Only a girl's love
in order, putting a picture straight here and setting the books upon
their shelves, stopping occasionally to glance at the handsome eyes
watching her from the top of the cabinet. As often happens when the
mind is set on one thing and the hands upon another, she met with an
accident. In one corner of the room stood a three-cornered what-not of
Japanese work, inclosed by doors inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl;
in attempting to set a bronze straight upon the top of this piece of
furniture while she looked at the portrait of her heart's lord and
master, she let the bronze slip, and in the endeavor to save it from
falling, overturned the what-not.
It fell with the usual brittle sounding crash which accompanies the
overthrow of such bric-a-brac, and the doors being forced open, out
poured a miscellaneous collection of valuable but useless articles.
With a little exclamation of self-reproach and dismay, Stella went down
on her knees to collect the scattered curios. They were of all sorts;
bits of old china from Japan, medals, and coins of ancient date, and
some miniatures in carved frames.
Stella eyed each article as she picked it up with anxious criticism,
but fortunately nothing appeared the worse for the downfall, and she
was putting the last thing, a miniature, in its accustomed place,
when the case flew open in her hand and a delicately painted portrait
on ivory looked up at her. Scarcely glancing at it, she was about to
replace it in the case, when an inscription on the back caught her eye,
and she carried case and miniature to the light.
The portrait was that of a boy, a fair-haired boy, with a smiling mouth
and laughing blue eyes. It was a pretty face, and Stella turned it over
to read the inscription.
It consisted of only one word, "Frank."
Stella looked at the face again listlessly, but suddenly
something in it--a resemblance to someone whom she knew, and that
intimately--flashed upon her. She looked again more curiously. Yes,
there could be no doubt of it; the face bore a certain likeness to
that of her uncle. Not only to her uncle, but to herself, for raising
her eyes from the portrait to the mirror she saw a vague something--in
expression only perhaps--looking at her from the glass as it did from
the portrait.
"Frank, Frank," she murmured; "I know no one of that name. Who can it
be?"
She went back to the cabinet, and took out the other miniatures, but
they were closed, and the spring which she had touched accidentally of
the one of the boy she could not find in the others.
There was an air of mystery about the matter, which not a little
heightened by the lateness of the hour and the solemn silence that
reigned in the house, oppressed and haunted her.
With a little gesture of repudiation she put the boy's face into its
covering, and replaced it in the cabinet. As she did so she glanced
up at that other face smiling down at her, and started, and a sudden
thought, half-weird, half-prophetical, flashed across her mind.
It was the portrait of Lord Leycester which had greeted her on the
night of her arrival, and foreshadowed all that had happened to her.
Was there anything of significance in this chance discovery of the
child's face?
With a smile of self-reproach she put the fantastic idea from her, and
setting the beloved face in its place amongst the other canvases, took
the candle from the table, and stole quietly up-stairs.
But when she slept the boy's face haunted her, and mingled in her
dreams with that of Lord Leycester's.
CHAPTER XV.
Lord Leycester stood for a minute or two looking after the carriage
that bore Stella and her uncle away; then he returned to the house.
They were a hot-headed race, these Wyndwards, and Leycester was, to
put it mildly, as little capable of prudence or calculation as any of
his line; but though his heart was beating fast, and the vision of the
beautiful girl in all her young unstained loveliness danced before his
eyes as he crossed the hall, even he paused a moment to consider the
situation. With a grim smile he felt forced to confess that it was
rather a singular one.
The heir of Wyndward, the hope of the house, the heir to an ancient
name and a princely estate, had plighted his troth to the niece of a
painter--a girl, be she beautiful as she might, without either rank or
wealth, to recommend her to his parents!
He might have chosen from the highest and the wealthiest; the highest
and the wealthiest had been, so to speak, at his feet. He knew that
no dearer wish existed in his mother's heart of hearts than that he
should marry and settle. Well, he was going to marry and settle. But
what a marriage and settlement it would be! Instead of adding luster to
the already illustrious name, instead of adding power to the already
influential race of Wyndward, it would, in the earl and countess's
eyes, in the opinion of the world, be nothing but a mesalliance.
He paused in the corridor, the two footmen eying him with covert and
respectful attention, and a smile curved his lips as he pictured to
himself the manner in which the proud countess would receive his avowal
of love for Stella Etheridge, the painter's niece.
Even as it was, he was quite conscious that he had gone very far
indeed this evening toward provoking the displeasure of the countess.
He had almost neglected the brilliant gathering for the sake of this
unknown girl; he had left his mother's oldest friends, even Lady Lenore
herself, to follow Stella. How would they receive him?
With a smile half-defiant, half anticipatory of amusement, he motioned
to the servants to withdraw the curtain, and entered the room.
Some of the ladies had already retired; Lady Longford had gone for one,
but Lady Lenore still sat on her couch attended by a circle of devoted
adherents. As he entered, the countess, without seeming to glance at
him, saw him, and noticed the peculiar expression on his face.
It was the expression which it always wore when he was on the brink of
some rashly mad exploit.
