Only a girl's love
dreamy fashion, more like communion with his own thoughts than a direct
address to his hearer, and Stella, listening, allowed every word to
sink into her mind.
His description impressed her strongly, more than she cared to admit.
Already, so it seemed to her, she felt fascinated by this beautiful
creature, who appeared as perfect and faultless as one of the heathen
goddesses--say Diana.
"Where does she live?" she asked, dreamily.
He smoked in silence for a moment.
"Live? I scarcely know; she is everywhere. In London in the season,
visiting in country houses at other times. There is not a house in
England where she would not be received with a welcome accorded to
princes. It is rather strange that she should be down here just now;
the season has commenced, most of the visitors have left the Hall, some
of them to be in their places in Parliament. It is rather strange that
she should have come down at this time."
Stella colored, and a feeling of vague irritation took possession of
her--why, she scarcely knew.
"I should think that everyone would be glad to come to Wyndward Hall at
any time--even Lady Lenore Beauchamp," she said, in a low voice.
He nodded.
"Wyndward Hall is a fine place," he said, slowly, "but Lady Lenore is
accustomed to--well, to palaces. There is not a ball-room in London
where her absence will not be noticed. It is strange. Perhaps"--and he
smiled--"Lady Wyndward has some motive."
"Some motive?" repeated Stella, turning her eyes toward him. "What
motive can she have?"
"There is Leycester," he said, musingly.
"Leycester?"
The word was out of her lips before she was aware of it, and a vivid
crimson dyed her face.
"Lord Leycester, I mean."
"Yes," he answered. "Nothing would please his mother more than to see
him marry, and he could not marry a more suitable person than Lenore.
Yes, that must be it, of course. Well, he could not do better, and as
for her, though she has refused greater chances, there is a charm in
being the future Countess of Wyndward, which is not to be despised. I
wonder whether he will fall into the trap--if trap it is intended to
be."
Stella sat silent, her head thrown back, her eyes fixed on the stars.
He saw she was very pale, and there was a strange, intent look in her
eyes. There was also a dull aching in her heart which was scarcely
distinct enough for pain, but which annoyed and shamed her. What
could it matter to her--to her, Stella Etheridge, the niece of a
poor painter--whom Lord Leycester, future Earl of Wyndward, married?
Nothing, less than nothing. But still the dull aching throbbed in her
heart, and his face floated between her and the stars, his voice rang
in her ears.
How fortunate, how blessed, some women were! Here, for instance, was
this girl of twenty-three, beautiful, famously beautiful, noble, and
reigning like a queen in the great world, and yet the gods were not
satisfied, but they must give her Leycester Wyndward! For of course it
was impossible that he should resist her if she chose to put forth her
charm. Had not her uncle just said that she could fascinate?--had she
not even evidently fascinated him, the dreamer, the artist, the man who
had seen and who knew the world so well?
For a moment she gave herself up to this reflection and to the dull
aching, then with a gesture of impatience she rose, so suddenly as to
startle the old man.
"What is the matter, Stella?" he asked.
"Nothing, nothing," she said. "Shall we have lights? The room is so
dark and still, and----" her voice broke for a moment.
She went to the mantel-shelf and lit a candle, and as she did so she
looked up and saw her face reflected in the antique mirror and started.
Was that her face?--that pale, half-startled visage looking at her so
sadly. With a laugh she put the dark hair from her brow, and gliding to
the organ began to play; feverishly, restlessly at first, but presently
the music worked its charm and soothed her savage breast.
Yes, she was savage, she knew it, she felt it! This woman had
everything, while she----
The door opened and a stream of light broke in from the lamp carried by
Mrs. Penfold.
"Are you there, Miss Stella? Oh, yes, there you are! I thought it was
Mr. Etheridge playing; you don't often play like that. There's a note
for you."
"A note! For me!" exclaimed Stella, turning on her stool with amazement.
Mrs. Penfold smiled and nodded.
"Yes, miss; and there's an answer, please."
Stella took the note hesitatingly, as if she half expected it to
contain a charge of explosive dynamite; the envelope was addressed in
a thin, beautiful hand to Miss Stella Etheridge. Stella turned the
envelope over and started as she saw the arms stamped upon it. She knew
it, it was the Wyndward crest.
For a moment she sat looking down at it without offering to open
it, then with an effort she tore it open, slowly, and read the note
enclosed.
"DEAR MISS ETHERIDGE:--Will you redeem the promise you made me this
afternoon and come and see me? Will you ask Mr. Etheridge to bring you
to dine with them to-morrow at eight o'clock? I say 'them' because I
dine always alone; but perhaps you will not mind coming to me after
dinner for a little while. Do not let Mr. Etheridge refuse as he
generally does, but tell him to bring you for my sake."
"Yours very truly,
"LILIAN WYNDWARD."
Stella read it and re-read it as if she could not believe her senses.
Lady Lilian's invitation had sounded so vague that she had scarcely
remembered it, and now here was a direct invitation to Wyndham Hall,
and to dinner.
"Well, miss?" said Mrs. Penfold.
Stella started.
"I will give you the answer directly," she said.
Then she went across to her uncle and stood beside him, the letter
in her hand. He was lost in thought, and quite unsuspicious of the
thunder-clap preparing for him.
"Uncle, I have just got a letter."
"Eh? Where from, Stella?"
"From Lady Lilian."
He looked up quickly.
"She has asked me to dinner to-morrow."
