrible!” burst from Stella’s lips. “How she must havesuffered!”

“She did indeed. Very soon after your birth, I was sent for by a gypsylad, and on the following day I accompanied two nursewomen to yourfather’s house. Your mother, meanwhile, had died, and the gypsies hadremoved her body. I broke the news to Sir Philip, but as soon as heheard that the child was a girl, he flew into a furious passion, andordered the women to take you away; nor could I do more than insistthat he should know the address in London to which you were taken andprovide some money for your maintenance. From that day I never met youuntil yesterday. But I shall never forget your mother’s face, and atfirst sight of you the likeness impressed me so strongly that I spokewithout thinking.”

“Thank you,” she said, after a pause, rising and giving him her hand.“Thank you for your kindness to my mother, and to me also. I must begetting back now.”

She paused a minute. Then she asked curiously:

“What were they like, these gypsy people, my mother’s relations?”

“Very big, handsome men, from what I remember, and evidently of verystrong family affections. There was an old woman, too, reputed to be awitch. I believe she is still alive, and that the peasants about hereactually go to her to have illnesses or scars and moles charmed away.I hope I have told you nothing to distress you,” he added, kindly.

“No; I am grateful to you,” she answered, rewarding him with a smileas she passed from the room, almost colliding with Mrs. Netherbridge,who was fluttering about in the passage outside suspiciously near thekeyhole.

Stella threw a shilling to the boy who held Black Bess, and with veryslight assistance from him, vaulted into the saddle and turned themare’s head in the direction where her master lay. Black Bess flewlike an arrow from a bow, and the journey occupied even less time thanin coming. The blood rushed over Stella’s face and neck as she saw,standing in the courtyard of the inn, watching her ride up, the tall,massive figure of Hilary Pritchard, with one arm in a sling, the sunshining on his yellow curls.

Without a word, he helped her to dismount, and entered the coffee-roomwith her. It was but a little after eight o’clock, and no one wasthere except a servant, bustling in and out, laying the breakfastthings. To her Hilary turned, and begged her not to trouble, as heshould not want the meal for a long while yet, and the girl, with ademure nod that was almost a wink, left the room, and contentedherself with peeping through the glass upper portion of the door.

Hilary led Stella to a seat and sat beside her, looking down into herlowered face. Until now she had been self-possessed and buoyed up by adetermination to carry her mission through. Now she faltered andtrembled, hardly daring to look into her lover’s face.

“You will forgive me for borrowing Black Bess?” she said at last.

“Forgive you! What a request! She has never carried a lady before, andnever will again any other than you. But won’t your parents be angrywith you for coming off here like this? It was my friend the hostlerwho woke me up to tell me that Miss Cranstoun had borrowed my mare togo into Grayling, and that at the pace she was going she would soon beback. I got up at once—there is nothing the matter with me to-day.”

“You look certainly better than you did yesterday night,” she said,and then stopped short, blushing deeply.

“I know about your goodness in coming to see how I was,” he said,lifting her hand to his lips. “Our good genius the hostler told me ofit this morning. But, my dear girl, are you wise in coming thismorning? It is all so hopeless. Look at the difference between us. Itwas the height of presumption on my part to dare to fall in love withyou; and, indeed, nothing was farther from my intention.”

“I loved you the moment you laid your hand on Zephyr’s bridle andlooked up into my face,” she murmured, nestling closer to him, andletting her hand steal into his. “I really wanted to obey you as soonas you spoke to me, but I suppose a spirit of perversity urged me theother way. When you were wounded, I was in an agony of anxiety andremorse; otherwise, I should never have dared to bring you to thehouse. But all that about our not being equals is done away with now.It is true that I am Sir Philip Cranstoun’s daughter, but my motherwas his first wife, and she was nothing more than a beautiful gypsy,brought up on charity by a rich lady. So you see,” she added,triumphantly, “it is all the other way round, and I am not goodenough for you!”

He was silent for a few moments.

“Have you told Lord Carthew what you have told me?” he asked atlength.

“No. But I mean to. He will soon take back his offer, then.”

“His offer?” he repeated, in surprise. “Has he made you an offer,then?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know? Oh, of course, I have never had an opportunityof telling you. Lord Carthew asked me to marry him while we were outriding yesterday morning.”

“What did you say?”

“I—oh—I said I would think about it, or something of that sort.”

“You did not say ‘No’ outright?”—in a disappointed tone. “Stella, wasall that before, or after, I woke up and saw you?”

“Oh, how can you ask me? It was before, of course?”

“And you were ready to marry Carthew at the time?”

“Don’t—don’t—be hard on me, and don’t look so stern and cold. Howcan I make you understand? You had said things against me that I hadoverheard. I believed, I really and truly believed, that you couldn’tbear me. And it made me mad with myself to find that I couldn’t keepyou out of my thoughts for one minute. It seemed so dreadful—soforward and unwomanly—to be always thinking of a man who carednothing for me. Then, too, you must remember that I longed with all myheart to escape from the Chase. You don’t know what our lives havebeen, poor mamma’s and mine, ever since I can remember. Lord Carthewknows——”

“Oh, Lord Carthew knows?” interrupting her, jealously. “You couldconfide in him, but not in me.”

She looked at him very sweetly for a moment, and then burst outlaughing.

“Dear Hilary,” she said, “remember that it is only two days since wefirst met, and that this is the first chance of a real talk we havehad together. Whereas Lord Carthew and I——”

“You have had many interesting talks, I have no doubt,” he said,morosely, his handsome face clouding. “He is far cleverer than I, andcan talk well on any subject. The wonder is that you don’t prefer himto me.”

“Isn’t it?” she assented, demurely, rubbing her cheeks softly againsthis coat-sleeve. “But there is no accounting for tastes, and—it maybe my mad gypsy origin—but I decidedly prefer you.”

He raised one of her little hands to his lips and covered thefinger-tips with kisses, smiling in spite of himself at the coquetrywhich had come so naturally to her in so short a time.

“Go on with what you were saying about the sadness of your life,” hesaid. “I want to know everything that you told Carthew.”

Stella had had hardly any experience of men; but she was a true woman,and her keen feminine instinct taught her that this man she loved wasof a totally different temperament from the man who loved her.Hilary’s mind was of a direct, practical, common-sense order. In allhis life he had thought but little of love for women, and now that thefeeling overmastered him, he was inclined to question its authority,as well as to fly into paroxysms of jealousy without sufficientreason. He was not in the least conceited, and rather overrated LordCarthew’s higher mental endowments, together with his eloquent tongue,high rank and wealth, when pitted against his own dower from nature ofbone, and muscle, and manly beauty. He knew that Carthew loved Stella,and it would have seemed very natural to him that his passion shouldbe returned. Above all, he did not wish to act toward his friend in adishonorable and disloyal manner. Against his will, his blood leapedin his veins, as the young girl leaned toward him, lifting herbeautiful, innocent eyes, with the light of love shining in them, tohis face. Against his will, he clasped his arm about her waist, andfelt that the world before him, with all its hopes, was well lost forthe sake of a kiss from her soft, red lips.

“I can’t talk to you if you stop me like that,” Stella remonstrated,with a happy little laugh; “and do, pray, remember that that door ispartly of glass, and people can see through it. Another moment andthey will be having breakfast at the Chase. If my father finds outwhere I have been, he will half kill me.”

“Is he so bad as that?” he asked, wonderingly.

“He is, indeed. You haven’t even seen him, and you cannot, therefore,understand. Hilary, he hates me, and until this morning I have neverbeen able to understand why, or why, try as I might to like him, andto feel dutifully toward him, a cold shudder of dislike creeps over mewhen he comes near. Last night he grew furiously angry with me becauseI refused to marry Lord Carthew, and he told me then for the firsttime, with the idea, I suppose, of humiliating me, that my dear mammawas not my mother at all, but that I was really the daughter of anignorant gypsy woman. It seemed too strange to be believed, but it wasall true. This morning at six o’clock I climbed out of my bedroomwindow, as he had locked me into my room, and came here to borrow ahorse with which to find out Dr. Netherbridge at Grayling. Heconfirmed Sir Philip’s words. The first Lady Cranstoun was a lovelygypsy girl, brought up on charity by Sir Philip’s sister, with whom hefell in love, and made a most wretched marriage. Not many days beforeI was born, my mother, heart-broken at the treatment she received, ranback to her own people, and among them, in a tumble-down littlecottage not far from here, I was born, eighteen and a half years ago.So now you understand,” she concluded, triumphantly, “that so far frombeing a great lady, I come from the class of people who are drivenfrom town to town by the police, branded as thieves and poachers, withthe band of every respectable man and woman against them.”

She spoke bitterly, and something in her words and tone shocked Hilarya little. He had none of the love for the original and the unexpectedin woman which had probably come to Lord Carthew from his brilliantlittle American mother. Hilary’s mother was the pretty and gracefuldaughter of a country clergyman, who had in her youth revelled inlawn-tennis and crewel-work, and whose ideas on all subjects wereequally orthodox and limited. Hilary was fond of his mother, and shehad heretofore supplied his ideal of femininity; he had not yet hadtime to adjust his aspirations toward a different standard.

“Do you quite realize what you are doing, I wonder?” he asked hersuddenly, turning and taking her face into his hand while hescrutinized it closely, with a half-angry, half-hungry look. “What youare doing, I mean, in throwing over a man like Carthew for the sake ofa man like me? He is heir to an earldom; his father is well off, andin a very brilliant position; his mother is extremely wealthy; hedistinguished himself so greatly at college that people expect greatthings of him. While, as for me, the higher education was wasted onme; I was never good for anything but athletics. I am leaving Englandto rough it in Canada, trying to make a farm pay. I can keep a wife,certainly, upon what I have, but not such a wife as you.”

“Don’t you want me?” she asked, simply, looking him straight in theeyes.

“Want you? Good heavens! I would give my soul for you! But I won’t beplayed with. By some magic of your own you have made me love you, andyou must take the consequences. Stella, I love you, and if you plightme your troth now, I must marry you. If you now, in the face of whatI have put before you and what you know, still choose to cling to me,I swear to you that I will marry no woman but you, and that you shallmarry no man but me!”

She looked into his face, flushed and excited as it was, his browneyes shining like her own.

“On my honor, I swear,” she said, solemnly, “that whatever pressure isbrought to bear upon me, I will marry no one but you, HilaryPritchard.”

Their lips met in that interminably long kiss of first love, given andreturned, the kiss which comes once in a lifetime to a chosen few, andto many comes never at all—a kiss in which time and space areobliterated, and in which two spirits seem to meet in regions farbeyond this work-a-day world of ours.

Moved out of herself, in an ecstasy of emotion, perhaps at thehappiest, certainly at the first perfectly happy moment of her life,Stella felt rather than heard a harsh, low-pitched voice, asking forMiss Cranstoun in the hall immediately outside the coffee-room.

She turned instinctively toward Hilary for protection as shewhispered:

“It is my father!”

He flung his arm round her and held her to him a moment. The next, thedoor was burst open, and Sir Philip Cranstoun stood before them, whiteand quivering with rage. For a moment he stared at the pair beforehim, taking in every detail of Hilary’s appearance. Then he addressedhis daughter in tones of withering scorn.

“May I ask who is this person with whom you appear to be on suchextremely familiar terms?”

Stella slipped her hand within Hilary’s and gained strength from thecontact.

“It is Mr. Hilary Pritchard,” she said, “the gentleman I have promisedto marry.”

CHAPTER XIII.
THE SENDING OF THE TOKEN.

At seven o’clock that same morning, Sir Philip had been aroused fromhis slumbers by Dakin.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the spy, “but I can’t help thinkingMiss Cranstoun has somehow got away. You see, you have taken away thekey of her room, and I can see a good way in through the keyhole. Andthe bed’s empty; it doesn’t look as if it had been slept in, and Ican’t see any sign of her walking about the room.”

With a muttered execration, Sir Philip dismissed Dakin, and, hastilydressing himself, repaired to the door of Stella’s room and rappedseveral times sharply upon the panels. Getting no answer, he turnedthe key in the lock and called to her to come out, before throwing thedoor open, to find that the bird had flown.

It was easy enough to see how she had escaped. The window was wideopen, and the ivy a little below torn and disarranged. Rage and alarmcombined to give Sir Philip an extremely bad quarter of an hour, as heturned over in his own mind all possible places to which she mighthave gone, while his horse was bearing him toward the nearest gates ofthe Chase enclosure.

Sir Philip had no idea of Hilary’s detention at the inn, but as thehostlery was on the direct road to Grayling, from which town hesurmised that Stella would take the train for London, he resolved tostop for a moment to inquire whether anything had been seen of her.

Hilary’s friend, the hostler, was holding the bridle of Black Bess atthe entrance, when the Squire rode up on his gray hunter, and SirPhilip noticed at once that the mare carried a side-saddle.

“So you have lady visitors here, I see?” he said, pulling up his horsebefore the archway.

Jim the hostler’s sympathies were all with the lovers, and herecognized at once the necessity for putting the angry father off thescent.

“Not as I knows on, sir,” he answered, pulling his forelock.

“Then what is the meaning of that side-saddle?”

“I suppose the missis is going for a ride, sir,” the man answered,with an affectation of stupidity in his face and manner.

“What! on that horse? That isn’t one of your animals?”

“No, sir. It’s been left here by a gentleman for a day or two, andwe’ve got to exercise it every day.”

Still Sir Philip did not appear satisfied, and the hostler waswondering whether he could not by some means convey a warning to theyoung couple in the coffee-room, when, as ill-luck would have it, hismaster, the landlord, came out into the courtyard at that identicalmoment, and in answer to Sir Philip’s point-blank inquiry as towhether he had seen Miss Cranstoun, blurted out that she was at thatmoment within the house, talking to a friend in the coffee-room.

The landlord was thinking of his lease, and not of Stella’s loveaffair, and he volunteered the further information that Miss Cranstounhad only been there about ten minutes, having borrowed Mr. Pritchard’shorse to go to Grayling and back.

This was the first intimation which the baronet received that Hilarywas not in London, and it made instantly clear to him Stella’sdisappearance from the Chase in the evening of the preceding day. She,his own daughter, Miss Cranstoun of the Chase, was actually carryingon a love affair at his very lodge gates, and making appointments witha farming adventurer at an inn on her father’s land, under the eyes ofhostlers, and potmen, and farm laborers.

Rage almost choked him as he laid his hand on the door of thecoffee-room, and the sight which met his eyes as he opened it washardly calculated to assuage his anger. A superbly handsome younggiant, with one arm in a sling, was seated close to Stella in awindow-seat at the farther end of the room. It was easy enough to seethat they were lovers. He was speaking eagerly, and she was hanging onhis words, with her two hands clasped in one of his.

On Sir Philip’s entrance they started, and both of them rose to theirfeet; but Hilary still retained Stella’s hand.

Sir Philip carefully closed the door behind him, and came close up tothe other two occupants of the room. In spite of the storm which ragedwithin him, he was beyond everything anxious to avoid any scene bywhich his private affairs would become known to the people of the inn.

It was therefore in a voice so low as to be inaudible to any possiblelisteners outside the room that he addressed himself to Hilary, fixinghim with his cold, glittering, light eyes as he spoke.

“What is your name?”

“Hilary Pritchard.”

“And what are you doing here with my daughter?”

“I have been asking her to marry me, Sir Philip!”

“You are not aware, then, that she is already engaged to be married toLord Carthew, by whose want of judgment a fellow like you gotintroduced into a respectable house.”

“You have made some mistake, I think,” returned the young man,resolutely keeping his temper in the face of provocation. “Yourdaughter loves me, and she will never marry Lord Carthew.”

“My daughter is under age, sir, and her folly and inexperience wouldmake her an easy prey to the wiles of a cad and an adventurer such asyou. Luckily, I have interfered to save her good name. You entered myhouse on sufferance, and taking advantage of my absence, and of yourfriend’s foolish confidence in you, you presumed to make love to thisyoung lady in much the same rough-and-ready style as you would adopttoward the haymakers and farmhands in your own rank of life. You, anobody, a penniless, intending emigrant, dared to try to steal mydaughter’s affections from your friend, to whom she had pledged them.I have no hesitation in saying that your conduct has been mean,cowardly, treacherous, and unmanly in the extreme. I would rather seemy daughter dead than lowered by any association with a low-born andungrateful pauper such as you.”

As he spoke, by a sudden movement he wrenched their hands asunder, andseizing that of his daughter’s within his own, began to move towardthe door.

Hilary Pritchard had grown very pale under Sir Philip’s fierceinvective, but he did not condescend to defend himself against thelatter’s accusations.

“I hold you to your promise, Stella,” he said, quietly.

“I swear to you I will marry no one but you,” she returned.

One last, long look was interchanged between them, and then Stella wasdragged from the room by her father, who had pulled her hand throughhis arm, and who, as soon as he reached the courtyard, gave orders inan unconcerned voice that the side-saddle should be changed from BlackBess to a horse belonging to the inn, the loan of which he requiredfor an hour or two.

“I fear we shall be late for breakfast,” he said, turning to hisdaughter with an assumption of geniality, and speaking in a raisedtone of voice so that he might be overheard by all within range.“Stella, you managed to get through your business in Grayling withwonderful celerity. I never expected to find you back here so soon. Iam glad we found Mr. Pritchard none the worse for his unluckyaccident.”

Stella disdained to act up to his pretence of fatherly affection. Itwas nothing to her if the whole world knew that she loved HilaryPritchard and that her father had come to part them. Sir Philip’sfamily pride was, from her point of view, equally incomprehensible andridiculous. So she stood by his side, he detaining her hand in his armwith a grasp which, while it affected to be fatherly, was reallyvindictive and painful to bear, and which she endured with a set,white face, blazing eyes, and tightly compressed lips.

In much the same fashion they rode away, she sitting straight upon herhorse, staring before her, unheeding the friendly talk he affected toaddress to her. But Jim the hostler noticed that all the while hespoke Sir Philip’s fingers touched his daughter’s bridle-rein.

“He’s a brute, that’s what he is, for all his soft sawder,” wasJim’s comment.

More than once during the ride home a mad longing seized Stella toescape from her father’s tyranny. But Sir Philip’s gray would easilyhave outstripped in speed the sorry hack upon which she was mounted,even if her father’s hand had not held her bridle. Every cruel andbitter taunt which his brain could conceive was hurled at her on theirprogress between the inn and the Chase. But no words could provoke aresponse from her. She was trying to remind herself that he was herfather, and that even if she could not love him she must at leastendeavor not to hate him.

At the doors of the house she sprang from her horse and ran swiftly upthe stairs to Lady Cranstoun’s room. Her stepmother was still in bed,sitting up, wrapped in a white woollen shawl, drinking her coffee. Shehad not quite recovered from the strain of the preceding day, and Dr.Graham had prescribed complete rest and freedom from all excitement.

“I was wondering you had not come to say good-morning to me,” shesaid, “but Margaret said Sir Philip had locked you in your room. Wasthat true?”

“Don’t let’s talk of him, dear,” returned the young girl, kissing heraffectionately, and kneeling down at the bedside, caressing one of herhands. “Let’s try to think he doesn’t exist.”

“Something has happened!” exclaimed the poor lady, apprehensively.“You are dreadfully pale, and your hands are quivering. There aretears in your eyes, too. Tell me, Stella, quickly, what is thematter?”

“It is nothing,” she answered. “I am overtired after a bad night. Thatis all.”

“It was not true—what you said last night in fun—about not marryingLord Carthew, was it, dear?”

“No; it was not true.”

Sir Philip’s voice broke sharply in upon their talk. He had enteredthe room unperceived, and was standing on the other side of the bed.

Stella rose at sight of him, but remained with her arm round LadyCranstoun.

“The marriage will take place in the second week of May,” Sir Philipproceeded, fixing a threatening glance upon his daughter.

“I am so glad; oh, I am so glad, my dear, dear child!”

Stella did not speak. She dared not at the moment undeceive her orbanish from her face that unwonted look of happiness and hope.

Lady Cranstoun kissed her affectionately, and then as though nervingherself for a great effort, and timidly retaining the girl’s hands inhers, she addressed her husband.

“I have not told you before, Philip,” she began, “in fact, I have nothad an opportunity, that while you were away, feeling that I might dieany minute, I sent to town for my father’s lawyer.”

“Without consulting me?”

“Yes. You see, there is that legacy of my Uncle Charles, which I cameinto last year——”

“Well?”

“It isn’t very much—only five thousand pounds, in fact—but I haveleft it by will to Stella when she attains the age of twenty-one. Yousee, the estates being entailed, I did not like the idea of my littlegirl being without pocket-money. And it will be a nice little sum forherself when she marries Lord Carthew.”

Sir Philip was for the moment struck dumb with surprise andindignation. That his colorless, obedient wife should dare in hisabsence to make a will, leaving money away from him to his rebelliousdaughter, struck him as a most unwifely and outrageous liberty, andthe desire to sting and humiliate both his wife and daughter becametoo strong to be resisted.

“Your little girl!” he repeated, with a hard laugh. “Haven’t yougrown out of that silly delusion yet? Your child died years ago, asa weakly, miserable baby. That girl beside you, to whom you are soanxious to will your money, is no relation to you, but simply thedaughter of my first wife, who died at her birth, exactly three monthsbefore I married you.”

“Philip! Stella! It is not true—say it is not true!” gasped LadyCranstoun.

“How can you be so cruel?” exclaimed the young girl, turning inpassionate reproach upon her father. “Don’t worry, and don’t listen,mamma, dear. You know that I am yours, and that I love you!”

“Your dutiful affection is not without its reward,” sneered SirPhilip. “Five thousand pounds is certainly a great deal more than youwould ever get from me. But it is time this mother and daughternonsense was done away with, except for the purpose of giving the girla more respectable ancestry than she could show as the daughter of agypsy. Where did you suppose she got her beauty from? You Douglaseshave always been an ugly, high-cheekboned race. There is nothing ofthe Douglas about her.”

Lady Cranstoun was moaning as if in pain, and her pale eyes had ahunted, terrified expression as she turned them helplessly from herhusband to Stella.

“Not my child,” she whispered. “Not—my—child!” and as the words lefther lips, she fell backward in Stella’s arms, cold and motionless, toall appearance dead already.

“You have killed her!” the latter cried, as she vainly tried torestore animation to the still figure, and for a few moments SirPhilip believed, not without a momentary pang of self-reproach, thatshe was right. Gradually, however, under Dr. Graham’s care,consciousness returned, but only feebly; and throughout the morningshe fell from one fainting-fit into another. Stella never left her fora moment, and everything that skill and care could do was done toprolong the faint flicker of life within her wasted frame. A heartspecialist was telegraphed for from London, and Lord Carthew, who hadintended leaving for town early in the day, having heard no word ofHilary’s presence in the vicinity, delayed his journey until he couldhear the doctor’s verdict.

It was unfavorable in a high degree. Lady Cranstoun was, so the greatman agreed with Dr. Graham, slowly dying, and could not possibly lastthrough the night. Toward evening she suddenly appeared to rally,recognized and spoke to Stella, and asked in a clear, distinct voicefor Lord Carthew. When the young man came, she gave him her hand, anddrew his toward that of Stella, which rested on the coverlet besideher.

“Be—very good—to her,” she murmured; and so, still occupied withthoughts for Stella’s future, she closed her eyes and fell asleep,never to open them on this world again.

To Stella the blow was terrible, overwhelming. The tie between her andher step-mother, as she now knew her to be, had been extremely strong,cemented by unselfishness on both sides, the girl patiently giving upthe greater portion of her day in attendance and nursing, and thewoman keeping silent about her sufferings, lest she might too greatlysadden her young companion. Such faults and foibles as Lady Cranstounpossessed, her intense timidity and cowardice, her limitedintelligence, and excessive pride of birth, were but trifling whenweighed against her kindly and affectionate nature. Stella’s ownmother, had she lived, could not possibly have shown more sympathy andaffection toward her child, whom she would probably have tormented byher violent and jealous nature.

Lord Carthew’s heart was deeply touched by the sight of Stella’sgrief. He had no opportunity of speaking to her between the time ofleaving the house and his attendance at Lady Cranstoun’s funeral fourdays later. Even then he did not see her. She was utterly prostratedby grief, Sir Philip informed him, and he did not think fit to addthat from the hour of Lady Cranstoun’s death, the girl had been kept aclose prisoner, the maid Ellen or Dakin sleeping in her room, whichhad been changed, so that no escape by the window was possible.

“I think the sooner you marry her and take her away with you thebetter,” Sir Philip said, as the two men were returning in themourning-coach from the scene by the Cranstoun vault in GraylingCemetery after the ceremony. “The poor child has cried herself ill;she will scarcely eat, and refuses to leave the house. I am reallygrowing extremely anxious about her. Your letters are the only thingsthat seem to give her any pleasure, although, as she says, she hasn’tthe heart to answer them yet.”

As a matter of fact, Lord Carthew’s letters had been opened and readby Sir Philip on their arrival each day, and subsequently laid uponthe dressing-table of Stella, for the amusem*nt, apparently, of Dakinand Ellen, since the lady to whom they were addressed had never somuch as touched one of them. They were good letters, too; full ofaffection and intelligence, if a little didactic in tone; too good byfar to be wasted upon a cynical man of the world and two uneducatedfemale spies.

“I am almost afraid for her reason,” continued Sir Philip. “A changeof surroundings is imperative, so the doctor tells me. The attachmentbetween mother and daughter was so great that the blow isproportionately heavy. In fact, my dear Carthew, it is now thetwentieth of April, and I propose that the marriage, which, of course,will be strictly private, should take place at the date originallyfixed—the tenth of May. It was her poor mother’s last wish, as youknow, and under such circ*mstances should have with us the weight of acommand.”

To this suggestion Lord Carthew agreed warmly. He was greatlydisappointed at not seeing his fair fiancée, but was to some extentsoothed by a fictitious message, brought to him by her maid Ellen, tothe effect that Miss Cranstoun was so ill that she had not risen thatday, but that she sent her love and asked him to excuse her.

Just for the few minutes while Ellen was repeating these words to LordCarthew, in her master’s presence, having been previously taught themby Sir Philip himself, Stella was left alone in her bedroom, the doorof which was carefully locked, and the window securely barred. It washer first moment of solitude since Lady Cranstoun’s death, and as luckwould have it, Stephen Lee was standing on the terrace immediatelybeneath her window, which was situated in a turret on the third floorof the building.

For the past four days, although Stella knew it not, Stephen had takenevery possible opportunity of hanging about the house, the seriousillness of one of the collies—an illness so opportune for his plansthat he might be almost suspected of having some hand in it—formingan excellent excuse for loitering near the house, young Stephen beingrenowned for his success as a horse and dog doctor.

As soon, therefore, as Stella’s pale face was pressed against herprison bars, her eyes fell upon the handsome, swarthy countenance andblack beard of the young gamekeeper, and the words spoken by oldSarah, the gypsy fortune-teller, flashed back into her mind.

The hag had sworn to her that the “Romanys” were her friends, herpeople, and that they would help her to escape, if escape werenecessary. At the time, her words seemed mere incomprehensible jargon,and her allusions to “Clare,” and assertions that Stella was “Clare’schild,” had seemed the idle chatter of a woman whose wits werewool-gathering in second childhood.

But now all that was changed. The key to the mystery was in Stella’spossession, and her cheeks flushed and her heart beat high withexcitement and hope as she recalled the fact that her mother hadescaped out of Sir Philip’s power back to her own people, if it wasonly to die, and that she, Stella, might well do the same. Old Sarahhad told her what to do if she needed her help. She had but to placewithin the hands of Stephen Lee that little old coin, slung on a pieceof red silk string, which she still carried about her, and succorwould most certainly come.

In an instant she had made a rapid gesture to Stephen, whose eyes wereupturned to her window. He glanced quickly round, and nodded; thennoted, with the keen eye of a man who spent his life out of doors, thedirection taken, in falling, by the little medal as it was cast downby Stella’s hand, caught it in his fingers, slipped it in his pocket,and walked leisurely away, as though nothing had happened.

Stella had just time to close the window and retire from its vicinity,when the maid Ellen returned. Her presence and that of Dakin weredetestable to Stella, who could not even weep for Lady Cranstoun’sdeath free from their curious and vulgar gaze, nor would she everexchange a word with either of them.

To-day, for the first time, buoyed up by this new hope of escape, sheseemed indifferent to the woman’s presence.

Her hope lay in the gypsies, and with all the wild gypsy element inher blood, she was longing to be free.

CHAPTER XIV.
“THE ROMANYS HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN.”

On leaving the terrace before the Chase, Stephen Lee struckimmediately into the forest in a northerly direction.

The circumference of the Chase enclosure measured fully ten miles, butthere was barely a yard of the space that was not known to thegypsy-bred lad, who had been familiarized with it in bygone poachingdays of childhood long before the period when, as a decently dressedand apparently respectable lad, he had applied for and obtained asituation about the dairy farm on the property. Very soon hisusefulness caused him to be promoted. He had “ways” with horses, dogs,cows, and sheep; could repair a fence or sow a field, break in a horseor administer medicine to a sick dog, with equal cleverness.

He was, so his fellow-servants decided, inordinately proud andunsociable, for what reason none of them could satisfactorily fathom.He broke in Sir Philip’s hunters and taught Miss Cranstoun to ride,being himself little more than three years older than she. He did notdrink, and had, so far as others knew, neither sweetheart nor friends;yet now and then he would mysteriously disappear for hours together,nor would he afterward even attempt to explain his absences.

The evening was closing in as he made his way in and out theundergrowth in a direct cut through the wood; and it was only aftermore than an hour of very rapid walking that he began to slacken hisspeed.

The trees grew very closely together at this point, so closely,indeed, that it seemed impossible to force a path between them. ButStephen knew the track and could almost have found it blindfold, andafter about a quarter of an hour more of difficult walking he cameupon an open space of grassy mounds, crowned by the ruins of anancient hunting tower, dating back to a very early period, of which,however, little more than four stout ivy-hung walls, and a portion ofa low battlemented tower remained. The ruin was not large enough to beimposing, nor had it any known historical interest. Very few peopleknew of its existence, as it was not discernible over the tops of thetall trees by which it was surrounded; yet that it was known to atleast one person was evident now, for from the ruined tower a thinblue line of smoke rose into the clear evening air.

No way of entering the ruin was visible, the base of the tower and ofthe low building attached to it being blocked up by rubble, byovergrown bushes, and by fallen masonry. But Stephen Lee made straightfor a portion of the ruin heavily veiled with ivy, and removing thiswith one hand, he came upon a low archway of stonework completelyblocked by a solid wooden door. Upon this he tapped with the handle ofa knife he carried in his belt, and softly whistled. The signal wasanswered, and the sound of a rusty bolt being withdrawn was theprelude to the apparition of old Sarah Carewe’s face in the doorway.

Entering, Stephen found himself in an improvised chamber formed partlyby the tower and partly by roughly hewn timber roofing to the adjacentwalls. Dry leaves thickly covered the ground, and on a heap of them infront of the fire the brawny figure of a man in the prime of life wasstretched, revelling in the smoky warmth of a fire of peat and sticks.

An oil lamp, hanging from the roof, lit up the scene, which was notwanting in elements of the picturesque. By its feeble illumination,assisted by the firelight, a few pieces of extempore furniture couldbe discerned, such as a wooden table, two or three stools, an ironpot, and some other cooking utensils, and in the far corner a long,shallow box of wood, upon which some rags and rugs were stretched toform a not unacceptable couch for such as needed not luxury to induceslumber.

To Stephen all these details were familiar, as was the bent andshrunken form of his great-grandmother, Sarah Carewe, of whom he stoodin some considerable awe. In her seventy-ninth year, Mrs. Carewe mightwell have lived through the century with which she was popularlycredited; her energy was boundless, and her brain as keen and cunningas when, nearly sixty years before, she had become the proud mother ofHiram Carewe, shot down by Sir Philip Cranstoun’s hand on thatmemorable evening eighteen and a half years ago.

“Baish down, lad,” she said, pointing to a stool by the fire. “UncleJim and me have been looking for you for the past two hours. What’sthe news up at the house?”

He drew the token from his pocket and laid it in her hand.

“This,” he said. “She is a prisoner, as you know, and she threw it mefrom her room window. The lord was there to-day at the burying.They’re driving her close to marry him, curse him! He’s as ugly as amonkey, and I could throttle him with one hand.”

“Her fancy is a lot handsomer,” laughed the old crone. “I don’t blameClare’s girl for fixing on a good-looking man.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, half-fearfully, half-savagely, pausingin the act of knocking the ashes out of a pipe he had taken from hispocket.

Sarah Carewe shook with creaking laughter, holding her hands to hersides as she looked at her angry descendant.

“Why, I mean as how you shot the right chap when you potted the big’un,” she said. “That’s the one she’s set her mind on.”

“Who? That Pritchard cove? He’s left the place, and gone to theCranstoun Arms and then to London——”

“A lot you know,” she cried, in her shaky treble. “He went to theCranstoun Arms right enough, and Stella visited him there twice. Themorning of the day that cursed Sir Philip’s mort went to glory,Stella was nabbed by her father, chatting with her spark, with his armstill tied up from your shot.”

“Hang him! I wish I’d killed him!” muttered Stephen. “And I would ifI’d known what was coming. Something told me as he caught Zephyr’srein, and stared up at her, that he’d be after her; that’s why Ifired. But why didn’t you tell me all this before, mami Sarah? It’sall along of your promise to me about her that I’m working for you.You know right well you swore by your tricks and magic to make hercome to me, and love me, and choose me for her mate before every one.And here I stand by to see her in love with one man, and married toanother. I haven’t done your bidding, and your spying, ay, and yourchoaring and thieving too, if it comes to that, in the pay of a manwhose throat I’d like to cut, all these years, to be hocused andlaughed at now. I tell you, mami Sarah,” he added, starting from thestool, and stamping heavily upon the ground, having worked himself upto a frenzy, “I won’t be made a fool of any longer!”

The man by the fire rolled over, and looked up at him, speaking forthe first time.

“You talk of wanting to cut Philip Cranstoun’s throat,” he began,slowly. “What call have you to hate him, like I have, and mamihere? For eighteen years, come last October, we’ve been waiting,mami and me, to get our knife into him, and our chance has come atlast! You’re young and green, lad; we don’t let you into all oursecrets. You follow orders, and do as the nais nort tellsyou—she’s got her head screwed on right. Do you think a man forgetsto pay a debt like mine? Think of it, lad! I was younger than you arenow, and I loved my sister Clare—Sarah here can tell you how I lovedher. When she was brought up grand as a regular been rawnie, sheused to steal away to see brother Jim on the sly. The girl Stellayou’re so sweet on ain’t a patch on her mother—my sister Clare. She’da pair of eyes like stars dancing in a pool at moonlight, and teethlike little round dewdrops. And he married her, and broke her heart,and swore he’d shoot down any of her relations as he should findloitering about his place. But that night, which was to be my last inEngland afore I sailed to America, to a splendid opening there withuncle Pete, that’s long ago dead, says I to father, ‘I must have onemore look at Clare, for maybe I’ll never come back again.’ Father wasagainst it at first, but I’d take no advice, and he wanted badly tospeak to her, seeing she’d written to say she was breaking her heart;so we went. Oh, you’ve heard the story of how, so soon as she’d creptover the grass to us, her father and brother, by the moonlight, all inwhite silks and satins, to wish us good-by, she was seized andblindfolded, and dragged away, while he, that double villain, thatcursed Philip Cranstoun, shot my father down where he stood by myside! No call to tell you how I fought to punish them, nor how, whenthey’d nabbed me, being three to one, they made a pretence of a trial,and give me five years—five years in prison for seeing my fathermurdered in cold blood, and trying to get at them as shot him down.Well, I’ve lived through them five years; I’m a tough un to kill. Youthink of it, lad—you as lives as I lived for the most part, under thesky, with the free air blowing in your face all day—think what prisonis: Four bare walls, a dog’s work in front of you, and a slave-driverto see as you do it; and all the while eating your heart out withknowing it was unjust, the cruel injustice of a titled scoundrel ashad broken your sister’s heart, and made a jailbird of you, andmurdered your father. And all for what? For his own dirty pride—prideof his family, as are no older than us Carewes; pride that I’ll humblein the dust yet, if I spend the rest of my life in quod for it.”

“There ain’t no talk of quod for this business of ours, dearie,” putin the old crone, as she stirred the fire with a bent iron stick. “Youshall have your revenge, sure enough, and so will I. Your dadi Hiramwas my own first-born, that I’d seen grow up from the stoutest andprettiest kinchin to the finest man in the country-side. And my eyeshave seen what yours have not: your sister, my bonny Clare, as she laydying in my arms, making me swear on her child’s head that I wouldpunish Philip Cranstoun. ‘He swore he would break my pride,’ she said,with the death-rattle in her throat. ‘Mami, break his. Disgrace isworse than death to him. He has brought death upon me; bring disgraceupon him.’ I seem to hear her voice now, and to see her glazing eyeslight up for the last time as she said the words.”

She sat still for a while, staring into the flaming logs over theoutstretched figure of James Carewe. A wonderful Rembrandtesque studythey would have made, those three generations of gypsies, had anyDutch painter been there to fix the scene on canvas, with its sombretone lit by the ruddy firelight. The woman, in her heavy cloak, thehood fallen back, and disclosing a faded red and yellow silkhandkerchief wound round her head, from which scattered white elflocks fell over her wrinkled brow and sunken cheeks. Only a greatartist could have reproduced the look in her glittering black eyes, alook that took in a past of wrongs and sufferings, and brooded incruel, anticipative joy over a future of revenge.

The man at her feet was himself a model of rugged power and a certainswarthy beauty. His coal-black hair and beard were plentifullystreaked with gray; his dark skin was unnaturally pallid, and in hissunken black eyes there lurked an expression not good to see, the lookof a strong man deeply wronged, at war with society, and ripe forrevenge. His dress was careless and dirty; long ago he had ceased tohave any pride in his appearance, and those years of prison life,followed by the misery of police supervision, had changed him from ahandsome, gallant lad, full of strength and possibilities, to a surlyand brooding loafer, whose hand was against every man’s and whosewhole nature was in sullen revolt against the established order ofthings.

The third member of the group by the fire added no little to thestrange picturesqueness of the scene as he leaned with folded armsagainst the wall, listening eagerly while his elders recounted theirpast experiences. Stephen Lee was grandson to Sarah’s second child, adaughter, married to a gypsy of the name of Lee. But for some yearspast Stephen’s lines had fallen in comparatively pleasant places, andin his smart velveteen coat, corduroy breeches, and gaiters, he formeda strong contrast to the ragged and neglected appearance of his uncle,and to the tatters of old Sarah.

“You’ve got good cause to hate the gray wolf,” he said, after a pause.“I’ve been taught to hate him ever since I could speak, and I neverset eyes on him without tingling to put a bullet through him. It’s theway he treats Stella as maddens me. You talked of prison just now;well, she’s imprisoned, shut in with two cursed women spies, one orthe other, turn and turn about, watching her all the time. LadyCranstoun was good to her, I will say that, for all she wasn’t hermother. But now she’s gone, that girl’s heart’s wellnigh broken; andwhen I pass the house at night and see the light up in herturret-window, I’m mad to burn the place down with everything andevery one in it except her. But you two don’t know her as I do. Youhaven’t watched her grow up each day. She’s a regular lady, and looksdown on such as me, for all I’m her cousin if she but knew it. Saywhat you like, mami, she won’t love a fellow like me. And on thetenth of May they’re going to marry her to this lord. I heard the graywolf tell the other so, coming from the burying. Stella’s sent youthat token, and you’ve got to save her. Though how in thunder you’regoing to do it, and bring the disgrace upon Philip Cranstoun’s name asyou talk so much about, it beats me to imagine.”

Again the old woman laughed the mirthless, rattling laugh of old age,and this time James Carewe raised his head from his arms, exchanged aglance with her, and turned over on his side again to face the fire,with the nearest approach to a laugh he ever made. Theirincomprehensible merriment annoyed Stephen greatly, and he muttered anoath or two under his breath as he watched them.

“Chee, chee, lad!” remonstrated the crone. “You will laugh too whenwe’ve done the trick, and spirited the girl away, and hocused herfather and her bridegroom. Your part of the business now is, first, tocarry her a letter I mean to write her; and next, to make believeyou’ve fallen in love with one of them two women as spy upon her. Haveyou got paper and pencil about you?”

Stephen took from his pocket a thick leather-covered account-book,and, tearing out a sheet, handed it to her.

“Not me!” she returned, shaking her head. “I leave all that to boyslike you. Write down what I say: ‘From Sarah Carewe to StellaCranstoun—The Romanys have not forgotten. Pretend to agree to themarriage, so that the watch may be relaxed. On your wedding-eve helpwill come. Hope and trust. Your mother’s friends watch over you, andsoon you will be free.’ And now,” old Sarah added, “you must contrivethat this shall be given her. Hang about until you see Margaret. She’stimid, but she’s square. If Stella plays her part, and cods them intothinking she’s come round, we’ll cheat the gray wolf yet, and within amonth—ay, less than that, Jim, my boy—you and me will have a laugh,a right good laugh together, and even Steve here can join in then!”

Thoroughly mystified, but accustomed from childhood to unquestioninglyobey the orders of old Sarah, whose reputation for abnormal sagacity,together with her undoubted magnetic powers, had earned her a greatreputation among her own class, as well as among credulous andopen-handed members of the public, Stephen presently left the ruinsand returned to the Chase. Joining the other servants at supper thatnight, and listening to their talk about the coming marriage, hecontrived by a look to signify to Margaret that he had something tosay to her. Greatly surprised, but ready-witted as women of allclasses usually prove in an emergency, she presently, as she sat nextto him at table, contrived to knock her supper-plate off on to thefloor with a great clatter.

Down went her head under the table, and down went Stephen’s. Theresult was a collision, and under cover of the laughter which ensued,she felt him slip a tiny piece of folded paper into her hand, andheard him whisper:

“For the mistress.”

CHAPTER XV.
THE WEDDING EVE.

Housekeeper Margaret was a quiet, reserved, and cautious woman withthe caution bred of extreme nervousness and dread of being bullied.

Her fear of Sir Philip was extreme. She was a woman of limitedintelligence, and much addicted in the privacy of her own room, whenthere was no one to observe her, to the consumption of cheapsensational literature. Ever since the night of Clare Lady Cranstoun’sdisappearance Margaret had cherished the conviction that Sir Philiphad secretly murdered her; luckily she kept this belief to herself,but it naturally did not lessen her fear of him.

She was not at all popular with her fellow-servants, and, strange tosay, they were somewhat afraid of her. The fact that she was the onlyfemale servant who had been retained at the Chase more than a fewyears, together with her silent, reserved manners, really born ofnervousness, made the others restrained and uncomfortable before her;even Dakin, the spy, did not know how far Margaret might be in hermaster’s confidence, and invariably treated her with elaboraterespect, an example which was followed by all the other servants, themore willingly as Sir Philip doled out the housekeeping money bothbefore and after his second wife’s death into Margaret’s hands.

In her secret heart Margaret was far from preserving the adamantinecharacter with which she was credited. So far from it, indeed, shetook an intense interest in Stella’s love affair, and consideredHilary Pritchard an ideal hero of romance, his splendid figure,handsome face, and genial, grateful manners having made a strongimpression upon her during the short period while he remained underher care.

When, therefore, Stephen Lee handed her the note for Stella, underpretence of assisting her to pick up the plate she had purposelydropped from the kitchen table, Margaret instantly jumped to theconclusion that it must be another communication from Stella’shandsome sweetheart, Hilary, which the latter had contrived totransmit to the young gamekeeper.

It was very desirable, so Margaret decided, that Stella should receivethe note that same night. “It will comfort the poor dear,” she said toherself, “and, maybe, make her sleep better to know that her younggentleman is thinking of her.”

But since her lady’s death, Margaret had had no opportunity of seeingStella, and it would have provoked comment and inquiry had she triedto do so now. Presently, however, when Ellen, the lady’s maid, gavevent to a grumbling remark that she “supposed some supper would haveto be taken up to Miss Stella, since she hadn’t touched anything thatday, and she must be kept alive somehow until she was married and donefor,” it occurred to Margaret that her chance had come. MissCranstoun’s supper consisted of a wing of a bird, some Camembertcheese and salad, and some Burgundy in a decanter, the doctor havingordered her that wine. Margaret decided intuitively that even ifStella ate nothing, long fasting would have made her so faint that shewould probably sip a glass of wine. Risking detection, therefore, shecontrived to slip the piece of folded paper she had received fromStephen under the decanter under pretence of smoothing the cloth underthe tray in passing. Only Stephen Lee saw her do it; not much escapedhis keen gypsy eyes. But in order to complete her work it wasnecessary that Ellen’s attention should be turned in some otherdirection than the tray she was about to carry up to her mistress, andtowards that end he suddenly made a remark in an awkward shamefacedmanner, all the more effective because it appeared spontaneous andgenuine.

“If I was Lord Carthew,” he said, “it’s not the missus I’d be after,but the maid.”

The lie almost choked him as he mentally contrasted the limp, roundback, colorless eyes, and retreating chin of Ellen with the willowy,supple form, delicate features, and luminous eyes of his adorablecousin. But the lady’s maid herself saw no inappropriateness in thecompliment, which was the more valuable as the young gamekeeper seldomjoined the kitchen circle and had never before paid the leastattention to any of the women. Ellen therefore bridled with pride andsatisfaction as she caught up the supper-tray and made her way to MissCranstoun’s room in the turret, the door of which was opened to her byDakin.

“What a time you’ve been!” exclaimed the latter. “I’ve been justlonging to get down to my supper.”

“Young Stephen Lee’s been in the servants’ hall,” said Ellen, in aloud whisper, and Stella, hearing the words, listened with all herears.

“Lor’, he’s that complimentary,” giggled Ellen. “Says he, ‘If I wasLord Carthew,’ he says, ‘it’s not the mistress I’d be after, but themaid.’ I got that hot and uncomfortable at the way he said it andlooked at me that I had to ketch up the tray and run upstairs out ofthe way. It never seemed to me he was a marrying sort of man; butthere, perhaps he was only waiting until Miss Right came along.”

Dakin stared, with a striking absence of sympathy. She was wonderingwhat a fine, handsome young fellow like Stephen could see in thepallid, watery-eyed, flabby-looking young woman before her. OnlyStella, as she reclined on a sofa in the bedroom, to all appearanceabsorbed in listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, could guessat anything between the lines of Stephen Lee’s compliment. ThatStephen should dare to lift his eyes as high as her, his master’sdaughter, had not entered her mind. But she knew now that he was agypsy of the same wild, untamed race as herself, and she guessed thathis motive for entering the servants’ hall that night was to bringsome message from old Sarah, and that his unwonted gallantry towardthe far from comely Ellen was a trick to cover some scheme of his forthe future.

It was therefore not without prescience of what might be in store forher that Stella watched the tray which was placed on a little tablenear her couch. She fully expected, indeed, that a communication ofsome kind would be lurking among the articles upon it, and when,presently, waiting her opportunity until Ellen, under pretence ofrearranging the ornaments on the mantelpiece, became absorbed in thereflection of her own plain features in the looking-glass, she beganto closely examine the contents of the supper-tray, the result wasthat her fingers speedily closed on Sarah’s message. Slipping it intothe open pages of her book, with her heart beating high withexcitement, Stella read the pencilled words with eager eyes. Not forone moment did she doubt the gypsy’s power to help her. “Your mother’sfriends watch over you, and soon you will be free.” The words came aslight in the darkness to the girl, drooping under the forcedconfinement to the house, and the detestable system of espionage bywhich she was never for one moment free from Dakin’s or Ellen’s pryingeyes. It was true that when she thought of Lord Carthew, and recalledhis sympathetic talk on the morning when he had compared her to the“Lady of Shalott,” and the charm of his manner toward the late LadyCranstoun, she was not so unjust or so prejudiced as to believe thathe was a party to the system which was depriving her of her libertyand breaking down her health in order to force her into an uncongenialmarriage. She believed, on the contrary, that could she only obtain anhour’s uninterrupted talk with the young Viscount, he would be thefirst to condemn her father’s drastic treatment and to yield his claimto her hand when she informed him that she was passionately in lovewith another man. She knew all this, but knew, too, that Sir Philipwould never allow a meeting between her and Lord Carthew, whose townaddress she did not even know. Grief for Lady Cranstoun’s death,desperate anxiety as to her own future, a perpetual longing to seeHilary again and to be assured of his love and faithfulness, theimpossibility of even communicating with him, the misery of herpresent situation, bereft of love, hope, sympathy, and even ofseclusion, and above all, the terrible trial of absence of fresh airand outdoor exercise to a girl of her race and temperament, thesethings were seriously affecting her health. But for the hope held outin Sarah’s message Stella would hardly have lived through the twentydays that followed.

Her nights were sleepless, and what slumber she enjoyed came to her byday and by the use of opiates, which her father, who would allow nodoctor to see her, caused to be administered to her in her tea andcoffee; and it was in a deep sleep, brought on by a dose of this kind,that Lord Carthew saw her, lying fully dressed on the sofa, thewindow, which was open to allow the fresh spring air to blow throughthe room, letting in a torrent of clear, bright sunlight, which seemedabsolutely to shine through the girl’s attenuated form as she layresting among cushions, her cheeks of a marble whiteness under herlong, black eyelashes.

Sir Philip himself brought his future son-in-law to see his daughter,as the latter, on his third visit, would not be denied.

“If you don’t let me see her, I shall think she is dead,” he said,half laughing, but half seriously, too.

“My dear Carthew, I have really been afraid of startling you. The poorchild’s grief has been so excessive that she is wasted to a shadow.She is morbidly fearful lest you may be shocked at the change in her;but I will myself go and prepare her for your visit, and entreat herto receive you.”

“Seeing that we are to be married in a week, it would seem verystrange if I could not see her for a few minutes,” observed LordCarthew; and Sir Philip recognizing a certain doggedness in his tone,knew that he had made up his mind. Not for the first time the Baronetrealized that his future son-in-law had a strong will of his own, andhe rejoiced to see it manifested. A husband with a strong will, hetold himself, was imperatively necessary in the case of a girl withStella’s erratic and vagrant instincts. It was, indeed, almost pitifulto consider Sir Philip’s anxiety that the marriage between LordNorthborough’s heir and his daughter should come off without anyhitch. The chatelain of the Chase was accustomed to be obeyed in fearand trembling, and he never once questioned the wisdom of his owndecrees. It was of vital importance, so he told himself, that Stellashould marry Lord Carthew, and he was placed in a position of extremedifficulty by the fact that if Stella and Claud once met before theceremony, the girl would undoubtedly blurt out the terrible facts ofher preference for Hilary Pritchard, and of her gypsy descent. Thedread of such a contingency prevented Sir Philip from resting by nightor by day. He did not like the Chase, but he remained in the housesimply and solely to prevent his daughter from running away, as hefelt sure she would do should the least opportunity present itself.

On the day, therefore, when he conducted Lord Carthew into thepresence of his lovely fiancée, Sir Philip ascertained first of allthat the latter was under the influence of an opiate which wouldprevent her from recognizing and speaking to her future husband. Thussatisfied that no ill result could ensue, Sir Philip led Lord Carthewto the couch of his pale lady love, as she lay asleep, with her thinface on her thinner hand, Dakin, the black-browed and shifty-eyed,hovering in close attendance.

Stella’s heavy mourning accentuated her unearthly pallor. Even SirPhilip was startled, so deathlike was her appearance, while LordCarthew’s heart was stirred to infinite pity.

“Poor child!” he murmured. “Poor child!”

Kneeling by her side, he very tenderly, very reverently lifted thehand which hung over the side of the sofa to his lips before he tookfrom his pocket and slipped on her third finger a superb diamondengagement-ring.

“I wish she would awaken and speak to me,” he said, wistfully. “Iwanted to ask her about our honeymoon—whether she would like to go atonce in my yacht to the Mediterranean, or, as she is so delicate,whether a stay of a few days in the Isle of Wight before setting outon our travels might not be the best thing for her. My father hasplaced Northborough Castle at my disposal, and it would not be much ofa journey from here. Has she been asleep long?” he inquired of Dakin.

The woman was primed with her answer.

“No, my lord, not long. Poor young lady, she was awake all night. Shedo grieve dreadfully over her mamma’s death; she don’t seem to havethe heart to sleep or eat or go out. But she gets a bit excited abouther trousseau, my lord. That’s the only thing now that seems tointerest her.”

This was a daring flight of fancy on the part of Dakin, for Stella hadnot even troubled to look at the patterns for materials, the gloves,and shoes, and cloaks, and dresses, which every day brought her.

“She looks dreadfully ill,” said the lover, anxiously. “What does thedoctor say?”

“There’s nothing the matter with her but fretting, my lord, and changeof scene is bound to cure her in no time.”

“I have brought down a present from my mother to my bride,” LordCarthew next remarked, drawing a large, flat jeweller’s case from hispocket. “I had hoped to have clasped them round Stella’s neck myself.”

He opened the lid and displayed before Sir Philip’s approving eyesfive rows of superb pearls, caught here and there by diamond clasps.

“My mother would like to have presented the gift in person,” heexplained, “but when I told her of Stella’s extreme delicacy andnervous depression, she agreed that it would be better not to see heruntil the wedding-day. She pleaded so hard, however, to be allowed tocome to the wedding that I could not refuse her. Of course sheperfectly understands how essentially quiet the affair will be, sosoon after Lady Cranstoun’s death. I suppose you have made everyarrangement for the service to be read in the chapel here?”

“Certainly. It is a little in disrepair and I have workmen employed atthis moment in putting it right,” answered Sir Philip. “Only myfather-in-law, the Duke of Lanark, will be present besides myself. Hehas not seen Stella for some time, but she was always his favoritegrandchild, and he much desires to be present. Stella is fond of himand glad to have him.”

With much relief Sir Philip saw his future son-in-law depart for townthat same evening. He had been dreading lest Stella shouldunexpectedly awaken and spoil all. Everything was going on as well ascould be expected. According to Dakin and Ellen, Stella, although shetook no active interest in her trousseau, consented to stand passivewhile hats and gowns were tried upon her, and made no remark even whenshe was “fitted” for her wedding-dress. The servants thought that shemust be getting reconciled to the idea of the marriage; but as shenever spoke, it was difficult for them to pronounce on the subjectwith certainty. This neutral attitude was at least better than activeopposition, and Sir Philip’s heart was elated by hope that nothingwould occur to mar the ceremony.

It was the more irritating to him, therefore, when on the night beforethe wedding eve a strange and ominous dream troubled his repose. Hethought that he was standing within some vast cathedral, in which,amid much pomp and magnificence, to the strains of a superb organ, andbefore the eyes of the highest in the land, the nuptials of hisdaughter and Lord Carthew were being celebrated. He thought he wasgiving his daughter away, was standing close by her side and placingher hand within that of her bridegroom, when a cold film seemed tohang across him, and he perceived the spirit of his dead wife Clare,with one hand uplifted in warning, and the other stretchedprotectingly around her daughter, who seemed unconscious of herpresence.

Suddenly the light in the church flickered and paled; people looked ateach other, whispering and alarmed. Bride and bridegroom sprang apart,affrighted, and instead of the rich notes of the organ came theshrill, eldritch laughter of the hag Sarah Carewe, as she croaked againin his ears the curse which she had uttered on the day when JamesCarewe was sentenced for defending his father.

It was a horrible dream, and Sir Philip awoke unnerved and alarmed. Atthe same hour of the night visions of help and escape hovered overStella, the memory of which kept her in a fever of excitementthroughout the day. Mechanically she let them attire her in her bridalrobes in the afternoon, and Sir Philip was sent for to see her inthem.

She was white as her dress, and her eyes shone strangely. The look ofstrain and tension about her face startled her father, suggesting, asit did, a state of mind bordering on insanity. Had these three weeksof solitary confinement been too much for her? he wondered.

“I am glad,” he said, speaking more gently than usual, “to see thatyou are prepared to accept with pleasure the brilliant fate in storefor you.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then disconcerted him by givingvent to a low, mirthless laugh as she turned away.

Alarmed by something unexpected and uncanny in her manner, Sir Philiptook Dakin apart, and gave orders that for the rest of the eveningMiss Cranstoun was to be closely watched, but allowed apparent libertyof action.

“Does she seem to you at all light-headed?” he asked, and Dakin ownedthat that idea had occurred to her.

“Let her move about the house,” Sir Philip said, “always, of course,with one or two persons within call. Fretting and starving in thatfoolish way have pulled her down badly.”

All the watching during that evening, however, fell to Dakin’s share,for handsome Stephen Lee presented himself in the servants’ hall, andmade such open love to Ellen that that young woman forgot everythingin the joy of her supposed conquest.

Finding that she was able to leave her room unmolested, andremembering well old Sarah’s promise of help on the wedding eve,Stella took the opportunity while her father was at dinner of runninglightly down the broad oak staircase toward the hall door. Here shepaused a moment, and then suddenly, with trembling fingers andthumping heart, she drew back the bolt of the door.

Dakin was close behind her, although she knew it not; and Dakinfollowed her young mistress out on the terrace, hiding in the shadowof the doorway, and watched her hesitate a moment, and then speedacross the grass to where the woods began, and lose herself among thegathering shadows.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE CHARM.

Stella’s sudden disappearance startled Dakin.

She had believed the girl to be too seriously ill to attempt to runaway. But, after all, as she told herself, stepping gingerly on to thewet grass after her errant charge, Miss Cranstoun couldn’t go veryfar. Still she was nervous. Sir Philip had given particular ordersthat his daughter should have more liberty this evening, but he hadsaid nothing about permitting her to stray about the grounds.

Mrs. Dakin was not wholly inhuman, although of a mean, hard, vulgar,and sordid nature. She had been promised five and twenty pounds, to bedivided between her and Ellen, to whom she decided that the odd fivepounds should go as soon as the wedding ceremony was over, and shewanted to earn it. At the same time Stella’s appearance this eveninghad been so strange, her eyes had appeared so unnaturally large andbright, and her face of so waxen and unhealthy a pallor, that the spyhad serious misgivings as to whether she would be alive and in herright mind for the ceremony of the morrow. Consequently, she haddecided that a little fresh air might do the girl good, and as Stellawas wearing a white woollen shawl over her shoulders, there was noparticular danger of her catching a cold, even though the evening wasdamp and chilly.

Mrs. Dakin approached the outskirts of the wood and called Stella’sname, not too loudly, being in great dread lest she should draw SirPhilip’s anger upon her own head for losing sight of her.

“Miss Cranstoun! Miss Cranstoun! Miss Stella! Pray come in. You’ll becatching cold!”

Only a faint echo thrown from the thick walls of the Chase answeredher. Unaccustomed to country sights and sounds, the last murmurs ofthe birds twittering good-nights to each other from the trees and thesound of the light rain which began to patter on the leaves made hernervous. The wood seemed full of rustlings, and almost, as it appearedto her, of human laughter, fitful and mocking.

Was Miss Stella hidden anywhere and laughing at her? Such a course ofconduct seemed very unlike her young mistress, who never scrupled toshow her proud dislike and distrust for the paid spies by whom she wassurrounded. And yet, if it was not Stella, who could it be, for thereundoubtedly was laughter sounding somewhere in the twilight woods?

Dakin was growing frightened. It was now fully twenty minutes sinceStella had given her the slip. She did not know her way about theproperty, and could see no sign of Miss Cranstoun anywhere. With herneat black gown torn and her hands badly scratched by the brambles,she made her way out again into the open, resolved upon engagingfurther help in the discovery of her mistress. To her great relief,she caught sight of Stephen Lee, sauntering along with his hands inhis pockets from the direction of the kitchen quarters. He looked lesssaturnine than usual, and a smile actually lurked about his mouth.Without hesitation, Dakin ran toward him.

“Mr. Lee!” she exclaimed; “the very man I want! I came out here withmy young lady for her to get a breath of fresh air, and I’ve lost hersomehow in the wood. You know your way in and out of them trees—findher at once, there’s a good fellow, and I’ll give you five shillingsfor yourself. She’s ill and upset, and I’m almost afraid,” she added,lowering her tone, “if she’s left alone that she’ll be doing herselfa mischief.”

The blood rushed all over the young gypsy’s face in an instant. Heguessed that old Sarah had some hand in Stella’s disappearance, yet hehad no more idea than Dakin as to where Stella was or what old Mrs.Carewe’s plans with regard to her could be. His own instructions hadbeen simply to make love to the lady’s maid, and so to withdraw herattention from her mistress, and at this task he had succeeded onlytoo well.

He stood now, hesitating a moment, as Dakin addressed him. Old Sarahwas about in the woods, probably, and James Carewe also; of that hefelt as certain as that a gypsy’s caravan was encamped immediatelyoutside the Chase demesne on a piece of waste land, not very far fromthe ruined tower. He must not meddle in grandame Sarah’s concerns forcertain. If Sarah intended to spirit Stella away that night, she wouldmost certainly do so, and if she did not mean that, what was thesense of all her prophecies about Stella’s relenting towardhim—Stephen—and showing signs of returning his love?

He was so long silent that Dakin grew impatient.

“Why, man,” she cried, “why are you standing, staring, there? She islost in the wood—your young mistress—can’t you understand?”

“I understand right enough,” he answered in a surly tone; “but I’vegot to think out for myself which path she’d be likely to take. Youwait on the terrace steps, missis, and I’ll see if I can find her.”

He struck into the wood, and made his way rapidly through the branchesuntil he reached a point at which he calculated that Dakin could nothear him. The sky had grown very dark by this time with falling dusk,and the rain-clouds. Here, under the overarching branches, it wasdifficult even for Stephen’s hawk-eyes to distinguish anything.Stopping still, he uttered three times the same low, peculiar whistlewith which he had heralded his approach to the ruined tower. Then helistened, and very faintly, as from some distance, he caught ananswering sound.

Again he gave the signal, and this time the responsive whistle wasnearer, and the sound of breaking twigs heralded the approach of oneor more persons through the brushwood. He hardly knew whether or notto feel surprised when, through an opening of the boughs, he perceivedtwo female figures approaching him. One was Stella, with her whitewoollen shawl drawn about her head and shoulders, the other was mamiSarah, looking very bent and tiny, as she hobbled along beside hertall companion.

“You are here all right, then,” said the old woman to him. “Goodboy—good boy! Now, see this young lady back into the house. She’sbeen having a little talk with poor old Sarah. She knows old Sarah’sher friend, don’t you, deary?”

The girl bent her head in a dazed fashion, as it seemed to Stephen.He, for his part, utterly failed to understand the whole business.

“I came into the woods to find Miss Cranstoun,” he said, doubtfully.“It was that spy woman sent me. I thought—I hoped,” he stammered,“that you, mami Sarah, might have helped Miss Cranstoun to escape.”

The crone broke into her creaking laugh.

“Leave it to me, Steve,” she muttered; “old Sarah knows her business.Steve needn’t teach his great-grandmother. Remember all I’ve said toyou, dearie,” she added, turning to Stella, “and as for this youngman, though you’re Miss Cranstoun of the Chase, he’s your cousin, andyou may trust him. Now, good-night to you, my dearies, both. Ahandsome pair they make, a handsome pair!”

So, muttering and gibbering to herself, old Mrs. Lee disappeared againamong the trees, huddled in her hooded cloak, and as like therealization of a witch in a fairy-tale as could be imagined, leavingStephen and Stella standing opposite each other in the dusk, while therain pattered on the branches above their heads.

Stephen was the first to break the silence. Some strange fear of thegirl possessed him; he had always been in awe of her, and her unmovedmanner of receiving Sarah’s communication struck him as being out ofplace and strange.

“Do you really wish to go back to the house, Miss Cranstoun?” heasked.

“Yes.”

“You have no desire to escape? Because you have only to say the word,and I will lay down my life trying to set you free. Don’t you want tobe free?”

“No.”

She spoke mechanically, although he felt that in the darkness her eyeswere fixed searchingly upon him.

He drew a long breath, and then said, in the same constrained tones:

“The woman Dakin is waiting for you on the terrace. Shall I take youto her?”

“Yes.”

Without another word he led the way through the trees on to the grassbefore the house. It was considerably more than half an hour sinceDakin had lost Stella, but she was there on the terrace, anxiouslyawaiting her.

The rain had ceased, and the sky was clear. There was still sufficientlight for Stephen, as he suddenly turned to look at his youngmistress, to distinguish her features and expression.

As he did so, his heart grew cold within him, for the look in herdilated dark eyes was not only wild, but absolutely wicked.

CHAPTER XVII.
A MAD BRIDE.

“I thought you were lost, miss—I did, indeed,” protested Dakin, asMiss Cranstoun, hardly deigning to notice her, swept past her into thehouse. “And if Sir Philip thought I’d let you run out of the houselike that—— Lor’, here he is!”

Mistress and maid were crossing the wide hall as Sir Philip entered itfrom the dining-room. Miss Cranstoun’s shawl had fallen back, and herplentiful blue-black hair, disarranged by the woollen wrap, curled inpicturesque disorder round her face. The Baronet advanced to meet her,and then suddenly stopped. He did not even see Dakin in attendance ashis pale face grew paler still, and his dry lips murmured:

“Clare!”

It was only a trick of light, no doubt, but he had never seen Stellalook so startlingly like her dead mother as she did to-night; the sameproud, defiant carriage of the head, the same flashing dark eyes, andcurved, scornful, red lips. Twenty years seemed to have slipped away,and he himself to be taken back into the body of a young fool,bringing his beautiful, low-bred bride into the home of his fathers.

Speech would dispel the hateful illusion; he realized that, anduttered his daughter’s name sharply:

“Stella!”

“Yes.”

“Be sure that you are dressed in time to-morrow. The train forPortsmouth leaves Grayling Station at two o’clock. Neither LordCarthew nor I like to be kept waiting. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I shall probably not see you to-morrow until you are dressed for theceremony. You will, of course, wear the pearl necklace LadyNorthborough sent you. I hope you have by this time realized fully thehonor that Lord Carthew is conferring on you by making you his wife.”

No answer. She was looking him full in the eyes with an expression hehad never before seen in hers, such an expression as his own faceoften wore—scornful, sarcastic, and hard.

“On my side,” he continued, longing to humble her untamable spirit,“on my side, indeed, there is no question of honoring. The Cranstounscan vie with the Guelphs for antiquity of race; but as the daughter ofsuch a mother as yours, it should, indeed, be gratifying to you that aman of Lord Carthew’s rank should have asked for your hand.”

She did not answer in words, but broke into a low laugh ofunmistakable contempt. It was the second time that evening that shehad laughed at him, and something defiant and insolent in her mannerprovoked him beyond endurance. He seized both her slender hands in oneof his, and shook her savagely.

“Be silent!” he muttered.

Into her dark eyes there flashed a look which seemed the reflex of hisown in savagery. Then, suddenly lowering her head, she buried herteeth in his fingers, causing him instantly to let her go; whereat shelooked at him, laughed again, and fled away up the stairs.

The assiduous Dakin, who had stolen to the floor above unobservedduring the little passage of arms between father and daughter, led theway to the turret bedroom. It made her flesh creep, she admittedafterward, to hear Miss Cranstoun laughing to herself as she glidedin. Stella walked straight up to the wedding-dress, which lay upon thebed, a perfectly plain garment of high-necked white satin, with a longtulle veil.

As Miss Cranstoun turned the dress over, she laughed again, andflitting about the room, she next lighted on the case containing thepearl necklace. A little exclamation of pleasure escaped her lips asshe opened it; until that moment she had not troubled to do so. Nowshe clasped it round her neck and stood before the looking-glass,trying the effect.

Dakin, watching her, decided that she had never seen her look sohandsome. A feverish flush tinged her ordinarily pale face, and hereyes shone with unnatural brilliancy. Seizing the wedding-dress, shemotioned to Dakin to assist her into it, grumbling the while in a lowundertone, quite unlike her usual clear, sweet voice, about the fit.

Dakin had very little doubt by this time that the poor girl’s mind wastemporarily deranged. She had been but a comparatively short time inthe Cranstoun service, but she knew enough of Stella’s outward mannerto be sure that this strange, restless irritability, these low,cunning fits of laughter, and this rough impatience of movement,differed entirely from Stella’s natural deportment. Once convincedthat Miss Cranstoun was a little “off her head,” Dakin was extraanxious to please her. It was not her place, but Ellen’s, to help herto dress, and to make alterations in the fit of her gown; but ratherthan excite her to any outward paroxysm, Dakin pinned and stitched fora good hour, and felt genuinely thankful that it was Ellen, and notshe, who had to sleep that night in the same room with the bride ofto-morrow.

When the lady’s maid at length entered the bedroom after supper, Dakinwas curious to see whether she also would note the alteration for theworse in Stella’s manner. At first, the young woman was too muchabsorbed in Mr. Stephen Lee’s compliments to pay heed to anythingaround her; but gradually, as she whispered apart to Dakin, she becameaware that Miss Cranstoun, seated by the fire in a white cashmeredressing-gown, with her black hair loose about her shoulders, waslistening to her silly confidences, and staring at her with great,gleaming eyes.

Ellen tried to go on with her chatter, but came suddenly to a fullstop.

“What’s wrong with her?” she asked of Dakin, in an awestruck whisper.

Dakin, with her back to her young mistress, touched her foreheadsignificantly, and shook her head.

“Mad?”

Ellen’s pale lips formed rather than uttered the words.

Dakin nodded, and held up her finger warningly.

“They get that sharp when they’re that way,” she whispered,confidentially. “If she’s violent in the night I’ll be sleeping in thenext room, and I’ll come to you.”

But this was not enough for Ellen. Shaking with fear, she protestedthat she could not be left alone with a mad woman, and that unlessDakin promised to sleep with her she would go right down to Sir Philipand tell him then and there that the marriage must be put off becausehis daughter was crazy. This threat had the effect of persuading Dakinto stay, the more so as she could see Miss Cranstoun watching them,and laughing softly to herself as the unhappy spies took whisperingcounsel together. Neither of them slept that night, except foroccasional broken snatches, from which they were awakened with a startby fitful bursts of the same crazy laughter from the bride of theensuing day.

Stella’s wedding morn was clear and fair. Scarcely a cloud marred theblue clearness of the sky, and the sun shone bright upon thebridegroom as he drove with his mother from Grayling Station in thecarriage sent from the Chase to meet them. Lord Northborough had beenunable to attend the ceremony, owing to a sudden Parliamentary crisisand impending change of Ministry. But Lady Northborough made up by hervivacity and high spirits for her husband’s absence. She was a typicalAmerican, highly educated, witty, fascinating, and sympathetic. Shewas not beautiful, but always exquisitely dressed, and dainty as aDresden china statuette. This morning, in silver-gray brocade and rareold white lace, she looked a little picture as she chattered andsmiled at her son during the drive.

“I’m just mad with anxiety to see your lovely Stella,” she was saying.“I’m so glad you are going to marry a beauty. I do love pretty women.”

“There isn’t the slightest doubt about Stella’s beauty, mother; butI’m afraid you’ll think she looks terribly delicate. She has beenwearing herself to a shadow, crying over her mother’s death. Thereseems to be no sympathy at all between her and her father. The man ismade of cast-iron. But Stella’s prettiness is her least charm. She isso frank and innocent, so naïve, and at the same time so refined; herface is as pure as a child’s, and yet as tender as a woman’s; but if Ionce begin, I shall rhapsodize over her until we reach the house. Shehas been bought up in the most conventual manner; even Tennyson hasbeen kept from her, and she listened to the ‘Lady of Shalott’ as achild does to a fairy-tale. She has herself lived like that; shut up,as the Lady of Shalott was, among dreams. It is by that name that Ilike to think of her.”

“Fanciful boy!” his mother murmured, fondly tapping his cheek lightlywith her gloved fingers. “How can people consider you hard andsarcastic? Only your little mother understands you as you really are.”

“Dear little mother! But one thing disappoints me. I can find no traceof Hilary Pritchard. He has not returned to his rooms in town, nor ishe at his Yorkshire home. In the state he was in, with a gunshot woundin his shoulder, his disappearance is the more inexplicable.”

“Don’t you think,” Lady Northborough suggested, with her fine woman’sinstinct, “that he, too, may have fallen a victim to the charms ofyour beautiful Miss Cranstoun, and that that may be his reason forstopping away?”

“Quite impossible,” her son answered, decidedly. “He had taken a mostunaccountable dislike against her at first sight.”

“Ah! That sounds bad!”

“And he saw nothing of her. He left the very day after his arrival,while every one was having luncheon, rather than stay an hour longerin the house, although he was not fit to travel.”

“Mysterious conduct on his part, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, part of his pride and independence, I suppose. Besides, whyshould he keep away? He doesn’t even know that I am going to bemarried to Miss Cranstoun.”

“Not when the fact has been announced in every society paper for thepast fortnight?”

“I forgot that. But I repeat, little mother, his absence has nothingto do with my marriage, and his conduct in avoiding me hurts me verydeeply—unless, indeed, it may arise from illness. But here we arewithin the Chase enclosure. Splendid timber, isn’t it?”

The Chase chapel had been unused, save as a lumber-room, for very manyyears. The Cranstouns were not a religious race, and the beautifullittle mediæval building had been desecrated by being utilizedalternately as a barn and a box-room. But for the masses of whiteflowers on the altar, there was no attempt at decoration, an omissionaccounted for by Lady Cranstoun’s recent death.

Round about the arched graystone doorway of the chapel the servantsand retainers of the Chase were assembled, and a faint cheer went upas Lord Carthew helped his mother to descend from the carriage. TheSquire was not popular with his tenants any more than with hisdomestics; he had an absolute genius, indeed, for making himselfdisliked by all classes among whom he moved. Still, he was allpowerful in the district, and great interest was felt in the beautifuldaughter whom hardly any one had ever seen outside the Chaseenclosure. The crowd round the chapel doors was necessarily acomparatively small one, comprising, as it did, only the tenants offarms and cottages within easy distance of the house, and among them alittle, wrinkled, aged woman, neatly dressed in a cotton gown, ashawl, apron, and large straw bonnet, was hardly noticed at first,each group supposing her to belong to some other in the party.

There was no way into the chapel save through the Norman archway, andto enter it from the house it was necessary to walk some yards alongthe terrace. Inside the little building, which smelt musty anddisused, two clergymen were waiting: Canon Wrextone, who had been acollege contemporary of Sir Philip Cranstoun, and the Rev. JohnTurner, of Grayling. The Canon was a stout, genial man of the world;the Vicar of Grayling, a pale, ascetic-looking man of middle age. Inone of the few high oak pews, too, there sat his Grace the Duke ofLanark, the late Lady Gwendolen’s father, a tall, bent, old gentlemanof seventy-five, in deep mourning, with the pallor of eld upon hisface, which was almost as colorless as his snow-white hair.

The head of the house of Douglas had felt it to be his duty to graceby his presence the union of her whom he believed to be his daughter’schild with Lord Northborough’s heir, who himself had the extreme honorof being connected by marriage with the Douglas family. His duch*esshad not accompanied him, as she had an equally strong objectionagainst the Chase and its master, and considered that a wedding soclose on the heels of her daughter’s death was indecorous in theextreme. But Lord Northborough and the Duke were political allies, andthe Earl had joined with Sir Philip in begging the favor of hispresence. The old gentleman had therefore journeyed down, attended byhis valet, who sat at some distance behind his master. The Duke wascurious to see his granddaughter, of whose remarkable beauty he hadheard with surprise. The Douglases had been plain for generations, andit seemed a little sacrilegious for a Douglas’ daughter to bebeautiful.

But no eyes watched for the bride’s appearance more keenly than thoseof the little, wizened old woman in the neat cotton gown and strawbonnet. Her bent frame was actually quivering with excitement as shehung on her stick, with her piercing eyes fixed upon the entrancedoors to the house through which the bride must pass on her way to thechapel. Stephen Lee, having received strict orders not to recognizehis old relation, kept at some distance from her, attired, as were allthe grooms, gamekeepers, stable and farmhands among the crowd, in hisbest clothes, and looking a handsome and attractive figure in hisbrown velveteen coat, smart corduroys, and gaiters.

In his secret heart he was profoundly angry, anxious, and unhappy.What did old Sarah mean by her promise to save Stella from adistasteful marriage, when here they were at the church doors, waitingfor the girl to appear in her wedding-dress, and be married to thisinfernal whipper-snapper of a swell, whom he, Stephen, could havefelled with one hand? What, too, had passed between Stella and Sarahin the course of that interview in the woods last night, and what wasthe meaning of that strange look he had seen in Stella’s eyes?

Sarah was up to some trick, that was certain, but of what nature hehad no means of divining; meantime the chapel held already a duke, acountess, two ministers of the Church, and the young bridegroom, onlywaiting for Stella’s appearance to begin the ceremony.

At last she came, radiant sunshine falling down on her as she emergedfrom the doors on to the terrace, her fingers laid upon her father’sarm, towering over him in height, and looking, in her plain trainedgown of white satin, taller and more commanding than she had ever yetappeared. Sir Philip’s face was set like a mask. It was impossible tosay what were his feelings, but his cold heart in reality was aflamewith astonishment, indignation, and rage.

Stella had kept him waiting in the hall, watch in hand; had thensauntered leisurely down the broad oak staircase in her wedding-gown,attended at a distance by the two frightened satellites, Ellen andDakin, and by old Margaret, whose features wore a scared and troubledlook. Miss Cranstoun had offered no apologies to her father forkeeping him waiting, but had coolly crossed to where he was standing,and looked at him with shining eyes, in which some strange laughterseemed hidden, from behind her veil.

“What are you waiting for?” he had asked in his harshest tones.

“Your arm, of course.”

There was more than defiance, there was an insolence in her tone andmanner utterly new to him. Nevertheless, there was no time to be lostin reprimands or punishments now. He dreaded beyond all things lestshe might make a scene in church before Lady Northborough and theDuke. Her fear of him and constraint in his presence seemed to havevanished. Some subtle change had come over her state of mind towardhim. She actually shook his arm impatiently as he stood a moment, palewith anger, regarding her.

“Get on to the church,” she muttered, roughly. “Don’t waste time.”

The grasp of her fingers tightened on his arm. This time it wasactually she who was hurting him, as she clutched his skin through hiscoat. He glanced at her quickly, and then at the faces of the womenbehind her. The idea which possessed their brains entered his also,and he asked himself whether grief and harsh treatment could havetemporarily deprived his daughter of her reason.

As Sir Philip led the bride along the terrace toward the church door,a murmur of admiration ran through the crowd. Her face had lost itspallor; through the tulle veil a bright color showed in her cheeks,and contrasted with the intense purple-blue of her restless, gleamingeyes. Two persons her gaze sought in the crowd about the doors. Firstthey lighted upon old Sarah Carewe, and that look in her eyes whichwas almost a smile deepened and broadened. Next, her gaze sought outStephen Lee, and seemed to read in one piercing glance, as she passedclose to him, the hopeless passion for her which consumed him. Asthough by accident, she dropped her lace handkerchief at the churchdoor. One or two persons among the crowd pressed forward to pick itup, and among them Stephen, who, as he transferred it to the bride’shand, felt, to his utter astonishment, that she had slipped a piece ofpaper into his fingers.

Speechless with amazement, he watched her enter the church; the doorswere clanged to behind her, and every eye was fixed upon her as shewalked proudly up the aisle, leaning on her father’s arm. LadyNorthborough could hardly refrain from a little cry of admiration. Herson’s description had prepared her for something ethereal, thin andpale to a fault; but this queenly young creature, with the proudlittle dark head, the perfect figure, and startlingly brilliantcoloring, was no subject for pity, but rather for wonderingadmiration.

“Gad! Where did the girl get her good looks from?” muttered the oldDuke, who had occasionally an awkward habit of thinking aloud.

As to Lord Carthew, he was enraptured by the alteration for the betterin his lovely bride’s appearance. The strange restlessness of herglances he attributed to her natural nervousness, which caused heralso to whisper and mumble the necessary responses in the service witheven less than the ordinary bride’s accuracy. Sir Philip, watching hisdaughter closely, felt every moment more convinced that the girl’sbrain and memory were momentarily clouded. She stared about herwithout reverence, but with evident curiosity, during the service, towhich she paid not the slightest attention, and her bridegroomespecially she continually regarded with a kind of amused wonder, assome specimen of humanity the like of whom she had never seen before.But no one else seemed to heed her irreverent behavior or to note thatstrange look as of suppressed laughter in her dancing eyes, and SirPhilip drew a deep sigh of relief when the ceremony was over, and thesigning of the book followed.

Here again a strange thing happened. The newly made Lady Carthew,after receiving with an odd little laugh the congratulatory kisses ofher grandfather, the Duke, and the Countess, her mother-in-law,murmured that her hand shook so badly she could not hold a pen, andwas with difficulty persuaded to scrawl “Stella Cranstoun,” in analmost undecipherable hand, on the page before her. Strange fears andfancies filled Sir Philip’s mind. Was her feverish color, her strangebehavior, due to a partially paralyzed brain and nerves, he wondered.Still, she was Lady Carthew, and he had triumphed; but that strangelikeness to her dead mother, which seemed so much stronger to-day thanit had ever been before, troubled him, and that incomprehensible laughin her eyes.

“I wish Carthew joy of his bargain,” was Sir Philip’s mental comment.“But, in any case, she is in his charge now, and safely off my hands,so that there is no chance of that senseless old gypsy prophecy beingrealized.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE WEDDING JOURNEY.

“Go to Grayling Station, and get into the two o’clock Portsmouthtrain with Lord C. and me.”

Such was the message, scrawled in a shaky handwriting, on the scrap ofpaper thrust by the bride into Stephen Lee’s hand.

It perplexed him beyond measure, but it seemed to him that her willwas law, and he must obey. For more than five years he had cherished adog-like devotion, of which she had been apparently quite unconscious.Yet now she wanted him, and he could not choose but obey her orders.First, however, he must contrive to show the paper to old Sarah, andthis he succeeded in doing while the bridal party were leaving thechurch, at which time the crowd had eyes for none but the chief actorsin the ceremony.

Quickly running her eye over the bit of paper he had slipped into herhand, for the old woman’s sight was excellent in spite of her years,Sarah grinned in intense and evident amusem*nt as she thrust it backupon him. Stephen was angry with her for her inexplicable merriment,but there was no time for controversy now; and abruptly leaving thegroup about the doors, he strode away in the direction of Grayling.

“Your daughter’s a handsome girl, sir,” the Duke observed to SirPhilip Cranstoun, as he and his host, with Lady Northborough and herson, sat in the vast and gloomy dining-hall of the Chase, facing thatsardonic gray portrait in armor which had so greatly interested LordCarthew on the occasion of his first visit to the house—“a very finegirl indeed. And I don’t wonder that Carthew here had his head turned.Can’t think where she gets her looks from. You’re not a beautyyourself, Cranstoun, and we Douglases have never been good-looking.Only known her a month, eh, Carthew? Well, well, marry in haste andrepent at leisure, you know!”

“Now, Duke, you are just too cruel!” exclaimed Lady Northborough, asthe old gentleman wheezed with elderly laughter over his own humor.“Stella is quite too lovely, and would certainly have been the mostbeautiful débutante at the Drawing-Room this year but for herunhappy mourning. Now mind, Claud, dear, that you get her quite wellat Northborough Castle, and on the yacht. Though, really, she doesn’tlook a bit ill now; but that’s on account of her lovely complexion.”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” persisted the old gentleman,teasingly. “Cranstoun, I am a judge of character, and I shouldn’t besurprised if Carthew here had caught a Tartar in your child and mygranddaughter.”

For the first time in his life, Sir Philip seemed to have lost hisgift of bitter speech. The Duke of Lanark’s words filled him neitherwith indignation nor amusem*nt, but with something approaching alarm.The Stella he had always known, with her sensitiveness, refinement,and proud self-control, seemed to have altered into something strangeand fierce, wholly beyond his influence. This impression deepened whenshe presently entered the room, in her going-away costume of soft graycrape, and gray velvet cape trimmed with gray ostrich feathers, whichlast also adorned her large, shady hat. It had seemed unlucky to starta honeymoon in black, so for the time her mourning for her mother hadbeen mitigated by this very becoming compromise.

The new Viscountess Carthew was buttoning one of her long gray Suèdegloves as she came in. She stopped in her employment at the thresholdof the dining-room, and gazed with a sort of bold, amused curiosity atthe group who sat discussing an elegant lunch of old wines and coldviands at the other end of the room. Her bridegroom hurried to meether, followed by the Duke of Lanark.

“Allow me, my dear,” the latter said, and deftly fastened the button,while almost at the same time he clasped round her wrist a magnificentbangle of rubies and diamonds.

“From your grandmother and myself,” he said, with a courtly bow.

She flushed with pleasure, and her wonderful eyes sparkled at sight ofthe jewels. She was almost as tall as he, and seemed to tower over herbridegroom, her father, and little Lady Northborough, who tripped upto her, full of compliments and admiration.

Under a thin gray net veil the bride looked more beautiful than ever,and Claud found himself wondering why he had never before noted thewonderful tints of her skin, where the whites and reds were indeed“cunningly laid on” by Nature’s lavish hand. She was strangely silent,though, and hardly spoke one word in reply to Lady Northborough’sfluent effusiveness. As to her father, she pointedly ignored him, andevery one present noted with a shock of surprise that when, at thevery last moment of leaving her home, as she stood on the terracesteps before entering the carriage, Sir Philip took her hand and wouldhave kissed her cheek, she drew sharply back, and laughed in a way notpleasant to hear.

The next moment she had sprung lightly into the open carriage, andLord Carthew, after taking an affectionate leave of his mother, got inbeside her, the signal was given to the coachman, the gray horsesstarted at a brisk pace, and without rice, or satin slippers, or anyother harbingers of good luck in their rear, the bridal pair startedon their journey.

Lord Carthew was very loath to begin his married life withfault-finding. But his bride’s conduct on the steps had startled andshocked him.

“I am sorry, dearest,” he said, gently, “that you did not part friendsfrom Sir Philip.”

She turned her head sharply, and looked straight into his eyes underthe brim of her shady gray hat.

“I hate him!” she whispered, emphatically, drawing her full red lipsback from her white teeth, with a grimace which had something animalin its ferocity.

He felt startled and chilled by the sight. He knew quite well thatStella did not love her father. In her frank and naïve confidences,she had acknowledged this, but always with regret. To-day, with herbeauty enhanced by what seemed a sudden and astonishing return tobodily health, she seemed already to have lost some of the womanlycharm which had gone as far to win his heart as her personalattraction.

Even before the bridal pair had entered the train at Grayling Station,Lord Carthew began to be glad of his bride’s silence.

So long as she sat by his side without speaking, beautiful as a poet’sdream, he could go on attributing to her all kinds of ideal qualities.But, although he would hardly yet acknowledge it even to himself, whenshe spoke she dispelled the illusion.

Not only did she display the utmost vindictiveness on the mention ofher father’s name, but she appeared hardly to listen when he spoke toher of his mother, and of the latter’s admiration for his bride; andwhen he went on to descant on the beauties of the scenery in whichthey were going to pass the first days of the honeymoon, she cut himshort by saying, abruptly, that she would “sooner go to London.”

Her voice jarred upon him. Hitherto he had admired its melodiousaccents—to-day they sounded hoarse and rough, and he inquiredanxiously if she had taken a chill.

“No,” she answered, staring vacantly at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Your voice sounded a little strained and hoarse to me.”

“I have a bad cold,” she said, quickly. “I did not like to worry youabout it before. I caught it last night. Sir Philip had kept me aprisoner in my room ever since my mother’s death, and last night whiledew and rain were falling I managed to give them all the slip and raninto the wood. I got my feet wet, lost my voice, and have been feelingqueer ever since.”

This was the longest speech she had made that day. Lord Carthewlistened to it, trying in vain to catch the sweet cadences of thevoice which he had loved so well. In some way, for which he was at aloss to account, the soul seemed to have gone out of the girl besidehim, leaving only the beautiful body behind it.

He tried to think that she was nervous in her new position, and hopedthat time and companionship would bring back that frank confidencewhich had so much delighted him. But meantime he also relapsed intosilence, which was hardly broken until they reached the railwaystation at Grayling.

Here they were met by Lord Carthew’s valet, and Lady Northborough’smaid, lent by the Countess to her daughter-in-law for the honeymoon onaccount of her exceptional tact and cleverness. Lady Carthew’s brighteyes, glancing about beyond these persons, sought for Stephen Lee, andperceived him at length by the third-class portion of the train.

Dispatching Lord Carthew for a book, she beckoned to Stephen, who,flushed and confused, came at her bidding.

“I shall take you on as my groom,” she said. “You shall leave theChase, and enter my service.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“We’re a bit late for the train, and can’t talk here,” she said, herrestless eyes roving about the platform. “When the train stops atPeterstone, come to my carriage.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Stephen retired as Lord Carthew returned, book in hand, and assistedhis bride into a luxurious saloon which he had reserved for their useon the journey.

“Was not that the keeper who shot poor Hilary I saw you speaking tojust now?” he asked, carelessly, as the train began to start, while hewas still arranging on the table the baskets of flowers which had beenprepared by the station-master as a compliment to Sir Philip’sdaughter.

“Yes; Stephen Lee. He taught me to ride, and I want him in my servicenow as a groom. He’s in this train.”

Lord Carthew did not speak for a few moments. He was, indeed, too muchsurprised at first to make any remark.

“Is it by your wish that the man is coming by this train?” he asked,at length, in a constrained voice.

She nodded.

“Yes. I have engaged him, and I thought he might as well come alongnow.”

“The fact is,” he said, after another pause, “I have a not unnaturalprejudice against the fellow who was clumsy enough to have wounded myfriend. I own, too, I don’t like the appearance of the man. There is asurly, gypsy-like look about him, which sets me against him.”

She turned and looked at him critically, a mocking light shining inher eyes.

“You don’t like his looks?” she repeated. “Well, in my opinion, he’sa lot better looking than you are.”

Lord Carthew flushed with annoyance.

Was this his ideal Lady of Shalott, this the girl like a fairyprincess come to life, all poetry, romance, and charm? She looked backat him, full in the eyes. Suddenly her face changed, and seemed togrow softer, and more what used formerly to appear to him.

“I was only laughing,” she said, in a very low voice. “I don’t knowwhat’s the matter with me to-day. I think I am over-excited, and tooglad to get away from that dreary prison, which the Chase has been tome. Why do you look at me in that shocked sort of way? Are you sorryyou married me now that you have got me safe?”

Before he could answer, she had taken off her large hat and veil.Without them she looked more beautiful than ever, with the naturallywaving and silky curls of her blue-black hair framing her exquisiteface. Coming nearer to him, she nestled her head on his shoulder witha spontaneous gesture of affection, and lifting her long, soft eyes tohis, she inclined her red lips toward his face in a little moue,irresistible in so beautiful a woman.

Lord Carthew was only a man, and in an instant he had forgotten allthat she had said and done amiss in his delight at her unexpectedtenderness. In a transport of passionate love, he pressed her in hisarms, and repeatedly kissed her lips, her eyes and cheeks, and thesoft curls about her brow.

“How adorably beautiful you are, my darling!” he exclaimed, as hecaressed her face with his hand. “It is strange that I never untilto-day realized your wonderful loveliness. You were always so pale,but to-day you have a color like a la France rose, and eyes thatwill make your diamonds look dowdy and dull. Have you the least ideahow beautiful you are, Stella?”

She smiled for answer, and appeared pleased at his kisses andcaresses. It was not until afterward that her ready affection struckhim as unusual in a girl of her training. At the time, being very muchin love, he was too much delighted to analyze her conduct.

At Peterstone Station there was a stoppage of a few minutes, and LadyCarthew, who was intensely restless, ran to the window, looked up anddown the platform, and then suddenly turning on her bridegroom,informed him that she was longing for a cup of tea.

“I will tell Trevor,” he said, and was hurrying to the window tosummon his servant when she laid her hands on his arm.

“I would rather you fetched it me yourself,” she said, coaxingly. “Ishall not enjoy it from any one else.”

Thus adjured, Lord Carthew could do nothing less than spring out ofthe carriage at once to carry out his lady’s behests. The moment hehad gone, his bride stretched herself, yawned, arranged her hair atthe looking-glass, and then leaned out of the window again. As sheexpected, Stephen Lee stood a little way down the line, watching hersaloon, and she motioned with her hand for him to join her.

All the other passengers by the Portsmouth train were fully aware thatLord Northborough’s heir was travelling toward his father’s seat, inthe Isle of Wight, on his honeymoon journey with Sir PhilipCranstoun’s daughter. The rank of the pair and the extreme beauty ofthe bride naturally attracted many curious glances in the direction ofthe saloon, and at Peterstone several of their more inquisitivefellow-travellers left their seats in order to stroll about theplatform, in the hope of getting a good look at the newly madeViscountess Carthew.

The bride herself appeared utterly indifferent to their scrutiny. Shewas sitting by the open door of the saloon, talking in low and, as itappeared, familiar tones with a handsome, black-bearded man in thedress of a gamekeeper, and her conversation, could the bystanders haveheard it, would have considerably surprised them.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Stephen,” she was saying. “You know we arecousins. Old grandmother Sarah told me so. It’s a relief to look at ahandsome man after being shut up in this carriage with that littlemonkey of a Carthew.”

Stephen stared at her in undisguised astonishment, but she onlylaughed.

“Well, isn’t he ugly?” she asked, and began to mimic the slightnervous twitching of the facial muscles which characterized LordCarthew in moments of excitement. “Now, if he was like you,” sheadded, looking straight into the young gypsy’s eyes with a long, softglance, “perhaps I shouldn’t get so bored over his compliments and hislove-making.”

Sarah Carewe’s prophecy was certainly coming true. And yet, such isthe contrary disposition of men, Stephen, who had for yearspassionately longed for the right to address one word, one look oflove, toward his young mistress, felt a shock of disappointment, andeven of disgust, when she thus went out of her way to lower herself tohis level, and hardly knew how to answer her.

She had closed the saloon door, and was leaning out of the window,whispering something to Stephen, with her cheek actually touching his,when Lord Carthew returned with the tea. At first he could hardlybelieve his eyes when they rested upon his bride and her father’sservant in this familiar and even affectionate converse. It seemed toohorrible, too degrading, to be true that here, under the gaze ofgrinning railway porters and curious and amused third-classpassengers, his wife, his lovely, refined and innocent Stella, waspublicly flirting with her father’s gamekeeper on a railway platformat three o’clock in the afternoon of her wedding-day! But the evidenceof his eyes could not be doubted, and if anything were needed toacquaint Lord Carthew with the extent of his misfortune, LadyCarthew’s next words, which he plainly overheard, would have done so.

“Well, I wish you could change places with him, Stephen.”

“Stand out of my way, if you please!”

The words, very quietly uttered immediately behind him, made Stephenstart. But the bride merely laughed as she saw her husband’s whiteface, and heard his voice, in hard, level tones, suggesting that sheshould sit farther away from the door, as her movements were beingwatched by a crowd.

“I like a crowd,” she said insolently.

“I do not,” he returned, closing the door, drawing up the window,and placing the tea upon the table before her.

Stephen Lee strolled back to his own compartment, but his indifferencewas only assumed. He was utterly dazed and puzzled. “&hairsp;’Tis some trickof old Sarah’s,” he kept on repeating to himself, and his bewildermentwas so great that he hardly troubled his mind by surmises as to whatwould pass between the bride and bridegroom, left alone together againafter the episode of the station.

What did actually happen became a fruitful topic for societynewspapers for many, many months afterward.

Lord Carthew’s face was fixed like a mask as he seated himself on theopposite side of the carriage to his bride, while the train beganslowly moving out of the station. It vexed him that presently he couldnot control that nervous twitching at this moment when he needed allhis firmness, all his dignity. He could not speak to her, for with allhis radical notions he was essentially a proud man, with a very highideal of womanhood, and a still higher ideal of the position andduties of the woman he had chosen for his wife. Her conduct filled hismind with the utmost dismay, and a sensation of strong repulsionagainst her began to overmaster him.

“Are you cross?” she asked at last, lightly, breaking the silence. “Ionly mean to tease you.”

“Stella,” he exclaimed in desperation, “are you mad? Are you notcapable of appreciating the value of your own actions, or has grievingover your recent loss turned your brain? Do you understand that youare my wife, Lady Carthew, that my honor is yours, and that it isoutraging my name and your own reputation to make yourself alaughing-stock for station idlers by vulgar familiarity with one ofyour father’s servants? Stella, I can hardly believe it possible thatI should have to address such words to you; you, whom I havereverenced as the most innocent, most refined of women! You cannotsurely know what you are doing; fever must have mounted to yourbrain—great Heaven! If I thought you were truly responsible for suchcoarse and immodest behavior, I would never willingly look upon yourface again!”

He had risen in his excitement, and stood staring across at her,noting with ever-increasing wonder and disgust the way in which sheleaned forward, with her elbow on the table, and her face resting onher right hand, while with her left she drummed an impatient tattoo infront of her.

She looked up at him, furtively.

“Am I to understand,” she asked, “that you hope I’m mad?”

“You are to understand,” he broke out, passionately, “that onlytemporary insanity would, in my eyes, excuse your revolting conduct.”

“Well,” she cried, suddenly opening the carriage-door, “here goes fora little more insanity! I’m tired of you already. By-by, dearest!”

On the last word, to Lord Carthew’s horror, she sprang from the opendoor of the now rapidly moving train, and was lost to sight almostimmediately as the engine entered a tunnel.

To communicate with the guard was hopeless until the train had passedthrough, by which time, after a prolonged search, Lord Carthewrealized that in this particular carriage the communicator wasmissing.

His nerves were stunned by the unexpectedness of the blow. That Stellawas mad, he had now not the slightest doubt, but this conviction didnot decrease his anxiety on her account. An overwhelming dread, too,of the scandal which her crazy conduct would cause, increased hismental disquiet. What if his unfortunate bride were crushed to pieces,or maimed for life by her terrible leap! It seemed impossible that shecould escape some such fate, for he could not even say for certainthat she had jumped clear of the tunnel. The train was an express fromthis point to Portsmouth, and every moment the speed was increasing.He tried thrusting his head through the window of the saloon, andendeavored to attract the guard’s attention; but the wind, drivingthrough his hair, and seeming to cut his face as the express dartedon, blew his cries in the other direction. All that he could do was todraw down the blinds of the saloon so that Lady Carthew’sdisappearance should not be noted by curious passers-by when the trainstopped, and to possess his soul with such patience as he might untilPortsmouth was reached at last.

Arrived there, he summoned the guard and the station-master, pledgedthem to secrecy, and informed them of the disastrous accident by whichhis bride, leaning against an imperfectly closed door, had beenprecipitated on to the line, not far from Peterstone Station.

Instantly the telegraph wires were set at work, but no trace of themissing bride could be found at first, until a telegram, addressed toLord Carthew, care of station-master, Portsmouth, and sent fromClapham Junction Station, was handed in to the distracted husband.

The message ran:

“Off to London. Stella Carthew.”

CHAPTER XIX.
FOUND!

It was three days after Lord Carthew’s wedding. Hilary Pritchard waslodging in an hotel off the Strand, and was sitting in the coffee-roomat breakfast on a misty May morning.

He was in extremely low spirits and very bad temper, and while waitingfor his tea and eggs, he drew from his pocket a notice, cut from anewspaper two days old, which set forth that on a given date, Stella,only daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun, J. P., of the Chase, Surrey,and Cranstoun Hall, Aberdeenshire, was married to Viscount Carthew,eldest son of the Earl of Northborough, by the Rev. Canon Wrextone,assisted by the Rev. John Turner.

Hilary had read the words until long ago he had known them by heart.He had even, sorely against his will, written down to NorthboroughCastle to congratulate his friend in as few words as possible on hismarriage, and to inform him that he purposed starting for Canada atleast two months earlier than he had originally intended. In thisletter he had mentioned the name of the hotel at which he was staying.Until now he had been anxious to keep his address a secret from hisfriend, from a feeling that he had not acted fairly by Lord Carthew inthe matter of Stella Cranstoun; but now, since she had elected tomarry her wealthy and titled suitor, Hilary’s conscience was clear.There was no longer any need for mystery, and he therefore told LordCarthew, in his extremely brief congratulatory letter, that he wasstaying in this place for a few days, settling his affairs, beforegoing north to take leave of his parents, on setting out for his newhome across the sea.

He was conscious of a feeling of disloyalty in that he could notbanish from his mind those two short love-scenes which had passedbetween himself and Stella. He told himself again and again that shewas now his friend’s wife, and that she was most certainly a coquette,who had been amusing herself at his expense. “She would presently, ifI were still in England, ask her husband to invite me to stay at oneof their country seats,” he told himself, bitterly. “That’s how flirtsalways behave toward their old sweethearts when they’ve marriedanother fellow. Ask them to stay, that he may see and envy the otherfellow’s happiness. See them make love to their husbands at him, andcall him by his Christian name when they are alone. ‘Dear Jack,’ or‘dear Hilary, it wasn’t my fault I didn’t marry you, you know. Iam very happy now, of course, but I was forced into it, and—you don’tbear me any grudge, do you?’ Then if they can, and if the husband isfool enough to stand it, they make a tame cat of the old sweetheart,and do their best to prevent him from marrying any one else,sacrificing his life’s happiness on the altar of their own petty,miserable vanity.”

With which cynical, if partially true, reasoning he strove to allaythe gnawing bitterness at his heart, and to forget the passionate lovewhich Stella had so suddenly aroused there.

He was very “hard hit,” for certain. Stella’s shining dark-blue eyesseemed to be gazing at him from every corner, and with her voice theyhaunted his dreams, from which he awoke with outstretched arms to meetthe empty air. He had never meant to fall in love with her or withanybody, and it angered him to think that even incessant occupationand bodily activity could not stifle the constant pain at his heart.To a man of his essentially manly and practical nature, it seemedlittle short of contemptible to be thus dominated by a hopelessfeeling of love for a woman, particularly now that she had become thewife of his friend; and he longed, with all his soul, for the momentwhen he should set sail for Canada, and, among new work and newsurroundings, forget this foolish infatuation.

So he sat, brooding, over the breakfast-table, in a moody frame ofmind with which, until the past few days, he had been totallyunacquainted, until the voice of the elderly, greasy-looking Englishwaiter recalled him to his immediate surroundings.

“A gentleman, sir, to see you on very pressing business. ’Ere is ’iscard, sir.”

A touch of unwonted reverence in the man’s voice and manner attractedHilary’s attention. He took up the card and read thereon, with greatsurprise, the name of Lord Carthew.

But two days married, and already in London visiting his bachelorfriends! Hilary had read in an evening paper that the bridal pairintended spending a few days at the Earl of Northborough’s seat in theIsle of Wight before undertaking a lengthened cruise in theMediterranean. A presentiment of something wrong filled his mind as hetold the waiter to show the gentleman in.

It was half-past eight o’clock, and as yet Hilary was the soleoccupant of the coffee-room. There were no strangers present to notethe pale and worried appearance of the man who only two days beforehad made a love-match with a beautiful and accomplished lady.

“Carthew!” Hilary exclaimed, springing from his seat and grasping hisfriend by the hand. “What is wrong?”

“Don’t you know? Thank Heaven! it hasn’t got about much yet, then!But, of course, it can’t be kept a secret much longer.”

“Man alive, what do you mean? What is it that should be kept a secret?Has anything happened to her—to Lady Carthew?”

His friend sat down by the table and wearily rested his head on hishand.

“I haven’t slept for three nights,” he said. “Anxiety about her hasbanished rest by night and day. She is mad, Hilary, I am certain ofit. No other explanation could explain, could justify her conduct. Shesprang from the train on our wedding journey, and I have not seen hersince.”

“And you can sit quietly there and tell me such a thing!” almostshouted Hilary, stirred to violent indignation by what he supposed tobe his friend’s callous apathy. “Good heavens! Carthew, what are youmade of?”

Lord Carthew looked at him and frowned.

“There is no need for this excitement on your part,” he said, coldly.“Lady Carthew was not injured by her escapade. Indeed, within threehours of her leap, she telegraphed to me from Clapham Junction,informing me that she was on her way to London. I was forced to go onfirst to Northborough, where all manner of rejoicings had beenprepared, to quiet them with some story of Lady Carthew’s health whichhad necessitated a change of plans. But I wired to a detective agencyto find out her address, and communicate with me at my club. Imagine,Hilary, the awful disgrace of the thing. Having to call inprofessional spies to find out one’s own wife! Worst of all, thisgirl, who seemed the perfection of modesty and refinement, has,through her mental affliction, become so strangely different that youwould hardly know her. All her reserve, all her delicacy and gracehave left her. In the short time we spent together, she contrived tomake me the laughing-stock of a vulgar crowd by her open flirtationwith her father’s gamekeeper, that gypsy fellow who shot you in thearm.”

Hilary’s face betokened amazement, largely tinctured by incredulity;but the latter quality he refrained from expressing, as he asked,quietly:

“Have the detectives furnished you with any clue?”

“So far, with two incorrect ones. I have in my hands now a thirdaddress to a lodging-house in duch*ess Street, Oxford Street, whitherthey have tracked a woman who exactly answers to the description Ihave furnished. I was on my way thither from the detective officewhen, passing this street, I resolved to speak with you. Hilary, Ihardly know whether I hope or dread to find her. I have suffered somuch during the past three days that I have come to wish that she or Iwere dead.”

“But your love for her——”

“She herself killed that. My great dread is lest the affair shouldreach the ears of my people. If I can only find her first, and put heraway somewhere quietly until she recovers her reason! That is my onehope now.”

Hilary, on his part, was so profoundly shocked by his friend’s storythat he knew not what to suggest by way of alleviating his grief andanxiety. The pair very shortly afterward parted, Lord Carthew havingpromised to return and report the success or failure of his mission.

Hilary had long ago forgotten his breakfast. Swallowing a cup of tepidtea, he sought the open air, there to reflect on the strange story hehad just heard. He had struck into the Strand, and was about to crossTrafalgar Square, when his attention was attracted by the figure of agirl, tall, slender, and attired in shabby black, who stood,hesitating and frightened, between the rows of hurrying cabs,carriages, and omnibuses which were incessantly passing.

Something in the outline of her figure, for her face was concealed bya thick black crape veil, attracted Hilary’s attention so stronglythat he resolved at once to see her over the crossing, that he mightset at rest a strange suspicion which shot across his heart.

In a few seconds he was at her side, addressing her as a stranger, andoffering to escort her over the road through the crowded traffic. Butshe, regardless of the publicity of the spot, gave a little cry ofsurprise and delight at sight of him, and throwing back her veil,displayed the lovely, flushed face and brilliant eyes of Stella.

“Hilary!” she murmured, joyfully. “Oh, I am so glad! Yes, see meacross the road—I am not used to crowds, and take me somewhere wherewe can have a beautiful long talk. It is my first walk alone inLondon, and I haven’t the least idea where we are.”

He listened to her in ever-increasing wonder, and after piloting hersafely through the vehicles, he led her down to the comparativeseclusion of St. James’ Park.

There he turned and faced her.

“I have just parted from your husband,” he said, sternly.

She stared at him, and then burst out laughing.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Is it a jest?”

“Is this a jest?” he asked, impressively, taking from hispocket-book the announcement of the marriage, cut from the MorningPost, and thrusting it into her hand.

She read it with knitted brows and evident amazement, and then lookedup at him, pale to the lips.

“What can it mean, Hilary?” she faltered. “Surely I can’t have beenmarried without knowing it! And yet of what happened between myleaving the Chase and finding myself here in London I can remembernothing at all!”

CHAPTER XX.
LORD CARTHEW FINDS HIS WIFE.

Hilary stared at Stella in undisguised amazement as she made theastonishing confession that, from the time of leaving the Chase untilher arrival in London, she could remember nothing of what had happenedto her.

Her statement seemed to fit in only too well with Lord Carthew’sbelief that she was not in her right mind on her wedding-day.

It was necessary to learn fuller details, and Hilary led her to abench in the Park, and seated himself beside her.

“Now, tell me,” he said, kindly but firmly, “all that has happenedsince you and I were parted by your father at the Cranstoun Arms.”

Willingly enough she obeyed, beginning with Lady Cranstoun’s death,and her own subsequent close imprisonment and supervision, and thepressure which was brought to bear upon her to induce her to marryLord Carthew. She left out nothing, and dwelt particularly over thegypsy Sarah Carewe’s offer of help “on her wedding-eve,” in the noteconveyed to her by means of Stephen Lee.

Hilary’s brows darkened as she uttered the gamekeeper’s name, and herecalled what Lord Carthew had said of Stella’s extraordinary conducttoward him on her wedding journey.

“Are you on such close and confidential terms with this Lee, then, mayI ask, that you entrust letters and messages to him?”

Stella’s dark-blue eyes opened wide in what looked like innocentsurprise.

“Close and confidential terms?” she repeated. “Why, he is thegamekeeper! I hardly ever see him, and I shall never forgive him forhurting you. Surely, Hilary, you are not going to be jealous of theservants?”

He noticed that she dwelt affectionately upon his name, not in theleast as if she realized that she was now another man’s wife.

“Go on,” he said. “When did you see this man Lee last?”

“Not since I dropped him the signal from the window,” she answered,promptly. “Old Sarah told me to employ him, so I suppose he must be agypsy, too. But let me get on with my story. I can’t tell you how illI got by being kept shut in my room all those days, and half-starved;but that was my fault, since I was too unhappy to eat. By thewedding-eve, the date on which I was promised help from the gypsies,I was half-desperate, and the strangest fancies began to crowd into myhead. I wanted to tear down the bars in my room and jump from thewindow. I had an idea that if once I could get away to the forest, Imight join the gypsies and escape. That afternoon and evening I wasnot so closely watched; for the first time for weeks I was able tocreep out of my room, and down the stairs to the front door. When onceI stood in the open air again, I felt intoxicated with joy, and I ranas fast as my feet could carry me into the wood. An idea came into mymind that if the gypsies could not help me, rather than marry any onebut you I would drown myself in a tarn I know of, where no one wouldthink of looking for me for weeks, perhaps for months. But before Ihad run more than a few yards, the old gypsy, Sarah Carewe, who isreally, I believe, my great-grandmother, suddenly appeared before meamong the trees, like some witch in a fairy-tale. She took my hand,and made me walk very fast beside her into the woods; then shesuddenly stopped, and drawing down my face to hers in the gatheringdarkness, she peered into my eyes with her wonderful bright stare, andstroked my face down with both hands, murmuring soothing words in somelanguage I did not understand. Just as I felt myself growing strangelyweak and sleepy, she took a small bottle from her pocket, drew thecork out, and commanded me to drink out of it. I obeyed her withouthesitation. I seemed to have no power of resistance. From that momentI can remember nothing at all until two days ago, when I found myselfin small, shabby rooms which I had never seen before, with an elderlywoman, who slept in another bed in the same room with me. She told methat she was a nurse, that her name was Julia Tait; that she had heldme in her arm as a tiny baby, and had seen my mother die. Further,that I had been put in her care for a few days by friends, and that Imust not ask questions, or leave the house except in her company. Shegot me these clothes, and treated me kindly enough, taking me outtwice. But she would not talk, and this morning, while she was stillasleep, I dressed and slipped out. I was mad to be in the open airafter living so long shut up at the Chase. Then, too, I knew you hadcome to London, and you had told me you always stayed somewhere nearCharing Cross and the Strand. So I made my way here, and just asthough you had dropped from the clouds, I found you. Why, Hilary, youhaven’t yet said you are glad to see me.”

She had evidently again forgotten the tie which bound her to hisfriend. With an effort, he resolved to recall it to her.

“What is the address where you are now staying?” he asked.

“duch*ess Street, Oxford Street. Mrs. Tait thinks I haven’t noticed itpainted up, but I have.”

“Stella,” he said, gravely and impressively, “your husband, LordCarthew, is at duch*ess Street at this very moment searching for you.Some detectives whom he employed to find you, after you had jumped outof the train on your wedding journey, set him on your track. When hecomes back to my hotel, what can I say to him?”

She sprang from her seat, white and trembling.

“Hilary!” she said, “I can see you believe I am mad. But do I look orspeak like a mad woman? Is it possible that I could do all thesethings of which you tell me and yet remember nothing?”

“I cannot say,” he answered. “On my soul, I understand nothing of thebusiness. But, my dear child, you must see plainly what my duty is.Carthew confided in me; I cannot act against him in this.”

“Hilary!” she exclaimed again, while a hunted, terrified look cameinto her eyes, “you could not be so cruel as to give me up to him,after all I have suffered for your sake! If—if Lord Carthew’s taleand that notice in the paper are true, then I am mad, quite, quitemad. And if I am sane, I would rather die than be Lord Carthew’s wife.I have no friend in the world but you; for after what you have toldme, I cannot tell whether Sarah Carewe is my friend or—my worstenemy. I have told you that I meant to kill myself rather than bemarried to any one but you; and yet you would give me up to this man,whose wife I will never be. I would rather die!”

She spoke in low tones of passionate intensity, standing before himwith clasped hands and tears shining in her eyes. Very pale, veryslender and fragile she looked, in her shabby and ill-fitting clothes,which yet could not wholly conceal the graceful outlines of her tall,slim figure. The flush of pleasure which had tinged her cheeks atfirst sight of him had died away and given place to a look of absolutedespair. As he looked at her, Hilary’s resolution was taken. Risingfrom the bench, he drew her hand through his arm.

“Listen, dear,” he said. “I can no more explain this wretched businessthan you can. But until it becomes clear, you must trust me and lookupon me as a brother, and I, so Heaven help me, will treat you andthink of you as a dear sister. I have an aunt, Mrs. Sinclair, wholives in Bayswater. She is a rich woman, a childless widow, and verykindly. I will place you in her care for the present, while Ithoroughly investigate this business. Meantime I will pledge myself onmy honor to say no word to any one which shall reveal yourwhereabouts. Will that suit you?”

“Yes, Hilary. I will do everything you tell me.”

While they were driving together in a hansom in the direction of Mrs.Sinclair’s residence, Lord Carthew, in his search after his wife, wasundergoing a very strange experience. At the duch*ess Street lodgingshe gathered little but that an elderly woman named Tait, aprofessional nurse, lived there, and that three days ago a very oldwoman had driven up in a four-wheeled cab, and had placed a prettyyoung invalid lady, who appeared to be in a fainting condition, inMrs. Tait’s care. On this particular morning the young lady had goneout alone at about seven o’clock, and shortly afterward Mrs. Tait, whoappeared distressed at the girl’s absence, had left, presumably insearch of her.

Puzzled and anxious, Lord Carthew left, deciding that he would callagain, and he was proceeding down Regent Street when, to hisastonishment, from the doors of a well-known fashionable millineryestablishment he saw, as he believed, his newly made bride emerge,followed by a bowing shopman, laden with parcels.

She was dressed in the identical gray crape costume she had worn onher wedding journey, and she walked leisurely, with her proud headheld erect and the sunshine lighting up her lovely face, to a smartvictoria which waited for her by the pavement.

A man-servant in dark livery opened her carriage-door, a tall,finely-built man in whom, in spite of the absence of beard about hischin, Lord Carthew traced a marked resemblance to the gamekeeper,Stephen Lee.

Neither the lady nor the man perceived Lord Carthew, who, as thevictoria drove away, sprang into a hansom which he directed to followon the track of the carriage. Down Regent Street, the Haymarket, andacross Trafalgar Square, went pursuer and pursued, until, passing downNorthumberland Avenue, the victoria drew up with a flourish before thedoors of a fashionable hotel greatly patronized by Americans andwealthy travellers passing through London.

The swarthy groom assisted his mistress to alight, and she then,conscious of the admiring ogle of several smart young men who werelounging about the hotel entrance, stopped to give a prolonged orderto the coachman before leisurely walking up the hotel steps, throwing,as she did so, many glances of bold coquetry to right and left of her.

Lord Carthew waited for her to have time to proceed to her room beforeentering himself, and after asking at the office for an imaginaryfriend, inquired the name of the lady who had just entered.

“That, sir, is Viscountess Carthew. She was only married three or fourdays ago, and she is waiting here until her husband, who is detainedin the country on urgent private affairs, joins her.”

There was something embarrassed about the clerk’s manner. Evidently hewas of opinion that the new Viscountess Carthew was a lady whose exactposition needed explaining.

“I am Lord Carthew,” said Claud, quietly. “Lady Carthew is sufferingfrom the effects of recent brain fever.”

“Indeed, sir!”

The man looked polite but incredulous.

“We understood, my lord,” he went on, “that the lady was the daughterof Sir Philip Cranstoun, who has visited this hotel several times. Wetherefore communicated with him last night on the subject of LadyCarthew. We thought ourselves that she seemed—ill.”

From the curious emphasis which the man laid on the words, LordCarthew guessed that his wife had already gained an unenviablenotoriety by her behavior in the establishment. There was a look ofevident relief on the face of the manager of the hotel, to whom theclerk communicated the news that Lord Carthew had arrived to join hisbride. Claud noted this, being hypersensitive on the subject, and hesmarted with an indignant sense of injury as he followed an attendantup the wide marble stairs to Lady Carthew’s rooms on the first floor.

The apartment into which the unhappy bridegroom was shown was apalatially furnished drawing room. On a side-table several bottles ofchampagne were standing, and at the moment when Lord Carthew entered,a vapid and vicious-looking youth, of the ordinary “stage-door loafer”type, was drinking the health of the lady, whose name he mentioned inloud, drawling tones as he drained his glass.