Leycester had plenty of courage--too much, some said. He walked
straight up to the countess, and stood over her.
"Well, mother," he said, almost as if he were challenging her, "what do
you think of her?"
The countess lifted her serene eyes and looked at him. She would not
pretend to be ignorant of whom he meant.
"Of Miss Etheridge?" she said. "I have not thought about her. If I had,
I should say that she was a very pleasant-looking girl."
"Pleasant-looking!" he echoed, and his eyebrows went up. "That is a
mild way of describing her. She is more than pleasant."
"That is enough for a young girl in her position," said the countess.
"Or in any," said a musical voice behind him, and Lord Leycester,
turning round, saw Lady Lenore.
"That was well said," he said, nodding.
"She is more than pleasant," said Lady Lenore, smiling at him as if he
had won her warmest approbation by neglecting her all the evening. "She
is very pretty, beautiful, indeed, and so--may I say the word, dear
Lady Wyndward?--so fresh!"
The countess smiled with her even brows unclouded.
"A school-girl should be fresh, as you put it Lenore, or she is
nothing."
Lord Leycester looked from one to the other, and his gaze rested on
Lady Lenore's superb beauty with a complacent eye.
To say that a man in love is blind to all women other than the one of
his heart is absurd. It is not true. He had never admired Lady Lenore
more than he did this moment when she spoke in Stella's defense; but he
admired her while he loved Stella.
"You are right, Lenore," he said. "She is beautiful."
"I admire her exceedingly," said Lady Lenore, smiling at him as if she
knew his secret and approved of it.
The countess glanced from one to the other.
"It is getting late," she said. "You must go now, Lenore."
Lady Lenore bowed her head. She, like all else who came within the
circle of the mistress of Wyndward, obeyed her.
"Very well, I am a little tired. Good-night!"
Lord Leycester took her hand, but held it a moment. He felt grateful to
her for the word spoken on Stella's behalf.
"Let me see you to the corridor," said Lord Leycester.
And with a bow which comprehended the other occupants of the room, he
accompanied her.
They walked in silence to the foot of the stairs, then Lady Lenore held
out her hand.
"Good-night," she said, "and happy dreams."
He looked at her curiously. Was there any significance in her
words?--did she know all that had passed between Stella and himself?
But nothing more significant met his scrutiny than the soft languor of
her eyes, and pressing her hand as he bent over it, he murmured:
"I wish you the same."
She nodded smilingly to him, and went away, and he turned back to the
hall.
As he did so the billiard-room door opened, and Lord Charles put out
his head.
"One game, Ley?" he said.
Lord Leycester shook his head.
"Not to-night, Charlie."
Lord Charles looked at him, then laughed, and withdrew his head.
Leycester sauntered down the hall and back again; he felt very restless
and disinclined for bed; Stella's voice was ringing in his ears,
Stella's lips still clung with that last soft caress to his. He could
not face the laughter and hard voices of the billiard-room; it would
be profanation! With a sudden turn he went lightly up the stairs and
entered his own room.
Throwing himself into a chair, he folded his arms behind his head and
closed his eyes, to call up a vision of the girl who had rested on his
breast--whose sweet, pure lips had murmured "I love you!"
"My darling!" he whispered--"my darling love! I have never known it
till now. And I shall see you to-morrow, and hear you whisper that
again, 'I love you!' And it's ME she loves, not the viscount and heir
to Wyndward, but _me_, Leycester! Leycester--it was a hard, ugly name
until she spoke it--now it sounds like music. Stella, my star, my
angel!"
Suddenly his reverie was disturbed by a knock at the door. With a
start, he came back to reality, and got up, but before he could reach
the door it opened, and the countess came in.
"Not in bed?" she said, with a smile.
"I have only just come up," he replied.
The countess smiled again.
"You have been up nearly half an hour."
He was almost guilty of a blush.
"So long!" he said, "I must have been thinking."
And he laughed, as he drew a chair forward. He waited until she was
seated before he resumed his own; never, by word or deed, did he permit
himself to grow lax in courtesy to her; and then he looked up at her
with a smile.
"Have you come for a chat, my lady?" he said, calling her by her title
in the mock-serious way in which he was accustomed to address her when
they were alone.
"Yes, I have come for a chat, Leycester," she said, quietly.
"Does that mean a scold?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, but still
smiling. "Your tone is suspicious, mother. Well, I am at your mercy."
"I have nothing to scold you for," said the countess, leaning back in
the comfortable chair--all the chairs were comfortable in these rooms
of his. "Do you feel that you deserve one?"
Lord Leycester was silent. If he had answered he might have been
compelled to admit that perhaps there was some excuse for complaint in
regard to his conduct that evening; silence was safest.
"No, I have not come to scold you, Leycester. I don't think I have ever
done that," said the countess, softly.
"No, you have been the best of mothers, my lady," he responded. "I
never saw you in an ill temper in my life; perhaps that is why you look
so young. You do look absurdly young, you know," he added, gazing at
her with affectionate admiration.
When the countess seemed lost in thought, Leycester added: