Only a girl's love
by the pure, frank eyes, that she had actually acted against her own
instincts, and brought her into Leycester's path!
"Yes, he is very kind to everybody," she said. "And you have enjoyed
yourself? Have they been singing?"
"Yes, Lady Beauchamp."
"Lenore," said Lilian, eagerly. "Ah, yes; does she not sing
beautifully, and is she not lovely?"
"She sings beautifully, and she is very lovely," said Stella, still
looking at the Madonna.
Lady Lilian laughed softly.
"I am very fond of Lenore. You will like her very much when you know
her better. She is--I was going to say--very imperial."
"That would be right," said Stella; "she is like a queen, only more
beautiful than most queens have been."
"I am so glad you admire her," said Lady Lilian; then she paused a
moment, and her white hand fell like a thistle down on the dark head
beside her. "Shall I tell you a secret?"
Stella looked up, with a smile.
"Yes; I will promise to keep it."
Lilian smiled down at her.
"How strangely you said that--so gravely. Yes, I think you would keep
a secret to the death. But this is not one of that sort; it is only
this--that we hope, all of us, that Lenore will become my sister."
Stella did not start; did not remove her eyes from the pale, lovely
face, but into those eyes a something came that was not wonder nor
pain, but a strong, indefinable expression, as if she were holding her
breath in the effort to suppress any sign of feeling.
"Do you mean that Lord Leycester will marry her?" she said, distinctly.
Lady Lilian nodded.
"Yes, that is it. Would it not be nice?"
Stella smiled.
"For Lord Leycester?"
Lady Lilian laughed her soft laugh.
"What a strange girl you are," she said, smoothing the silky hair.
"What am I to say to that? Well--yes, of course. And for Lenore, too,"
she added, with a touch of pride.
"Yes, for Lady Lenore also," said Stella, and her eyes went back to the
Madonna.
"We are all so anxious to see Leycester married," went on Lady Lilian,
with a smile. "They say he is--so wild, I think it is, they say! Ah,
they do not see him as I see him. Do you think he is wild?"
Stella paled. The strain was great, her heart was beating with
suppressed throbs. The gentle girl did not know how she was torturing
her with such questions.
"I?" she murmured. "I do not know. I cannot tell. How should I? I
scarcely know your brother."
"Ah, no, I forget," said Lady Lilian. "To me it seems as if we had
known each other so long, and we only met the other morning for a few
minutes. How is it? Do you possess some charm, and did you conceal it
in the flowers you gave me, so that I am under a spell, Stella? That is
your name, isn't it? It is a beautiful name; are you angry with me for
calling you by it?"
"Angry! No!" said Stella, putting up her warm, firm hand, and touching
the thin white one resting on her hair. "No, I like you to call me by
it."
"And you will call me by mine--Lilian?"
"If you wish it," said Stella. "Yes, I will."
"And we shall be great friends. See, I have kept your flowers quite
cool and fresh," and she pointed to a vase in which the primroses stood
at the other end of the room. "I love wild flowers. They are Heaven's
very own, are they not? No human hand does anything for them, or helps
them to grow."
Stella listened to the low, beautiful voice with a rapt awe.
Lady Lilian looked down at her with a smile.
"I wonder whether you would grant me a favor if I asked it?" she said.
"I would do anything for you," said Stella, looking up at her.
"Will you go and play for me?" she said. "I know that you can play and
sing because I have looked into your eyes."
"Suppose I say that I cannot," said Stella, laughing softly.
"You cannot!" said Lady Lilian. "I am never mistaken. Leycester says
that I am a witch in such matters."
"Well, I will try," said Stella, and she crossed the room and opened
the tiny piano, and began to play a sonata by Schubert.
"I cannot play like Lady Lenore," she said, almost to herself, but Lady
Lilian heard her.
"You play exquisitely," she said.
"No, I can't play," repeated Stella, with almost a touch of impatience;
then she looked up and saw the Madonna, and on the impulse of the
moment began to sing Gounod's "Ave Maria." There is no more exquisite
piece of devotional music in the world, and it was Stella's favorite.
She had sung it often and often in the dreary school-days, with all
her longing heart in her voice; she had sung it in solemn aisled
cathedrals, while the incense rose to the vaulted roof; but she had
never sung it as she sang it now--now that the strange, indefinable
pain was filling her heart with wistful vague longing. Lady Lilian
leant forward--her lips parted, her eyes filling with tears--so rapt
that she did not notice that the door had opened, and that Lord
Leycester stood in the room. When she did see him he held up his hand
to silence any word of greeting, and stood with his head lowered, his
eyes fixed on Stella's face, upturned, white, and rapt. As he listened,
his handsome face grew pale, his dark eyes deepened with intense
emotion; he had stood beside the piano down-stairs while Lady Lenore
had been singing, with a calm, polite attention; here and at this
moment his heart beat and throbbed with an intense longing to bend and
kiss the upturned face--with an intense longing to draw the eyes toward
his--to silence the exquisite voice--to change its imploring prayer
into a song of love.
All unconsciously Stella sang on till the end, that last, lingering,
exquisite, long-drawn sigh; then she turned and saw him, but she did
not move--only turned pale, her eyes fixed on his. And so they looked
at each other.
With an effort he broke the spell, and moved. But he did not speak to
her at once, but to Lilian.
"I have brought you something," he said, in a low voice, and he held up
the sketch.
Lady Lilian uttered a cry of delight.
"And it is for me! Oh, Leycester, that is nice! It is beautiful! I know
who painted it--it was your uncle, Stella! Oh, yes, I know!"
"You are right," said Leycester, then he went toward Stella.
"How can I thank you?" he said, in a low voice. "I know now why you
would not sing to to us down-stairs! You were quite right. I would not
have you sing to a mob in a drawing-room after dinner. What shall I
say?--what can I say?"
Stella looked up pale and almost breathless beneath the passionate fire
that burned in his eyes.
"I did not know you were here," she said, at last.
"Or you would not have sung. I am glad I came--I cannot say how glad!
You will not sing again?"
"No, no," she said.
"No," he said. "I did not think you would, and yet I would give
something to hear you once--only once more."
"No," said Stella, and she rose and went back to her seat.
"Isn't it beautiful?" said Lady Lilian, in a murmur. "I have been
richly endowed to-night. Your song and this picture. How exquisite it
was! Where did you learn to sing like that?"
"Nowhere," said Leycester. "That cannot be learnt!"
Lilian looked at him; he was still pale, and his eyes seemed to burn
with suppressed eagerness.
"Go and thank Mr. Etheridge," she said.
"Presently," he said, and he came and put his hand on her arm.
"Presently! let me rest here a little while. It is Paradise after----"
he paused.
"You shall not rest," she said. "Go and sing something, Ley."
Then, as Stella looked up, she laughed softly.
"Did you not know he could sing? He is a bad, wicked, indolent boy.
He can do all sorts of things when he likes, but he never will exert
himself. He will not sing, now will you?"
He stood looking at Stella, and as if constrained to speak and look at
him, Stella raised her eyes.
"Will you sing?" she said, almost inaudibly.
As if waiting for her command, he bent his head and went to the piano.
His fingers strayed over the notes slowly for a moment or two, then he
said, without turning his head:
"Have you seen these flowers?"
Stella did not wish to move; but the voice seemed to draw her, and she
rose and crossed to the piano.
He looked up.
"Stay," he murmured.
She hesitated a second, then stood with downcast eyes, which, hidden as
they were, seemed to feel his ardent gaze fixed upon her.
He still touched the keys gently, and then, without further prelude, he
began in a low voice:
"I wandered down the valley in the eventide,
The birds were singing sweetly in the summer air,
The river glided murm'ring to the ocean wide,
But still no peace was there;
For love lay lurking in the ferny brake;
I saw him lying with his bow beside;
He cried, 'Sweetheart, we will never, never part!'
By the river in the valley at the eventide.
"I fled to the mountains, to the clouds and mist,
Where the eagle and the hawk share their solitary throne;
'Here at least,' I cried, 'wicked love I can deride,
He will leave me here at peace alone.'
But love lay lurking in the clouds and mist;
I heard him singing sweetly on the mountain side,
''Tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am I,
In every quiet valley, on every mountain side.'"
With his eyes fixed on hers, he sang as if every word were addressed to
her; his voice was like a flute, mellow and clear, and musical, but it
was not the voice but the words that seemed to sink into Stella's heart
as she listened. It seemed to her as if he dared her to fly, to seek
safety from him--his love, he seemed to say, would pursue her in every
quiet valley, on every mountain side.
For a moment she forgot Lady Lenore, forgot everything; she felt
helpless beneath the spell of those dark eyes, the musical voice; her
head drooped, her eyes closed.
"'Tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am I, in every quiet valley,
on every mountain side."
Was it to be so with her? Would his presence haunt her ever and
everywhere?
With a start she turned from him and glided swiftly to the couch as if
seeking protection.
Lady Lilian looked at her.
"You are tired," she said.
"I think I am," said Stella.
"Leycester take her away; I will not have her wearied, or she will not
come again. You will come again, will you not?"
"Yes," said Stella, "I will come again."
Lord Leycester stood beside the open door, but Lilian still clung to
her hand.
"Good-night," she said, and she put up her face.
Stella bent and kissed her.
"Good-night," she answered, and passed out.
They went down the stairs in silence, and reached the fernery; then he
stopped short.
"Will you not wait a moment here?" he said.
Stella shook her head.
"It must be late," she said.
"A moment only," he said. "Let me feel that I have you to myself for a
moment before you go--you have belonged to others until now."
"No, no," she said--"I must go."
And she moved on; but he put out his hand, and stopped her.
"Stella!"
She turned, and looked at him most piteously; but he saw only her
loveliness before him like a flower.
"Stella," he repeated, and he drew her nearer, "I must speak--I must
tell you--I love you!"
CHAPTER XII.
"I love you," he said.
Only three words, but only a woman can understand what those three
words meant to Stella.
She was a girl--a mere child, as Lady Wyndward had said; never, save
from her father's lips, had she heard those words before.
Even now she scarcely realized their full meaning. She only knew that
his hand was upon her arm; that his eyes were fixed on hers with a
passionate, pleading entreaty, combined with a masterful power which
she felt unable to resist.
White and almost breathless she stood, not downcast, for her eyes felt
drawn to his, all her maidenly nature roused and excited by this first
declaration of a man's love.