“Here’s Lady Carthew’s health, and my love to her! Lady Carthew,” herepeated, raising his voice louder, so as to be heard by the occupantof the adjoining room, “do hurry up, there’s a good soul. We’re boringourselves dreadfully without you.”

“We” consisted of another youth of much the same calibre, and of astout, florid, dark man of foreign appearance, whom his companionsaddressed as “Count.” By the table stood Stephen Lee, opening anotherbottle of champagne, his face set in a sullen frown of disapproval.

“I say, Count,” drawled the youth who sprawled on the sofa, “hope youtravel with your stiletto up your sleeve. Lady Carthew’s man here hassuch a confoundedly cut-throat look that he makes me quite nervous.”

The noise of the door closing made the youth turn his head. At sightof Lord Carthew he stared superciliously.

“Hullo! Here’s another chap to luncheon! Quite a party we shall be.Ah, here she is at last, lookin’ rippin’, positively rippin’!”

Was it, could it be, his Stella, his modest and refined lady-love,this bold-eyed woman with the coarse laugh, who, in a gorgeoustea-gown of red brocade, far too elaborate and vivid in color formorning wear, swept into the room, returning the vulgar and sillybanter of her chosen acquaintances in the style of a fourth-ratebarmaid?

She did not at first notice Lord Carthew as he stood, pale andmotionless, by the door. But even when she perceived him, she was inno way abashed.

“Why, I declare,” she cried, with a loud laugh, “there’s my husband.Where did you boys pick him up? Glad to see you, Carthew. Have a dropof fizz? Stephen, open another bottle for his lordship.”

The three men had risen in surprise at the mention of Lord Carthew’sname, and now glanced undecidedly from their hostess, whom they hadmet for the first time in the hotel entrance a few hours ago, to thesmall, plain man whom she claimed as her husband. Lady Carthew hadflung herself easily into a deep arm-chair, and was to all appearanceheartily enjoying their embarrassment, when another tap at thedrawing-room door heralded the entrance of a short, pale man of aboutfifty, with a handsome, sinister face, which displayed a markedresemblance to that of the black-haired, blue-eyed woman in scarletwho lounged and laughed before him.

For the second time Lady Carthew showed neither confusion norsurprise.

“Well, I’m blest if it isn’t my dad!” she cried in a hoarse voice,which did much to counteract the effect of her remarkable beauty. “Ajolly old family party we’ll make, though I can’t say I’m as fond ofmy papa as I ought to be, seeing what a nice, affectionate oldgentleman he is. Don’t go, boys! The fun is just going to begin!”

“Is she mad?” Sir Philip asked aloud of his son-in-law.

“I suppose so.”

“Mad! Not a bit of it,” laughed the lady. “As sane as you are, and alot saner. I should never have made the mistake you did,” shecontinued, addressing her father, “of marrying a gypsy out of acaravan, and then thinking you could bring her daughter up and palmher off as a duch*ess’ grandchild merely by stuffing her head full ofbook-learning. You and Carthew there are both a couple of fools. But Imean to lead you a pretty dance, and thoroughly enjoy myself. I’m notmad enough to be shut up, and not bad enough to be divorced; and Ishall remain Sir Philip Cranstoun’s daughter and Lord Carthew’s wifefor years to come. I know a good thing when I see it!”

The three men had taken their hats, and now clumsily excusedthemselves; they did not care for the expression on Sir PhilipCranstoun’s face. As the door closed upon them, Lord Carthew turned tohis father-in-law.

“Is what she says true?” he asked, sternly. “That you deceived me, andthat she is really the daughter of a gypsy?”

“It is quite true,” said the woman, laughing again. “My mother’s namewas Clare Carewe, and that fellow who was waiting at table—don’t go,Stephen—is a relative of mine, a second cousin. He’d have been myfancy, not a little, ugly whipper-snapper like you,” she added,candidly, addressing her husband; “only the title was a temptation,you see. I do like having a handle to my name!”

“Sir Philip,” said Claud, turning sharply toward the Baronet, “this isnot Stella. Who is it?”

“Your wife and Sir Philip Cranstoun’s daughter,” she cried, rising toher full height, and filling herself a brimming glass of champagne.“And I’ve let most people know all about me and my relations since Icame here, I can tell you. Luncheon-parties, tea-parties,supper-parties, every day—rare old time; not a man but envied youyour luck for having such a daughter, Sir Philip Cranstoun, and such awife, my Lord Carthew!”

She made each of them a mock curtsey as she spoke, and then tossed offthe wine.

“Here’s to our happy married life!” she cried. “You’ll both of you bepleased to hear that a newspaper man called upon me yesterdayafternoon, and took down all about me—an interview, they call it,don’t they? All about my esteemed daddy marrying a gypsy, and mebolting on my wedding journey. He did laugh at that, I can tellyou! And it’ll all be in the papers to-morrow morning!”

CHAPTER XXI. AND LAST.
THE CURSE FULFILLED.

Sir Philip Cranstoun walked out of the hotel that afternoon a beatenman.

He and Lord Carthew were equally powerless before this woman, whoseaudacity, vulgarity, and cunning were equally astonishing as revoltingto both of them.

The gray wolf had been scoffed at and insulted to his face, not onlyby this hoarse-voiced virago, whose features resembled so strangelythose of his late wife and of her daughter Stella, but by his ownformer servant, Stephen Lee, who had laughed to scorn his threats ofpunishment and dismissal.

“I’ve always hated you,” the young gamekeeper had said. “I onlyentered your service that I might bide my time, and see you made afool of, and disgraced in the eyes of the world; and if your daughterhere can’t do it, nobody can. You’ll rue the day you meddled with theRomanys and shot down Hiram Carewe in cold blood before you’ve done.”

Lord Carthew’s resentment against his father-in-law knew no bounds.Not for an instant did he believe the Baronet’s labored explanation.He remained convinced that he had been the victim of a trick, and thatSir Philip, having two daughters, had palmed off upon him the otherinstead of Stella, and now refused to own to his villany.

“Your conduct has been infamous, sir. It places you outside the paleof decency. I shall at once call in the law to get your daughter, whomyou have married to me under a false name and by a knavish trick,returned upon your hands.”

Such was the nature of his parting words to Sir Philip as he left himat the hotel door.

That hateful old woman’s prophecy returned upon Sir Philip’s brainwith maddening iteration.

“You shall be wretched at home, and hated abroad! No one shall everlove you! Your children shall bring disgrace and shame upon you! Youshall die in a miserable garret, and I, Sarah Carewe, shall live tolaugh at you as you lie dying!”

The first part of the prophecy was being verified indeed; as to thelast, that was, of course, sheer mouthing. No doubt the old hag whouttered it, and who would by this time have been over eighty, had longbeen mouldering in her grave, while he, Sir Philip Cranstoun——

“I beg your pardon, sir, but is your name Sir Philip Cranstoun?”

The speaker was a respectably dressed man of swarthy complexion andhandsome features, apparently about five and thirty years of age.

“Why do you want to know?” the Baronet inquired curtly, eying thestranger, who had the appearance of a well-to-do mechanic, withsuspicion.

“I beg pardon, sir, but it’s about your daughter, a young lady calledMiss Stella Cranstoun, I want to speak to you.”

“What about her?”

“Well, sir, I’m a Surrey man, and I know you and her by sight. I’mworking in London now, and in the house in Whitechapel where I’mlodging a young lady was brought three days ago, in the care of twoelderly women, who won’t let her put her head outside the door. AndI’d take my oath, sir, she’s your daughter, Miss Stella Cranstoun. Ican take you to the house, sir, in a cab, if you like. I was half amind to write about it down to the Chase, but I thought how you’dthink it a liberty; but as soon as I spotted you just now as I wasgoing back to my work, thinks I, I must up and speak to him.”

The man’s manner was so genuine, and the affair of such pressingimportance that Sir Philip, after a moment’s hesitation, decided toaccompany him. A four-wheeled cab was crawling past, driven by adark-faced, clean-shaven man, no longer young. The cabman pulled up ashe saw Sir Philip looking for a conveyance, and the latter sprang inand ordered the man who had addressed him to take his place on the boxand direct the driver.

This order was at once obeyed. Once on their way toward Whitechapel,the two men looked at each other. The Fates were against Sir PhilipCranstoun that day, for the driver was his brother-in-law, JamesCarewe, whom he had caused to serve five years in prison, and hiscompanion was James’ younger brother Brian, who had helped Clare LadyCranstoun to escape from her husband’s home.

It had been Brian’s business to “shadow” his family enemy, and thiscab-driving plan was only one out of many plots woven by the movingand directing spirit of the Carewes, old Sarah, to get her prey intoher hands. No suspicion of his danger crossed Sir Philip’s mind as helet himself be rapidly driven eastward. He was longing to revengehimself by extra harshness of treatment upon his daughter Stella fordaring to escape from his control and send a substitute in her steadto be wedded to Lord Carthew.

Suddenly, while these malevolent thoughts filled his mind, a violentlurch of the cab hurled him upon his hands and knees; the next momenta blow in the chest from the shaft of a heavy van into which the cabhad been deliberately driven, felled him, stunned and bleeding, as heattempted to rise. He heard the crash of glass, the noise of loudtalking; then insensibility came to dull the exquisite pain he wassuffering, and he knew no more until he opened his eyes in a mean andsqualid room, and became conscious that several people were standinground his bed, and that the cracked and quavering voice of a very oldwoman was sounding close to his ear.

“Make him conscious—make him conscious for a bit, dear, good doctor,before he dies. You see, he’s a relation of mine; he married thedaughter of my boy Hiram—oh, you needn’t look surprised! Sixty yearsago I was pretty enough for a swell to have married me.”

“Doctor,” muttered the injured man, “where am I? And what has happenedto me?”

“You have had a very serious accident—a heavy van ran into your cabin a street not far from here. This is Elizabeth Street, Whitechapel.”

“Let me be moved at once to my house in Berkeley Square.”

“Impossible. It would be madness to move you in your present state.”

“Shall I die?”

“I hope not. I cannot say. But you must be prepared.”

“He won’t die, doctor, dear, until I have spoken to him,” put in theold crone, pressing close to the wounded man’s pillows. “That’s whathe’s waiting for. He’s waiting to hear the voice of old Sarah Carewe,whose son he murdered, and whose grandchild’s heart he broke; thevoice he heard cursing him outside the court-house, where he sworeJames Carewe’s liberty away. But James Carewe has been even with you,Philip Cranstoun, for it was he who drove your cab to-day. And Clare,my dear grandchild, will rest in her grave when she knows how I’vecarried out her prayer to bring up your children to hate and todisgrace you when those twin girls, Stella and Lura Cranstoun, wereborn to her. I let you keep the one, and you well-nigh broke her heartas you broke her mother’s. But old Sarah saved her, and she’ll marryher own young spark, the farmer, while I’ll wager my little Lura willset all tongues wagging with her doings. She’s an imp of evil even Ican’t manage, and she’s been trained to hate you as I do. Romanys havegood memories, Sir Philip Cranstoun. Old Sarah told you she would liveto laugh at you as you lay dying in a garret, and her words have cometrue!”

Her voice rose to a shriek of triumph on her last words, and there wasa fiendish glee in the shrill laugh that accompanied them. The dyingman turned his head aside with a shudder of repugnance, and motionedto the doctor to approach him.

“Stella, my daughter Stella; I want her,” he whispered. “Where isshe?”

The doctor turned to the old woman, who, as though exhausted by theexcitement of the moment for which she had waited so long, had sunkupon a chair, looking extraordinarily old and feeble.

“Oh, he can see her if she likes,” she mumbled. “His bullying daysare over.”

Not until late that same evening could Stella be found, Brian Carewehaving applied in vain at the lodgings in duch*ess Street, where shehad been placed by old Sarah after the latter had brought her, druggedand insensible, in the caravan to London. But Brian had the gypsyinstinct of tracking, and enlisting the aid of his nephew, StephenLee, who had long ago discovered the fraud perpetrated upon LordCarthew, he sought out the address of Hilary Pritchard, and throughhim that of the latter’s aunt, in whose care Stella had been placedthat day.

And by the light of a candle flickering in the wind, which blewthrough the broken window-panes of a wretched garret, Stella saw herfather for the last time, and on her knees beside his bed freelyforgave him for any grief he might have caused her, and soothed hislast moments with a daughter’s tenderness as freely given as it waswholly undeserved.

* * * * * * * *

Mr. and Mrs. Hilary Pritchard are settled in the Canadian homesteadnow, where they live in perfect happiness and ever-increasing worldlyprosperity. The law has long since freed Lord Carthew from hisunfortunate marriage, concerning which the world has forgotten totalk; but the money which he settled upon Lura only accelerated herend by enabling her to indulge in her passion for drinking. At oncethe means and the victim of a long-deferred vengeance, she diedmiserably at the age of four and twenty. Old Sarah only survived herenemy, Sir Philip, by a few months; and as to James Carewe, and Brian,and Stephen Lee, they are living out unprofitable lives in the waybest suited to their roving, restless temperaments.

But Stella was only one-third gypsy after all. Such freedom-lovinginstincts as she has are tempered by a gracious womanliness andunobtrusive refinement, which make her a queen among the settlers andfarmers in her new home, where, blessed with her husband’s and herchildren’s love, she can forget the sorrows and the trials of hergirlhood’s years.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Gertrude Warden was the pseudonym of Gertrude Isobel Price.

She was the younger sister of author/actress Florence Warden.

Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. evening-gown/evening gown,stepmother/step-mother, etc.) have been preserved.

Alterations to the text:

Punctuation: fix a few quotation mark pairings.

[Prologue.—Part II]

“William’s wife she said she felt she’d rather have died at once”delete first she.

Change “a neighboring farmer had been commisioned to bring” tocommissioned.

[Chapter VII]

“as well as other points which had puzzed her” to puzzled.

[Chapter XII]

“saw the unimstakable relief in her face, and hastened” tounmistakable.

[Chapter XV]

“into the presence of his lovely fianceé” to fiancée.

“the shrill, eldritch laughter of the hag Sarah Carew” to Carewe.

[Chapter XVI]

“Stephen’s hawk-eyes to distinguish anything Stopping still”add period after anything.

[Chapter XVII]

“He did not even see Dakin in attendancce as his pale face”to attendance.

“could hardly refrain from a little cry of admiraton” toadmiration.

“to whisper and mumble the necessary reponses in the service”to responses.

[Chapter XVIII]

(“Handsome is as handsome does,” persisted the old old gentleman)delete one old.

(“Tis some trick of old Sarah’s,” he kept on repeating) to ’Tis.

[Chapter XIX]

“you don’t bear me any gruge, do you?” to grudge.

[Chapter XX]

“he gathered little but that an eldely woman named Tait” to elderly.

[End of text]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73734 ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The gray wolf's daughter, by Gertrude Warden (2024)

[COPYRIGHT]

CONTENTS.

THE GRAY WOLF’S DAUGHTER.

PROLOGUE.—PART I.

PROLOGUE.—PART II.

CHAPTER I.KNIGHTS ERRANT.

CHAPTER II.STELLA.

CHAPTER III.A SIREN.

CHAPTER IV.ENEMIES.

CHAPTER V.COMING CONFLICTS.

CHAPTER VI.LORD CARTHEW’S WOOING.

CHAPTER VII.A KISS TOO LONG.

CHAPTER VIII.AN OLD FRIEND.

CHAPTER IX.THE GYPSY’S PROPHECY.

CHAPTER X.FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER XI.AN OLD STORY.

CHAPTER XII.FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.

CHAPTER XIII.THE SENDING OF THE TOKEN.

CHAPTER XIV.“THE ROMANYS HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN.”

CHAPTER XV.THE WEDDING EVE.

CHAPTER XVI.THE CHARM.

CHAPTER XVII.A MAD BRIDE.

CHAPTER XVIII.THE WEDDING JOURNEY.

CHAPTER XIX.FOUND!

CHAPTER XX.LORD CARTHEW FINDS HIS WIFE.

CHAPTER XXI. AND LAST.THE CURSE FULFILLED.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

CHAPTER I.
KNIGHTS ERRANT.

CHAPTER II.
STELLA.

CHAPTER III.
A SIREN.

CHAPTER IV.
ENEMIES.

CHAPTER V.
COMING CONFLICTS.

CHAPTER VI.
LORD CARTHEW’S WOOING.

CHAPTER VII.
A KISS TOO LONG.

CHAPTER VIII.
AN OLD FRIEND.

CHAPTER IX.
THE GYPSY’S PROPHECY.

CHAPTER X.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER XI.
AN OLD STORY.

CHAPTER XII.
FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE SENDING OF THE TOKEN.

CHAPTER XIV.
“THE ROMANYS HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN.”

CHAPTER XV.
THE WEDDING EVE.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE CHARM.

CHAPTER XVII.
A MAD BRIDE.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE WEDDING JOURNEY.

CHAPTER XIX.
FOUND!

CHAPTER XX.
LORD CARTHEW FINDS HIS WIFE.

CHAPTER XXI. AND LAST.
THE CURSE FULFILLED.