"No!" he said. She put the letter in his hand. "Read it, will you, my
dear?" he said.
And she read it, conscious that her voice trembled.
"Well?" he said.
"Well?" she repeated, with a smile.
He put his hand to his brow.
"To dinner--to-morrow? Oh, dear me! Well, well! You would like to go?"
and he looked up at her. "Of course you would like to go."
She looked down, her face was delicately flushed--her eyes shone.
"Of course," he said. "Well, say 'Yes.' It is very kind. You see,
Stella, your wish is gratified almost as soon as you utter it. You will
see your paragon--Lady Lenore."
She started, and her face went pale.
"I have changed my mind," she said, in a low voice. "I find I don't
want to see her so badly as I thought. I think I don't care to go,
uncle."
He stared at her. She was still an enigma to him.
"Nonsense, child! Not care to see Wyndward Hall! Nonsense! Besides,
it's Lady Lilian; we must go, Stella."
She still stood with the letter in her hand.
"But--but, uncle--I have nothing to wear."
"Nothing to wear!" And he looked at her up and down.
"Nothing fit for Wyndward Hall," she said. "Uncle, I don't think I care
to go."
He laughed gently.
"You will find something to wear between now and half-past seven
to-morrow," he said, "or my faith in Mrs. Penfold's resources will be
shaken. Accept, my dear."
She went slowly to the table and wrote two lines--two lines only.
"DEAR LADY LILIAN.--We shall be very glad indeed to come and see you
to-morrow. Yours very truly,"
"STELLA ETHERIDGE."
Then she rang the bell and gave the note to Mrs. Penfold.
"I am going to Wyndward Hall to-morrow," she said, with a smile, "and I
have got nothing to wear, Mrs. Penfold!" and she laughed.
Mrs. Penfold threw up her hands after the manner of her kind.
"To the Hall, Miss Stella, to-morrow! Oh, dear, what shall we do?" Then
she glanced at the arm-chair, and beckoned Stella out of the room.
"Come up-stairs, then, and let us see what we can manage. To the Hall!
Think of that!" and she threw up her head proudly.
Stella sat on a chair, looking on with a smile, while the scanty
wardrobe was overhauled.
Scanty as it was it contained everything that was needful for such use
as Stella might ordinarily require, but a dinner at the Hall was quite
out of the ordinary. At last, after holding up dress after dress, and
dropping it with a shake of the head, Mrs. Penfold took up a cream
sateen.
"That's very pretty," said Stella.
"But it's only sateen!" exclaimed Mrs. Penfold.
"It looks like satin--a little," said Stella "by candlelight, at least."
"And they have real satin, and silks, and velvets," deplored Mrs.
Penfold, eagerly.
"Nobody will notice me," said Stella, consolingly. "It doesn't matter."
Mrs. Penfold glanced at her with a curious smile.
"Will they not, Miss Stella? I don't know, I think they will; but it
must be this dress or nothing; you can't go in a cotton, or the black
merino, and the muslin you wore the other night----"
"Wouldn't do at all," said Stella. "We'll make this sateen do, Mrs.
Penfold. I think it looks very nice; the lace is good, isn't it?"
"The lace?" said Mrs. Penfold, thoughtfully, then her face brightened.
"Wait a moment," she said, and she dropped the dress and hurried from
the room, returning in a few moments with a small box. "Speaking of
lace just reminded me, Miss Stella, that I had some by me. It was made
by my mother--I don't know whether it's good," and as she spoke she
opened the box and lifted some lace from the interior.
"Why it's point!"
"Point, is it, miss? I didn't know. Then it is good."
"Good!" exclaimed Stella--"it's beautiful, delicious, heavenly. And
will you lend it to me?"
"No, I'll give it to you if you will take it, Miss Stella," said the
good woman, with a proud smile.
"No, no, not for worlds, but I will wear it if you'll let me?" said
Stella, and she took a long strip and put it round her throat. "Oh, it
is beautiful, beautiful! It would make the poorest dress look handsome!
I will take great care of it, indeed I will."
"What nonsense, dear Miss Stella! How glad I am I thought of it. And
it does look pretty now you wear it," and she looked at the beautiful
face admiringly. "And you'll want gloves--let me see--yes, you have got
some cream gloves; they'll go with the dress, won't they? Now, you go
down-stairs, and I'll look the things out and tack the lace on. Going
to the Hall? I'm so glad, Miss Stella."
"Are you?" said Stella, softly, as she went down-stairs, "I don't know
whether I'm glad or sorry!"
CHAPTER X.
The great clock in the Hall stables chimed the half-hour--half-past
seven, and the sound came floating down the valley.
Mr. Etheridge stood at the door clad in evening dress, which,
old-fashioned and well-worn as it was, sat upon him with a gracious
air, and made him look more distinguished than ever. The fly was
waiting at the door, and he glanced at his watch and took a step toward
the stairs, when a light appeared above, and a light step sounded over
his head. The next moment a vision, as it seemed to him, floated into
sight, and came down upon him.
Stella was in the cream sateen dress--the exquisite lace was clinging
round her slender, graceful throat--there was a red rose in her
hair; but it was not the dress, nor the lace, nor the rose even,
which chained the painter's eye--it was the lovely girlish face. The
excitement had brought a dash of warm color in the clear olive cheeks
and a bright light into the dark eyes; the lips were half-apart with a
smile, and the whole face was eloquent of youth's fresh tide of life
and spirits. If they had had all Howell and James' stock to choose